The Light Over London(58)

“Do you think Princess Elizabeth will serve?” Lizzie asked.

“She’s just fifteen. Let’s hope this war doesn’t last long enough to find out,” said Vera.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” said Williams, tapping out a cigarette from a paper-wrapped pack.

“Oh, don’t smoke that around me,” said Mary, her eyes growing positively lustful. “It’s torture watching you.”

“All I have to do is load the shells,” said Williams, the cigarette bouncing as he set a match to it and drew on it until the tip glowed orange. “No steady hands needed.”

“I’m not even on the instruments,” said Mary with a sigh and a longing gaze at the cigarette.

“It’s the booze I miss,” said Lizzie, inching her juice away from her. “Give me a good gin and tonic any day.”

“Can we talk about something other than the vices we can’t indulge in anymore?” Vera asked.

“Lou, how’s the famous Flight Lieutenant Paul Bolton?” Williams asked, flicking the end of his cigarette into an ashtray.

“He’s fine, thank you,” she said primly.

“You know, if you were really loyal to Ack-Ack Command, you’d be with an RA man, or at least an army man. Not a pilot. You’re really letting this side down,” said Williams.

“Not this again,” muttered Charlie.

“It’s too bad then that I know you too well ever to dream of being with you, Williams,” Louise said with a sweet smile.

The rest of the table laughed, but before Williams could respond, a low, painful keening cut through the din. The NAAFI froze as a WAAF struggled up from a table near the back. Tears streamed down her face, and her mouth opened to the unearthly sobs. In her hands she clutched a slip of paper.

“Oh my word,” said Mary, crossing herself.

Two women at the WAAFs’ table closed around her, holding her up as she began to sag to the floor. In a flash, Cartruse appeared out of nowhere, sweeping the woman into a chair before she collapsed. He dropped to her side, his hands on the woman’s arms as she rocked back and forth, the sobs growing louder.

“She had a telegram,” said Vera, her mouth a thin white line.

Louise looked up and saw a WAAF officer standing at awkward, if respectful, attention, her eyes fixed on the grieving woman. She didn’t have to ask to know that the officer had been the one to deliver the news. Missing or killed in action. Either way, the woman had lost someone.

Her thoughts immediately flashed to Paul. If he died, she might not know until weeks later. She wasn’t a wife. She wasn’t family. As a sweetheart, she had no official claim on him. His mother would be the one to open that telegram. Louise would have to rely on the thoughtfulness of the other men in his unit who’d heard about her. One of them would have to fish out a letter from Paul’s effects to find her service number.

Her stomach twisted at the thought. She could only pray that Paul would be kept safe.

Two RAF sergeants appeared next to the grieving woman, helping her friends lift her up and half carry her out of the NAAFI. Everyone watched the door shut behind them, plunging the place into an uncomfortable silence.

After a few moments, people began to shift about, but the man who’d been playing the piano closed the keyboard cover and slipped off the bench.

Louise watched Cartruse come to their table, his face even more solemn than usual. He dropped into the chair next to her and scrubbed a hand across his jaw.

“It was her husband,” he said after a moment. “They were married in January before he shipped out.” They all murmured in sympathy, but he went on. “Her parents were killed in the Blitz so she joined up. Said she doesn’t have anyone left.”

“It was good of you to comfort her,” Louise said.

“What comfort can you offer a woman going through something like that? What do you say?” he asked.

Louise laid a hand on his arm, and he looked up at her. His eyes were so tired.

“You say whatever you can,” she said.

His mouth twisted, but after a moment he patted her hand.

That night, Louise wrote to Paul fifteen words.

I love you. Tell me you love me too. Tonight I need to hear it.





15


CARA


They were twenty minutes out from Widcote Manor when Liam ended the silence that had hung about the car since London.

“Will you tell me what happened?” he asked.

He didn’t need to elaborate. She knew what he wanted to hear, and for the first time in a long time she felt like she could start to tell the story to someone who hadn’t seen the ugliness unfold.

“My ex wasn’t the person I thought he was, or maybe he was and I just couldn’t see it in the beginning. It started when Simon was made redundant in 2015, and all of his promises to find a new job never panned out.”

“It’s a tough market,” said Liam.

“You’re being much, much too kind. When it first happened, he seemed determined to get another job. A better one. But after a couple months of hunting he sort of gave up.

“At uni, he’d cultivated a group of friends who were all members of private clubs who would go to hunt balls at the weekends and play polo in the summer. We were comfortable with both of our salaries, but we couldn’t keep up with them, though Simon tried.