The Light Over London Page 14

  “You would’ve figured out how to go about it. I’m just used to mucking about in archives and shamelessly calling in favors.” He paused to take a sip of tea and then set his cup down carefully. “Can I ask why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you want to figure out who wrote the diary?” he asked.

  “I want to return it to its owner or her family if she’s no longer alive.”

  He raised his brows. “If that’s all you want, you could hand it over to an archive and let them do the work.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “No, I couldn’t do that.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s not enough that it’s a mystery?” she asked.

  “In my experience, people with busy lives don’t spend their time chasing down questions like this. They might be interested. They might even have good intentions, but it’s too much work.”

  “Why do you say I’m busy?” she asked.

  “You said yourself that you fell asleep while reading. Plus, your lights are hardly off before midnight, and you’re out the door before most people wake up.” Sheepishly he added, “Rufus means I have to be out at all hours. I notice things.”

  “Maybe I’m just trying to distract myself,” she said.

  “Or maybe there’s something about the diary that you’re drawn to,” he suggested.

  She worried her lip, considering this, wondering what to tell him. All of it, she realized as he sat there, patient and open to whatever part of herself she was willing to give him. He was helping her. She owed it to him to try to explain why.

  “I told you my gran was in the ATS. She never talks about it. We’re so close, and she’s a wonderful storyteller, but this one part of her life is closed off to me. When I first realized what I’d found, I’d hoped that the diary would bridge this gap that’s always been between us—even more so since my mum died,” she added, thinking about the fight she’d overheard.

  “It didn’t work,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Gran still won’t talk about it. All I know is the year she joined and that she was demobbed two months after VE Day.”

  “I could pull her service records too,” he offered. “It would be as simple as searching the right databases, since you know her vital details.”

  She considered the idea but swiftly rejected it. It would feel like a betrayal of Gran’s confidence for Cara to go snooping around in her past without consent. Besides, she knew that without Gran’s own account, a service record would just be a series of dates and unit assignments. The picture would be incomplete.

  “You might need to prepare yourself for the possibility that she may never tell you,” said Liam gently. “It might be too painful. She could’ve lost someone.”

  “But that’s part of what I don’t understand. She’s talked about the boys and girls she used to play with in the schoolyard who didn’t come back from the fighting. I’ve heard those stories.”

  “She might be protecting you,” he said.

  Her laugh was sharper than she’d meant it to be. “Yes, well, that’s what everyone I’m close to has done for the last two years, and I’m tired of it.”

  She was tired of it. She’d fallen apart after her parents’ death in her own quiet way, swept away by her grief. But then she’d woken up. She’d come out on the other side stronger.

  “What’s your gran like?” he asked, as though sensing the brittleness of her nerves in that moment.

  “Fabulous beyond words.”

  He laughed. “Really?”

  “She’s in her nineties and her life is exactly how she wants it to be. When she finally decided to sell her home, she didn’t do it because of her health or because it was too much for her. She did it so that I wouldn’t be hit with death duties, because I’ll be the one to inherit it. She picked her flat in the retirement village she lives in. She has a regular driver take her to standing dinners in and around Barlow three times a week, and she’s recently rediscovered ballroom dancing, although she admits the Latin dances are too difficult on her hips these days.”

  “I’d love to meet her,” he said.

  She looked up quickly. “You would?”

  “She sounds extraordinary.”

  Touched, she looked at her watch. “If we go now, I expect she’ll make us a cocktail.”

  Liam barked a laugh. “Well, how could I say no to that?”

  “Good, but first, we have a stop to make.”

  With Liam following in his car, Cara drove first to the market to pick up a packet of Tunnock’s Teacakes and then on to Gran’s place, mulling over all the different lines of inquiry Liam had set into motion. There were still so many questions to answer about the diarist, and Gran’s unwillingness to share her own story only made Cara more motivated to make sure it ended up in the right hands. There was a family out there who deserved to know about the bravery of the unnamed woman who’d defied her family to join up and become a gunner girl.

  She and Liam parked side by side and headed to the front entrance of Widcote Manor. The four-story redbrick mansion had once belonged to a family that had made its fortune in soap, but it had been converted to flats about ten years ago. They paused only long enough at the reception desk tucked into a corner of the elegant entryway for the concierge to call Gran before they headed up.

  The lift doors had just slid apart when the door to Gran’s flat flew open.

  “Hello, my dear!” Gran trilled. “I was thrilled when Randall phoned to say you were downstairs. You caught me just as I was about to make myself a sidecar. Cocktails are always better with company, and I see you’ve brought a gentleman with you.”

  Cara exchanged a look with Liam before kissing Gran on the cheek. “This is Liam McGown. He’s my neighbor.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Liam,” said Gran, stretching out her hand.

  Liam took it, his smile so big his eyes crinkled. “Mrs. Warren, your granddaughter told me you were extraordinary, but she clearly undersold you.”

  “What excellent taste in neighbors you have, Cara,” said Gran, and Cara knew that as soon as she was home she could expect a call demanding to know more about the admittedly handsome man.

