Great. The one place that he was hoping that this case would not require him to visit. It was typical that the entire country’s mass observation diaries would be under the care of his arch-enemy, Miss Deidre Latimer, a dowdy spinster whose life’s mission seemed to be to irritate him.
Morton arrived at The Keep shortly after opening the following morning. On his way, he had collected his file-less laptop and posted the letters to the four Susans.
He stepped from his Mini and marched assuredly into the repository.
Instantly, he could feel his confidence shrinking away, like a deflating balloon as he spotted Miss Latimer behind the reception desk, leaning over a young lady, looking at a computer screen. Did she ever have a day off?
Their every meeting was a game, but one for which only Miss Latimer knew the rules. Sometimes, she would ignore him completely. Other times, she would paint on a dreadful smile and lay on a vomit-inducing amount of sickly-sweet advice. For the most part, she would slice through his questions with her sarcasm-laced tongue.
He wondered how today would go as he approached the desk.
‘Morning,’ he said brightly, braced for the bite back.
Without glancing up, Miss Latimer smiled and began to respond pleasantly. ‘Good morn-’—then she saw that it was Morton—‘Oh.’ Her smile fell and she folded her arms. She turned to her colleague. ‘Ah! Here he is, the only genealogist in living history who can make our sedate, sedentary little hobby into a dangerous sport. You’ve not been kidnapped, yet, today I see. Well done.’
It was going to be a sarcasm day, then. ‘No, not yet. I’m sure there’s still time, though,’ Morton said with a fake grin.
‘That would be a terrible shame,’ she said pleasantly.
‘I know; you’d miss me awfully.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she chirped.
He continued to the lockers, riled. His only saving grace today was that the records that he had come to see were held on the internal computer system, so, with luck, he could avoid having to speak with her again. Or, ever again, if he had his way.
Having stowed his bag in a locker, Morton carried his laptop and notepad into the Reading Room; he had a choice of almost any of the fifty computer terminals, but he chose one close to the back of the room, way out of Miss Latimer’s view.
The Mass Observation Archive was accessed internally via a link on the desktop. He clicked it then typed Capel-le-Ferne into the advanced search box: as he already knew, one diary result.
Diarist number: 5059
Gender: F
Date of birth: 1869
Household status: Single
Occupation: Retired nurse
Place of residence: Capel-le-Ferne, Kent
Below the diarist’s information was written the available dates, 1939-1941 and some keywords that had been tagged in her entries. Morton grinned as he read them, quickly forming a picture of the seventy-year-old spinster. Soldiers, pregnancy, illegitimate war babies, fallen women, air raids, knitting, chutney, rationing.
He clicked the first page and the woman’s original handwritten diary appeared onscreen, revealing her name and full address, which confirmed that she was one of Agnes Finch’s neighbours: Doris Sloan, Wildridings, Folkestone Road, Capel-le-Ferne, Kent. He began to read through the first entries, which spoke of the minutiae and drudgery of the early years of war.
3rd September 1939
And so it’s begun, again. Yesterday, a flood of London evacuees descended on the village. My neighbour has taken in two boys. Nobody has asked me (thank goodness) to take any. Chamberlain gave a good speech. I felt more in tune with him than at any time since he let Mr Eden go. Two neighbours have started digging dug-outs. One has a vacant space and has offered it to me. My tomatoes are ripening fast, and I have made chutney from some and sent my sister three pounds at a cost of 7d for postage.
6th December 1939
Three months of war and what—nothing! I think it’s high time they reopened the cinemas and theatres. The rule that we must carry our gasmasks seems foolish in these country districts, and is not widely observed. With Christmas approaching and no sign of any German bombs, many of the Londoners are creeping back home. My neighbour’s boys have gone. I’m glad the BBC have cut down the number of News programmes—if they had not done so, they would have made the weaker members of the country twittering idiots before the end of the war.
As Morton continued reading into 1940, he began to fear that Doris’s seeming refusal to actually name her various neighbours would scupper his chances of gaining any insight into the Finch family during the war. But, as he read on, he caught snatches of a person who could very easily have been Agnes…
2nd June 1940
The ships and boats in the sea! My goodness—the view from my house over the channel is astounding. I knew what was going on before it was admitted on the wireless. A defeat has been turned into a great achievement. But how soon the Germans will turn towards Paris, or attempt the invasion of England, no one can say. The scenes at Dunkirk must beggar belief. There has still been no word, though, on my neighbour’s son who is out there with the BEF. Most days I see her standing on the cliff edge watching the exhausted boats coming and going—as if she would somehow be able to spot her son among the thousands of men. I do pity her. One feels so helpless over here.
3rd July 1940
The Minister of Health has urged for the immediate evacuation of children in this area. The government considers air raids to be imminent…Since Dunkirk, I have noticed several references in local conversation to the number, often quoted in exact figures,
