All Things Undying by Marcia Talley

Saturday, as in just a week from today.’
    â€˜Short notice, I know.’ He flashed a toothy, apologetic grin.
    I gave Jon Paul’s cell phone number and resigned myself to a week of temporary widowhood. Cowes Race Week – unfolding on the waters of the Solent between the south coast of England and the Isle of Wight – was huge in sailing circles, and because of the area’s strong double tides, exciting. There was no way Paul, an experienced sailor, was going to say no to the opportunity of joining a team, even if he had to be a lowly grinder rather than, say, a navigator or tactician.
    â€˜What boat are you racing, Jon?’
    â€˜You know the boat, Hannah. Biding Thyme . A Contessa Thirty-Two.’
    Egad! Biding Thyme was the same Contessa 32 that Beth Hamilton had been last seen sailing. If Paul had died aboard that stupid boat I’d have put it on the market so fast it would have made his head spin. In the afterlife, of course.
    â€˜Alison!’ Stephen Bailey bellowed after Jon had disappeared, presumably to telephone Paul. ‘What’s happened to my tea, girl?’
    Cathy took this as a sign that her interview with Stephen Bailey was over. ‘Well, I have to be going,’ she said, gathering up her sweater and handbag. ‘Thanks so much for your help, Mr Bailey. I really, really appreciate it.’
    Before her father could answer, Alison interrupted, breezing into the room carrying a tray laden with the wherewithal for tea. ‘Won’t you stay for tea, Cathy?’
    â€˜Thank you, but no, Mrs Hamilton, I’ve got to be going. I have an appointment with a woman from BASH and if I don’t hurry, I’ll be late. Do you know her? Lilith Price?’
    Stephen Bailey grunted, which Cathy took for a no. ‘She was twelve years old during the American occupation of South Hams,’ Cathy explained, ‘so I’m going to talk to her about what it was like when the Americans were billeted here.’
    BASH I knew, was the Blackawton and Strete History Group. They’d published several illustrated booklets that made interesting reading even if you weren’t a World War Two history buff.
    Stephen Bailey struggled to his feet, reached into his breast pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. ‘Here’s the number of that fellow in Brixton. Perhaps he’ll be of some use to you.’
    Cathy accepted the paper and tucked it into her handbag. ‘Thanks ever so.’
    While Alison busied herself with the tea, I walked Cathy to the door. ‘See you back at the B&B?’
    She tapped her temple in salute. ‘You betcha!’
    â€˜And good hunting with BASH,’ I called after her has she headed down the walk.
    Cathy smiled and waved. ‘Your mouth to God’s ears.’

SEVEN
    â€˜Having left the mess room I called into the “ladies room” in the main corridor opposite the main entrance to the college. On my way out I passed the time of day to a Petty Officer Wren. The first bomb dropped . . . on B block and the quarter deck . . . and [I learned that] the Wren that I had just spoken to had been killed. This greatly upset and distressed me, but in wartime all we kept saying and singing was, “There’ll always be an England.”’
    Joyce Corder, Memories of War by Local People at Home and Abroad, 1939–1946, Dartmouth History Research Group, Paper 16, 1995, pp.5–6
    â€˜ G ood. You’re back. Tea’s getting cold.’ Alison indicated a cup of milky brew, clearly intended for me, quietly steaming on the coffee table in front of the chair I’d recently vacated.
    Adding milk to tea was practically automatic, as English as fish and chips or bangers and mash. I was a little surprised that Alison hadn’t remembered that I drank my tea black, but decided what the hell, I’d drink it anyway. I sipped and swallowed, trying not to make a face. ‘Where’s