  “You’re rather turned out for a random Wednesday evening,” she said.

  “Do you like my outfit?” Gran asked, modeling her wide-legged ivory trousers. They were the same color as the silk flower tucked behind her ear, and she had paired them with a muted gold ruffled blouse and slim, pointed-toe flats, topped off by a stack of gold bangles on her slim arm. Gran looked ready to sip Negronis on a sun-drenched balcony in the French Riviera. “I have a date with Peter from flat twelve at seven. He’s seventy-seven and a widower.”

  “You’re robbing the cradle,” said Cara, pretending to be scandalized as she handed over the box of tea cakes.

  “I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” Gran’s eyes flicked over to Liam. “You know, this one is better looking than Simon.”

  Cara choked a horrified laugh but Liam dipped his head in a game little bow. “I’m glad I meet with your approval.”

  “It would be difficult for you to do worse than that lout. Do you drink?” Gran asked as she glided into the flat’s generous sitting room, depositing the confections on a cherry sideboard as she went.

  “I do,” said Liam.

  Gran turned, her hand poised over a glass-and-metal cocktail shaker. “Spirits?”

  “I’m an academic. I’ll drink almost anything you put in front of me,” he said.

  “Better and better,” said Gran.

  Liam wandered over to the photo-covered sideboard while Cara sank down onto the sofa that faced the wide bay windows and Gran made the drinks.

  “You were stunning,” Liam said, picking up the photo of Gran and her fellow ATS girls.

  “I am stunning.” Gran tossed the correction over her shoulder.

  “Who are the others in the photo with you?” he asked.

  “Melanie Lovell and Janet Whittacre. The
y were stationed with me.”

  “Where was that?” Liam asked.

  Gran raised a snow-white brow at Cara as she passed around drinks. “As I told my granddaughter before, it hardly bears mentioning.”

  “Gran,” said Cara, “you know I found a diary.”

  “Of another ATS girl, yes.”

  “I told you I want to figure out who its owner was. Do you know why?” she asked.

  Gran took a long sip of her drink but said nothing.

  “It’s because somewhere there’s a woman like you who has been separated from this diary for years,” Cara continued.

  “Maybe that’s how she wants it,” said Gran.

  “But what if it isn’t?”

  Gran’s lips thinned. “She’s most likely dead. Even if she was lucky enough to make it out of the war, there aren’t many people who live to be my age.”

  “What about her family?” Cara asked. “Don’t you think they deserve to have this? It’s a part of their history. I’d want to know. I—” She cleared her throat. “I do want to know.”

  Gran’s expression softened a touch, but she still stood with her arms crossed protectively over her chest.

  Not knowing when she would build up the courage again to ask, Cara forced out the uncomfortable words. “I want to know why you won’t talk about the war . . . and I want to know why you argued with Mum about it just before she died.”

  All of the blood drained out of Gran’s face, and for a moment Cara thought she might faint. Liam must’ve as well, because he put his glass down and took a step forward, but Gran put her hand up. “I’m fine.”

  “I overheard Mum on the phone,” she pushed, despite Gran’s discomfort. “She said that you’d kept something from her. Something that was her right to know. And she mentioned the war. Why?”

  “We all did things we aren’t proud of,” said Gran, her voice almost a whisper.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I made a choice,” said Gran.

  Cara couldn’t explain why, but unease pricked along the back of her neck. “What kind of choice?”

  Gran shook her head, almost as though she was coming out of a fog. “Do you know, I think I made that sidecar a little too strong. I’m suddenly feeling rather light-headed.”

  “Gran . . .”

  Gran tried to put on her best innocent look, but Cara didn’t believe it for a moment. They’d come this far. She wasn’t going away without at least something.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said. “I hate that there’s a secret lying between the two of us.” I feel like you’re hiding something from me, just like he hid things from me.

  Gran threw up her hands. “This is ridiculous. Your mother and I argued—mothers and daughters do sometimes. She found some photographs when we were sorting through the things in my house before my move, and she wanted to know more about the war. I wouldn’t tell her, and she spun the whole thing into some dastardly secret, when all I want is to not have to think about some very painful experiences I went through more than seventy years ago. Is that so difficult to understand?”

  Yes, because none of this explained why Mum had said it was her right to know.

  “I just want to know something. Anything. It’s important to me because you’re important to me,” Cara said.

  Gran closed her eyes and let out a defeated huff. “Do you still have the safe from your parents’ house?”

  Cara nodded. “It’s in storage in London. Why?”

  “Inside there’s a box. You might not have thought anything of it when you were going through their things, but it’s my most valuable possession. I gave it to your parents to keep safe during the move, and since they died, I haven’t had the heart to ask for it.”

  Cara could certainly understand that.

  “The box contains the photographs your mother found. Bring that, and I can show them to you, although I’m sure you’ll find them as unextraordinary as they actually are.” Gran looked up all of a sudden, as though remembering that Liam was there with them. “And you go with her. I don’t want her doing this alone.”

  “Gran, Liam has things to do and—”

  “I’d be honored to accompany your granddaughter,” he said.

