Elsie took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. ‘It’s okay,’ she sniffed.
‘What about the baby’s father? What does he think?’
She thought for a moment. The truthful answer was so short and simple and she wanted to tell someone, at last, to vocalise it and make it real. To accept that what she did had been a mistake. But then she heard the soft creaking outside her door and knew that someone was out there, listening. So instead, she told her the lie that cloaked the truth. ‘It was William—William Smith and he’s-’
‘Dead,’ Susie finished. ‘God. I didn’t think you were interested in him.’
‘It was a one-off. A slip-up. What does it all matter now?’
Silence sat between them, tugging the two women into their own minds.
Elsie stood up. ‘I need a cigarette and I need you to tell me all your news.’
Then there was a rapid knock on the door, followed by the bursting in of Agnes. Elsie was certain that she had been outside the door for the entire duration of their conversation.
‘Right, time to go,’ she ordered, glowering at Susie. ‘Elsie needs rest.’
Susie’s pale face flushed red and she hurriedly stood.
‘I’m rested enough, thank you,’ Elsie replied to Agnes. She switched her gaze to Susie, reached out for her hand and pulled her back down onto the bed. ‘You can stay.’
Susie glanced awkwardly between the two women. ‘I’d better be off anyway; I haven’t got any lights on my bike. Last week I got a fine from a miserable warden.’
‘I’m sure he was only doing his job,’ Agnes argued.
‘Yes.’ Susie stooped down and hugged Elsie. ‘It was lovely to see you. Write me a line when you get back to West Kingsdown.’
‘Goodbye,’ Elsie muttered.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Agnes said, holding the door open.
Elsie watched, dumbfounded, from her bedroom window as her friend was marched off the property.
Later that night, Elsie put on her nightdress and climbed into bed. No sooner had she made herself warm and comfortable beneath the blankets than the air raid siren began to sound. Outside her door she heard movement and the low murmur of discussion as people contemplated heading out to the Anderson shelter. If the past week had been anything to go by, the siren would be sounding all night long. There was no way that she was going outside. She sighed with relief as she regarded the bedroom around her in a manner akin to a prisoner looking around their cell the night before the end of their captivity. It was her last night at Cliff House. Tomorrow, she would go back to the registrar and have the birth certificate amended, then take the first train out of Folkestone. She pictured herself on the train, enveloped in relief, heading back to a new chapter of her life. Her thoughts became feathery and her eyelids cumbrous as she saw herself entering the billet. She saw the delight on Violet’s face. Violet spoke, but her words were inaudible and interrupted by an intermittent tapping. Elsie’s thoughts were now crumbling like wet paper as sleep lured her in. The sound of tapping drifted slowly into a faint muffle, taking with it the sound of the air raid siren. She thought she heard her name being called and re-emerged from her sleep. She sat up and listened. Had she been dreaming?
The door burst open and Agnes entered the room. ‘You must come and take shelter outside—I insist upon it. Now.’
‘What’s the sudden urgency?’ Elsie asked, swinging her legs out of the bed. She was minded to argue but had no strength left to fight. It was easier simply to comply.
‘They’re dropping bombs nearby—out!’
Tomorrow, Agnes would lose control over her, but Elsie obeyed her for now.
Chapter Twenty
The streets of Rye were heaving; the sun had at last bothered to make an effort. Morton, wearing shorts, t-shirt and sunglasses, ambled from his home in Mermaid Street towards St Mary’s Church, which loomed large over the town. Dodging past a large group of foreign students, he turned in front of the church, appearing at the Town Hall. He paused and couldn’t help but smile. A wedding had just erupted from inside. A young couple—she in traditional white and he in a dark grey suit—took centre stage on the steps outside, as their friends and family jostled around them. A photographer backed out in front of them and began directing the group.
A surprising anxiety quivered in Morton’s stomach. In just over a week, that would be Juliette and him doing something that he had for so long vowed that he would never do. But things were very different now. Now he understood so much more of his past. With a past, he could have a future.
He smiled warmly and, with a spring in his step, continued down to the High Street. It was time to play choose a café. Rye had millions of them. He was sure that there had to be some ancient law that dictated that there had to be one café for every household in the town. Today, he chose Hayden’s—a three-storey Georgian B&B with a menu comprised of local produce. He headed through the two rooms that made up the restaurant, hoping that there was a space on the small terrace out the back. He was in luck. A table for two was vacant.
He sat down and pulled out his laptop and the growing bundle of Finch Case research. As he had just been about to leave his house this morning, the post had been thrust through the letterbox. Among the usual junk and bills were two envelopes, their stamped markings revealing the contents: the Ministry of Defence and the General Record Office; Elsie’s Record of Service and Agnes Finch’s death certificate.
He placed both unopened envelopes
