‘I will pop in and say hello,’ she answered.
‘Just don’t expect much,’ Jean said.
After breakfast Sophie went upstairs to her uncle’s room. He was sitting looking out of the window. She went over and kissed him gently on the head.
‘Hello, Uncle Tom. How are you today?’
He looked at her with a vague expression, so different from the day before. Sophie could tell he didn’t remember who she was, so she gently nudged him towards the truth.
‘It’s Sophie, remember? I’m Alice’s daughter.’
He nodded then. ‘Alice is dead, you know.’
The pain of those words struck her hard even though they were the truth. ‘Yes, I know,’ she replied, softly.
‘A car accident, such a horrible thing,’ he stated, reminding Sophie of how hard the last year had been.
She quickly changed the subject. ‘What are you doing today, Uncle Tom?’
He looked at her and then looked down at an unopened newspaper in his lap that Jean had possibly put there. ‘Looks like I’m reading,’ he said – more of a statement, than an affirmation.
She nodded. ‘Can I do anything for you?’
He stared back out the window, his silence answering her.
‘I’m going into town if you’d like anything.’
He shook his head, and she made her way to the door. On the way out her eyes were drawn to a painting on a sideboard and she couldn’t help but pick it up and look at it. It was an original; sparrows all sitting on a branch. Could it be anything to do with Vivienne? She caught her breath and turned it over. It was dated during the war.
Tom must’ve seen what she was looking at out of the corner of his eye and turned around. ‘My sister gave me that. She painted it herself,’ he said, almost matter-of-factly.
‘Caroline?’ enquired Sophie, her heart thumping.
‘No, not Caroline…’ he muttered but he didn’t elaborate, just looked out of the window, numbly. But she knew. Something inside her told her this was from Vivienne.
Sophie rebuked herself for letting him see her pick it up. She hadn’t wanted to bring up any memories of his lost sister to him after her gran’s warning. But she wondered what the picture’s significance was and if he was going to say anything more.
He nodded his head. ‘Lovely green eyes. She had beautiful green eyes, my sister did, just like yours. I still remember the words she said to me like it was yesterday. “Don’t forget who I am, Tom. Don’t ever forget.”’
He then stopped abruptly, as though his brain had just disconnected, and he said no more on the matter, though she waited for a couple of moments, just in case a thought returned. But instead he noticed the newspaper and picked it up and appeared to be reading the headlines. Then, he stated to her in an even tone, ‘Liquorice allsorts. Could you pick me up some liquorice allsorts from town?’
Sophie nodded, placed the picture back down, left the room, and went back to her own to continue her research about nurses during the war in Cornwall.
Once the clock chimed eleven in her bedroom, she shut down her laptop, plugged it in to charge, and made her way into town. It wasn’t very far, so she decided to leave her car behind, as it was a nice walk. She strode through the countryside, inhaling the fresh salty air. It was raw and chilly with a light frost still dusting the fields, even though it was late morning. Bracing, as her mother always used to say, and as the air rippled through her lungs like icy needles, she liked the way it felt, chilling her face and clearing her head.
Helford village was busier than usual because it was market day, and she made her way into the village hall where the scent of lemon wax polish and strong coffee greeted her. All around the room little stalls were set up on long trestle tables. Instantly, Sophie could tell she had walked into the bustling heart of the village. People stood in groups socialising with each other and getting out from the seasonal chill. The room echoed with the chatter of housewives and pensioners, and the aroma of home-baked goods was wonderful. Browsing each stall, she picked up some handmade watercolour cards and some herbal tea to say thank you to her auntie for having her, and there was a confectionary stall where she managed to get her uncle’s liquorice allsorts.
With all her wares packed in a brown paper bag, Sophie made her way out and over to the museum. Ducking into the small doorway, a musty smell greeted her, the smell of aged documents and damp clothing. It was a little chilly inside, with whitewashed brick walls and tiny windows high up, but a warm electric fire pumped out just enough heat to keep the ice from the air.
An older woman with plump red cheeks rose to her feet with an expectant look when Sophie walked in.
‘Welcome to the museum. Feel free to take a booklet,’ she sang out, handing a pamphlet to Sophie. ‘It’ll help explain things to you, and if it’s been of any value, we do appreciate a donation.’ She pointed to a jar on the counter. ‘We also have books you can buy in the gift shop, at the end, about Cornwall and the war. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.’
Sophie nodded and, taking the booklet, started to move around the exhibition. So many pictures of the harbour through the years, including how it had looked during the war. Apparently, even though Cornwall was relatively far from France, the Cornish had taken quite an active part in the war. The Helford Estuary had been the base for a flotilla of fishing boats that had been used to transport agents and spies into France, which the sailors had managed by posing and mingling amongst the French fishing boats off the Brittany coast.
Also in the museum were a couple of old uniforms, a gas mask, and some stories that had been laminated onto the wall. As she read through all of them, nothing jumped out at her. The woman, obviously excited to have a customer and unable to stay behind her desk, found Sophie halfway around the exhibition.
‘Is there anything particular you’re looking for? Or are you just visiting?’
‘There is,’ said Sophie. ‘I’m interested to know about anything to do with my family home. Hamilton Manor. It was converted to a military hospital during World War Two. I wonder if you have any information about it.’
The woman paused to think. ‘No, I don’t think we have anything about that on the walls, but we do have clippings from the newspaper. I’m sure they would’ve mentioned something about it in there. Let me go and look for you.’ She bustled off and came back with a large sagging leather scrapbook.
Sophie thanked her and settled down at a table to look through it. The older woman seemed to feel an obligation to help explain everything in it as Sophie turned the pages. It documented the highlights of the war through the local paper, the Helford Herald. It showed stories about young men who had gone off to war and what their small town had done to prepare. Growing their own vegetables, collecting paper, rubber, metal and rags for the war effort and aluminium for the Spitfire Fund.
As Sophie turned to the third page, the woman said, ‘Ah, here is something you might be interested in,’ and pointed to a small piece on the right-hand side. ‘This talks about all the different things that the big houses did during the war.’
Sophie read quickly through it, and her family’s house was mentioned briefly as a military hospital but didn’t elaborate on anything. As she continued to flick through the scrapbook, the woman bustled off, saying she might have something else in a different book. But as Sophie turned to the next page, there was a huge piece about Vivienne from the front page of the newspaper, and her heart stopped. There was a photograph of her great-aunt, standing in her nurse’s uniform outside the manor with a row of other nurses. The headline read, ‘Local Nurse Turns Traitor.’