“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 theirfun, 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’soneAmerican 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.
“Idoknow Elliot,” I tell him, staunchly defending myself. “I know him better than anyone, actually. And he knowsmebetter than anyone.”
