Page 5

Dressed in a pretty blue floral dress, a white petticoat beneath and a beige cardigan courtesy of the hospital, Mary looked into the mirror in the bathroom and winced.

Her swollen and badly bruised face and the dressing on her head gave a sad image of walking wounded.

She still ached in so many different places, and was worried sick.

But the dress she’d been given pleased her, it was far nicer than her old one.

She had been in hospital for two days, but now she had to go. The staff nurse on the ward was concerned that she hardly spoke, but then Mary was afraid she might blurt out something which would give the game away. The only excuse she could think of was that she was shy.

Now the terrifying prospect of retrieving Elizabeth’s luggage was imminent. She was afraid the hotel staff would know she wasn’t the rightful owner and call the police.

She was the same height, size and colouring as the real Elizabeth, and as she put on the hat the sister had given her, a pale blue felt with a brim, she hoped it hid her face enough.

Elizabeth had said she’d left her suitcase at the hotel reception as her room wasn’t ready when she checked in.

Mary offered up a silent prayer that there would be different staff on duty now.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she opened the bathroom door. She had only to collect the handbag which had saved her, and she could go.

The sister who had given her the shocking news about her friend had gone off duty, which was a relief in as much as she wouldn’t have to look her in the eye and take a dead woman’s handbag from her.

Ten minutes later, reminding herself that she must now eat, sleep and everything else as Elizabeth, she walked out of the hospital.

She had been given some aspirin for the pain and told she must see a doctor in a week’s time to have the stitches taken out of her head.

The big brown leather handbag had been wiped clean of soil and other debris by some kindly soul.

As she picked it up she had a sudden mental picture of the real Elizabeth saying, ‘Go on, you can do this! Have the adventure for both of us.’

Using it as a shoulder bag, she held it tightly, reminding herself again that her friend had used it to shield her, and therefore it still had that power. The Charing Cross Hotel was close by, part of the station. She walked onto the cobbled forecourt to the large doors, but paused before going in.

She turned to look across the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.

There wasn’t much evidence of the bombing, just a small crater cordoned off.

She’d been told by a nurse that the emergency services had sent a stretcher-party car on the evening of the twelfth and the small hole they saw didn’t appear to match the report, so they went off elsewhere to what seemed a more serious incident.

But a 500-pound bomb had penetrated the ground and detonated in the ticket hall below.

This same nurse had informed her there were forty casualties in all that night, but only seven fatalities. Two of those had been Norwegians. She also said that the rescue team deserved medals for their courage.

The doorman at the hotel opened it wide for her and beamed a welcome.

Mary smiled back at him then walked purposefully to the reception desk to ask about her luggage, trying to keep her head down to hide her face.

The male receptionist clearly didn’t know her, and returned almost staggering under the weight of a large brown suitcase and a smaller one.

He must have been informed she was a bomb casualty as he asked how she was feeling now.

‘Much better now, just a bit battered,’ she replied. ‘Now I need to pay for the room.’

Even as she said that she panicked a little as she wasn’t sure there was money in the handbag. But fortunately he waved his hands. ‘No charge, that’s the least we can do,’ he said, then beckoned a porter to take the cases and get her a taxi.

Before one came, she nervously opened the handbag and looked in. She saw a leather purse which held two one-pound notes, a ten shilling note and some change. She breathed a sigh of relief as the taxi pulled in.

‘Where to, Miss?’ the bespectacled driver asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said, nervously hopping from one foot to the other.

She’d never been in a taxi before, but she’d been told London cab drivers were good men and knew everything.

‘I was supposed to be going to Ireland, but I got caught up in a bombing raid, and I’ve got stitches in my head.

So I think I ought to go to a guest house for a few days until I can get the stitches taken out.

I didn’t want to stay in Charing Cross because of the bombing.

Do you know somewhere nice, but not too expensive? ’

‘I know just the place for you,’ he said, his kindly face wreathed in a warm smile. ‘It’s in Blandford Street, just off Baker Street. Cosy rooms, safe and clean. The landlady is a relative, it’s just called Number Eighteen.’

