Finding Sophie by Irene N.Watts Read Free Book Online Page A

it
was
true, would Aunt Em adopt me? Not that I
want
to be an orphan. I'm not wishing away my parents, or anything. They're safe. Parents don't die without their children finding out. I'd
know
something like that.
    At birthdays and Christmas, Aunt Em always says she's certain my parents are thinking of me, that once the war's over letters will start arriving.
    At breakfast this morning, Aunt Em reminded me again that it won't be long before we hear from Mama and Papa. She said if there's too much of a delay, she'd get in touch with the Red Cross. I was hoping we could talk about what would happen when letters do start arriving.
Will Aunt Em and I go on as before?
When you've lived in a place more than half your life, it's pretty devastating to think about changing.
    Aunt Em seems to avoid talking about the subject, and I don't want to make an issue of it.
I'm a coward.

“W asn't it heaven getting two days off in the middle of the week, Sophie? Tomorrow's the Victory dance. Have you got your costume ready?”
    Mandy and I are in the school cafeteria, at lunchtime on Thursday.
    “Mum's helping me finish off a witch's cloak from the upstairs blackout curtains. She says she's only too pleased to get rid of them! I still need a hat, though.”
    “I requisitioned a piece of cardboard from the salvage box. Thought the war effort could spare it. I'll make it into a coned hat for you, and we can paste stars and symbols on it.”
    “Thanks, Sophie. How about your costume?”
    “Mine's easy. I'll go as an Impressionist artist – you know, wearing a beret. Aunt Em found a sort of Russian-looking smock in amongst the Red Cross things in the spare room. It's got very wide sleeves. I'll wear her spotted scarf tied in a floppy bow roundmy neck. That should do. I've got a pair of black woolen stockings too. I may die of heatstroke, though. Which reminds me, what are you wearing under your cloak?”
    “Mum's come to the rescue again. She got a blue full-length slip; if I knot the shoulder straps it'll fit me. Bother, there's the bell. Biology, next. If Miss Carter asks me to dissect an earthworm, I shall refuse on the grounds of animal rights,” Mandy declares.
    “I think she looks a bit wormy herself,” I add.
    On Friday night, we get to the dance at 7:30 and the room is already packed.
    “Great decorations, Sophie,” Mandy says.
    “I can only take half the credit – Nigel did a lot of ladder-climbing too.”
    The kitchen committee has put colored cotton strips of red, white, and blue bunting to cover the tables, and there are jugs of homemade lemonade, as well as an urn of tea and platters of sandwiches, with little flags stuck into the bread: meat paste, fish paste, and Marmite. There are several plates of biscuits too.
    We'd painted the lightbulbs in different colors – green, red, and blue – so the old rec room would be romantically transformed.
    Nigel looks very dashing as a pirate with a patch over his eye. I am a bit concerned about his feet, stuck in huge Wellington boots. Mandy says other than the waltz, not too much progress has been made with the dancing lessons.
    We all wear numbers pinned to our backs so that the prize committee can judge our costumes more easily as we dance.
    The M.C. (who is Reverend Peter's curate) announces a general “Excuse Me” dance. Vera Lynn's voice drifts enticingly through the loudspeaker.
    Mandy is dancing with Reverend Peter at the far end of the room, and Simon and I circle slowly under the blue lights.
    Nigel is talking to Stanley, a newcomer. I don't like him – he's already made some nasty comments about people and then laughed them off as a joke. I notice that Stanley's wearing jodhpurs and riding boots, and carrying a crop.
    Nigel comes over and takes my hand. Simon shrugs his shoulders in exaggerated disappointment. Everyone is having fun.
    Stanley says loudly, over the music, “Bit soon to be fraternizing with the enemy, isn't it? Time to go home, Fräulein.”
    Nigel's