The Lost Song of Paris by Sarah Steele

Author:Sarah Steele
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Headline Review
Published: 2022-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

24

London, 1997

Amy was about to leave for work when the telephone rang. She put a hand over one ear in order to hear the voice at the other end above the shouting of Holly, who had taken against the new shoes Amy had caved in to buying after half an hour’s debate in the shop the previous week.

‘Penny. How lovely to hear from you. How’s Verity?’

‘Not too bad, but she’s caught a bit of a cold.’ Penny laughed as Holly squealed from the kitchen. ‘Sounds like you’ve got your hands full there.’

‘You could say that. It’s the shoe tantrum this morning. Makes a change from the coat one. Or the breakfast one, I suppose.’

‘I remember it well. You should try Mum’s trick and evacuate her to Shropshire.’

‘I fear she’d be sent straight back.’

‘Change the locks. She’ll soon get the message. Listen, Amy, I just wanted to say sorry if I’ve been a little brusque with you. I have to think of Mum’s health, you know?’

‘Of course. And I’m sorry if I’ve seemed pushy.’

‘I must admit I was worried at first, but you seem to be good for her. She probably hasn’t had a new friend since 1953.’

‘I like her too,’ Amy replied, realising how fond she had become of Verity.

‘Just don’t let her overdo it.’ Penny hesitated. ‘You can’t tell me what you talk about, can you? She’s so secretive about it.’

Amy was torn. Of course Penny had a right to know, but Verity remained adamant that her family not be told about her war activities. It was not Amy’s secret to tell. ‘It’s nothing in particular. I think she just enjoys talking about the war with someone eager to hear how it was first-hand.’

‘Right.’ Penny did not sound convinced. ‘Anyway, the reason I called is that Mum asked me to tell you the name of a girl she told you about the other day. Someone who went to France. Hold on, I’ve got it written down here . . . Daphne Wilson. Her family owned a pie shop in the East End. Why would Mum know someone from an East End pie shop?’

Amy thought on her feet. ‘I think they were secretaries together at the War Office.’

‘Hm. Anyway, I’ll let you know when Mum’s better. I know she’d love to see you – it seems to have given her a purpose.’

‘Me too,’ Amy said.

And it was true: the story of the spy and the pilot had begun to attach itself to her unconscious, so that some mornings, instead of her day starting with the agonising absence of Michael, she awoke to find herself thinking about Sophie. She kept a photocopy of Sophie’s letter folded in her handbag – a reminder that loss was not Amy’s private preserve, and that hope truly was one of the greatest gifts. Of course she could not hope that Michael would come back, but she could begin to hope for an easier, happier way forward, surrounded by old friends and new. She’d even let

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