And then there were no more letters and everything went quiet.
* * *
Margie had baked a cake for Alfie’s ninth birthday. He didn’t know where she’d found the flour or the cream, but somehow she’d got hold of them. He’d heard that Mrs. Bessworth from the corner shop at Damley Park had an in with the black market. Granny Summerfield came for tea, and so did Old Bill Hemperton, just like they had four years earlier when the war broke out. Kalena and Mr. Janáček were missing, of course. No one seemed much in the mood to celebrate. When Alfie read his birthday card it said: Happy birthday, Alfie! Love from Mum and Dad. Joe Patience put a quarter pound of apple drops through the letter box and no one knew where he had found them; Granny Summerfield wanted Alfie to throw them away, but Margie insisted that he be allowed to keep them.
“What are you doing?” he asked his mother that night when everyone had gone home again. Margie was sitting by the gaslight with a basket of clothes and she was holding a shirt close to her face as her sewing needle went in and out and in again.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m sewing.”
“Whose clothes are they?”
“Not ours, that’s for sure. Have you seen the quality of them?” She held the shirt up for Alfie to feel, but he shook his head.
“Whose clothes are they?” he repeated.
“Oh, you don’t know her,” she said. “Her name’s Mrs. Emberg. She’s a friend of Mrs. Gawdley-Smith’s. Very well-to-do. She said she’d give me a shilling for every basket I do. Every ha’penny helps, Alfie.”
“So you’re working day and night as a Queen’s Nurse, you’re taking in laundry, and now you’re doing sewing for some rich lady too,” said Alfie.
“Oh, Alfie.”
“Mum, where’s Dad?”
Margie dropped her needle on the floor and it made a tinny sound as it hit the stonework of the fireplace. She didn’t have a shift at the hospital that night; she’d swapped with one of the other girls for Alfie’s birthday.
“You know where he is,” she said. “What do you want to go asking a silly question like that for?”
“Tell me the truth this time.”
Margie didn’t say anything for a few moments, but she picked up her needle and held the half-finished shirt in front of her. “I’ve to finish six of these by the end of the month,” she said, shaking her head. “This one’s not bad, is it? I told you I always wanted to find something I was good at. Maybe this is it. I’m in a race with Granny Summerfield. Do you know, she knitted thirty pairs of socks last month! That’s a pair a day. And with her bad eyesight! I sometimes wonder if she puts it on for effect.”
“Mum!” said Alfie, tugging at her sleeve. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s away at the war, isn’t he?” she snapped, turning on him now, her voice growing cold. “He’s away at this blessed war.”
“He never writes anymore.”
“He can’t at the moment.”
“Why can’t he?”
“Because he’s fighting.”
“Then how do we know?”
“How do we know what?”
“How do we know that he’s all right?”
“Of course he’s all right, Alfie. Why wouldn’t he be all right?”
“Maybe he’s dead.”
And then something terrible happened. Margie threw down her sewing, jumped out of her seat, and slapped Alfie, hard, across the face. He blinked in surprise. Neither Georgie nor Margie had ever hit him in his life, not even when he was very small and acting up. He put a hand to his cheek and felt the sting there but didn’t make a sound. Nothing like this had happened since that monster Mr. Grace had made him hold out his hand six times for Excalibur and smiled while he was beating him, the purple veins in his great drinker’s nose pulsating with pleasure.
A moment later, Margie burst into tears. She threw her arms around him and pulled him to her, and he could feel the dampness of her face against his shoulder. “Oh, Alfie,” she said. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean it. I was upset, that’s all. I didn’t mean it, honest I didn’t.”
“Where’s Dad?” he asked again, and Margie pulled away, holding him by the shoulders and looking him directly in the face. The flames from the fire showed the streaks of her tears along her cheeks.
“What?” she asked.
“I want to know where Dad is,” he said. “I want to know why he hasn’t written in almost a year.”
“Of course he’s written, Alfie,” said Margie nervously.
“Then where are the letters? You used to keep them under your mattress, but there haven’t been any new ones since—”
“What are you doing looking under my mattress?” cried Margie. “Snooping in my things? Honestly, Alfie, I should—”
“If he’s written, then where are the letters?”
Margie shrugged and looked as if she were trying to think of a good answer. “I don’t know,” she said eventually. “I must have lost them. I must have thrown them away.”
“I don’t believe you,” shouted Alfie. “You wouldn’t do that. I know you wouldn’t. Tell me the truth! You keep talking about a secret mission but you never explain it.”
Margie dried her face and sat back on her chair. “All right,” she said at last. “He’s not fighting anymore, you’re right. But he doesn’t have time to write. A man from the War Office came to see me. He said that your dad was one of the bravest soldiers they’d ever seen, so they gave him new orders. He’s doing what he can to put an end to the war.”
“What kind of mission is it?” asked Alfie.
“He wouldn’t tell me,” said Margie. “But I’m sure it’s very important. Anyway, the point is that until it’s finished, your dad isn’t allowed to write to us.”
Alfie thought about it. “When did he come to see you?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The man from the War Office.”
Margie blew her cheeks out a little and looked away from him. “Oh, I can’t remember,” she said. “It was months ago.”
“And what was his name?”
“I don’t remember. What does it matter anyway?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that he came?”
“Because I didn’t want to worry you. I know how clever you are, Alfie, but you’re only nine. And you were only eight then. There are some things that—”
“Did you tell Granny Summerfield?”
“No, of course not.”
“But she’s a grown-up.”
Margie looked flustered and stood up, shaking her head. “Alfie, I’m not going to continue with this conversation. You asked where your father is, and I’ve just told you. He’s on a secret mission. Now can we please just leave it there?”
Alfie was happy to leave it there. There was no point asking any more questions because he was absolutely certain that she wouldn’t tell him the truth anyway. No man from the War Office had ever called at their house; there might have been lots of secret missions going on but his father wasn’t part of any of them, and wherever he was, Margie knew but wasn’t willing to say. But Alfie was certain that he would figure it out eventually if he just put it all together one piece at a time.