The intercom bell dings again.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, you must be wondering if all these aeroplanes around us have the same instrument problem as we have. The reality is that we’re here for another reason. We have received a report through our communication lines that there is an armed threat at the World Trade Center in New York. We’ve been advised that international airspace over North America has been shut down and all flights diverted to the nearest airports. We’re to stay on the plane until further notice.’
The World Trade Center? Richard Niven’s office was only a few blocks away. Sophie pulls her phone out of her bag and taps out the number for the office. Nothing. She tries again. Not even a dial tone. She looks out the window. A faint breeze rustles through the green-black evergreens in the distance. The metallic aeroplanes waver under the bright sun like a mirage in a desert oasis. A blackbird lands on an aeroplane wing. It opens its beak, but the song is silent through the thick glass.
Chapter 6
Norwich, England – 27 July 1940
Dottie Burgess leans her elbows on the vanity table, watching her sister pucker her lips into the mirror and slick on red lipstick.
‘Can I try?’
Ellie laughs at the reflection of her sister’s inquisitive face in the mirror. Sharp-chinned and curious, just like their cat, Berkeley Square. ‘You’re not even twelve yet.’
Dottie reaches out for the lipstick. ‘Please?’
Ellie twists the tube closed and slides on the brass cap. ‘No. It’s my last lipstick and Buntings hasn’t got any more in stock right now.’ She waves the brass tube at her sister. ‘This might have to last me till the end of the war.’
‘Milly’s mum’s started using beet juice. Her fingers are all stained red from it.’
‘Well, that’s just silly, isn’t it?’
‘Milly’s mum says “Needs must”.’
Ellie taps Dottie on her nose with her powder puff. ‘Here, have a go with this. Powder your nose.’
Dottie leans into the mirror and dabs the powder puff over the three freckles on her nose. ‘I thought that meant you had to go to the loo.’
‘It does. It’s a euphemism.’
‘A eupha—eupha—’
‘Euphemism. You say it so you don’t have to say “toilet” or “loo”. It’s more polite.’
‘But it’s a fib. Father McAuley says fibs are a sin.’
‘Well, it’s only a little sin. Say two Hail Marys and you’ll be fine.’
Dottie hands back the powder puff and picks up the large white-bristled brush with its gleaming mother-of-pearl handle. Edging onto the stool beside Ellie, she unclips her pink plastic hair buckle and drags the brush through her long brown hair.
Ellie watches her sister in the mirror. Dark hair and eyes. So like their mother. Wilful like their mother too. Ellie had loved watching their mother, Winnifred, brush her long, chestnut-coloured hair with the same brush in the evenings. One hundred strokes. Always one hundred exactly. They’d count together.
‘Here, Dottie. Let me do it.’ She stands behind Dottie and runs the brush through the fine brown strands until her sister’s hair gleams.
‘Is George picking you up?’
‘If he’s finished his shift at the ack-ack guns in time. Otherwise I’ll meet him and Ruthie at the hall.’
Dottie frowns into the mirror. ‘I don’t like this war.’
‘Nobody does, honey.’
‘Don’t you worry about George being by the guns? He’s awfully brave, isn’t he?’
‘George is very brave indeed. There’s no need to worry about him. He’s very careful. He’s lucky he didn’t have to go over to Europe with the others. I feel much safer knowing he’s here, don’t you?’
‘I always feel safe if George is around. He’s my guardian angel.’
Ellie chuckles as she snaps the pink hair buckle back into Dottie’s hair. ‘Is he now? How’s that?’
‘Well, Sister Marguerite Mercy said we all have guardian angels who’ve been sent to protect us. Nothing bad will ever happen when your guardian angel is nearby.’ She shrugs. ‘So, George is my guardian angel. I decided.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell him. He’ll get a kick out of that.’
Dottie spins around on the stool and grabs the sleeve of Ellie’s pastel blue dress. ‘No! Please, don’t! It’s a secret.’
‘How can he be your guardian angel if it’s a secret?’
‘Oh, he knows it in his heart. He just doesn’t know it in his head.’ Dottie yanks on the thin blue cotton. ‘Please don’t say anything, Ellie. Promise.’
Ellie kisses the locket around her neck and holds it in the air. ‘On Mummy’s locket, I promise I won’t tell George. My lips are sealed.’
Dottie’s face breaks into a beaming smile. ‘Now can I try some lipstick?’
***
‘Ellie! Over here!’
Ellie cranes her neck over the heads of the dancers shuffling around the glossy wooden floor of the Samson and Hercules dance hall. She spies Ruthie waving at her from in front of the stage, where a band of men in white dinner jackets plays a seductive version of ‘Begin the Beguine’. A short, ginger-haired man in a khaki green uniform stands next to Ruthie, clutching a glass of beer in one hand and flapping the other around like a broken sail as he yells into Ruthie’s ear. Ellie dodges past the dancers’ thrusting elbows and squeezes through a bottleneck of sweaty bodies.
‘Hi, Ruthie. Crumbs, that’s a crush.’
Grabbing Ellie’s elbow, Ruthie shouts into her ear. ‘This is Charlie. He’s from the 57th Newfoundland Heavy Regiment.’ She smiles over at Charlie. ‘Did I get that right?’
‘That’s it exactly, duck.’ The young soldier thrusts out his hand. Ellie extends her hand and he pumps it like he’s jiggling a stubborn bottle of brown sauce. ‘Charlie Murphy from Ship Harbour, Newfoundland,’ he says, drawing out the last syllable. ‘Newf’nland like understand.’
Ellie raises her eyebrows as she rescues her hand. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘That’s how you pronounce it. Like “understand”. I tells you, it’s like chalk on a blackboard whenever I hears people say NewFOUNDland.’
Ellie grins at Ruthie. ‘That’s us told then.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry, duck,’ Charlie says, his green eyes
