way she liked us to do with presents when we were kids?’
‘What did it say?’
‘For Dorothy,’ Rose plaited her fingers together under the strain of recollection, ‘A true friend is a light in the dark, Vivien.’
Vivien. The name did something strange to Laurel. Her skin went hot and cold, and her heart speeded up so she could feel her pulse beating in her temples. A dizzying series of images flashed across her brain—a glistening blade, her mother’s frightened face, a red ribbon come loose. Old memories, ugly memories, that the unknown woman’s name had somehow un-leashed -‘Vivien,’ she repeated, her voice louder than she in-tended. ‘Who is Vivien?’
Rose looked up, surprised, but whatever she might have answered was lost when Iris came blasting through the door, parking ticket held aloft. Both sisters turned towards her mighty indignation and therefore neither noticed Dorothy’s sharp intake of breath, the look of anguish that crossed her face at the mention of Vivien’s name. By the time the three Nicolson sisters had gathered at their mother’s side, Dorothy appeared to be sleeping calmly, her features giving no hint that she’d left the hospital, her weary body, and her grown daughters behind; slipping through time to the dark night of 1941.
Three
London, May 1941
DOROTHY SMITHAM ran downstairs, calling goodnight to Mrs White as she shimmied into the sleeves of her coat. The landlady blinked through thick spectacles when she passed, anxious to continue her never-ending treatise on the neighbour’s foibles, but Dolly didn’t stop. She slowed sufficiently only to check herself in the hall mirror and pinch some colour into her cheeks. Happy enough with what she saw, she opened the door and darted out into the blackout. She was in a hurry, no time tonight for trouble with the warden; Jimmy would be at the restaurant already and she didn’t want to keep him waiting. They had so much to discuss—what they should take, what they’d do when they got there, when they should finally go …
Dolly smiled eagerly, reaching into her deep coat pocket and rolling the carved figurine beneath her fingertips. She’d noticed it in the pawnbrokers window the other day; it was only a trifle, she knew, but it had made her think of him, and now more than ever, as London came down around them, it was important to let people know how much they meant. Dolly was longing to give it to him—she could just imagine his face when he saw it, the way he’d smile and reach for her and tell her, as he always did, how much he loved her. The little wooden Mr Punch might not be much, but it was perfect; Jimmy had always adored the seaside. They both had.
‘Excuse me?’
It was a woman’s voice and it was unexpected. ‘Yes?’ Dolly called back, her own voice catching with surprise. The woman must’ve noticed her when light spilled briefly through the opened door.
‘Please—can you help me? I’m looking for number 24.’
Despite the blackout and the impossibility of being seen, Dolly gestured from habit towards the door behind her. ‘You’re in luck,’ she said. ‘It’s right here. No rooms free at the moment, I’m afraid, but there will be soon.’ Her very own room, in fact (if room it could be called). She slid a cigarette onto her lip and struck the match.
‘Dolly?’
At that, Dolly squinted into the darkness. The owner of the voice was rushing towards her; she sensed a flurry of movement, and then the woman, close now, said, ‘It is you, thank God. It’s me, Dolly. It’s—’ ‘Vivien?’ She recognised the voice suddenly; she knew it so well, and yet there was something different about it.
‘I thought I might’ve missed you, that I was too late.’
‘Too late for what?’ Dolly faltered; they’d had no plans to meet, not tonight. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing—’. Vivien started to laugh then and the sound, me-tallic and unnerving, sent jangles up Dolly’s spine. ‘That is, everything.’ ‘Have you been drinking?’ Dolly had never known Vivien to behave like this; gone was the usual veneer of elegance, the perfect self-control.
The other woman didn’t answer, not exactly. The neighbour’s cat bounded off a nearby wall, landing with a thud on their rabbit hutch. Vivien jumped, and then whispered: ‘We have to talk—quickly.’
Dolly stalled by drawing hard on her cigarette. Ordinarily she’d have loved for the pair of them to sit down and have a heart to heart, but not now, not tonight. She was impatient to be getting on. ‘I can’t,’ she