“Oh god, I’m really sorry,” I apologise to Larry as I drop down to the floor. I right the box and scoop handfuls of photos up, hoping she thinks it was me who knocked the box over and not the dead woman in her living room.
“No harm done.” She kneels down to help.
From the corner of my eye, I see a photo slide across the floor toward me while Larry’s not looking.
“Bow,” Mrs Abernathy says, and it sounds more like a statement than a question.
It’s an old, dog-eared, black and white photo of a handsome young man in a military uniform and not a British one. American, I think. He’s reclining on a patch of grass and smiling into the lens. I turn the picture over to see if there’s anything written on the back.
Beau - Hyde Park, London 1944.
“Not Bow, Beau,” I mutter.
“What’s that?” Larry looks up as she scoops the last of the photos into the box and sets it back on top of the table.
“Do you know who this is?” I ask, handing her the photo.
“Oh.” She blinks. “Where did this come from? I’ve never seen this before.” She turns it over and reads the name and date written on the back. “How strange. I must’ve gone through this box a dozen times over the years and I’ve never seen this photo, but that’s definitely Auntie’s handwriting on the back. I wonder who he was?”
“She never mentioned someone called Beau? Or an American G.I. she met during the war?” I ask as she hands the photo back to me.
“No.” She shakes her head with a small frown.
The sudden ringing of the doorbell has Larry climbing to her feet, wincing when her knees protest with a creak.
“Sorry, that’ll be my neighbour. She had an Amazon package dropped off here earlier. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Good for you, Delores.” Dusty whistles as she leans over me and eyes the picture in my hand. “That is one hot piece of man candy. I do love a guy in uniform.” She winks at the old woman, who beams up at her happily.
“She’s been trying to tell us since the moment she died,” I whisper to Dusty once Larry is out of the room. “The song she’s been humming, the name Beau, this is it!” I wave the piece of paper. “This is her unfinished business.”
“Huh.” Dusty leans over my shoulder and takes a closer look at the photo. “He looks a little like you.”
I turn my attention back to the photo and study it intensely. There is a passing resemblance. Beau has dark wavy hair and the shape of his face, the line of his nose, the curve of his smile are similar to me and also… my dad.
“Oh,” I breathe with a sudden clarity. “That’s why she always gravitated toward my dad. He must’ve reminded her of Beau.” I bite my lip thoughtfully. “I wonder if he’s still alive.”
“I doubt it.” Perched on the arm of the chair beside me, Dusty purses her lips. “That was taken in what? 1944? And he looks like he’s in his late twenties, possibly early thirties? That would make him well over a hundred, and that’s if he survived the war.”
“That’s true,” I muse. “In all likelihood, he may have been killed in action. That would explain the unfinished business, especially if she was in love with him. It would also explain why her marriage never worked out.”
Dusty stares consideringly at Delores, who is smiling at the photo in my hand and has once again resumed humming. “We need to find someone who knew her from before her illness. Either someone who knew her when she was younger or someone she confided in.”
I hear muffled voices in the hallway quieten, followed by the sound of the front door closing. I quickly shove the photo into my back pocket as Larry heads back into the room.
“Sorry about that.” She smiles tiredly.
“It’s okay. I’ve kept you long enough, you must be tired after work.”
“It’s been a rough few days, I won’t lie.” She releases a long slow breath.
“Well, I won’t keep you.” I rise from the chair. “But can I just ask, did your aunt have any other friends, old friends? Anyone who might have visited her or known her before her illness?”
“Sure,” Larry shrugs. “She went out every week to the community centre in Clapham to meet up with her friends, and Trudy has known her since they were kids. They were always so good with Auntie even after her Alzheimer’s got really bad. Trudy organised a private carer who would collect Auntie every week from Sunrise and take her to meet up with the ladies.”
“Clapham?”
She nodded. “Northwold Community Centre. I expect most of the ladies will be at the funeral once I get it arranged.”
