Somehow I don’t think this is the right moment to break in, he thought, and looked studiously up at the Spitfire.
“So did you go with him?” one of the women was asking.
The first woman looked offended. “No. I told him I wasn’t about to fall for an antiquated line of chat like that, and I didn’t intend to go anywhere with him, and a good thing I refused, too. A few moments later his plane took a direct hit. Blown to bits. They couldn’t even make out where it had been. It had vanished without a trace.
“I saved his life,” she said. “I told him that. ‘You should be grateful I’m a good girl,’ I told him. ‘If I weren’t, we’d both be dead.’ ”
“And was he grateful?” the second woman asked dryly.
“I knew a girl who vanished without a trace,” the woman next to her said.
So do I, he thought. And it was clear he wasn’t going to find out whether these women had known Polly just by eavesdropping. He approached them, notebook in hand. “What was her name?” the woman was saying. “It began with an S. You remember, Lowry, she was hit by an HE. Totally vaporized—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, ladies,” he said. “I’m Calvin Knight. I’m here to do a story on the opening of the exhibition, and I was wondering if I might interview you.
You all did war work during World War Two, is that right? Were you all in London?”
“She was,” the white-haired one with the lace collar said, pointing at the one who’d spoken of the girl vanishing without a trace, “and these two”—she pointed at the crone and the one with the photographs—“were WAACs.”
“Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps,” the crone said. “We were radio operators.”
“And what did you do?” he asked the lace-collared one.
“Well,” she said, dimpling, “until just a few years ago I couldn’t tell you. I was in Intelligence.”
“She was a spy,” the crone said. “But I had an even more exciting job. I drove a mortuary van.”
“During the Blitz?”
“No, I’m younger than this lot. I was still at school in Surrey during the Blitz. I didn’t join up till July of ’forty- four.”
Which was too late. Polly would already have been driving an ambulance near Croydon by then. And her deadline would already have passed. “Were the two of you in London during the Blitz?” he asked the WAACs.
“No, we were stationed at Bagshot Park,” the first one said, and the second handed him the snapshot he’d supposed was of her grandchildren. It wasn’t. It was a black-and-white photograph of two slim, pretty girls in uniform, one fair, one dark, perched, laughing, on a tank. “I’m the blonde,” she said, “and that’s Louise.” She pointed at the curly-haired girl perched next to her in the picture and then at her friend.
“That’s you?” he said, staring at the snapshot. The faded, stout old woman in front of him bore no resemblance at all to the vivid, laughing girl in the photograph.
“Yes,” Louise said, coming round to look at it. “I was a brunette in those days.”
He had assumed he’d recognize Merope if he saw her, even though he hadn’t seen her in eight years and she’d be far older than she’d been then, but now that he saw this snapshot …
There was no resemblance at all between the curly-haired girl in the photo and the dumpy, faded woman in front of him. Too much time had gone by.
Too much time. Merope could be here, right now, in this lobby, perhaps only a few feet away, and he simply hadn’t recognized her. And if she recognized him, would she come up to him and say, “Where were you? Why didn’t you come?”
would she come up to him and say, “Where were you? Why didn’t you come?”
He was still staring blindly at the snapshot. “Are you all right?” Louise asked him.
“He’s stunned by how little we’ve changed,” her friend said, and the women all laughed good-naturedly.
“She’s quite right. Neither of you’s changed a bit,” he said, recovering himself. He handed the snapshot back to them and asked the four their names, “so I can quote you in the article.”
Thankfully, none of them was named Merope—or Eileen O’Reilly, which had been her cover name. But he couldn’t ask every woman here her name. He remembered the woman with the name tags and went looking to see if she’d managed to pass them out, but he couldn’t find her.
No, there she was, over by the ticket desk, conferring with the woman he’d seen earlier out in the car park. She was probably asking for a microphone.
She’d need it. The noise had risen to a din, and several women had their hands cupped to their ears in an effort to hear, though when he attempted to ask one of them who was wearing an ARP armband whether she’d been in London during the Blitz, she said, “I beg your pardon, I couldn’t hear you. I’m deaf in that ear.”
And in the other one as well. When he shouted, “Were you in London during the Blitz?” she said, “List? What list?”
He bellowed at her for a bit longer till he got her maiden name out of her—Violet Rumford—then moved on through the crowd, eavesdropping on their conversations, attempting to catch their names, but a large number seemed to be calling one another by nicknames—“Stodders” and “B-1” and “Foxtrot”—and the rest by their last names.
The name-badge woman had apparently given up on attempting to get either a microphone or the entire group’s attention and was moving among the crowd, passing them out. Good.
He worked his way over to her. “Print your name on the badge and fix this gold star in the corner,” she was saying, handing the women badges and pens, “and then go through that door.”
