12. Twelve

12

PAST

DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO

“ D ad, you wouldn’t happen to know how I could go about finding out who the woman in this photo is, would you?”

It’s later the same day, and I’m working a shift at the bookstore while Elliot goes back to his hotel to do some more work on his book, and call his family back home.

Dad takes the photo from me readily enough — he loves this kind of thing — then looks at me suspiciously as he clocks the U.S. army uniform on the man in the shot.

“This isn’t something to do with this Elliot chap, is it?” he asks, his face tight with some repressed emotion.

Dad never refers to Elliot by just his name. He’s always “this Elliot chap”, or “that American of yours”; a way of referring to him that underlines the temporary nature of Elliot’s presence in my life, and reminds me of my promise not to get attached.

“It’s his great-grandfather,” I reply, knowing I’m going to have to tell him the truth if I want to get anything useful out of him. “He was stationed here during the war.”

“At Fort Stafford, I suppose,” says Dad, interested in spite of himself. “I remember visiting the museum there when I first moved here with your mum. Interesting place. Caused quite a stir in the village, I believe, back in the day.”

“Really? How so?” I lean forward, looking again at the photo of the handsome GI and his ghostly companion.

“Oh, well, not everyone in villages like this welcomed the incomers, Holly,” Dad replies, taking his spectacles off and polishing them with the sleeve of his sweater. “Especially not the men, who had to go off to war and leave their women at the mercy of the glamorous American soldiers. You have to remember, it was a different time back then.”

I nod. Now that he’s put the idea into my mind, I can definitely imagine Elliot’s great-grandfather causing ‘quite a stir’ here, as Dad puts it. His smile reminds me of Elliot’s. It’s almost identical, actually. And Elliot definitely causes ‘a stir’ in me, so it figures his great-grandpa might have had a similar effect on the women of the village; including, I suppose, the one on his arm on that long-ago afternoon.

“But what about her?” I ask, going back to the photo. “I know there’s not much to go on, but I thought it might be some kind of military uniform she’s wearing. What do you think? Could women even join the military back then?”

“Oh, yes,” says Dad, holding the photo up to the light. “Not in combat roles, obviously, but they did lots of other things. Radar operators, code breakers, spies…”

He grins at me, and, for just a second, he looks almost like his old self again; the way he was before Mum died.

“You think she could’ve been a spy?” I ask, already itching to see Elliot and pass on this nugget of information. “That would be amazing for the boo … for her, I mean. How exciting.”

“Hmm, well, I wouldn’t get too carried away,” says Dad kindly. “It’s more likely she was just a clerical worker of some kind. Admin support, that kind of thing. If you look closely, I think there’s a badge of some kind on her jacket. Could be ATS, perhaps? There’s one on her hat, too, although it’s harder to see because it’s so blurred.”

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 is a 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’s one American 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.

“I do know Elliot,” I tell him, staunchly defending myself. “I know him better than anyone, actually. And he knows me better 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 know him .

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, he is a 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.

“This is all we have to go on, I’m afraid,” says Elliot, pulling the photograph of his grandfather and the mystery woman out of his wallet. “I know it’s not much, but we’re really hoping you might be able to help. Anything you can tell us at all would be amazing, really. We’re kind of desperate here.”

I glance up at him, a little surprised by how seriously he’s taking this ‘research’ of ours.

I thought we were just going to make something up if we couldn’t track down the mystery woman? I didn’t realize we were ‘desperate’?

“Dad thought the uniform might be ATS?” I put in. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that, Maisie.”

Maisie’s lips pucker with annoyance under their frosted-pink lipstick.

“I’m not quite that old, Holly,” she says, sniffing. “I wasn’t even born during the war, you know. Although I suppose anyone over 30 seems ancient to you.”

Elliot and I exchange glances.

“Holly tells me if there’s something you don’t know, it’s probably not worth knowing,” he says, jumping in smoothly to rescue me. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re so good at your job.”

My muscles tense as I wait for Maisie to figure out that I told him that in relation to gossip, not to her job at the library, but, to my relief, she just reaches up and pats her hair self-consciously.

“Some people have been known to call me the Queen of the Library,” she says, trying and failing to sound modest. “I wouldn’t say that myself , you understand, but, well, there is a reason the library is doing so well these days. Not that the bookstore isn’t, too,” she adds quickly, turning to me. “How is your poor father, Holly? It’s a difficult time of year for you both, isn’t it?”

Maisie tilts her head to the side sympathetically, as if she hasn’t spent the last decade pretending the library and bookstore are two rival gangs in a literary turf war, each struggling for dominance over the town of Bramblebury.

Yes, she should definitely be a fiction writer, if she ever quits the library.

“We’re fine, Maisie, thank you,” I reply, suppressing the urge to square up to her like an extra from West Side Story preparing for a dance-off. “But the woman in the photo? Do you think you can help us figure out who she was?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, remembering the reason for our visit at last. “The Auxiliary Territorial Service, wasn’t it? I think we might have something on that somewhere, but I’ll have to check when I can find a spare second. I’m rushed off my feet here, as usual.”

She indicates the room we’re standing in, which is empty but for the three of us, and has a faint aroma of mildew and neglect.

“Leave it with me, though,” Maisie adds, with a martyred expression. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best. Why do you want to know, though? Who do you think this woman is?”

