The Light Over London(5)

“It was the women’s service that supported the army.” When Jock looked over the top of his glasses, she added, “My gran served.”

“Great-Aunt Lenora used to drone on about being a volunteer ambulance driver in London during the Blitz.” Mrs. Leithbridge rose and click-clacked over to a desk near a pair of tall sash windows. Her hand wove through the air before plucking up one of the photographs that lined its edge. “Here.”

There was no way the woman who stared out at Cara was the one in the ATS uniform. Even in black-and-white it was easy to see that Lenora Robinson, all sharp angles with high cheekbones and a thin, small nose, bore no resemblance to L.K. on the Embankment’s youthful features and strong jaw.

Still, Mrs. Leithbridge’s great-aunt shared a first initial with the inscription on the back of the photograph.

Cara opened the tin and pulled it out. “Are you sure this wasn’t her? The back reads ‘L.K.’ Maybe it was taken before she was married. What was her maiden name?”

Mrs. Leithbridge barely glanced at the photo. “Great-Aunt Lenora never took her husband’s name. Quite modern, really.”

“Oh.” Cara glanced at Jock. “There was a diary too.”

“There’s a market for World War Two paraphernalia and diaries, but since it doesn’t appear that Mrs. Robinson wrote it, we’d have to authenticate it and identify the writer,” said Jock.

“I have a broker coming to look at the house in two weeks. Everything that can’t be sold will be cleared out by a junk-removal company,” said Mrs. Leithbridge.

“But shouldn’t we do something with it?” Cara asked, holding up the diary. “Perhaps return it to the woman who wrote it?”

“Where did you find it?” Jock asked.

“In an armoire in a small room off the back stairs.”

“The box room?” Mrs. Leithbridge laughed. “No one’s been in there for years. Throw it out.”

“No!” Heat crept up Cara’s neck as two pairs of eyes bored into her, but she refused to look away. She felt strangely protective of the diary, drawn in by the happiness and heartbreak she’d read, and was now more determined than ever to get the answers she needed from Gran about her history.

“I’d like to keep it and try to figure out who it belonged to.” Cara paused. “If that’s okay with you.”

“I don’t care,” said Mrs. Leithbridge. “I’ll be in the drawing room if you need me.”

When they were alone, Jock pinned Cara with a stern glare. “Miss Hargraves, we do not argue with clients.”

“She wanted to throw it away,” Cara protested.

“And that’s her right. Mrs. Leithbridge can haul all of this to the back garden and set fire to it if she likes, but I’d rather persuade her to sell it and earn my commission. It would be helpful if my assistant didn’t scold her.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious as to who wrote it?”

“Given that I’m working and using up my client’s valuable time, I’m far more interested in this writing box,” he said, gesturing to a Victorian lady’s lap desk that lay open on a table. “Or any other number of things that will actually turn a profit. F-S-P, Miss Hargraves.”

She squared her shoulders, but before she could say anything, Jock sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed them on a handkerchief from his pocket. “If it’ll stop you from looking at me like I’m a philistine trying to destroy history, you can take the diary home. Go put it away, but hurry back. This is proving to be a larger job than I expected.”

Cara kept her head down as she rushed to her car, but she couldn’t help the little smile that touched her lips. She and Gran would have quite a bit to talk about after work.





2


LOUISE


Haybourne, Cornwall, February 1941

The bell above the shop door jangled, and Louise looked up to see a dripping umbrella fill Bakeford’s Grocery & Fine Foods. It came down with a snap to reveal Mrs. Moss, who shook droplets of water all over the floor Louise had mopped an hour ago in a desperate bid for something to do.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Moss,” Louise said, pushing aside the account book she’d been working on.

“What a storm, dear. I was just telling Mr. Moss it’ll be a wonder if we’re not washed away one day,” said the village solicitor’s wife, touching her small purple hat that sat on a cloud of tight brown curls Louise knew she had washed and set at the beauty parlor in Newquay once a week.

“It’s certainly keeping most of our customers away today,” said Louise. “What can I help you with?”

“A pound of sugar and a pound of bacon, please,” Mrs. Moss said.

“Do you have your ration books?” Louise asked.

“Oh yes.” The lady opened her handbag and pulled out three of the little booklets. “Here you are.”

Moving methodically, Louise flipped to the sugar coupons and set about detaching them.

“The rationing really has become ridiculous,” said Mrs. Moss, tsking her tongue as her eyes darted around the shop. “As though it wasn’t enough after the Great War. What will it be next?”

Louise knew Mrs. Moss would be just as happy without her response as with it, so she focused on measuring out the sugar on the heavy iron scale with an exacting precision that had become second nature since the Ministry of Food had instituted rationing the previous year.