The Light Over London

by Julia Kelly

  “It takes time for these things to make their way—”

  “I’m his wife. I should’ve been informed by telegram. The eleventh of November was ages ago.”

  Vera and Charlie both sat back.

  “You’re right. The RAF should’ve told you,” Vera said.

  “Maybe he didn’t register the marriage,” said Charlie.

  “He told me he did in a letter, saying he was so proud that he could claim me as his wife. If the RAF knew, I should’ve been informed. Someone should’ve told me.” She paused, something else getting through the thick haze of her mind. “And why did the group captain call me Miss Keene? He should’ve addressed me as Mrs. Bolton.”

  “I don’t know,” said Charlie, resting a hand on her knee.

  “I can’t speak to Group Captain Reynolds, but perhaps I can help find out what happened with the RAF,” said Vera.

  “How?” Louise asked.

  “My uncle. He’s army, but I would bet that with a few phone calls he could track down the right people to answer your questions. If that’s what you want,” said Vera.

  “Of course that’s what I want. Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

  “I just thought . . .” Vera’s gaze fell to her hands twisting the blanket on Louise’s bed. Flattening them, she smoothed down the fabric.

  “I’m sure this is the matter of a clerical error and a careless commanding officer. Wasn’t the man always denying Paul leave that was rightly due him?” asked Charlie.

  Louise nodded, but a touch of doubt took hold. She was in the service. She knew the rules of leave well enough. What Paul’s commanding officer had done was surely in direct violation of all sorts of practices. But what if he hadn’t denied Paul leave at all?

  A memory tugged at her. Reggie at her wedding breakfast, champagne sloshing in its flute as he gestured wildly, telling the story of Paul using his leave in Scotland. Paul insisting that it had happened last year, not this year.

  Distrust broke through grief, and it made her wretched. She’d only just learned her husband was dead, yet she was already beginning to question his truthfulness, his honor.

  She looked up at her friends and registered the quiet worry on Vera’s face and the obstinacy on Charlie’s. They’d row about Vera’s implications when Louise wasn’t there, thinking that she wouldn’t know, but she would. She knew these women better than anyone in the world.

  “I think that I would like some time by myself,” she said, her voice hardly a whisper.

  Charlie hesitated, but Vera nodded, tugging their friend by the back of her tunic.

  “We’ll leave you for a little bit,” said Vera.

  The door shut softly behind her friends. Louise slid down in bed until she was flat on her back, staring at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. She waited for the tears that should’ve come, but all she felt was empty. Hollow. Uncertain. Alone.

  21

  CARA

  Liam knocked at Cara’s door just before dinner, as he’d promised. She took a moment to smooth her hair, which she’d washed and blown out, before adjusting the neckline of her dress and opening the door.

  He had a ready smile, but when he saw her, he froze and blinked three times. “You look fantastic.”

  “Thank you,” she said, fussing her hair behind her ear out of habit.

  “I realized after my phone call that it wasn’t fair to spring dinner on you without telling you. I worried you wouldn’t have anything to wear. We didn’t exactly talk about fine dining.”

  “Gran would disown me if she found out I didn’t travel with something to throw on for an unexpected dinner invitation,” she said.

  “Well, we can’t have that.”

  He held out his arm to her, and she took it gladly. He wore a thin-knit, deep-blue jumper over a white collared shirt and a pair of charcoal-gray slacks. As they walked, she could smell the faint, clean hint of the hotel’s shampoo, and she let herself angle just a little closer to him, breaking off only when they reached the lift.

  Downstairs in the restaurant, a maître d’ led them through the half-full restaurant to a quiet table in one of the many bay windows. She watched Liam under her lashes, trying to read any awkwardness or hesitation in his movements as the waiter doled out menus and wine lists.

  “Do you think it’s changed much since Louise and Paul came here?” she asked, when they were at last alone.

  Liam looked up from his menu and smiled. “I’d hope not. It must’ve been quite something, even in the middle of the war, when it was requisitioned for officers.”

  “It really does feel like stepping back in time,” she said, gazing along the rich light blue velvet banquettes that lined the back wall. Gold-leaf embellishment climbed up the walls in soaring swags, coming to meet in five points along the ceiling like the church vaults she’d studied in her art-and-architecture class at Barlow.

  “You meet Kate tomorrow,” said Liam.

  “We meet her,” she corrected him.

  He sat back, amusement in his eyes. “Yes, but you’re the one who found the tin and set yourself on this journey.”

  “It feels strange to think that was just in September. It feels as though Louise has been a part of my life for a long time.”

  “You’ve lived with her story.”

  “And worried about her and wondered what happened to make her write that last entry. ‘Everything is over.’ It’s so final,” she said.

  “We could be reading into it,” he warned.

  She shook her head. “We’ve both read the entire diary. Louise is a lot of things, but dramatic isn’t one of them. If something went wrong, it went very wrong.”

  “Hopefully we’ll find out tomorrow,” he said.

  The waiter came and cracked open a slender bottle of sparkling water. “And would you care for wine tonight?” the waiter asked.

