Page 7

The following morning Mary woke refreshed from a very good night’s sleep, and decided she was definitely now Beth. In a dream she had seen Elizabeth smiling and clapping her hands. She interpreted that as her friend encouraging her to be brave and daring.

After telephoning Mr Boyle in Ireland, his response, showing more concern for her welfare than any irritation that she hadn’t arrived on time, was further validation for her to be Beth.

He explained a little more about the cargo ship.

‘Patrick comes back and forward twice a week with various goods,’ he said.

‘German ships do come into the Irish Sea, and of course a cargo ship could be fired on, so you must understand there is a risk. But Patrick is a good man and knows the waters very well. Now, if you let me know when you are getting the train, I’ll telephone Mrs Griffiths at the guest house in Fishguard to let her know you are coming.

Her husband will meet you from the train, and you’ll have a room there until Patrick is ready to sail back here. ’

Discovering she would be met and have somewhere to stay eased her anxiety. Not completely, but enough.

Had it not been such lovely weather, Beth might have been tempted to stay in all day and read Elizabeth’s diaries.

She knew it was vital to become Elizabeth, to learn little phrases that were particular to her, and to know who and what were important to her.

In her diaries she might discover if there were any friends or distant relatives who might turn up.

But with the sun shining, the bruising on her face fading, and wanting some exercise, going out was appealing.

She couldn’t wait to have the stitches removed as they itched, but that was a few days off, so with her hat hiding the bald patch of shaved hair, she reminded herself Elizabeth had been a confident and sophisticated businesswoman, and she had to learn to be the same.

For a Londoner, she was woefully ignorant about the city. She needed to learn more about it, the major shops, hotels and landmarks. But that was exciting. The diaries were saved for the evening, and during the day, air raids permitting, she intended to educate herself.

With a map in hand, she found her way to Buckingham Palace, walked along the Embankment to Chelsea, and wandered around Hyde Park.

She was shocked to see so much of the park dug up for trenches for people to shelter in.

An elderly woman she got talking to said they were useless as shelters as they filled with water when it rained.

So now the new plan was to turn them into allotments so people could grow vegetables.

Everywhere she looked there were sandbags piled up outside every shop and office.

Likewise the black tape across windows to stop glass shattering!

How many million miles of that had been used?

Yet she hadn’t seen much evidence of bombing so far.

But then Margery had said the East End was taking the brunt of it.

As she was walking down Park Lane on her second day, intending to go and look at Eros all boarded up at Piccadilly, the air-raid siren went off and everyone rushed to the nearest shelter.

To Beth’s surprise, this shelter, in a large basement under a motor-car showroom, was a good one.

It didn’t smell, there were lots of seats, and the clientele were jolly, talkative and laughed a lot.

Many of them worked in nearby hotels, so it was a break from work they enjoyed.

The all-clear went all too quickly that day, and she felt a bit guilty as she walked back to Blandford Street that she’d enjoyed herself when elsewhere in London people were being killed.

On the previous evening when the air-raid siren blasted out just after it got dark, she took the most recent diary down to the guest-house cellar with her.

Margery had made her cellar quite pleasant for her guests’ safety.

She’d put some old easy chairs in there, the lighting was good, and as the boiler for the house was down there too it was not only dry, but warm.

The only guests there that night were a middle-aged couple.

Margery said all the other guests had gone out, and her husband was on duty as a fireman.

Beth took a seat by a table lamp and continued to read.

It was mainly recording the days in the dress shop at Richmond, what she’d sold, a bit of local gossip, and the weather.

Every now and then there was a reference to someone called Patty, who frequently dropped into the shop.

Beth got the distinct impression that her friend wished Patty wouldn’t drop in so often.

At one point she’d written, ‘She should volunteer for some war work or find a hobby that occupies her. It would take her mind off whether her husband is in danger in France. If she asks me one more time how she will manage if she’s widowed, I just might snap at her and tell her we single women don’t have the luxury of a man keeping us. ’

She mentioned a man called Freddy quite often too.

He had taken her to a dance and to the pictures, but he was just a good friend.

‘I know he’d like me to be his sweetheart, but I can’t,’ she wrote.

‘I thought it was true love with Bernard, but it wasn’t.

I’m not going to get involved with a man like him again. ’

From these two little insights into her friend’s thoughts, Beth realized that her namesake was at heart a traditionalist, not quite the happy-go-lucky, outspoken and freedom-loving girl she’d portrayed herself as.

That was quite encouraging; if she had been able to play that part convincingly, then maybe Beth could too.

Elizabeth could also be very funny, with a wonderful turn of phrase when she described the bizarre things that had happened in her shop, strange customers, and those who annoyed her.

However the very last entry she wrote was insightful and threw a light on the chilliness of some of the letters, and why she’d asked Mary to go to Ireland with her.

I’m closing the door on my life here in Richmond.

I’ve enjoyed working and living here, I’ve learned a great deal from observing people, and I’ve met many interesting, fun people, but lately I am feeling that most of them are false.

Maybe this is just because I’ve been at a low ebb since Mother died and Bernard left me.

I’ve certainly felt as if I was merely treading water, and that I could sink at the next setback.

I was saddened to notice that people I considered good friends stopped coming to see me, or inviting me out.

Do they really think I’d wail and gnash my teeth because it’s over with him? Surely they know me better than that?

Being left the cottage in Ireland seems a bit like a thrown lifebelt.

I’ll cling on to it until I can come ashore, and find a new path.

Maybe it will be fashion again, or perhaps something brand new.

But meanwhile I can’t wait to go on long walks, to explore Ireland and to make new friends.

A year from now who knows what I’ll be doing?

Beth mopped up tears from her cheeks. It was tragic that Elizabeth was the first woman she’d ever met that she felt at one with and she’d been snatched away so quickly.

Yet as sad as it was that she had to embark on this adventure alone, she was determined to grab the lifebelt that had been passed on to her, and make a good life for herself in Ireland. She didn’t want to fail her friend.

It occurred to her then that she ought to make notes of major points in these diaries and then get rid of them.

Should anyone find them and compare her writing she’d be in serious trouble.

She had been practising the signature, and become so good at it, she doubted she could use her old one anymore.

Yet all this made her consider Mary Price.

Would anyone be sad to hear that she had died in an air raid?

Presumably a list of casualties was kept somewhere.

In the unlikely event her mother consulted such lists, or the police managed to contact her, she was likely to pretend to be heartbroken and drink herself into a stupor because that’s what she always did.

But it would be just an act to gain sympathy.

Mr and Mrs Bradley would have been informed, and they would of course remark to anyone who remembered their maid that it was sad such a young woman should be taken. But in reality, they would be far more concerned about who was going to cook and clean for them now.

She was never going to miss the self-centred Bradleys or concern herself with how her mother was. She had no other relatives as far as she knew, and childhood friends had all faded away, but that was even more reason for succeeding in making a happy life for herself in Ireland.

As she trawled back in the diaries, Beth began to see that while her friend– or maybe she should call her ‘her benefactor’– had had a pretty good life, with lots of parties, outings to the coast and a holiday in France with a group of friends, she had had more than her share of sadness too.

Losing her mother in 1939 was a bleak time for her, and circumstances meant she had to clear out her rented childhood home in Tunbridge Wells.

While reading how Elizabeth packed up her old dolls, toys, books and other things into boxes for a jumble sale, Beth sensed how hard it was for her to say goodbye to all the memories, particularly those of her mother.

Then just a few months later the man she thought loved her, dropped her. She wrote at the time, ‘I don’t know how I can go on without Bernard or my mother to turn to. I feel so terribly alone.’