And, silently, Iris had screamed.
She’d have written to Tim, but she didn’t have his new address, and knew from Robbie that he’d deferred going to university, preferring to travel instead. Thinking Robbie might have joined him, Iris had written again to his school – care of the headmaster this time, because what had she left to lose? – asking if he might shed any light on his whereabouts. But the headmaster’s secretary had replied, refusing to do any such thing.You must understand, at an establishment such as ours, we have to protect the privacy of our families. But even if I was permitted to help you, I couldn’t. We haven’t heard from Master Grayson since his departure. Please don’t trouble yourself enquiring again.
Can you help me?Iris had eventually resorted to asking Father Bannister, at the start of 1938. She’d held little hope that hewouldbe able to help her, given that, to her knowledge, Robbie had only ever spoken to him to be told off for painting his chickens. But she’d had no one else to turn to.It’s awful, not knowing…
I’m afraid to say I’ve lost track of young Robbie, Father Bannister had replied, in a kind letter that had talked of how pleased he’d been to hear from Iris, making her feel a heel for not writing sooner.I haven’t seen anything of him since his mother became so unwell, he’d continued, letting Iris know that Annabelle Grayson had. Mrs Grayson was removed to a facility in York, and Mr Grayson sold the Dower House to a brewery, who’ve turned it into a public house, of all things. I don’t know where he, or Robbie, went. I’m sorry, dear, not to be more help.
Sorry too – extremely, horribly sorry – Iris had disconsolately added Father Bannister’s letter to the pile of other dead ends she’d received since beginning her search.
She’d stopped trying to find Robbie after that.
She simply hadn’t been able to think where else to look.
But not a day had gone by when she hadn’t, at some point, missed him, not a bit, but a lot.
When the war had started, she’d hoped that he’d be all right.
She’d never stopped hoping since.
With little choice though, she’d resigned herself to never knowing.
That was, at least, until now.
Chapter Six
She had no opportunity to go in search of him that morning, which, after a breakfast of congealed porridge in the WAAF’s dining room – itself housed below stairs in the old housekeeper’s cubby– Iris and Clare spent almost entirely in the adjutant’s office.
He’d shown them the way the night before, and ordered them to be there waiting for him at zero seven hundred hourssharp.
‘Preferably in a more presentable state than you are now,’ he’d said, humourlessly looking their sodden selves up and down.
Resolving that it probably wouldn’t be sensible to risk irritating him any more than they already had, not if they wanted him to ever approve their leave requests, Iris and Clare had made themselves parade-ground ready – polishing their shoes, dressing in their spare, dry sets of uniform, pinning their hair neatly beneath their caps – and were so determined not to be late again, they arrived at his door ten minutes early.
Where, in the draughty hallway, beneath a flickering light, he kept them waiting for a further hour. There was no one else around. All the other doors lining the corridor were, likethe adjutant’s, closed. No telephones rang. No typewriters clacked. Aside from the occasional static from the light’s bulb, and a scratching beneath the threadbare carpet that spoke discomfortingly of rodents, all was silent.
‘Everyone must still be at breakfast,’ said Iris.
‘He definitely said seven?’ Clare asked.
‘Definitely,’ said Iris, leaning back against the damp wall. ‘Do you think he’s trying to make a point? Tit for tat?’
‘Probably.’
‘I hate him.’
‘So do I. We could have had an extra hour in bed.’
‘That woman could have too.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried about her,’ said Clare.
‘No?’ said Iris.
‘No.She can’t have been that tired. She took the time to rag her hair.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Iris, picturing her again: the sheen of cold cream on her face. ‘I suspect she might be the kind who can’t ever sleep until she does.’
Clare smiled. ‘Would we be better people, do you think, if we always ragged our hair?’
