Page 67
“Apparently Sylvia told Mum that moving into a flat above a dressmaker’s shop and being forced to help out whenever she wasn’t in school was embarrassing. I think that’s why, when she met Horrible Hugo, she didn’t want anything to do with Mum any longer. It was as though she washed her hands of us.”
Fourteen-year-old Izzie had checked the post every day for months after Sylvia came back from her honeymoon, but the invitation to come stay at the newly married couple’s flat had never appeared. Instead, there were only increasingly short responses to Izzie’s letters about the shop until, finally, those dried up all together.
Crushed, she’d gone to Mum in tears, but instead of comfort her mother had given her a stern talking-to.
“Your sister’s life is different now, Izzie. You need to understand that, or she’ll break your heart over and over again,” said Mum.
“But I’m her sister,” Izzie sobbed.
Mum’s lips pinched. “Sylvia is Hugo Pearsall’s wife now. She doesn’t have time for us any longer. One day you’ll understand.”
And one day Izzie did. Sylvia had vaulted up the social ladder and entered into the ranks of women the Sheltons aspired to dress but could never be.
“What are you going to do now?” Alexandra asked, breaking into Izzie’s thoughts as they reached the post office.
She sighed as she slipped her stamped envelope into the post box on the outside of the squat building. “Use every bit of leave I have to go to London. I just hope the trains aren’t too horrible.”
As they rounded the corner of the post office building, Izzie collided with a wall of khaki.
“Whoa!” came a man’s accented voice, a hand on either of her arms steadying her as a thud sounded near her feet. “Are you okay, miss?”
She looked up and found herself staring up at a man. A tall, blond, tanned man wearing the widest smile she’d ever seen.
“I’m very sorry, sir. I should have been paying more attention,” she said, stepping back.
“It’s all my fault. I was trying to read and walk at the same time,” he said, as he stooped down and scooped up a pad of paper scribbled all over with notes.
“You’re American,” she said dumbly.
“That I am,” he said with a laugh before sticking out his hand. “Staff Sergeant Jack Perry, Iowa born and raised.”
“Izzie. I mean, Aircraft Woman Second Class Isabelle Shelton. From London.”
There was a small cough to her right, and when she turned, she realized that Alexandra was watching on with open amusement.
“Oh. This is my friend Aircraft Woman Second Class Alexandra Sumner,” she said.
“How do you do, staff sergeant?” asked Alexandra, taking his hand.
“You ladies are WAAFs?” asked Jack.
“We are,” said Alexandra.
“We’re in a barrage balloon unit.” Why could she not string together more than a sentence when speaking to this man?
Alexandra shot her a pitying look.
“What’s an American doing on an RAF base?” Izzie asked hesitantly, trying again.
“I’ve been asking myself that same question, but my commanding officer reassures me that we’re taking in more than just the view.” He leaned in and gave them both a conspiratorial smile. “You didn’t hear this from me, but we’re having a look around to see if the United States Army Air Forces might like to move in or at least become your neighbors.”
“Goodness, does that mean there are more than just you here?” asked Alexandra.
He laughed. “I’d say you’re likely to see a few more air force men in the future. Consider me a member of the advance team,” he said.
“Just wait until Lottie hears about this,” said Alexandra.
“Who’s Lottie?” he asked.
