Page 109 of The Last Night in London
I opened my search engine and typed in “Bournemouth.” I felt ignorant, not even knowing where it was. I quickly discovered the town was on the southern coast of England, almost one hundred miles southwest of London, and that it had a large number of new retirement communities.
An old photograph of an impressive villa caught my attention. It had been constructed, along with other villas, in the early nineteenth century, when Bournemouth was a resort for tuberculosis victims seeking to recover their health. I wondered if this was the type of house K. Nash might have lived in, and eagerly clicked the link for Quayside Cottage villas. But, as I’d long ago discovered, nothing was ever easy.
I distracted myself by searching for anyone with the name K. Nash, or anything resembling it, in Bournemouth. Exactly four names met the criteria. I wrote down the four associated phone numbers to call during daylight hours, although I didn’t hold out much hope that whoever K. Nash was might still be living.
Of course, Precious had nearly made it to one hundred, so it was a possibility. I flipped back to my original hunt for Quayside Cottage, expanding my search to include the entire county of Dorset, and then focusing on just the words “Quay,” “Quayside,” and “Cottage.” My finger rested against the down arrow key, the screen scrolling by so quickly that I almost missed the word “Quay.” I lifted my finger and began tapping the up arrow, reading each line to find it again.
Seventy-fifth Anniversary of German Bombing of Poole Quay, December 16, 1942.
I scanned the article, stopping at a black-and-white newspaper photo of a street with the improbable name of Barbers Piles. One side looked normal, with small seaside cottages nestled against one another like children, jagged and uneven rooflines and chimneys adding to their charm. The opposite side of the street lay in complete rubble, bricks and debris, the odd piece of furniture protruding from the piles. A child’s shoe lay in the foreground, making me pause.
Lightning raid by German bombers in broad daylight obliterates an entire row of cottages near the Poole Quay.
I sat back in my chair, deflated, my gaze straying to the shoe again and again. Maybe the reason I couldn’t find Quayside Cottage was that it no longer existed.
An alphabetical list of the victims of the attack appeared in the article. There were sixty-seven names, and I examined the list twice, to be sure. No one with the last name Nash had been killed in the attack. Or at least killed and identified. Judging by the photos, some victims might have been completely obliterated.
I blew out a deep breath of frustration, then looked down at my notes, at the four phone numbers. I didn’t hold out much hope that they’d lead me anywhere, but they were something. Maybe in the morning, I’d think of something else.
I closed my laptop, then rested my hand on it until it grew cool under my fingers. The gentle swish of traffic against the pavement below soothed me with its rhythmic regularity. I tried to imagine standing at this window and listening to the wireless eighty years before, as war had been declared. Hearing the air raid sirens and having to run from the building.
Precious could. She’d been here, had seen and heard all of it. There was so much more we needed to know, so much more shecould tell us. Yet the more questions arose, the more uneasy I became.
... no heroic deed is done for the simple act of heroism. There’s always some payment due, some penance owed. Some wrong to right.
Goose bumps erupted on my arms, as if Precious and her ghosts were standing behind me, whispering in my ear. It made me think of the purse I’d placed on her dresser. The heft of it.Just memories.
Leaving my laptop on the desk, I flipped off the lamp and left the room, telling myself I was going back to bed, no matter how futile my efforts to find sleep would be. I was wide-awake now, my thoughts on an old woman dying and taking her memories with her.
Without intention, I paused outside her door, imagining I’d heard a sound inside. I remembered the open windows from the night before. With thoughts of pigeon poop all over Precious’s antiques and lace linens, I pushed open the door, quickly crossed the sitting room to the bedroom, and hit the wall switch.
The small chandelier filled the room with more shadows than light, but at least I could see that the windows were closed, the curtains still. The bed had been made, Precious’s peach silk dressing gown placed neatly at the foot, with her slippers waiting for her on the floor. All was as it should have been. I paused, waiting to hear the sound again, eventually realizing it must have come from one of the neighboring flats.
Turning to leave, I spotted the box purse still on the dresser, where I’d placed it the night before. I stood on an especially creaky floorboard, changing my weight from foot to foot, listening as it protested. As if it knew what I was thinking. As if it knew my mama had raised me better.
I took a step toward the doorway, remembering Precious moaning softly as she sat by the window, holding the purse. How she’d told me that she felt as if she were watching a stopped clock but could still hear it tick. There had been a sense of desperation to her words, a dim hope. As if, for the first time, she could see a glimmer of salvation.
I turned back and stared at the purse. Precious could have beendying. Dying right now and taking with her not only her memories, but her last chance for salvation. For atonement.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached for the purse and opened it. Very carefully, I began to empty out its contents, placing them one by one on the surface of the dresser. First, the familiar cigarette case. Then I reached into the dark interior of the bag, my fingers finding a small, hard object, pulling it out to study under the light.
The crude carving had angles where there should have been curves, making it difficult for me to determine what it was—until I looked at the front of it, saw the smile, and recognized it as a dolphin. It was white and undoubtedly ivory, made long before ivory became a banned material. It was oddly beautiful, and I held it for a moment in my closed fist, feeling its edges, wondering at its significance.
Placing it next to the cigarette case, I pulled out a wadded linen handkerchief. I nearly dropped it, as I hadn’t been prepared to find something rolled up inside. Red and white stones from a brooch reflected the light of the chandelier, the letters “RAF” over a winged emblem I recognized from the patch on Graham’s uniform in his picture.
My gaze fell to the yellowed and crumpled handkerchief, the monogram in dark blue.GNS.Graham Neville St. John.I recalled Penelope saying his full name after Hyacinth called to tell her she’d found Graham in the archives.
I frowned at the collection on the dressing table, my gaze going from one item to the next as I tried to find some connection. To figure out why these were the memories Precious had hung on to. Especially the pin and the handkerchief. She’d given the purse to Eva, so were these Eva’s mementos? How had Precious ended up with them?
Did she know more about what happened to Eva than she’d told us?
A single thought ping-ponged around my tired brain, an idea too outrageous to verbalize, too unreasonable for me to acknowledge as a valid possibility. A single thought that had been floating on theperiphery of my consciousness ever since I’d first seen Sophia’s wedding photo. I pushed the thought aside, unwilling to confront it, tucking it away to be examined later in the full light of day.
I picked up the purse again and spread the accordion bottom open as far as it would go, then held up the black interior to the light to see better. I was about to declare the purse empty when I caught a flash of white. A slim pocket, nearly invisible against the black lining of the purse. I gently tugged on the zipper, opening it little by little so I wouldn’t tear the old satin lining. It slid easily, as if it were used to being opened and closed.
Five small envelopes lay nestled inside, all the same size. I carefully slid them out, already telling myself that no matter what was on the outside of the envelopes, I wouldn’t open them. I’d already done enough I’d have to apologize for.
I flipped through the envelopes. They all had the same careful handwriting, and all were addressed to the same person at the same location.