  Liam tilted his head. “I’d be happy to order, unless you’d prefer to take a look yourself?”

  She shook her head. “I trust you.”

  He ordered a 2014 Pouilly-Fumé she’d had before and liked, and the waiter bowed his head and slipped away.

  “Do you know what I hope more than anything else?” she asked, turning her attention back to Liam.

  “What?”

  “That Kate tells us Louise wound up happy, Paul or no Paul,” she said.

  “We can only hope.” He paused, eyeing her as though weighing something that had been on his mind. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything,” she said. And she found she meant it.

  “Why did this particular diary catch your attention?”

  “It’s a mystery and that’s intriguing. Maybe I was drawn to the sadness of it.” She shrugged.

  “I think we know each other well enough that I can say that isn’t everything,” he said.

  She sighed and sat back in her chair, searching for the words to explain the deep compulsion that had driven her on. Finally she said, “When you’re young, you assume everything is going to last forever. Your friends will be your friends for the rest of your life. Once you decide you’re in love with someone, you’ll love them always. The idea of your parents dying is present but distant at the same time.

  “In those days, it didn’t bother me so much that Gran wouldn’t talk about the war. Every family has things they don’t talk about. This was ours. But as I grew older, I cared more. I think there’s a natural, human compulsion to want to know where you’re from. It gives us our ideas of ourselves.”

  “Identity,” he said.

  She nodded. “But then my parents died and suddenly I felt cut adrift. I lost a part of life that had grounded me. I thought I had all the time in the world to know them better and get to know myself in turn, but it was gone in an instant.”

  “And now you don’t want to lose the chance to learn who Iris really is before she’s gone,” he said gently.

  “Yes, and when she dies, that part of who I am will die with her.” She drew in a breath. “And t
hen, when I thought about it more, I realized there might be a family just like mine who doesn’t know the full story of their loved one. I wanted to return the diary, but then Laurel said that Louise had died six years ago . . .”

  “Maybe she’ll still want to know,” said Liam. “And maybe Kate can fill in the gaps for all of us.”

  “That’s what I hope happens,” she said. “There’s always the risk that I’m opening up an old wound and causing new pain by stirring up things that happened more than seventy years ago.”

  “But you feel a responsibility,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Well, I for one am happy you did. Otherwise I don’t know how long it would’ve been before I convinced you I don’t bite,” he said.

  She cringed, thinking back to their first meeting. “Was it that obvious?”

  He laughed. “You couldn’t turn down my sister’s idea that we have dinner together fast enough.”

  “I realized as soon as I said it that it sounded rude and standoffish,” she said.

  “Leah is always coming up with great ideas that she thinks the world should bend to. I’m her latest project.”

  “Project?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, well, I’m single, and if there’s one thing my sister can’t stand, it’s the idea of someone in her life not being matched up.”

  “She chose the wrong person then,” said Cara with a laugh. “That day I’d had a phone call from my ex. I was feeling every inch the divorced woman, resigned to being alone forever.”

  His eyes lifted. “And now?”

  Her breath hitched. “And now I’m feeling more like myself than I have in years.”

  “Good,” he said. “I like this version of you quite a lot.”

  The waiter came back with the wine, pouring out generous glasses before cradling the bottle in a pedestal ice bucket. She ordered scallops and a lemon-and-thyme pork loin, and Liam decided on the goat-cheese-and-beetroot salad and the duck, adding a bottle of pinot noir to be decanted for their meal.

  “I might be overstepping, but will you tell me the rest of what happened between you and your ex? There’s more, right?”

  She sighed. “There’s more.”

  Eyes fixed on a droplet sliding down the side of her water goblet, she paused. They’d opened a door between where they stood now and where they might be in the future. But before they could step through, she needed to tell him this. To unburden herself. It was time.

  “I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that the divorce had a lot more to do with me than with Simon. Somewhere along the way, I got lost. To a girl who was never particularly popular in school, being with Simon was a revelation. He always had this roving, large group of friends, was always the center of attention. He was confident and funny and intelligent. I think I was dazzled.”

  “When did you stop being dazzled?” he asked.

  “When I grew up.” She cleared her throat. “We’d been fighting a lot the month before my parents were killed, and he was rarely at home. I found out later that he’d been staying with a friend who lived in South Kensington. When I got the call from the hospital, I called and texted him. He finally picked up after my third try, but when he eventually got home, I realized he was too drunk to be driving.”

  “He drove drunk to pick you up to take you to the bedside of your parents who had been hit by a drunk driver?” Liam asked incredulously.

  “Yes. I ended up having to call Nicole to drive me to Cumbria. I wouldn’t have been safe on the road. I got to the hospital thirty minutes after Mum died on the operating table. Dad died shortly after I got the call.”

  “And because you were delayed in going up there—”

  “I didn’t get to say goodbye to Mum. I knew I was never going to be able to forgive him for that. He fought the divorce for about a month, but then he was arrested for drunk driving himself. It was what eventually got him into rehab.”

  “And now?”