  Gran tilted her head back a little as though she was trying to hold back the tears that shimmered in her eyes. “You should be.”

  Cara leaned over to kiss Gran on the cheek, trying not to regret her pushiness. “We’ll leave you to your date. Love you to the moon . . .”

  “And back, dearest,” said Gran. “Thank you again for the tea cakes.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Warren,” said Liam, setting his drink down on a coaster.

  “Call me Iris.”

  “I will,” he said.

  “And be smart and ask my granddaughter out before she gets it into her head to start dating again. Then she’ll be beating men off with a stick.”

  Cara practically shoved Liam into the hall and stuck her head back in through the open door. “You do realize you’re becoming one of those embarrassing grannies people whine about, don’t you?”

  Gran’s laughter echoed down the hallway all the way to the lift. When they were safely inside, Cara snuck a glance at Liam and said, “Well, now you’ve met Gran.”

  He gave a single laugh. And then another. And then, all at once, he was doubled over at the waist, laughing so hard that he had to take his glasses off and swipe at his eyes. “I like her. Very, very much.”

  Cara sighed. “Everyone does. When we were at uni, Nicole used to go round to Gran’s for tea when I was working. The two of them together are a menace.” She paused. “You really don’t have to come to the storage locker with me.”

  “I don’t think Iris would ever forgive me if I didn’t go.”

  The doors dinged. He offered her his arm, and she took it.

  “It’s just that she worries. After the divorce, it seemed only logical to store my things there because I was already renting the space,” she said.

  And there her things had stayed, an archive of her parents’ deaths and her failure of a marriage. Every piece of furniture that had stood in her home in Chiswick carried the weight of memories. She could recall sweetly tender moments and painful fights had on the sitting room sofa. The kitchen table had a gouge mark in the finish where Simon had slammed down a bottle after she told him she’d been to see her solicitor. To go back and see all of those things again . . . Well, she wasn’t entirely sure how it would make her feel, and she’d worked so hard to put him behind her.

  Liam tugged at his arm so that she was drawn in a little closer as they walked. “I want to help. What are you doing on Saturday?”

  “Working,” she said, pulling a face, thinking of the stack of invoices and backlogged shipping she was still slogging through since the Old Vicarage clear-out had taken so much longer than expected.

  “Sunday?” he asked.

  “I’m free.”

  “Then it’s a diary-inspection field trip,” he said, as they finally reached their cars. “It seems silly that we brought two cars here. I’ll drive on Sunday if you like.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, I should go take my maniac of a dog out for a walk,” he said, taking a step back.

  “Then I’ll see you around soon.”

  He nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets as she climbed into her car. She stuck her key in the ignition but sat and watched as he drove away. It wasn’t until his car disappeared from sight that she realized they’d walked all the way from Gran’s flat to their cars, arm in arm, and it hadn’t bothered her one bit.

  4 August 1941

  Three letters, and one of them is so exciting I’m almost shaking! But I’ll start with Kate first because it’s been an age since I’ve heard from her.

  28 July 1941

  Darling Louise,

  I’ve made it to Cairo. (That should make it through the censors because it’s no great secret that the army is here.) Do
you remember how I’d thought Greece would be all Mediterranean glamour and was so disappointed when it was nothing but army camps and hours of work? My predictions about Cairo were more accurate. I’ve never been hotter in my entire life. The sun rises and just sits there in the sky, baking all of us. If I stay out for even a moment, my nose goes bright red. It’s horrible.

  There’s no NAAFI here, but in the evenings the boys transform the canteen. Some nights it’s a cinema. Others it’s a dance hall. One sergeant spent some time visiting family in Kansas City before enlisting last year, and he’s mad to teach us all how to jitterbug. It’s great fun, and I’m not half-bad at it.

  I have some friends here, but I miss you desperately. I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if we’d been assigned to the same unit, but then you’re doing ack-ack. I don’t think I’d ever have the nerve for that.

  Yours always,

  Kate

  1 August 1941

  Lou Lou,

  I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall back asleep, so I’ve come downstairs to write you. I had a dream that something happened to you on the battlefield. Your unit was hit by machine-gun fire from a plane flying low over you. Instead of sheltering behind a concrete barrier like the men of your unit, you ran out to try to drag one of your friends to safety and were hit yourself.

  I know you’ve done your best in your letters to reassure me that nothing like this will happen, but I know that the Luftwaffe doesn’t just have bombers. There are fighters, too, that try to take out the spotlights and the anti-aircraft guns. You’re never going to be entirely safe. No one is.

  No father wants to let his daughter think that he’s scared when he’s the one who is supposed to pick you up when you fall and kiss scraped knees, but I’m afraid for you. I’m also incredibly proud of you. Your mother thinks you joined the ATS because you were angry about your pilot, but I want to believe that some part of your decision was because you knew you had to do something to help end this war. That’s why, even though I wake up in a cold sweat when I have dreams like the one tonight, I know what you’re doing is more important than anything I could have asked of you if you’d stayed in Haybourne.