shoved the carton back into the closet. I was giving the closet one last look to make sure nothing was out of place when I noticed the stack of shoe boxes on the top shelf.
Shoes!
I had almost forgotten. If I just had some halfway convincing men's shoes to stick out from under Margaret's bed, maybe I could make my trick work after all. I stood on the tips of my toes and pulled down the boxes. Mrs. Fernley's music was getting louder, practically vibrating Miss Grace's clothes hangers on the rod as I lifted the lids on sandals and high-heeled pumps and rain galoshes.
I was tempted to give up after the disappointing set of screwdrivers under the fourth lid, but there was one shoe box left at the far end of the shelf. And now through the wall I could hear a huge cast of singers joining in with the orchestra, their triumphant voices soaring and urging me on to victory. I dove back into the rising cloud of mothball dust and lavender sachet and reached for the last box. My heart sank at first. It felt much too light to hold the heavy leather clodhoppers I was looking for. Just to make sure though, I opened the lid.
Of course I knew it was wrong. Of course I shouldn't have been in the room in the first place. I shouldn't have been digging through a dead soldier's last earthly possessions. And I definitely shouldn't have perched myself on the edge of Miss Grace's bed and pulled the end of the ribbon tying the stack of old letters in the shoe box together. But there were no envelopes hiding the letters, and she was such a mystery to me, and here were all the clues to her lost life with Corporal Homewood at my fingertips.
With trembling fingers, I flipped through the stack. "My Dearest Grace," the letters began. They were written on faded light blue paper and dated 1944 and 1945, the exact years when her husband would have been half a world away at the front, fighting the Japanese and writing his wife from some lonely tent or foxhole. I stopped at the last letter, which was no more than a paragraph long, and read greedily:
February 12, 1945
My Dearest Grace,
In your last letter you said that each word I write only makes our separation more painful. But how can I stop writing? Our letters are the last tie binding us togetherâthe only good to come out of this long, vicious war.
My sincerest hope is that you will write again.
Vincent
I gasped.
Vincent?
Who was Vincent? Corporal Homewood's name was James! I scanned the letter again, not wanting to believe it. But there it was, plain as day, "makes our separation more painful." I turned back to the first letter in the stack and checked the signature. Vincent. The next letter was signed Vincent, too. But how could Miss Grace have loved someone else?
I wanted to read more, to search for an explanation, but I knew I had stayed too long already. So I didn't have a pair of men's shoes when I quietly slipped from Miss Grace's room and locked the door behind me. Or even a pair of suitable Birthmark Baines pants. But I had one very shocking and mysterious letter from the bottom of the secret bundle to discuss with Nell ... if I ever decided to speak to her again.
Chapter 9
Forgiving Nell for turning chicken was the easy part. Showing her the letter proved to be more difficult. I was dying to share what I had found. But somehow once I was downstairs again, away from Mrs. Fernley's pounding battle victory music and in the cozy quiet of our bedroom, I knew I couldn't tell anyone what I had done. All of a sudden even I was shocked at the thought of Miss Grace's letter tucked down inside the pocket of my dungarees. What had I been thinking? Nell would be appalled. Genuinely scandalized.
"So you didn't find
anything
for the dummy?" Nell asked as I sat on my bed inspecting a broken fingernail.
I shook my head.
"No pants, no nothing?"
"Nope," I said.
Nell crossed her arms over her chest, studying me suspiciously. "You sure were up there a long time."
"Well, I didn't find anything," I
Shoes!
I had almost forgotten. If I just had some halfway convincing men's shoes to stick out from under Margaret's bed, maybe I could make my trick work after all. I stood on the tips of my toes and pulled down the boxes. Mrs. Fernley's music was getting louder, practically vibrating Miss Grace's clothes hangers on the rod as I lifted the lids on sandals and high-heeled pumps and rain galoshes.
I was tempted to give up after the disappointing set of screwdrivers under the fourth lid, but there was one shoe box left at the far end of the shelf. And now through the wall I could hear a huge cast of singers joining in with the orchestra, their triumphant voices soaring and urging me on to victory. I dove back into the rising cloud of mothball dust and lavender sachet and reached for the last box. My heart sank at first. It felt much too light to hold the heavy leather clodhoppers I was looking for. Just to make sure though, I opened the lid.
Of course I knew it was wrong. Of course I shouldn't have been in the room in the first place. I shouldn't have been digging through a dead soldier's last earthly possessions. And I definitely shouldn't have perched myself on the edge of Miss Grace's bed and pulled the end of the ribbon tying the stack of old letters in the shoe box together. But there were no envelopes hiding the letters, and she was such a mystery to me, and here were all the clues to her lost life with Corporal Homewood at my fingertips.
With trembling fingers, I flipped through the stack. "My Dearest Grace," the letters began. They were written on faded light blue paper and dated 1944 and 1945, the exact years when her husband would have been half a world away at the front, fighting the Japanese and writing his wife from some lonely tent or foxhole. I stopped at the last letter, which was no more than a paragraph long, and read greedily:
February 12, 1945
My Dearest Grace,
In your last letter you said that each word I write only makes our separation more painful. But how can I stop writing? Our letters are the last tie binding us togetherâthe only good to come out of this long, vicious war.
My sincerest hope is that you will write again.
Vincent
I gasped.
Vincent?
Who was Vincent? Corporal Homewood's name was James! I scanned the letter again, not wanting to believe it. But there it was, plain as day, "makes our separation more painful." I turned back to the first letter in the stack and checked the signature. Vincent. The next letter was signed Vincent, too. But how could Miss Grace have loved someone else?
I wanted to read more, to search for an explanation, but I knew I had stayed too long already. So I didn't have a pair of men's shoes when I quietly slipped from Miss Grace's room and locked the door behind me. Or even a pair of suitable Birthmark Baines pants. But I had one very shocking and mysterious letter from the bottom of the secret bundle to discuss with Nell ... if I ever decided to speak to her again.
Chapter 9
Forgiving Nell for turning chicken was the easy part. Showing her the letter proved to be more difficult. I was dying to share what I had found. But somehow once I was downstairs again, away from Mrs. Fernley's pounding battle victory music and in the cozy quiet of our bedroom, I knew I couldn't tell anyone what I had done. All of a sudden even I was shocked at the thought of Miss Grace's letter tucked down inside the pocket of my dungarees. What had I been thinking? Nell would be appalled. Genuinely scandalized.
"So you didn't find
anything
for the dummy?" Nell asked as I sat on my bed inspecting a broken fingernail.
I shook my head.
"No pants, no nothing?"
"Nope," I said.
Nell crossed her arms over her chest, studying me suspiciously. "You sure were up there a long time."
"Well, I didn't find anything," I
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