Lavinia and I live together now. I am at Bletchley Park, or lectures most days, but she doesn't mind.
She works two jobs, at the bookshop and as an air warden. This is easy work, as Cambridge is not a very big target for bombing, you see.
She and George are still together, engaged in fact. They write letters to each other often. Around every two weeks, he'll send me a letter. None of us are sure where Alex is, but we know that he is okay, from George's frequent updates. He ranks quite high in MI5, you see.
Lavinia knows that I am worried for both of their safety. She's become much nicer, as a result of the war. Sometimes, we will stay up late, not doing anything, just sitting together, the reassurance of another's presence easing our mind. Like the night we found out about Daisy. Or when Beanie was wounded.
One night, about a year ago, she came home late, tears streaking her face, a telegraph clutched in her hand.
"Hazel. It's not fair." she said as I take her coat, and lead her to the table, "Why is it like this? Why must we wait?"
"I know, I know," I say comfortingly, afraid of what the telegraph might contain. As if reading my mind, she holds out the telegraph to me. I take it an read:
MISS TEMPLE STOP WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF YOUR MOTHER'S DISAPPEARANCE STOP DURING A BOMBING ON HER STREET SHE DISAPPEARED STOP NO BODIES HAVE BEEN IDENTIFIED YET STOP WE WILL INFORM YOU AT ANY DEVELOPMENTS STOP
THE SMITH FAMILY
i look at her, sadly.
"Who are the Smith's?" I ask, gently. She sniffles.
"Family friends. Mr. Smith works in the war office.
"I'm so sorry Lavinia." I sigh.
That night we spend on the couch, her crying.
YOU ARE READING
The Next Time We Meet
Történelmi fikcióThe detective society made a promise to each other when they left school, that in two years they would be in the corner cafe, in Cambridge, on Christmas eve. On Christmas eve, 1942, Hazel comes, as promised.
