The Lost Song of Paris

by Sarah Steele

Genres: Historical Fiction; World War II; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

She played for love. She fought for freedom.

Inspired by incredible true events, The Lost Song of Paris is a heart-wrenching story of lost love, danger and espionage and one remarkable woman's bravery in World War Two, from the bestselling author of The Missing Pieces of Nancy Moon and The Schoolteacher of Saint-Michel.

This unforgettable novel is perfect for fans of My Name is Eva, The Shut Away Sisters and The Secret Messenger.

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'For a moment she closed her eyes and imagined she was perched on the diving board at the Piscine Molitor, the sun beating down on her bare shoulders and the sound of Parisians at play beneath her. All she had to do was jump.'

1941. Darkness descends over London as the sirens begin to howl and the bombs rain down. Devastation seeps from every crack of the city. In the midst of all the chaos is a woman gripping a window ledge on the first floor of a Baker Street hotel. She is perched, ready to jump. And as flames rise around her, she is forced to take her chances.

1997. Amy Novak has lost the two great loves in her life: her husband, Michael, and her first love, music. With the first anniversary of Michael's death approaching, Amy buries herself in her job as an archivist. And when a newly declassified file lands on her desk, she is astonished to uncover proof that Agent 'Colette' existed - a name spoken only in whispers; an identity so secret that it has never been verified.

Her discovery leads her to MI6 'godmother' Verity Cooper - a woman with secrets of her own - and on to the streets of Paris where she will uncover a story of unimaginable choices, extraordinary courage and a love that will defy even the darkest days of World War Two . . .

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: June 23, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

London, June 1997

Amy pulled herself upright, heart racing from the traces of her nightmare. A year later and still she endured in her sleep the images she managed to push away during the daytime distractions of running a home and her small daughter alone, and the work that gave her a haven of peace and order in the chaos of her new life.

She heard soft breathing beside her and turned to look at her daughter’s long, apricot-coloured hair spread across Michael’s pillow, her freckle-sprinkled cheeks making her even more like a miniature version of her mother. Amy knew she would have to address Holly’s refusal to sleep in her own bed at some point – she was five years old and Michael had been gone nearly a year – but it gave them both comfort to curl around one another, shored up against the darkest part of the night.

‘I don’t want to go to school, Mummy,’ Holly said, rubbing her eyes.

‘You have to, sweetheart.’ Amy kissed the top of her head. ‘And I have to go to work.’

‘But I’ve got a tummy ache.’

Every day began with the same conversation. Amy knew it was heartache not tummy ache making Holly want to hide from the world, but the world had moved on, and their little family was expected to move with it. She had sat in meeting after meeting with Holly’s teacher, agreeing they should find something that gave the little girl joy, invite other children to play even though Holly ignored them when they visited. She just wanted Amy. All the time.

But Amy was the one who had struggled with parenting, while Michael took to it like a duck to water. When he wasn’t in rehearsals, he could be there during the day, changing the nappies, helping out at playgroup, being at the school gates while Amy went to work. Topping and tailing Holly’s day when Michael had evening theatre performances had been the perfect division of labour, but the last year had thrown the routine and the rule book out of the window.

And so she could only imagine Michael’s knowing smile as she abandoned healthy cereal in favour of the sugary hoops Amy loved, swapped homemade lunchboxes for defeatist processed snacks. ‘You don’t get to leave us, then make me feel bad about lowering my standards,’ she said under her breath, having finally backed down on chocolate milk instead of fruit juice, in exchange for Holly agreeing to put on her school uniform.

She looked at the kitchen clock. Seven thirty a.m. and already she was exhausted. A day at work would be a breeze in comparison.

‘Well, if it isn’t Holly Novak,’ Claire said in her soft Irish brogue as she opened her front door. ‘Going to walk to school with us today?’

Holly hid behind Amy’s legs, rubbing her threadbare toy rabbit against her nose.

