The door was pushed open and Violet stepped in, placing a hand on Elsie’s back as another wave of sickness lurched up from inside. Violet said nothing but handed her some tissue. Elsie wiped her mouth then almost collapsed onto her friend. She sobbed on Violet’s shoulders for some time, then took out her handkerchief and wiped her face. ‘I’m okay,’ she whispered, moving towards the door.
‘Are you sure you’re ready to go back down there?’
Elsie nodded. She wasn’t ready—not in the slightest. She wanted to run away from here as fast as she could. She wanted to go back to the early hours of this morning and tear up that bloody telegram. How stupid she suddenly felt. She opened the door and walked back downstairs to the sitting-room, every thought directed at holding her composure.
She sat back down, with Violet beside her and, without looking at Agnes or Kath, picked up the piece of paper. It was in French. Madame, Je suis chargée de vous faire savoir que votre mari ou votre fils, Lawrence, est passé à Douvrin dans le Pas de Calais comme prisonnier de guerre. Il est en bonne santé. Votre dévouée, Madame Léguillé.
Elsie’s French was not excellent, but she understood it. Laurie had been taken prisoner-of-war and had passed through a place called Douvrin, where, presumably, he had handed a note to a French lady.
Finally, Elsie looked at Agnes.
‘Isn’t it wonderful news?’ Agnes exclaimed, rising quickly from her chair, her face alight with joy, as Elsie had never seen her before. She clasped her hands to her face. ‘I still can’t believe it, I have to read it over and over, then check the translation.’ She sighed loudly. ‘My son—your husband—he’s alive!’
Elsie wanted to stand, to at least pretend to share their excitement, but she knew that her trembling legs wouldn’t hold her up. She had no idea how on earth she was ever going to get up and leave this house.
The conversation continued around her, between Violet, Kath and Agnes, but Elsie was unable to latch onto it sufficiently to join in with anything more than a nod or a ‘Yes, quite.’ She felt as though she were drunk and just wanted to leave—to go back to Bramley Cottage and disappear into her bed…what was she thinking? Bramley Cottage wasn’t her home any longer…it took an absurd amount of time for her to bring to mind her billet in West Kingsdown.
‘We need to go,’ she managed to whisper to Violet, the words almost failing to come out of her dry mouth. She knew that Violet was looking at her. She felt her stand up. Felt Violet take her arm. She said something. Something about tea? Or trains? The conversation was moving far too fast for Elsie to be able to get a purchase on it. She felt her side moving, being lifted. Someone’s face—Agnes—appeared right in front of her. Violet spoke again in that fast, mumbled and foreign way that Elsie couldn’t understand. Her legs were moving! But they were wrapped in something heavy, like treacle. Then there was more talking. Then fresh air. Ah, fresh air! At last.
The talking stopped, but she was still moving. Violet was speaking again. Telling her to breathe. She was lying down, now. Perhaps in her bed. She closed her eyes and sank into a comfortable darkness.
Time had kindly waited for her.
She woke with clarity. She was lying on the grass verge just beyond the boundary of Cliff House. Violet was sitting beside her.
‘I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m pregnant,’ Elsie said quietly.
Violet seemed not to be shocked, showing no reaction. ‘Well, Elsie Finch, either you’ve just taken the record for the world’s longest pregnancy, or you’re in a spot of trouble.’
Chapter Twelve
A marble sunset, the colour of blood, had drawn Cliff House into silhouette. Tangled clouds of pink and orange stretched out in the sky behind it, as a lone figure strode a well-trodden track from the house through the dewy grass. In her arms she carried another mixed stack of documents. She reached a rough patch of sun-scorched grass, where a pyre of files, diaries, letters and other assorted paperwork had been dropped. She opened her arms and the contents fell haphazardly onto the pile. Then, she calmly picked up a bottle of lighter fuel and squirted the pugnacious liquid all over the documents. She squeezed out every last drop, then lit a match. For a short moment, she held the flickering flame, making certain for one last time that she was doing the right thing. There was no choice; she had to do it. She tossed the burning match down and took a necessary large step back. Instantly, the entire heap was enveloped in flames.
Tamara looked at the house, suddenly bathed in an eerie tangerine glow. Beadily observing from one of the windows was her mother’s stony face staring down.
She turned back to face the fire and watched as it greedily gorged itself on the pile. Memories and stories of the past were triggered in her mind, when singed snippets of paper danced mournfully in the air above the fire, the only trace of their ever having existed, just seconds away from obliteration.
The Spyglass File was destroyed.
Her work here was done.
She turned and walked back towards the house, under her mother’s severe gaze.
‘Give it here,’ Juliette said, taking the letter from Morton’s hand. She held it out in front of her. ‘Ready?’
Morton nodded.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, just get on with it,’ he said, a little too snappily.
‘19th March 1976. Dear Margaret,’ Juliette began in a terrible, vaguely Texan drawl.
‘Just in your normal voice,’ Morton suggested, not in the right frame of mind for humour.
She continued reading, in her usual voice. ‘I really hope you’re doing well. I know you won’t reply to my letters—maybe
