“A wren?”
“Women’s Royal Navy,” she clarifies, her voice filled with pride. “She worked, amongst other places, at Bletchley Park.”
Now that I had heard of, and I suck in a little gasp of surprise. How did I not know this about her, I wonder. “She was a code-breaker?”
Larry nods. “One of the youngest, barely eighteen at the time.” She passes the photo to me so I can get a better look. “She had such a brilliant mind, it was cruel to see what she became in the end. She burned so brightly, and for all that fire and intelligence to be slowly eaten away by her disease...” She shakes her head sadly.
“I know,” I murmur.
“I’m sorry, Tristan,” she apologises when she realises what she’s said. “That was insensitive of me.”
“No, it’s the truth.” My stomach aches at the thought. “My dad was brilliant too, so clever and passionate. He loved history and science so much, to watch him disappearing by inches is excruciating.”
Suddenly, I hear Dusty’s clear voice singing word for word over the top of Ella’s and I glance over. She’s dancing with Mrs Abernathy and it’s quite a sight to behold. A six-foot drag queen in glittery pink hot pants, five-inch platforms, and a wig Dolly Parton would be proud of, hunched over a tiny little woman in her pleated skirt with her socks falling down. She looks up into Dusty’s eyes as Dusty croons her song to her, both of them turning in a small slow circle on the carpet, and I can’t help the small smile tugging my lips at the picture they make.
“Tristan, are you alright?” Larry asks, drawing my attention back to her. “You look like you zoned out there for a moment.”
“Just thinking, I guess.” I place the photo back on the shelf. “You said you saved a box of your aunt's photos and personal effects?”
“That’s right.”
“I’d love to see them,” I say. “I just feel like I should have known her a little better.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have somewhere to be?” she asks. “It’s sweet you stopped by to check on me, but I’m sure you don’t want to sit and listen to me reminisce over my late aunt.”
“I actually can’t think of anything I’d like more,” I reply honestly. Even though I’m determined to figure out if Mrs Abernathy has any unfinished business that would keep her potentially haunting my flat and cramping my sex life, I find I actually really would like to know about the sweet little woman following Dusty around like she’s her mother duck.
“If you’re sure.” Larry beams. “I’ll just go and fetch the box. Why don’t you finish your tea before it goes cold? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
I settle myself once again in the armchair, sipping my lukewarm tea, but as I glance across at Dusty I almost accidentally snort it up my nostrils. The record now finished, she’s currently dressed in a tiny little military-style hot-pant jumpsuit a la Christina Aguilera and is performing a rather enthusiastic version ofThe Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B.
“Here we go.” Larry re-enters the room holding a battered old cardboard box, the open flaps curling with age and ‘Fox’s Assorted Biscuits’ printed across the sides.
She scoots a glass fruit bowl filled with potpourri out of the way, sets the box on the table, and settles herself back onto the sofa. Reaching in and grabbing a handful of photos, she goes through them one at a time and explains what each one is. There are a surprising amount of Larry and Mrs Abernathy, confirming how close they were. There are also a lot of pictures of a younger Mrs Abernathy in the post-war years.
“Did she ever marry?” I ask.
“She did, but it didn’t stick.” Larry rummages through the box and plucks out a picture. “Here it is.” She passes it over to me and there's a picture in soft tones reminiscent of photography from the seventies. Mrs Abernathy is wearing a floral summer dress and sandals, standing propped up against an orange Ford Cortina parked on a residential street. Beside her is a tall man sporting sparse curly hair and glasses and wearing casual slacks and a paisley short-sleeved shirt . I turn it over and see, scribbled on the back in blue biro, the wordsDelores & Doug - Bristol 1972.
“Is this her husband?”
She nods slowly. “His name was Douglas Abernathy.” Larry stares down at the photo in my hand. “I vaguely remember him, but the marriage only lasted six months. By that point, Auntie was about forty-seven. She said she was too set in her ways to put up with a man disrupting her life.”
“You think that was the real reason it didn’t last?” I ask, wondering if he could be her unfinished business. It’s possible something about their relationship was never resolved.
“I couldn’t say.” Larry shrugs. “Like I said, I barely remember him. I was really young at the time, hardly more than a toddler. But on the rare occasions she mentioned him as I got older, I got the feeling the real reason was because she didn’t love him. I think she wanted to but there was something holding her back, something she wouldn’t talk about.”
“Is he still alive?”
Larry shakes her head. “From what I hear, he died back in the nineties.”
“Oh.” I frown. I’m screwed if he is part of her unfinished business then.
Sensing a shadow beside me, I look up to find Mrs Abernathy peering into the box in agitation. She doesn’t even glance at the photo in my hand, so I decide Douglas Abernathy is most likely not important and set the picture down on top of another stack.
“Bow?” Mrs Abernathy says, impatient.
Suddenly the box topples over, sending the remaining contents skidding across the carpet.
