Prologue

Margaret Anderson sat at the desk, her dear cat, Mr Emerson, curled up in the basket on the floor beside her. Sliding open the top drawer, she took out a sheet of cream writing paper of the highest quality, along with a matching envelope. Usually someone who was careful with her pennies, she made an exception now and again, and stationery was not to be scrimped on. Through the bay window, she paused to admire the magnolia tree outside St Andrew's Church opposite, its hot-pink flowers on the cusp of being in full bloom, bringing a splash of colour to a grey drizzly day. Spring was always a joyful time of year, a season of hope, after months of her aches and pains being exacerbated by colder temperatures.

Refilling her fountain pen from the pot of ink, she positioned her hand ready to begin, arranging thoughts in her mind. The pen leaked so much the royal-blue ink ran all over her fingers, but she liked to use it whenever she could. During the war her aunt used the pen to write diaries for the Mass Observation, and so it had sentimental value. Taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her slacks, she did her best to remove the excess ink from her fingers.

Margaret had written a different version of this letter twice before. Initially in 1993, and again in 2003. This was one last attempt to fulfil her old friend's request. Now, at the ripening age of ninety-one, time was running out. Who knew how long one had left? She was managing all right but took pills for arrhythmia, and the old arthritis flared up every now and again. The recent cataract operation had gone well – to her relief, because reading books and writing letters were two of her favourite pastimes. She picked up the book that she liked to keep on her desk: A Room with a View by E.M. Forster, and ran a hand over the cover. Smiling to herself, she took a moment to reminisce before putting it back down again.

And then, Margaret put pen to paper.

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am writing to ask if you might assist with a query. I'm looking for a person associated with Gatley Hall during the Second World War. Her name is Tabitha and she lived at Rose Cottage…

Would someone reply this time? She'd placed a series of telephone calls, to no avail, in the 1990s. Various members of staff had promised to hunt down her letter and ‘get back to her', but they never did. Now, had she remembered to include all the relevant information? Her memory wasn't what it was and she sensed a vital piece of information was missing, but for the life of her, however much she racked her brain, it failed to reveal itself. Well, that would just have to do. Gently, she pressed a scrap of blotting paper over her carefully constructed words. Maybe it would be a matter of third time lucky. She wrote out the address for Gatley Hall and stuck on a stamp. The bells at St Andrew's chimed a quarter to five, and if she made haste, she'd catch the last post. Margaret got up from the desk and put her chair underneath, then went to get her mackintosh off the stand in the hall. She wrapped a silk scarf round her head, doing her best to tie a knot under her chin, checking her appearance in the mirror above the console table. Mr Emerson, noting her leaving the study, had made his way into the kitchen and was happily munching on biscuits in his bowl. Opening the front door, Margaret stepped onto the pavement and made her way to the postbox.