I continued to visit him every other weekend, and each time I planned to tell him the truth. I practised the words I’d say; I rehearsed the expressions I’d use. I even imagined the hurt on his face when he realised what I was saying, and I felt the dagger twisting in my heart. But more painful than all those things was the letter I wrote to Charlie telling him everything: that I loved him but couldn’t be with him.

  Then in May, my visits to Wiltshire were stopped on strict orders from the Wise Men in charge of Bletchley Park. I can’t tell you the relief of not having to lie and lie and lie to Harry’s face. What a terrible person that makes me.

  Since my trip to Devon the previous year, I’d known that tens of thousands of GIs were gathering in preparation for an invasion of France, and with the arrival of summer, it was about to take place. Security was tightened everywhere at BP, and we were all banned from travelling more than twenty miles.

  On 6th June 1944, Operation Neptune began, and 160,000 Allied troops crossed the English Channel: D-Day. It became one of the bloodiest battles since the Great War two decades earlier, but it was the start of the German retreat in Europe. By the end of August, the number of Allied troops in France had risen to two million.

  The Nazis retaliated by dropping thousands of V-1 flying bombs on London, the infamous Doodlebugs with showers of sparks from their tails and an eerie silence before they exploded on the ground. All BP staff were banned from visiting London. We were too important, I suppose.

  I waited anxiously for a letter from Charlie, but nothing had arrived.

  Our workload increased and on 10th August we heard that the Americans had won the battle of Guam. On 24th August, Paris was liberated, and Ginny, James, Ernest and I watched the newsreels showing the joy and excitement of the newly freed citizens: the Allied troops were conquering heroes.

  Something rather unpleasant happened on the way home from the cinema, something that shocked me. A woman of my mother’s age peered into the prams, cooing at James’ chubby face and smiling at Ginny; but when she came to Ernest, her smile flattened.

  “Is that a brown baby?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. Before I had a chance to answer, she jeered at me. “You filthy, disgusting whore with your bastard child. Winning the war on your back, are you, while our boys are losing their lives fighting Hitler? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  I stood stunned, my skin icy in the summer sunshine.

  The woman spat more filth at me then stalked away, leaving me weak with shock; outraged, but silent.

  “Are you alright?” Ginny asked, laying a tentative hand my arm.

  I wiped my eyes, hearing the thundering of my heart, my hands trembling.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, fussing around Ernest as he looked up at me with his wide, trusting eyes.

  “What an absolute b!” said Ginny.

  I licked my lips, realising that she wasn’t nearly as shocked as I was.

  “Has … has something like this happened before?” I asked her. “When you’ve been out with James and Ernest together?”

  She averted her eyes, which told me everything.

  “You know how small minded people can be. Ignore her, the old sour puss.”

  “How many times?” I asked, utterly appalled. “Ginny! How many times?”

  “Two or three,” she sighed. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  It mattered.

  I was silent as we walked home, but my brain was fizzing and tumbling at dizzying speed. Was I wrong? Was I utterly wrong to condemn Ernest to a lifetime of questions and insults? Was that what his future would be? Would a mixed race child be accepted? Would he be safe? I’d known it would be difficult, my experience with Mrs. Dowthwaite had told me that, but I hadn’t expected such outright hostility. What if Ernie had been old enough to understand what she’d said, if not the words, then the venom directed at us? What if he felt ashamed of his birth?

  My throat closed up and I found it hard to breathe. Despite the racing of my heart, I couldn’t catch my breath.

  Ginny held my arm. “Sit here,” she said, pulling me to a park bench. “Put your head between your knees.”

  I remembered something a colleague at BP had mentioned once in passing. Due to laws in America, coloured GIs were usually refused permission to marry their British sweethearts, even if they’d fathered children. Would that include Charlie?

  He’d already told me that his people had only been accepted as American citizens as recently as 1924. Oh my God! What sort of life was I condemning Ernest to? My beautiful, perfect baby boy, born of love. What was to become of us?

  Ginny held my hand as I sat stunned and afraid. It was only my son’s hungry cry that roused me from my catatonic state.

  “You’ve had a terrible shock,” she said. “But it’s over now. Let’s go home and get the boys fed and put to bed. Then you and I must have a brandy. I’ve got some saved for shocks.”

  “It’s not over,” I whispered. “It’s never going to be over.”

  I looked up at her and saw on her face that she agreed with me.

  I didn’t sleep that night. I was sick with worry, and my anxiety had spread to Ernest who was restless and colicky.

  I dragged myself to work the next day, my eyes red-rimmed and stared dully at the piles of messages already on my desk.

  But before I could begin, I was summoned to Brigadier Tiltman’s office. What had I done wrong? Had I made some calamitous mistake? Would he fire me? Would my fragile control shatter completely?

  He ordered me to sit then remembered that I wasn’t a WAAF anymore.

  “Mrs. Woods, I received a telephone call from your husband’s hospital. I’m sorry to tell you that he’s had a relapse. I’m told he’s stable, but you should call his doctor, Major Pike, at the RAF General Hospital. You may use the telephone in my aide’s office.”

