The Light Over London(10)

“This could do with a wipe,” he said, holding up a glass.

Louise took it, cleaning it inside and out.

“Thank you, Lou Lou.”

“You’re welcome, Da,” she said, using the pet name she’d used for him until she was five and her mother had decided it wasn’t proper.

He made as though to turn but then looked back over his shoulder. “About this dance—do you want to go?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Kate wants me to go.”

“That’s not the same thing as wanting it yourself.”

“Sometimes it feels like it should be when Kate’s pushing,” she said.

He smiled.

“I suppose it will be a change,” she said with a sigh.

“Do you know what I think, Lou Lou? You should go and dance with every man who asks you.”

“And what if they don’t ask me?” Her tone might have been light, but there was no mistaking the little quaver in her voice.

Her father reached over and tugged a lock of her hair gently. “They will. If you let them.”

She watched him leave and touched her hair comb, not minding that it had slipped once again.

13 February 1941

The Spitfires are flying again today. I can see them from my desk, where I write this, but it’s impossible to tell whether they’re engaging in exercises or patrolling for submarines.

It’s strange to think that in such a short time, we’ve all learned how the different engines sound and we’re all able to pick out a bomber or a Spitfire. Children playing in the street still stare up at them or chase the planes down the road, but the rest of us hardly stop what we’re doing. Da says that people can become accustomed to anything, and I believe him. Our gas masks hang on hooks by the door, half—forgotten even though it sometimes feels like most of the village has gone off to fight.

We shouldn’t be so complacent in thinking we’re safe. St. Eval was hit several times last summer. The worst was in August. From my room you could see the flames when the Germans hit one of the pyrotechnics stores. Betsy, who works near the base, said it looks like they’re still repairing the damage to the hangars from the October hit. I asked her if it bothers her being so close to a place that the Luftwaffe is trying to bomb, but she simply shrugged and told me it’s nothing compared to what those poor people in London are experiencing in the Blitz.

I wonder sometimes if we shouldn’t all be a bit more like Mum. She might fight the entire German army herself, if only over the rationing of tea, sugar, and butter. She says that when eggs go, it’ll be the beginning of the end. Those aren’t rationed yet, but it’s so difficult to find them that we heard Mr. Nance at Bolventor Farm has taken to locking the chicken coop at night and standing guard at the farmhouse window with a shotgun in case anyone comes to steal from him.

I asked Da why Mum is so bothered by the rationings, and he said it’s just because she remembers it from after the last war and that reminds her of her older brother who died. It’s strange to think I had an Uncle Monty whom I never met and only know the sight of because Mum keeps his picture on top of the piano in a silver frame she polishes every Saturday.

The one thing we can’t ignore even in our sleepy little village is the soldiers. There are rumors that as soon as the Americans join the war—God willing—they’ll be four deep on the streets of every town from St. Eval to St. Ives. But until then, it’s just our boys. A truck painted olive green and covered in canvas rolled down the high street today. I rushed out of Bakeford’s just in time to catch a glimpse of the soldiers out of the open back of the truck. They weren’t at all like the men you see in the newsreels, all scrubbed clean with rosy cheeks and a wink for the girls. They stared off into space, not quite seeing us, even though Mrs. Latimer’s boys ran out after them, shouting and trying to earn a wave.

The men in uniform are, of course, a topic of great interest among my friends. We may’ve all left school, but they still laugh and twitter and touch up their lipstick like schoolgirls whenever they think a serviceman might be near.

Kate can’t contain her excitement over the dance tomorrow. Sometimes I can see people trying to work out how we could be so close when we’re so very different. Blond and brunette. Bubbly and shy. Tall and short.

Mary Hawkley once asked me how I can stand being around Kate when she’s so popular. “Doesn’t it just kill you that the boys all talk to her?” But then she stopped herself and laughed. “It’s a good thing you have Gary, isn’t it?”

She flitted away before I could say anything.





3


LOUISE


“Oh, my hair is an absolute wreck,” said Kate as she stared into the mirror of the village hall’s powder room and rewound one of the pin curls that had become crushed under her hat.

Louise stopped plucking at her cheeks and glanced at her cousin. “Stop your nonsense. You look like Betty Grable.”

Kate rocked back on her black patent leather heels and dropped her hands to her sides. “Do you think so?”

With Kate’s hair piled on top of her head sharpening her cheekbones and her mouth painted vermilion, it wasn’t too outrageous a jump to make, so Louise nodded and then squinted at herself in the mirror. “The best I can hope for right now is Bette Davis.”