the history of them. Relying on her legal background of piecing together evidence, she had established that during wartime, the photographer Karen Johnson had been a family friend of the lord of Hawthorne Manor, the latest home Jonathan and Sophie had been working on. In the 1940s, a London newspaper had commissioned Karen to take pictures of the ever-changing city and to capture the tenacious spirit of the people of the capital, determined to rebuild at any cost, especially from the damage done from the relentless bombing campaign of the Blitz in 1940–41, when London had been bombed for fifty-six out of fifty-seven days. Although many photos of the devastation of London had been taken during the war, Sophie knew these would be something special – captured as they were through the lens of one of the most prominent photographers of that period.
Karen Johnson’s untimely death in March 1944 caused Sophie to speculate that she had been staying at the manor with her friends at the time and the envelope had been with her belongings, then somehow, in the grief of her death, been misplaced.
After Jonathan’s flawless speech, much to Sophie’s relief, she then accompanied the group of World War Two enthusiasts as they toured the gallery, listening to him talk about the significance of each piece and how the reconstruction of London had been so intensive.
Congratulating their charity on the work that had not only uncovered the photographs, but also the treasure trove of World War Two artefacts on display, the mayor left just as Jonathan’s partner, Grant, arrived, and Sophie knew he would be able to take over babysitting her boss so she could grab a glass of champagne and relax a little.
Deciding to excuse herself from the group, just as Grant and Jonathan started enthusing about their new puppy, Sophie started to look around the gallery on her own. As she studied each photo in more detail, her thoughts returned to her relationship with Matt. It wasn’t just that he was busy, or even that it felt like they’d hardly seen each other in the last few months. Something was nagging at her, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something that was more than just their mutual grief.
Sophie sipped her champagne as she scanned the photograph of the bombing of the Woolworth Building in 1942 and its reconstruction. It had been taken by Karen earlier than the rest of the collection, but borrowed to add more content. Sophie tried to imagine what it’d be like to be part of such a horror, and to come back to work the next day and find you no longer had a job or a place of work. She drifted to the next print. A group of women were bent over wearing headscarves and trousers, smiling with that British ‘can do’ attitude as they removed rubble from what would’ve been somebody’s home. The next picture was of the Baker Street bombing. It revealed the randomness of the bombing patterns. In the photo, two buildings stand, almost unscathed, either side of an empty space where another has been completely demolished. On the pile of rubble sat a young boy who was the focus of the photograph. He was dirty-faced, in a grey school uniform and sweater, holding a tattered Union Jack.
As Sophie studied the image, something caught her eye, someone a little out of focus and off to the side she hadn’t noticed the first time she’d seen the photograph, when it was so much smaller. She drew closer and realised that what had caught her attention for a second had been a thought that a woman she could see in the photo was her mother. All at once, the weight of grief slammed into her again, starting in the pit of her stomach, searing up her body until it culminated in her throat, coming out as a strangled gasp.
Sophie hated how her loss and pain did this to her every time. She knew she would feel gutted, utterly devastated, after the tragedy, but she hadn’t been prepared for the waves of sorrow that could appear for months afterwards and literally threaten to take her legs from under her. As Sophie stared at the picture, she shook the thought from her mind, recognising how ridiculous it had been. The woman in this picture couldn’t possibly be her mother. This photograph had been taken during the war, more than a decade before her mother was even born. It was just one