Page 59 of The Last Night in London
Arabella sat up as I held my pencil over my notebook.
“You need to have a Royal Air Force uniform in the exhibit.”
“Why is that?” Arabella asked.
“Because there’s a marvelous story attached to them. When they were originally designed for the brand-new air force in nineteen eighteen, a firm in Yorkshire suggested using leftover blue-gray woolen cloth that had been ordered to make trousers for the tsar’s Cossacks. The poor tsar didn’t need it anymore, and happily the RAF agreed it was the perfect color. My former employer Madame Lushtak told me that.”
“That’s a splendid story,” Arabella said. “We could use Graham’s photo with it. We’ll have to see if his uniform is stored in the attic.”
“Sadly, we’ve given the attic a rather good going through, and we didn’t find it,” Penelope said. “But I’ll have James look again, just in case.”
Precious studied her lap, her beringed fingers clasped tightly together. “It should be displayed with the lovely green cotton day dress with the bow at the neck and the cinched waist. That belonged to Eva. I remember her wearing it once when she was with him.”
“Got it,” I said, writing her suggestion down in my notebook. “It’s a great uniform. I’ve never seen one up close, but judging by the photograph of Graham, I’d have to agree it was a good choice. Of course, it’s hard to tell color in a black-and-white photograph. I’mcurious, Precious, and it’s possible you might not recall, but what color were Graham’s eyes?”
Before she could answer, Anna appeared, pushing a cart filled with a coffeepot, cups and saucers, and small glass bowls of ambrosia. As Anna handed them around, I watched everyone eye the dessert suspiciously, using their spoons to lift the sticky mass to the surface and then cutting it in the middle to see what might be hiding.
“I’ll take the first bite to show you it’s not poisonous.” I scooped a mouthful onto my spoon and ate it, chewing and smiling simultaneously. “Trust me—it’s delicious.”
One by one they all ate their dessert, although I noticed Colin washed his down with the rest of his brandy. Precious tried two bites and then rested her spoon, saying she had to watch her figure. I stifled a laugh, my gaze rising to see Colin doing the same thing.
Arabella opened the folder of clippings she’d left in the room before supper. “These articles are so fascinating—a real insight into people’s lives during the war—exactly what I was hoping to tie in with what was going on in the fashion world, Aunt Precious.” She slid one out and rested it on top of the folder. “Like this one.”
Precious kept a smile on her face as she focused on Arabella, but her eyes changed, adjusting as if she were trying on different glasses to see which ones looked best.
Arabella held up a yellowed page. “This is from a column entitled ‘Pictures in the Fire’—not sure what that means but it talks about the Special Branch of Scotland Yard taking definite measures against, and I quote, ‘the refugee racket.’ Apparently it wasn’t so much the new refugees they were worried about, but the ones who’d been planted in Britain for years, completely overlooked because they were so entrenched.” She cleared her throat. “‘This class of agent is very often not an alien at all, which naturally makes things much more difficult. He may be in the clubs, the pubs, the offices, the services, the trams, the tubes, and the taxis.’” Looking up, she said, “That sounds a bit terrifying, don’t you think? Aunt Precious, were you aware of any of that going on?”
Precious took a sip of coffee, her expression thoughtful. “There was an Italian girl, Rosalie, at Lushtak’s. She didn’t show up for work one day, and Madame Lushtak told us she’d been deported along with just about every Italian waiter in the city. She may have been a spy, though I doubt it. And we couldn’t really discuss matters. Most of us models were aware of what was going on in the world, of course. It was hard not to be, what with the blackouts and rationing and all the men we knew being called up or signing up.”
She tilted her head. “Even dear Sophia called it the ‘unspeakable summer.’ Quite literally, women of her class weren’t allowed to speak about politics at home. Most were very sheltered. There were posters everywhere, of course, warning us to watch what we said in public, but I don’t know if any of us took it seriously. Our conversations certainly weren’t about state secrets.”
She took another sip from her cup, then set it down delicately. “I wouldn’t mind something stronger in my cup, James. If you don’t mind. Just don’t tell my mama.” She grinned as James approached with the brandy, and I was once again reminded of an actress playing a part and wondered if Precious Dubose had missed her true calling.
An old-fashioned phone, one with a very long spiral cord plugged into the wall, rang out with two pulsed shrills. Penelope rose to answer it. The woman on the other end—definitely a woman from the high pitch of her voice—spoke at length while Penelope nodded and sent us apologetic looks.
“Hang on, Hyacinth. Let me write this down so I don’t get it wrong.” Pulling the cord toward the desk by the window, she took a notepad and a pen and then, cradling the phone between her shoulder and jaw, said, “All right. Go on.”
I used the time to finish my brandy and go over my notes, putting my pen down just as Penelope was following the cord back to the phone’s cradle and hanging up.
“I do apologize, but that was my friend Hyacinth Ponsonby from the National Archives. She’d hoped to drop by tomorrow, but her daughter is in labor with her first grandchild at this very moment! Hyacinth and her husband are racing to the city to be there in time.She isn’t sure when she’ll be returning, so she wanted to get me the information before she left. It’s about James’s uncle Graham. Hyacinth said she’ll be happy to scan the e-mail once she’s back if we’d like to see the written record, too.”
Arabella sent me a look of self-satisfaction. “Itoldyou I hadn’t made up her name.”
“Who, Hyacinth?” James held the bottle of brandy over my coffee cup and waited for my nod before adding a hefty dollop. “She is most definitely real. Lovely lady and a rather formidable leader of the Women’s Institute, isn’t she, Penelope?”
“Indeed. We should probably clone her and put all the Hyacinths in charge. World order would commence immediately.” Penelope pulled up the pair of readers dangling from the chain around her neck and settled them on the bridge of her nose.
I glanced over at Precious. Her face remained calm, one hand placed over the other in her lap. A slight tremor went through her, bringing to mind a warrior preparing for battle.
Impulsively, I reached over and took her hand. Graham wasn’t just a name on a list, or in a photo caption, or a spot on a family tree. He’d been someone she’d known, a very real connection to a dear friend who’d disappeared from her life. I understood and was grateful when she accepted my hand and squeezed back.
“This could lead us to Eva,” I said.
Her eyes were blank for a moment, and then she smiled. “I really hope so.”
Grief is like a ghost.We waited for Penelope to speak, and we tightened our grip, as if to ward off the relentless spirits that never seemed very far away.
“‘Squadron Leader Graham Neville St. John was born March 12, 1907, and educated at Eton and Oxford. He worked for the Diplomatic Service in Rangoon, Burma, before returning to London to work for the Home Office. He resigned his government position in July nineteen thirty-nine and signed up for the Royal Air Force; following training, he joined Nineteen Squadron at Duxford in May nineteen forty, before being transferred to Hornchurch prior to theDunkirk evacuation. He flew at Dunkirk, and received the Distinguished Flying Cross, with five kills to his name.’”
