Right after Mum’s death, Dad went back to working full-time and then some, but now for the first time in months, I’m leaving the house before him and returning to find him already home. He’s in his study most waking hours around his work, on the phone or reading or pecking away at a typewriter. Letters come in the post with return addresses from all manner of government agencies across the UK and even France.
But his mood slowly drops again. First, he starts leaving for work earlier, and then I come home a few nights in a row to find he’s still at the office and the kitchen is dark and still. Within a week or two, the light has faded in Dad’s eyes. He once again looks on the outside as I feel on the inside—frustrated, depressed, angry.
Has he found Remy? Does he have any answers about that wartime accident? I’m curious about what he’s discovered that’s caused such a change in his mood. I’m also starting to think I should have listened to Aunt Kathleen, because Dad does not look happy. He doesn’t even look well.
One night, he comes home from work late and sits down to the subpar sausages and mashed potato I’ve prepared for us. The bags under his eyes are shadowed and heavy. He sits slumped and weary at the dining room table and my heart aches as he shovels my terrible food into his mouth.
“How’s the SOE project going?” I ask gently.
“Ah, that.” He swallows the last chunk of potato on his plate, then dismisses me with a limp wave of his hand. “I never thought it would be easy to find Remy but I assumed I’d at least be able to confirm that he was an agent. It turns out even that is just about impossible. I’ve gotten nowhere.”
This surprises me. I foolishly assumed he learned something upsetting or was finding it challenging to confront the past. It didn’t occur to me that he isn’t finding answers at all.
“Have you given up?” I ask him. I’m equal parts relieved and concerned by the thought.
“I think I’m running out of people to approach, to be honest.” He pauses, then laughs self-consciously. “I’m a silly old fool, Lottie.”
“You’re none of those things—” I start to say, but it’s clear Dad is ready to change the subject, because he stands and forces a smile.
“You cooked. I’ll do the dishes,” he says, even though most nights recently he’s been doing both. Wrigley, who had been asleep by my feet as I worked at the kitchen table, stands and follows Dad toward the sink, shooting me a doleful look.
Dad is gone when I wake up the next morning. I dress early and plan the school day in my mind, groaning as I ponder the long list of things I have to do before I can crawl back into bed—end of the school year is a brutal time for teachers. I pass Dad’s study on my way out but pause, staring inside. When Mum was alive, Dad was perpetually untidy but now, he keeps most of the house pristine, just as she preferred. The only place he allows his own standard of cleanliness to stand is this study, which is in its usual state of chaos.
I glance back down the hallway, double-checking that Dad has really left the house, then step into the room. The rubbish bin is overflowing and one of the cabinets where he keeps his business paperwork is half-open, overstuffed files peeking out the top. I straighten the folders then push the drawer closed before I wander to his desk. There’s a leather folio beside the phone and I pull it toward me, then open the front cover to find dozens of pages of handwritten notes. Each page is a long list of times, dates, phone numbers and remarks. Every entry has been crossed out. Some of those lines are drawn with a heavy hand, the page almost torn with the force of the slash. I flick across a few more pages and find more of the same.
Poor Dad. No wonder his optimism is fading. As far as I can tell, he’s contacted just about every government department and military organization in existence but if this list is anything to go by, he really is getting nowhere. On the corner of one page, he’s scrawled a note diagonally in letters so heavy I can picture the confusion and disbelief on his face as he wrote them.
The SOE ceased to exist in January 1946?
My heart aches for him, but right off the bat, I can’t help but wonder if he’s approaching this the wrong way. Maybe to my dad, the war is a living thing—active in his mind even across the decades, even though he’s kept all of that to himself until now. To the rest of the world, the war has been consigned to the history books. For all of these calls my dad has made and for all the letters he’s sent, he hasn’t contacted a single historian.
On my lunch break, I pick up a pen and write to the professor who taught the handful of history classes I took at university. I don’t tell Professor Berrara much about my father’s quest. The details don’t really matter. I just ask what advice he’d give to someone looking into the history of the SOE. To my surprise, less than a week later and on the last day of my school year before summer break, a letter lands in our postbox.
Dear Charlotte,
It is true that increasingly I forget the students who pass through these halls, but I do remember you as a diligent student who did not miss a lecture and could be relied upon to deliver essays of the highest quality. I expect that by now you’re married to that nice young chap of yours and hope life is treating you well.
I cringe at the reference and the memories that rise with it. Billy and I met on the first day of university and we were inseparable throughout our studies—so much so that he would often swap subjects so we could attend the same lectures. That seemed romantic at the time, but now it just seems pitiful.
There is much secrecy around the SOE even to this day, but even so, in some ways you are fortunate that this is the area of study that has piqued your curiosity. There are several historians with a special area of focus on the SOE, most notably Prof. Harry Read of Manchester University. He is official historian to the British government and I understand he is trying to write a book on this very subject. If it’s the SOE you want to research, he’s the first person you should reach out to.
As my father reads the letter that night, he beams with such pride and excitement that my cheeks flush.
“Clever Lottie,” he says, shaking his head in wonder. “It didn’t even occur to me that what I really need is a historian, not a bureaucrat! Look what you have done with one attempt after those fruitless weeks this old fool has spent barking up the wrong tree…” He scratches the back of his neck, then looks at me hesitantly. “I’m not smart like you are, love.”
“Dad!” I protest. “You’re plenty smart—”
“You know what I mean,” he interrupts, but he’s cringing awkwardly. “I’m just a simple man and I don’t know how to research like you do. I really don’t have a clue how to talk to…” He motions toward the letter. “You know. Professors and such.”
Dad’s a successful, accomplished man—but I’ve seen people treat him as though he were lacking in intellect once they hear him speak. He’s always been especially intimidated by the academic world. Dad was bursting with pride for me at my graduation, but when he thought I was looking elsewhere, his sparkling gaze would drop until he was staring at the ground while he scratched the back of his head or adjusted the collar of his shirt, over and over again. Archie’s graduation twelve months later was no better.