Her eyes light up at the thought of fresh gossip material.

“We’re not sure,” Elliot replies, saving me the trouble. “It’s a bit of a mystery, unfortunately. This is all I know.”

He hands her a piece of paper torn from his notebook, on which he’s scribbled down his great-grandfather’s name and regiment, along with the approximate dates he arrived in and left England.

“Oh, I love a good mystery,” says Maisie, scanning the note greedily. “I’ve read all the Hercule Poirot books in the library, you know. The Miss Marples, too. Although I always manage to figure out whodunnit before the end, which spoils it a bit.”

“This should be no problem for you then,” replies Elliot kindly. “I’m sure you’ll have the case solved in no time.”

“Well, I’ll do my best,” replies Maisie, blushing slightly. “He’s a proper charmer, this one,” she says, giving me a glance of approval before turning to go. “Young Martin better watch out; it looks like he’s got himself some competition.”

“Martin?” asks Elliot, smiling uncertainly as Maisie sweeps off importantly to scare some children who are loitering near the computer terminals. “Who’s Martin, and why is he my competition?”

“He isn’t,” I assure him, taking his arm as we head back into the street. “Martin Baxter is the boy next door. Literally, I mean. His parents own the bakers; you know the shop next to ours?”

“Right. So you guys grew up together, then?”

“Not really. We grew up next to each other,” I correct him. “Martin and I never really had anything in common, but he was convinced we did, what with the whole ‘parents being shopkeepers’ thing. He’s … well, he’s always had a bit of a thing for me, I guess. He thinks that us living next door is a sign that we were meant to be together.”

“But it never happened?” Elliot asks. “You two never got together? Sorry,” he adds quickly, “I know it’s none of my business, I just … well, I guess I’m just worried about the competition now.”

He gives a low chuckle, and I squeeze his arm reassuringly.

“You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” I tell him firmly. “Martin’s not my type. Never has been, never will be. I like tall, handsome Americans, you know. Ones who write books about dead grandfathers, and like to start wild goose chases over mystery women.”

“That’s very specific of you,” Elliot replies, laughing properly now.

“Oh, my requirements are very specific,” I assure him. “I’m pretty sure there’s only one man who can fill them, actually. I — “

I manage to stop myself from speaking right before I go on to tell him even more clearly that he’s the only man for me, even though we’re only supposed to be having a fling.

“Speaking of mystery women,” I say, abruptly changing the subject. “I really wish we’d been able to find out at least something about her today.”

“Patience, my angel,” Elliot replies, giving me one of those melt-your-heart smiles of his. “Give Maisie a little bit of time. I have a feeling she’s a woman who won’t give up until she’s found out every last little thing.”

“That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?” I reply, the words bursting out of me without my permission. “We don’t have time. Not even a little bit. Because you’re going home.”

At first I think Elliot hasn’t heard me. He keeps on walking, my hand still tucked into his, and my heart growing heavy as I realize I’ve done the thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do; I’ve broken the unspoken code by referencing the fact that he’s leaving. I’ve opened Pandora’s box, and now I’m going to have a hell of a time trying to get it closed again.

“Come with me, then,” Elliot says, stopping so suddenly I almost walk into him. “Not forever,” he adds quickly, seeing the look on my face. “Not if you don’t want to. But come for … for a vacation. Come for Christmas. Florida’s still warm in December; you’d love it. And my mom makes a mean roast turkey.”

I stand there gaping at him in the street as the snow starts to fall, thick and fast, as if to underline his point about the Florida sunshine.

“Okay, you don’t have to have the turkey,” Elliot says when I still haven’t said anything. “I know you don’t like Christmas. Forget Christmas. We’ll go to the beach. We’ll go to Disney. We’ll go anywhere you like. Just… say you’ll come with me.”

His eyes find mine through the falling snow, and I have to look away to protect myself from the hope I can see in them.

“It’s not the turkey,” I say at last, feeling like I’m in a movie. “It’s… it’s everything, Elliot. Dad. The store. I can’t just leave. It’s not that easy.”

I say it, but in my mind I see sunlight glittering on water, and white sandy beaches stretching down to the sea. I see the possibility of something other than a small town and a life lived through other people’s words. I see the start of a story of my own.

“I know it’s not,” Elliot says, crestfallen. “But, like I say, it doesn’t have to be forever. You could just come for the holidays. Hell, your dad could come too, if he wants.”

“He won’t.” I smile at the thought of Dad standing on a tropical beach in his sensible cardi, looking like someone’s filed him on the wrong shelf. “He wouldn’t leave the store.”

But I could.

The thought starts as a whisper, but it quickly worms its way right to the back of my mind and makes itself at home there.

I have some money saved up from my wages at the store. I could use it to buy a plane ticket. I could visit Elliot in the States, and I could spend Christmas somewhere that wouldn’t remind me of Mum every single moment.

“Maybe you could think about it?” Elliot says, somehow sensing me wavering in my decision not to go. “You don’t have to decide right away. We have plenty of time.”

We don’t, obviously. We have hardly any time at all, really.

But now he’s suggested we might have more.

“Sure,” I say lightly, as if he’s asked me to think about what I want for lunch. “I’ll think about it.”

And that’s a promise.