  I swayed in my seat and saw the alarm in his eyes. He summoned his aide-de-camp, Sergeant Phillips, who was in the next room. She brought me a glass of water while Brigadier Tiltman looked very uncomfortable, then eventually helped me up and into her cubbyhole of an office.

  She was very kind, very motherly, and it made me yearn for my own dear mother, but there were too many lies between us.

  I accepted the cup of strong, sweet tea that Sergeant Phillips brought me. The hot drink revived me a little and I felt able to dial the number that Brigadier Tiltman had given me.

  It was several minutes before they could track down Major Pike, and by the time he finally came to the telephone, my nerves were frayed and ragged.

  “Mrs. Woods, I do apologise for telephoning you at work and I hope it hasn’t caused you any undue trouble.”

  “Not at all,” I said faintly. “How is my husband?”

  “Harry has had a cerebrovascular accident: a small stroke,” he said gently. “He’s lost the power of speech: temporarily, we believe.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Woods: the months ahead are going to be difficult for both of you. It’s a miracle that he’s done as well as he has, and I’m sure that you have played no small part in this. The desire to survive is strong when one has something worth living for. The stroke is a setback, no doubt about it, but with plenty of rest, good food and continuing therapy, we have every reason to be optimistic.” He paused. “Is there any chance you’d be able to come to see him? We always see a great improvement after one of your visits.”

  I agreed that I’d come as soon as possible. Sergeant Phillips arranged for a message to be sent to Ginny, and a car to take me to the train station.

  With dread in my heart, I arrived at the hospital by lunchtime.

  Harry lay in the same bed as in all my previous visits, as white as the sheets that covered him. When I called his name, his head turned towards me slowly and a low moan came from his mouth, a despairing look in his eyes. It was too awful. My poor, sweet Harry, he was so broken, so defeated. I held his cold hand, the fingers limp and useless. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t even squeeze my fingers. He closed his eyes, turning his head away from me as tears ran down his face.

  It was late at night when I finally arrived home. Ernest was grumpy and Ginny looked exhausted. Silently, she handed me a letter. As soon as I saw the envelope, I knew that it was from Charlie.

  As I read it, my hands shook. He begged me to rethink my decision. He demanded his chance, to plead his case. He sounded desperate and it tore my tattered heart into shreds.

  It had been written five weeks ago.

  I’d thought a lot about Major Pike’s words during the journey home; I’d thought about the need for something to cling to when life sets us adrift. For Harry, that was my role; and for me, it was Ernest. Which left the inevitable conclusion that there was no room for Charlie.

  Gradually, killing a tiny piece of my heart at a time, I had begun to let go of him, my soulmate, the love of my life. But who did he have to save him from drowning if not me?

  Sylvia,

  Don’t do this. Don’t destroy our dreams. You are the kindest, most loyal woman I’ve ever met, but you can’t live your life based on a lie. Believe me, I’ve tried for years. It kills you inside, it destroys everything you are. Please, please don’t do this. We can build a beautiful life together, you, me and our son. We can wake up with the dawn, ride through the forests, walk with the moon. We can find peace on this earth after all the death and killing. We owe it to our boy to give him every part of our love. Don’t take this away from me, from him, from all of us. My life is nothing without you. I’m not too proud to beg. I am yours until my dark heart stops beating.

  The pain as I read his words was unbearable. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear more pain, more sorrow, more guilt. I felt like I couldn’t go on at all, but then Ernest cried, and I knew that he was my life raft. I would do anything for him. I would give my life for him.

  I didn’t write back to Charlie because there was nothing else I could say. One day I hoped that he would understand my decision. I hoped that one day Ernest would look at me with understanding when I told him about his father.

  What wonderful fictions we tell ourselves.

  On 3rd September the Allies liberated Brussels, then Antwerp the following day. But on 7th September, the Japanese cargo ship SS Shinyō Maru was torpedoed and sunk by the American submarine USS Paddle. It had been carrying 750 American prisoners of war: 62 survived. I’d translated the intercepted message from the Japanese commander as the ship sank.

  I didn’t cry. I waited until the end of my shift, then walked home in silence, feeling the cool September breeze on my face.

  Before I could put my key in the lock, the front door flew open, and Ginny’s pale face appeared, red and blotchy.

  “He’s here!” she gasped.

  “Who’s here?”

  He was standing at the entrance to the kitchen with Ernest in his arms.

  “Hello, Sylvia,” said Charlie.

  Chapter Fifty

  Day Eight, June 2019

  Fiona

  I lay in Joe’s arms, drifting away to the steady sound of his heart, deep within his chest. I thought I could hear a message in the rhythm, but the night’s emotional rollercoaster had taken a toll, and we fell asleep immediately.

  The unruly alarm on my phone woke us just a few hours later, far too few, given our late night, and I had to peel myself from Joe to turn it off.

  “C’mon back to bed,” he muttered sleepily.

  “We can’t,” I said, yawning widely. “We’ve got a horseback ride at 7am.”

  I’d planned to have a quick shower, but Joe decided to join me and that wasn’t quick at all, so we were rushing to be ready for our early pick up.

  “I’m just going to check on Dolly,” I said.

  “I thought she told you not to.”

