‘It’s not humour, Mum; I’ve joined the WAAF and I leave tomorrow. I came to say goodbye.’
Her mother raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Going where?’
Elsie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got three weeks of training then I’ll be posted somewhere. I don’t know much and what I do know I can’t divulge.’
Her father emitted a guttural grunt of dismissal, waved his hand and hurried from the room. The clunking of the backdoor moments later signalled that he had disappeared out into the back garden.
Her mother began to sob into a tissue. ‘Please don’t.’
Elsie crouched before her mother and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum—really I will. I’ll be in some warm office somewhere doing boring administration.’
‘It’s not you—I know you’ll be alright; it’s me, my nerves, Elsie. I’m not sleeping or eating with worry for Mother and Papa and Laurie and you…I’m losing my hair again,’ she whispered.
‘Oh, Mum. You need to try and be brave. The way Hitler’s sweeping across Europe, this war isn’t going to end any time soon. You need to be strong. I need to do my bit—I just can’t sit at home waiting for it all to end. I just can’t.’
Her mother went to speak but only a sniffle and a shaky breath came out. There was a long pause and Elsie witnessed the heart-breaking scene of her mother trying to compose herself. ‘I half thought you wouldn’t come with us to Coventry. I thought I’d prepared myself for it, but look at me.’ She managed a half smile. ‘I’m just like my mother.’
‘He’s sure to be released soon, Mum. What on earth can a German man in his seventies, who’s been living in England since before Queen Victoria died, have to do with Nazism? I ask you. It’s preposterous.’
‘Will you stay for dinner, Elsie?’ her mother asked, breathing deeply and trying to regain her composure.
‘Yes, Mum, I’d love to. I’ll help you.’
Elsie pushed her bicycle down the path and turned to wave. Her mother’s face was contorted and her mouth arched up to prevent herself from crying. ‘Goodbye, Elsie,’ she mouthed silently.
‘Goodbye, Mum. See you soon,’ Elsie called with a wave. It was an effort—a battle of wits against herself—to keep things normal. No finality to her departure. No upset. She was just going one way for a while and they were going another. ‘Say cheerio to Dad.’
She mounted her bicycle and pedalled towards the bus stop without looking back. Her father, having escaped down the alleyway that ran behind the garden, had not returned. ‘He’s probably just forgotten the time or got carried away down the allotment,’ Elsie’s mother had excused. Elsie was sure, though, that he was down the pub, working his way through several beers, wondering what had gone so very wrong in the world.
With moist eyes, Elsie boarded the crowded bus home, knowing that tomorrow her life would change dramatically.
Chapter Four
2016
Sandwich, East Kent
Morton Farrier was distracted. He should be listening, transcribing, asking pertinent questions, but somehow the words died before they reached his ears. Barbara Springett was sitting opposite him in the lounge of her sprawling bungalow, staring at the mug she was cradling in her hands. She was speaking sombrely, telling him important information. He forced his eyes to focus on the notepad in front of him, but couldn’t make sense of the notes that he had only just made. He tried to push back against his meandering thoughts and the blistering migraine that sat above his eyes, like a vice. He looked up at her and she must have sensed his uncertainty, for she stopped speaking mid-sentence.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
Morton flushed, as his thoughts pooled back together again, like liquid mercury. He nodded emphatically—a little too emphatically. ‘Please, go on.’ His odd smile had not fooled her and she eyed him all the more strangely. She held his gaze for a moment further then turned to face the large window that overlooked her back garden. He passed his hand over his unshaven chin and glanced at her. She looked good for her seventy-five years, he thought, only now fully taking her in. Her white tousled hair was styled neatly to her neckline and she wore subtle shades of blue eye shadow and crimson lipstick. Her clothes were casual but stylish and, Morton guessed, came with a hefty price tag.
‘And so,’ she continued, ‘there I was, in 2007 at the Family Record Centre, contentedly working on my Binney family tree—that was my maiden name—and I had ten minutes to kill before leaving and I thought, I know! I’ll look up my own birth reference.’ Barbara shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me why, but I’ve since learned that it’s quite a common thing for genealogists to do. Anyway, I went straight to the June quarter of 1941—nothing. So I tried September—nothing. Same for March, June, September and December of the following year. I had a panicky few minutes, thrusting various microfiche under the glass, desperately searching for myself. In the end the security staff had to ask me to leave as they were closing up! And I’d found zilch. So, when I got home, I wrote to the Mansion House Certificate Centre in Tunbridge Wells, asking them to search for my birth between 1940 and 1945 but they returned my cheque telling me that it hadn’t been registered there and they could be of no further assistance. Well, I’d always believed that I was born 10th May 1941 in Sandwich, Kent—a place I’ve remained my whole life! I married here, my children were born here and here I shall die.’
Morton offered a reassuring smile, knowing what was coming next. It was the reason why, at
