Finding Sophie by Irene N.Watts Read Free Book Online

fingerprints.
    “I said, ‘Please, Sir, I am telling you the truth: I'm not a spy. I'm a refugee from the Nazis. Drawing's my hobby.’ I promised him I'd never miss gym again, even if I had to take it in my vest and knickers. I prayed they'd believe me.”
    Nigel's shoulder's shook with laughter and Mandy was rolling on the grass and howling. A woman walking her dog made a wide berth round us. “Hooligans,” we heard her say.
    “I think it was the vest part that convinced them. The sergeant told the constable to escort me back to school. ‘If you were a few years older, young lady, you would be interned as an enemy alien. As it is, you may well be taken into protective custody. I hope I have made myself clear?’
    “I didn't dare speak after that, and just nodded.
    “The constable took me right inside the school and made sure I went into the office. I told the secretary that I hadn't felt well and had permission to go home, but that I now felt very much better, and please would she tell Miss Merton that I was back formy lessons. Can you imagine if I had to ask Aunt Em for a note?”
    “Old Miss Merton, who's almost senile?” Mandy says, wobbling her chin in imitation of the gym teacher.
    “This is definitely the worst thing I've ever heard you do, Sophie,” Nigel says. “I can see the sergeant's point. You
could
have been passing on information.”
    Nigel and Mandy whisper for a few minutes. “We think a suitable punishment would be to give up your sweet ration for a month, then buy some chocolate for Miss Merton, and write a note telling her how much you appreciate all she's done for the school, and how you've always loved her lessons.”
    “That would be another lie, and awfully cruel,” I say.
    “No appeals, not even on the grounds of being a foreigner who didn't know any better.”
    The game is almost turning into something unpleasant. For a moment, Nigel has seen me not as his best friend, but as an alien – a foreigner.
Is this what peace is going to be like?
    Mrs. Gibson is cooking spam fritters for supper, with mashed potatoes and runner beans from their garden. There is a lovely smell of baked apples.
    “Nigel's doing dishes tonight, Mum,” Mandy says, looking meaningfully at her brother. “He offered, didn't you, twin?”
    Mrs. Gibson is just pouring the last of the custard over Mandy's helping of baked apple, when a voice booms from the hall: “Anyone home?”
    “Dad!” The three of them fly out of the kitchen and I justmanage to save the jug from tipping over. I'm mopping up a few drops of custard that have dripped onto the table when Mr. Gibson, or rather Corporal Gibson of His Majesty's Transit Corps, puts his kit bag down in the corner.
    “Hello, young Sophie, you've grown again. How's your aunt?”
    “Fine, Sir. Thank you. It's awfully good to see you.”
    “Sit down, Dan. I'll make you some bacon and eggs, all right?” asks Mrs. Gibson.
    “Perfect, luv. Good to stretch my legs under my own kitchen table. Seven days' leave. Surprised you, didn't I?”
    Mandy stands behind his chair and twines her arms round his neck. Mrs. Gibson is putting what looks like a month's ration of bacon into the pan.
    “Thank you very much for the delicious supper, Mrs. Gibson. I'd better get on home. Good night, Mr. Gibson.”
    Nigel follows me into the hall. “It was a great day, Soph. See you at the dance on Friday.”
    Everything's all right again.
    It takes me only five minutes to cycle home from the Gibsons'. Their happiness at being together again reminds me how few relatives I've got. For years there's been only Aunt Em. Her parents died in the influenza epidemic of 1919, or I'd have “adopted” grandparents the way Aunt Em's my “adopted” aunt.
    How did she get through such an awful time – losing her parents, her brother, and her fiancé? She must have loved him an awful lot to have never got married.
    Supposing it wasn't a lie that time I told the police I was an orphan?
If