My disappointment at the thought of the woman being a boring old admin worker rather than a spy is forgotten as I join him at the shop window, both of us peering up at the photo in the weak December daylight.
“ATS?” I ask, looking at the little dark shape on the mystery woman’s jacket, which could very well be a badge. “What’s that? And how would I find out if she was a member?”
“Auxiliary Territorial Service,” replies Dad. “As for how you could know if this woman was involved, though, I’m afraid I have no idea; not without a name, at least. I suppose you could try the library. I bet Maisie would love to get her teeth into a local mystery.”
He hands the photo back to me with a grin.
“We already tried there,” I reply glumly. “We didn’t find anything much. Maisie was on her lunch break when we were there, though. I guess we could go back and ask if she has any ideas.”
“Oh, I’m sure we can trust Maisie to be full of ideas,” says Dad. “Why is this so important to you, though, Holly? Why do you need to find this woman? And why doesn’t that American of yours know who she is, if she was connected to his … who was it? His grandfather?”
“Great-grandfather,” I correct him. “And no, she wasn’t ‘connected’ to him as such. He married someone else after the war.”
“And left this one behind, I suppose,” says Dad, indicating the woman in the photo, and scowling as if her alleged abandonment isa personal affront to him. “Typical of the Americans at that barracks, from what I’ve heard. Had their fun, then buggered off home again, and to hell with the consequences.”
I blink with surprise. It’s not like Dad to sound so vehement. He’s normally the very definition of ‘mild mannered’. Then again, I have a feeling that it’s not ‘the Americans’ in general he has an issue with; it’soneAmerican in particular. And he’s not a visiting GI, either.
“We don’t know he ‘abandoned’ her,” I reply, feeling the need to stand up for Elliot’s ancestor. “There could be lots of reasons why they didn’t end up together. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Dad sniffs loudly.
“There could be many different reasons,” he agrees. “Not many happy ones, though, I shouldn’t think. I wouldn’t imagine their story had a happy ending, whatever it was. How could it, if he was always going to be going back to America in the end?”
This time there’s no mistaking which American we’re talking about. Dad’s about as subtle as an elephant trying to disguise itself as an aardvark. That’s why he always used to leave this kind of thing to Mum. But, of course, Mum isn’t here, which means it falls to him to step in and stop me from having my heart broken.
“I’m just helping him with some … some family research, Dad,” I say reasonably. “That’s all. I’m not planning to run off with the guy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The look on his face confirms that’s exactly what he’s been thinking, and my heart contracts with guilt.
“Well, I should think not,” he says, in a faux-casual tone. “You hardly even know the chap. It would be very odd indeed if you were thinking of some kind of future with him.”
He takes his glasses off and starts polishing them again, awkwardly aware that he’s clumsily steered the conversation into territory neither of us is going to be comfortable with.
“Idoknow Elliot,” I tell him, staunchly defending myself. “I know him better than anyone, actually. And he knowsmebetter than anyone.”
I think about the long, meandering conversations Elliot and I have had in the days since we met; the shared confidences, the nights spent whispering in the darkness rather than falling asleep. I’m not lying when I say he knows me better than anyone else; that, in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve told him things I’ve never told anyone in my life. I’m not lying when I say I knowhim.
But I also know Dad’s right: there’s no more of a future for me and Elliot than there was for his great-grandfather and the woman in the photo. I know that it would be stupid of me to think otherwise.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I say lightly, turning to the nearest bookshelf and starting to rearrange it, even though we haven’t had any customers to mess it up first. “I’m not going anywhere. You can trust me on that.”
Dad clears his throat in gruff acknowledgement and goes shuffling off to the back of the shop to switch the kettle on, leaving me alone with my books and my thoughts.
I’m not going anywhere.That much is obvious.
But, all of a sudden, I think I really want to.
The Bramblebury village library is very old, and it's almost as cold inside as it is out on the street. I wrap my arms around myself to warm myself up as Maisie Poole, the chief — and, indeed, only — librarian, comes bustling over, her eyes lighting up at the sight of Elliot, and the opportunity for fresh gossip he brings with him.
“Holly,” she exclaims. “What a treat! Coming to check out the competition, are you? And this must be your American!”
She looks at him speculatively, her little sparrow-eyes taking in every detail so she can report back to her sister Elsie — and the rest of the village — later. It occurs to me that if she ever fancies a change of career, she’d probably make a pretty decent writer herself, with the way she hoards nuggets of information the way a squirrel stores up nuts for the winter. She should give it a try.
“Hi, I’m Elliot,” says the American in question, holding out a hand, which Maisie shakes in the manner of a queen granting an audience to one of her grateful subjects. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Oh, heisa charmer, isn’t he?” says Masie, her tone failing to make it clear whether she means this as a compliment or not. “And what can I do for you two lovebirds, then?”
I explain as briefly as I can that we’re looking for information on a woman who might have lived in the village a long time ago.
