Kissed a Sad Goodbye

He’d been too old to be sent to the country, so he’d seen the worst of the bombing in the autumn and winter of 1940. The corners of his mouth turned up as he remembered the relief he’d felt when he’d presented himself at the recruiting office on his seventeenth birthday. The real war, he’d been certain, would be better than just waiting for the bombs to fall.

A few months later those nights in the Anderson’s back garden shelter had seemed an impossibly safe haven. But he had come back, that was the important thing, and his time in Italy had taught him to let the future fend for itself.

Sheba’s yip of impatience ended his reverie. He moved on obligingly and soon she had her anticipated freedom, running full tilt off the lead. George followed after her at his own pace, along the Rope Walk between the Mudchute and Millwall Park, then huffed a bit as they climbed to the Mudchute plateau. There Sheba disappeared from view as she followed the rabbit trails though the thick grass, but he stayed to the narrow path that followed the boundaries of the park. The dog always seemed to know where he was even when she couldn’t see him, and she wouldn’t stray far.

When he reached the gate that led down to the ASDA supermarket, he glanced at his watch. Half past nine—his mates would most likely be gone. The sun had moved higher in the sky and he was sweating freely—the thought of a cuppa, even on his own, was tempting. But the longer he tarried, the hotter it would be going home.

Mopping his head with his handkerchief, he walked on. Here the brambles encroached on the path, catching at his trouser legs, and he stopped for a moment to unhook a particularly tenacious thorn from his trainer laces. As he knelt he heard Sheba whimper.

He frowned as he finished retying his shoelace. It seemed an odd sound for Sheba to make here, where her normal repertoire consisted of excited barks and yips—could she be hurt? Unease gripped him as he stood quickly and looked ahead. The sound had come from further down the path, he was sure of that.

“Sheba!” he called, and he heard the quaver of alarm in his voice.

This time the whimper was more clear, ahead and to the right. George hurried on, his heart pounding, and rounded a gentle curve.

The woman lay on her back in the tall grass to the right of the path. Her eyes were closed, and the spread of her long red-gold hair mingled with the white-flowering bindweed. Sheba, crouching beside her, looked up at George expectantly.

She was beautiful. For an instant he thought she was sleeping, even hesitantly said, “Miss …”

Then a fly lit on the still white hand resting on the breast of her jacket, and he knew.

CHAPTER 2Down by the Docks is a region I would choose as my point of embarkation if I were an emigrant. It would present my intention to me in such a sensible light; it would show me so many things to turn away from.

      Charles Dickens (1861)      

At five minutes to ten on an already hot Saturday morning, Gemma found herself looking for an address in Lonsdale Square. A few minutes’ walk from her Islington flat, the square was lined solidly with the cars of residents at home for the weekend. A posh neighborhood, this, the preserve of upwardly mobile Blairites, and Gemma wondered how the woman could afford such an exclusive address. The terraced Georgian houses looked severe, their gray-brick facades relieved only by trim in black or white … except for the one with the glossy red door.

Gemma checked its number against the address on her notepad, then climbed the steps and rang the bell. She tucked a stray wisp of hair back into its plait and glanced down at her casual Saturday clothes—jeans and sandals and a linen shirt the color of limes. What did one wear for the occasion? Maybe she should have—

Before she could talk herself into retreating, the door swung open. “You must be Gemma,” the woman in the cherry-red jumper said, and smiled. She wore little makeup other than the red lipstick outlining her full lips, her short dark hair was fashionably ragged, as if it had been trimmed with nail scissors, and against her pale skin her eyes were a clear and luminous hazel. “I’m Wendy.”

“I like your door,” said Gemma.

“I find it breaks the ice. Come in.” The room into which she led Gemma faced the street. It stretched towards the back of the house, long and narrow with simple lines and a high ceiling. A formal Georgian mantel on the outside wall divided the room into two perfectly proportioned halves.

Beyond that all Gemma’s expectations failed. The walls were crayon yellow, the furniture sixties contemporary in primary colors, and above the mantel hung a huge poster of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.