  “I know but … give me a minute.”

  I crept into the room, peering into the darkness and seeing Dolly’s still form, lying on her right side, as usual.

  She didn’t stir, and I was already turning to leave when something made me stop. I watched her for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, searching for any movement, the rise and fall of her breathing, but it was too hard to see.

  The sheet had been pushed lower, and I was worried the air conditioning would be too chilly for her, so I tiptoed closer, still careful not to wake her, then reached out to pull it higher. My hand brushed against her arm and her flesh was cold.

  And I knew.

  I knew.

  I pressed my fingers against the thin skin of her wrist, and there was no pulse. I pressed harder, trying to find something, but I knew.

  “Dolly, oh Dolly!” I cried. “Joe!”

  He came running, skidding to a halt when he saw me.

  “She’s gone!” I said, my voice breaking. “She’s gone.”

  “No! Dolly!”

  He grabbed her hand, searching desperately for a pulse, then pressed his fingers against her neck.

  “No,” he whispered. “Fiona, call down to the lobby. Get a fucking doctor up here. Now!”

  I did what he wanted, tears running down my face as he fell to his knees, his face pressed against her cold hand.

  I don’t know how the desk clerk understood me, sobbing and incoherent, but a paramedic team arrived within minutes.

  Someone clicked the control to open the curtains, and one of the paramedics searched for Dolly’s pulse. By then, Joe and I were holding each other silently, without hope. We knew she’d gone. And on some level I understood that Dolly had made the final journey on her own terms: no more doctors, no more hospitals or nursing homes, no more failing mind and body. She’d gone peacefully after her greatest triumph.

  The male paramedic turned to us.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “She died several hours ago in her sleep—there’s nothing you could have done. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Our loss.

  How could he know the weight of our loss? And I wondered how many times he’d said that; how many times he’d seen the hope drain from people’s faces. I wondered how many times he’d been there when life started, and how many times he’d been the last face someone saw.

  And then I realized: the last faces Dolly had seen were mine and Joe’s—people who loved her.

  Two police officers arrived and told us we couldn’t wait in the room. As far as they were concerned it was an unattended death, and there would have to be an autopsy.

  “She’d hate that,” I said to Joe, wiping my eyes with my hand. “She’d hate all that! It seems so wrong—she was 97! Why can’t they just leave her alone?”

  Joe held me tighter. “Dolly’s gone—her spirit, her soul, long gone. They can’t hurt her, Fi. She’s past all pain.”

  We watched quietly as the basic life support medic unit took over—quietly, efficiently, slowly—and then her body was taken away, the space echoing without her infectious laughter.

  Joe led me to the living room while the police searched Dolly’s bedroom, for what I couldn’t say, and there he held me in his arms as the tears kept coming, and I heard the break in his voice, his own tears mingling with mine. Which is how Eduardo found us.

  I sat upright, aware I was a mess, touched when Eduardo passed me a box of Kleenex.

  “On behalf of the Bellagio, please accept our sincere condolences,” he said, his voice low and sad. “Miss Dolly was an example to us all.”

  “Thank you,” I said hoarsely.

  “I’ve made another room available for you,” he said with a nervous cough. “Until the police are finished with their investigations.”

  My heart thumped with sudden fear and I gripped Joe’s hand.

  “It’s okay, Fi,” said Joe, gently. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  But it felt like it. I should have checked on her earlier, I should have been in the room with her, I should have made sure she’d taken her heart pills. I felt guilty. And sad, so sad.

  Joe and I were questioned separately, and it occurred to me that we might be under some suspicion since Dolly had just won a large amount of money.

  “When was the last time you saw Miss Porter?” the police officer asked me, her expression hard.

  “Last night … I mean very early this morning, about 2am. I helped her into bed, gave her a glass of water and then, um, I spent the night with Joe—Mr. Fox.”

  “Do you know her next of kin?”

  “I don’t think she had any. She never mentioned anyone, but Cedar Court will know for sure. That’s the retirement village where she lived for a few months.”

  I gave the police officer the address and phone number.

  “How long had you known Miss Porter?” she asked.

  “Since February. I was employed at the Cedars as a cosmetologist.”

  “Do you have any medical training?”

  “No.”

  The police officer gave me a sharp look. “She didn’t need nursing care?”

  “Not really. She had pills for her heart, but she always looked after her own medication. Dolly and I … we became friends.”

  “Why did you come to Las Vegas?”

  “It was Dolly’s idea—she wanted one last adventure, that’s how she put it.”

  “Her last adventure? What does that mean?”

  My face grew hot. “She was 97—she knew she wasn’t going to live forever. We’d become friends. That’s why she asked me on this trip. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “And who was paying for the trip?”

  I swallowed nervously. “Dolly. Miss Porter.”

  “And did she pay for Mr. Fox, as well?”

  “I guess.”

  It sounded so sleazy when she said it like that—as if Joe and I had taken advantage of Dolly.

  “I hear Miss Porter had a big win last night.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “What happened to the money?”

  “She went to the cashier’s desk so I guess she paid it into her account. I don’t really know—the casino manager was with her for that,” and I thanked my lucky stars neither Joe nor I had been there.