I only pause for a single moment to consider Aunt Kathleen’s concerns before I dismiss them once again.
“Okay, Dad,” I say, as his eyes brighten with hope. “It looks like we have a father-daughter summer project ahead of us.”
I enjoy a long lie-in on Monday, the first day of summer break. Dad is long gone by 10:00 a.m. when I finally drag myself out of bed to call Professor Read’s office. I’m disappointed and a little alarmed when the call rings out. I thought the timing of Professor Berrara’s letter was fortunate—arriving when it did as my school year ended. But what if Professor Read is one of those lecturers who disappears to Spain or France or the countryside for the entire summer, totally out of reach until the new academic year? I try again several times in the hours that follow and as every call rings out and I become increasingly alarmed, I start to hope that Professor Berrara has accidentally given me the wrong number. I call the university’s main switchboard to check.
“Professor Read works all year round but he doesn’t ever answer his own phone. I expect his secretary Mrs. White will be in sooner or later but you’ll have to keep trying until you reach her.”
I drag an armchair into the hallway and sit by the phone to read my novel. I try the number again at the end of every chapter. By late afternoon I’ve just about given up hope of getting through today and I’m startled when the call connects.
“Manchester University History Department. This is Professor Read’s office.”
The woman’s voice is husky and rough, almost as if I have just woken her up, but then she gives a hacking cough and I hear a purposeful inhalation. This is a woman who enjoys a cigarette.
“Hello there,” I say politely. “Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Mrs. White. Professor Read’s secretary,” the woman says before she gives another cough.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. White. My name is Charlotte Ainsworth. I’ve heard that Professor Read is something of an expert in the history of the SOE and—”
Mrs. White interrupts me, her tone sharp. “Young lady, Professor Read is not ‘something of an expert’ in the SOE. He’s the only sanctioned SOE military historian for the British government.”
“Of course,” I say hastily, wincing. I’m caught off guard, first that someone has finally answered the damned phone, secondly by the mild hostility.
I draw a breath and try to refocus.
“The thing is, my father was involved with the SOE at some point—”
“Are you calling to schedule an interview for him with the graduate students for next academic year?”
“An interview?”
“Your father will have received letters inviting him to participate in Professor Read’s archival program if he is of significance to the historic record.”
“No, I don’t think he has.” Surely Dad would have mentioned if he had.
“Well, the most likely explanation for that is that he is not of interest to Professor Read’s work. Thank you for your call—”
“Wait, don’t go,” I say hastily. “He doesn’t want to be interviewed—he just wants to find someone—”
“Professor Read is a very busy historian,” Mrs. White scoffs. “He’s not a missing persons expert.”
“Of course I appreciate that but we don’t really know how else to proceed without Professor Read’s help. This man we are seeking was probably an SOE agent and he saved my father’s life.”
“So this is an amateur history project?”
“I suppose you could say that?”
“Professor Read is too busy to help with amateur history projects.” She sounds exasperated now, and there’s instant heat on my cheeks. “He is a professional historian, for heaven’s sakes.”
“Mrs. White, I don’t mean to waste your time and I certainly don’t intend to waste Professor Read’s time but we don’t know where else to turn,” I say.
“There is a group of amateur historians who meet at St. Barnabas Church. It’s run by one of the professor’s former students—a very capable young man. That group may be a more appropriate resource for your father. Good day.”
The harsh click in my ear tells me that Mrs. White has already hung up. I hang up too, and stare at the receiver warily as I try to process the conversation. I didn’t necessarily expect that the professor or his staff would drop everything to assist us, but by the same token, I was not anticipating a flat refusal to even entertain a conversation with Dad.
I glance down at the folio on the desk and realize that I’ve been doodling as I spoke with her. I’ve written snippets from our conversation.
interview
oral history?
amateur history project?
St. Barnabas’ church
I reach for the phonebook and quickly find the number for the church in Manchester. A much more helpful receptionist there advises me that the history group is headed up by one Theo Sinclair. I hear the rustle of papers as she finds a copy of the parish timetable and informs me the group meets every second Thursday at 6:00 p.m. in the church hall.
It’s only thirty miles from Liverpool to Manchester. When my father arrives home from work Thursday afternoon, we climb into his periwinkle-blue Peugeot 404 and start the journey. It’s drizzling, and the sky above is depressingly heavy.
“I’m still a bit confused why the university sent us to a church history group,” Dad says. “You really think this is going to help us find this Remy?”
“Honestly, Dad, I have no idea.” I don’t want to discourage Dad, so I haven’t told him how unhelpful Professor Read’s secretary was. Hopefully, this group can help us and I won’t need to call her again.
We pass several other meetings in various rooms of the church—a choir; what looks a lot like a support group; three ministers sitting around a desk. When we finally reach the hall, we push open a door and step into an expansive but somewhat musty space, with thin red carpet on the floor and wood-paneled walls. No less than a dozen chairs are arranged in a semicircle, each one already occupied. I look down at my watch. We aren’t late, but the group has started anyway.
The man seated at the front of the room looks up at us expectantly. His silver-framed glasses sit slightly askew on his face. His checkered shirt is poorly ironed and covered by a knitted vest that has possibly been attacked by moths at some point. He gives a polite smile even as he greets us dismissively.
“Sorry, this is the family history group. Who were you looking for?”
I scan my gaze around the circle and hesitate. The young man in the vest is probably only in his late twenties, but everyone else appears to be at least forty or fifty years older. I count two walking sticks and one Zimmer frame.
“Family history group?” I repeat in confusion. I glance at Dad, who shrugs and gives me a bewildered look. “I suppose we’re in the right place. I thought it started at six o’clock?”
The young man blinks at me from behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“Well, no. Not anymore. It starts at five thirty now.”
The convener seems visibly flustered and confused—as am I—but he rises to his feet and begins to motion for the rest of the semicircle to expand. The group’s members all begin to shuffle, making way for two more chairs. We’re soon seated between the convener and a man at least twice his age who is clutching an aggressively large box of paperwork.