  “He’s stopped drinking, but he refuses to go to a program for his gambling addiction. He stayed away from the casinos for a few months after I filed for divorce, but then he relapsed. I don’t know if he’s still playing private games.

  “It was a process working through the guilt of leaving, because he wasn’t a healthy man, but I couldn’t do it any longer. I realized I didn’t love him anymore. I ended up telling my solicitor that I’d pay off the more than three hundred and fifty thousand pounds in debt he’d accrued.”

  Liam gave a low whistle.

  “It wiped out almost everything I had in savings, but I paid it because I had Mum and Dad’s house to sell and I thought the settlement would make it better.”

  “It didn’t, did it?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Of course not. It just made all of the feelings more complicated. I finally found a therapist when Nicole put her foot down and told me it was time.”

  Liam’s hand came over hers on the table.

  “I’m sorry for everything that happened,” he said.

  She lifted her head and smiled. “Not many people get a second chance at building the life they want.”

  But looking across the table, she knew there was one area in her life that was missing, and that Liam could be right at the heart of it.

  But before she could say anything else, their starters arrived and the conversation slipped back into easier territory.

  Full and a little sleepy from the wine, Cara and Liam made their way up to their floor, leaning against the mirrored wall of the lift.

  “I think I’m going to be dreaming of that chocolate cake for the rest of my life,” she said.

  “The tart was good too,” he said.

  “That was definitely a chocolate meal. No sense in wasting precious dessert time on a bit of apple and custard.”

  He nudged her playfully. “You bake things. You should be more respectful of my tart.”

  She arched a skeptical brow, and he snorted as the doors slid open.

  They spilled out of the lift, Cara tucked into Liam’s side as he walked her back to their adjoining rooms.

  “We’re meeting Laurel at Kate’s care home at eleven tomorrow?” Liam asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you want to have breakfast together? I thought it might be good to see the Haybourne high street beforehand.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” she said.

  He rounded to face her as they stopped in front of her door and tilted his head in an unspoken question. She dropped her attention to her wristlet as she wrestled her key out, grateful for the moment to compose herself. When she looked up again, Liam’s expression had changed from easy to serious.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Cara, I’m going to say a few things, and I want you to listen.”

  “Okay . . .”

  He grazed the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist and traced down to touch fingertip to fingertip. “You deserve to never be disappointed, and you deserve to be with someone who doesn’t make you feel like your choices aren’t the right ones.”

  A lump of emotion formed in her throat. “Liam—”

  “And this is the most important thing: if I had been with you, I would’ve never taken you for granted no matter what was going on in my life.”

  They were simple words, yet they unlocked something deep inside her. The last piece of the puzzle. The little push she’d needed to once again feel whole again. She trusted this man implicitly, and she trusted herself to know what he could mean to her.

  Slowly, he drew her closer to him, inch by inch, until their bodies were nearly touching. Then, he dipped his head and kissed her.

  His lips were soft and patient against hers, but she knew that one sign from her would be enough permission for him to let loose all of his restraint. It was what she wanted that night. This man was it.

  “Liam,” she whispered, breaking away just as the kiss began to deepen.

  “Yes?”


  “Come with me.”

  And she unlocked her hotel room door and drew him inside.

  22

  LOUISE

  Louise lay in bed for three days, hardly noticing the passage of time. Occasionally one of the girls from B Section would come in with water or tea, coaxing her to drink. She did numbly, but she refused every bit of food they brought.

  There was no talk of her going back on duty. Vera or Charlie must’ve taken care of informing their superior officers that Paul was dead, but no one spoke to her about bereavement leave or reprimanded her for not being on the gun. They let her mourn, privately and deeply.

  On the fourth day, before Charlie and Vera awoke, she rose from her bunk. Gathering up her wash bag, she made the long trek to the basement, where the showers stood. It wasn’t her day to bathe, but when the orderly saw her, the girl just ducked her head. Everyone knew that she, Gunner Louise Bolton, was a new widow. No one would question her wanting something as simple as a shower.

  The odd hours of a gunner girl meant that she had the showers to herself between shifts. Louise turned the spray up as hot as it would go and stepped under it. The hard stream of water beat on her back, stinging her scalp and scraping her skin raw. She scrubbed at herself, soaping her hair and her body longer than was necessary. She needed to be clean again, to let the purity of water wash away even the deepest hurt.

  When she came back to the room, Vera and Charlie were dressed. They spun around, their eyes wide at the sight of her.

  “We thought—” “You were—” they said at the same time, falling silent when she shut the door behind her and went to her bed as though nothing had happened.

  Act as though nothing has happened. If they hadn’t been deep into the war, she might have been able to give full purchase to her grief, but she was a gunner girl, and the longer she stayed locked up in this room, the harder it would be to remember that.

  Her friends gave her space while she dressed. They were due in two debriefings that afternoon, so she pulled on her underthings, garters, skirt, shirt, tunic, and shoes. She checked that her buttons and shoes shone and pinned her quick-drying hair up in a simple roll that didn’t rely on complicated pin curls slept in overnight. Settling her cap on her head, she took a deep breath.