As they made their way there, she was itching to see what else the bag held, but now wasn’t the time, so she sat back enjoying the ride. She felt rather grand, and hoped she could fool the driver into thinking she got in cabs all the time.

‘You stay here, duck,’ the driver said as they arrived. ‘I’ll just pop in to ask Marge if she’s got a room. Won’t be a moment.’

A stout, middle-aged woman wearing a brown dress and a crisp white apron opened the door. She looked pleased to see the taxi driver and kissed his cheek, and he pointed back to his cab and his passenger.

No. 18 was in a terrace of smart London townhouses.

It looked well cared for, with shiny brassware on the navy-blue door and dazzling white net curtains at the windows.

The railings in front of the houses in this street were still in place, although elsewhere many had been removed and taken away to help the war effort.

The driver came back grinning. ‘Margery’s got a room for you,’ he said. ‘As you’ve been injured, you can have it for one and sixpence a day. Is that OK?’

Again, she felt relief. She had enough to stay a few days and it sounded like it would be a good place. So she smiled and thanked him. He took the cases and together they went back to the house and he introduced her to Margery Blythe.

‘You poor dear,’ Margery said. ‘Elizabeth, what a pretty name, may I call you that or should it be Miss Manning?’

‘Just call me Beth,’ she said impulsively. She had no idea why, it just popped out. But the moment she said it she realized it would be easier for her to cope with an abbreviation. ‘That’s what everyone calls me.’

‘Fair enough,’ Margery said. ‘I must say Beth suits you too.’

Mary paid the driver. He wished her better and said he hoped she’d be happy in Ireland.

Margery was a warm, chatty lady. She commiserated on Mary’s injuries and said the price she’d quoted was to include breakfast and an evening meal, and if she needed anything she was only to ask.

‘My cooking isn’t fancy,’ she said, ‘but most people don’t want that.

Of course I’ll need your ration book while you’re here. ’

For a second Mary was thrown. But then realized Elizabeth’s ration book was probably in the handbag or one of the suitcases.

The room Margery took her to was at the back on the first floor. ‘It’s not very big,’ she said apologetically, ‘but it’s the only one I’ve got left.’

Mary was delighted. It was twice the size of her attic room at the Bradleys, with its own washbasin, and a double bed that looked very comfy and cosy, with a pink satin eiderdown.

‘It’s perfect,’ she said, taking in the pretty rosebud wallpaper, thick curtains and the inevitable blackout blind.

She liked the kidney-shaped dressing table with a frill round it, and there was a small desk by the window which overlooked surprisingly pretty gardens.

She thought she could be happy here for ever.

After Margery had gone back downstairs, saying that supper would be ready at half past six, Mary sat on the bed and tipped out the contents of the big handbag.

There was a large brown envelope which had photographs, letters and the required ration book. She put it to one side. There was the usual handbag clutter: a powder compact, lipstick, nail file, nail scissors, a tiny diary and a couple of hair slides.

Elizabeth’s identity card, birth certificate, her mother’s death certificate, even her parents’ wedding lines, were all there, including the telegram reporting that her father had been killed in action in France in 1917.

Mary found the train ticket to Fishguard, but she couldn’t find a ticket for the boat to Ireland.

Then there were a great many letters, photographs, and a diary.

She went through the letters, sorting the handwritten ones from those that were typed.

She arranged these in date order, and started with them first. There were several from a Mr Boyle, a solicitor in Waterford, Ireland.

These bore out that the cottage had been left to her by her godmother.

He said that the ferries had been withdrawn because of ‘the Emergency’– she gathered by that he meant the war– but he had given her a telephone number for a cargo ship which would accept her as a passenger, though she might have to stay in a guest house in Fishguard until the boat was ready to sail.

That brought on panic. She had imagined she’d step down from the train onto a ferry, and considering she had no idea where Fishguard was, catching a train there was bad enough, but waiting in a guest house until she could get on a ship filled her with dread.

It was very tempting to go to the police right now and tell them that the bang she got to her head had made her forget who she was, but now she had remembered her real identity she wanted to put the record straight.