Rose touched her mouth. ‘We’re not related, are we?’
‘Yes, you’re certainly related,’ Morton answered. ‘I’m not sure how to say it…’
‘Tell us, for goodness’ sake,’ Paul said.
‘You’re all full biological siblings; Woody and Elsie are all of your parents.’
‘What? How can that be?’ Rose demanded.
‘No…’ Paul muttered, lost for words.
Morton shrugged. ‘Lawrence wouldn’t grant a divorce and she loved Woody.’ It was rude, he knew, but Morton stood and handed over the folder. ‘Everything is in here—I’m sorry, but I really must get to this wedding or I’ll be in huge trouble.’
Barbara nodded and stood up. ‘Whose wedding is it, then, anyway?’
‘Mine.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
8th May 1945, Nutley, East Sussex
Elsie Finch stood at the open back door of her cottage, gazing out into the garden, as the wireless piped out chirpy, triumphant songs from the kitchen. Her blonde hair was immaculate, her make-up flawless. Using a combination of saved-up clothing coupons and some clever reparations, she was wearing a long red dress with blue and white embellishments that looked almost brand new. She leant on the doorframe and plucked a cigarette from the packet of Will’s Gold Flakes in her hand, lit it and took a long drag. She swilled the smoke around inside of her mouth, considering the significance of the day. The war in Europe was over. The church bells—silent since 1940—had chimed non-stop all morning from St James the Less Church in the village, reminding her of her wedding day. Two unrecognisable people in an unrecognisable time. She could never go back to that person, now. Nor, indeed, would she want to.
She glanced back into the kitchen to the letter on the mantelpiece, contemplating its content and her response. It had arrived yesterday from America. From Violet. Having emigrated with her new husband, Charlie—the American GI that they had met in the London bar in 1943—she now sought Elsie’s forgiveness. Could she grant it? Right now, she didn’t know.
She finished her cigarette and turned back into the house. The music stopped, the wireless having been switched off. Elsie rolled her eyes and entered the sitting room. ‘Had enough of the celebrations already?’ she asked.
He didn’t look up and he didn’t answer. He just sat, like he always sat, staring out of the window.
‘Would you like a drink? Tea?’ Elsie asked. ‘Something stronger, to celebrate? I’ve been keeping a bottle of—’
Laurie turned, his thin, sunken cheeks flushed with anger. ‘—No.’
It was the answer she had expected. She took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen. From the cupboard she took out a bottle of rum, poured herself a generous measure and raised a silent toast to the end of the war and to all the other service personnel that she had known and lost along the way. She wondered if she should pour him a drink anyway and take it through, but quickly talked herself out of it.
Laurie had been home for little over a month—after his camp was liberated by the Allies—and she could count the number of words that he had spoken to her on her two hands. He had returned, unannounced one day, just standing there on the doorstep, like a stray dog. A haggard, barely recognisable shadow of a man in baggy clothing. Despite all that had gone on, her instincts had kicked in and she had flung her arms around him, tears welling in her eyes. He had shuffled inside and undertaken the robotic routines of 1939: he had removed his boots at the door, hung his coat on his usual peg, then entered the sitting room, slumping silently down into his usual chair. She had spent the next days trying to understand the strange man who now occupied her home. He had eaten little, spoken little. Each night, he would put on his coat and wander the streets, returning home in the early hours, exhaustion forcing him into sleep. Every day Elsie had woken him from the same feverish nightmare.
Elsie sipped her drink, enjoying the warmth of the alcohol and the glorious sound of the distant church bells. She closed her eyes. The war might be over, but the conflict within her own mind was ravaging. For months, she had prepared herself for the day when Laurie walked through the door. She was going to give him time to settle, to readjust back to life as a civilian before asking him for a divorce. She had been fully prepared to confess everything. But how could she, now? She couldn’t ask it of the broken man in the other room who had suffered five cruel winters in captivity. Yet, she also knew that war, and the decisions made by them and others, had exacerbated and worsened a marriage that had been finished before it had even begun.
Elsie finished her rum and placed the glass in the sink.
Without another word to her husband, she checked herself in the hallway mirror and left the house. She closed the front door, climbed on her old faithful postman’s bicycle and cycled down into the main village.
She heard the clamour of celebration long before she saw it and smiled. A brass band was in competition with the church bells. Children’s voices could be heard singing. The sound of laughter…Elsie wondered when she had last heard mass laughter like that. She had no idea.
She arrived in the village and dismounted to survey the spectacle.
Beneath long stretches of red, white and blue bunting, people danced to the gay tunes of the brass band. The children of the village sat at several long tables filled with food and that ran down the centre of the street. The shops were closed but the pub was open, the sounds of merriment spilling out.
This was what she had worked so hard for in those long nights, listening to the enemy.
‘Do you want a
