Free Finding Sophie by Irene N.Watts Page B

till I come to the “laughing girls.”
    If only you could speak to me. You're laughing, Mama. I can't remember the sound of your laugh. I wish I had more memories of you. Did you sing to me? Did you read me stories? What was your life really like? You should have explained to me why you sent me to be brought up by Aunt Em. Why did you say it was a holiday? Why didn't you tell me that we might never meet again?
    I wish you'd known how happy I've been here. Would you understand and let me stay? Papa took that photo of you, when you were both so young, before you turned into my parents. One of you dead, the other a Jew from a concentration camp, ill with typhus.
    At four fifteen, I leave for the hospital. All the way there I try to decide what to do if the worst happens: if Father wants me to go back to live with him in Germany and Aunt Em agrees because she thinks it's the “fair thing to do.” If I run away, I could easily earn my living selling sketches and portraits. I could be apavement artist. It wouldn't be any harder than painting white lines along curbs and lampposts in the blackout. I'd only agree to leave my garret and go back to school if Aunt Em promises to let me live with her forever. Yes, I know, it's blackmail…. It'd be worth it.
    The porter greets me as if he's been waiting just for my arrival. “Don't look so glum, Miss. It's keeping so cheerful as keeps me going, as Mrs. Mop says.” I manage a smile. Our porter's a Tommy Handley fan, always quoting from everyone's favorite radio show: “It's that man again – ITMA. ” Aunt Em and I try never to miss a program.
    “Thank goodness for an extra pair of hands.” Staff Nurse rattles off instructions as if afraid an emergency might arrive in the ward before she's finished telling me what to do.
    After I've made up the beds, and my “hospital corners” won a smile of approval from Staff Nurse, I mop the bathroom, arrange all the screens for visitors, and am sent down to the kitchen to remind them about sending up the special trays for the diabetics. Then I refill the water jugs and am in the middle of dusting the radiators, when I am told I can go for a ten minute break.
    Marianne passes me on the stairs. “Can't stop, Sophie, I'm being moved to ‘maternity.’ Bridget's home. I'll call you soon. The three of us must meet.” She squeezes my arm.
    At nine o'clock, when my shift ends, I'm just thankful I've made it through. My legs feel as if they've run a five minute mile. I think I forgot to eat today.

    At the Gibsons' house, Nigel opens the door. “Hello, Sophie. Mother and Mandy aren't home from the pictures yet. What's new?”
    “My mother's dead.”
    He stares, horrified. “I'm sorry, Sophie.” He puts his arms round me and pats my back as though I'm a baby.
    I want to go on standing there in the half-light of the hallway, to put my head on his shoulder and cry. Of course, I don't. “I had a letter from my father.”
    “When?”
    The front door opens. Nigel and I turn away from each other.
    “Hello, sorry we're late. You should have come, Nigel. Mum was petrified.”
    “Don't exaggerate, Mandy. Now, shall we all have some cocoa before you girls cycle home?”
    “Please. Any biscuits, Mother?” Mandy follows her into the kitchen.
    “Nigel, don't tell them yet. I'll tell Mandy myself.”
    “All right.”
    “Come on, you two, stop whispering. I thought I was going to scream when Charles Boyer was creeping around the attic looking for Ingrid Bergman's jewelry. I shan't sleep a wink tonight.” Mandy chatters on and on, so I don't need to talk much.
    “Thanks awfully for the cocoa, Mrs. Gibson,” I say.
    “Nigel, it's late. Cycle home with the girls, please. You look so tired, Sophie. Is there anything wrong?”
    “It was a bit frantic on the ward tonight, Mrs. Gibson.”
    “Come on, twin, let's be on our way.” Nigel hurries Mandy out.
    The moment Nigel leaves us and I close the front door, Mandy bursts out: “What's going on?