‘We might leave a bit early and walk through the park . . .’ Claire said, her head on one side, her dark bob hanging asymmetrically.

Amy knew that smile: the one Claire used when she tried to persuade Amy to come for a drink, to the cinema, to open up and just have a bloody good cry.

Amy felt the little girl unstiffen slightly and recognised an opportunity to get away without a scene. ‘Will you feed the ducks?’ she asked Claire.

‘Definitely. And there’s toast with chocolate spread on the kitchen table.’

Amy sighed. ‘Frankly, if there’s a mountain of Magic Stars on the table, she can go for it.’

‘Magic Stars?’ Holly said quietly, moving around to lean against the front of Amy’s legs.

‘Fill your boots, love,’ Amy said, kissing the top of Holly’s head as she slid her hand out of her mother’s and slipped past Claire towards the kitchen, where Claire’s daughter Susie and another neighbour’s little boy were running around frenziedly, their school uniforms supplemented with Disney dresses and nativity-play leftovers. ‘Thanks for this, again. I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t help with the school run now Michael’s not here.’

‘Ah, and how those other mums miss him at the school gate. They’ve easily gained at least half an hour of their day back, without him talking at them.’

Amy smiled. ‘Why say in two words what you can say in two paragraphs? He really was made for performing. Anyway, thanks. I mean it.’

‘You’re welcome. I, like Michael, don’t have a grown-up job, and I’m not in work till ten.’ She looked down at a streak of butter smeared on her Japanese linen smock. ‘And I’ll need till then to get cleaned up.’

‘Remind me why I didn’t get a job in arts admin too?’

‘Because you bloody love what you do, and there’s only just enough jobs for drama-school dropouts like me as it is. She’ll be fine,’ Claire said, seeing Amy’s concern as Holly hung back from joining the other children. ‘Time for a quick cuppa?’

Amy shook her head. Apart from the fact that she had a long day ahead, she wasn’t in the mood for the soul-searching that would be the price of a mug of English Breakfast. ‘Better get going.’

‘Come for supper next Friday, then? Don’t panic – David’s cooking, so you won’t get beans on toast. We’ve got a few people coming over. Might do you good to talk to new people.’ Claire glanced at Amy’s tired long black jersey skirt and Doc Martens, the scruffy ponytail barely containing her long, strawberry-blonde hair. ‘Maybe dress up a bit . . . you’ve let your game slip, my friend. Holly can sleep over so you can have a drink. What do you say?’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Amy knew Claire was only trying to help, but she wasn’t ready to be thrown back into Chiswick society quite yet.

‘It’s not all couples,’ her friend added. ‘And,’ she went on, ‘I’m not trying to set you up with anyone.’

‘Better not be.’ Amy smiled. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

‘OK. Have a good day. Find out interesting stuff.’

Amy peered along the hallway, knowing she would have to trust that her daughter would have an OK day at school and she herself a good day at work, finding out interesting stuff – Claire’s daily parting joke was a succinct but fairly accurate summary of Amy’s working life as an historical archivist.

She watched Holly hovering on the edge of the boisterous kitchen activity, holding back as she glanced at her mum, wanting to join in but not remembering how. Amy felt for her mobile phone in her pocket, fighting back the temptation to telephone work and claim her own tummy ache. Instead she turned away, brushing tears from her eyes as Claire closed the door behind her.

‘You’ve seen the list, then?’

Amy looked up from the typed memorandum she’d been reading over the first coffee of the day, as Eleanor came to sit beside her in the busy staff room, her long Perspex earrings rattling gently.

Twice yearly, the Cabinet Office released swathes of declassified files into the public domain, and once the Collections Care department had assessed, repaired and catalogued them, staff were able to call up and examine these fresh windows on recent history. Amy ran her eye down the run-of-the-mill government papers released under the thirty-year rule and those held back until the death of named persons, or for which specified amounts of time had elapsed. Some of the new releases from the security services dated back to the Second World War, and Amy wondered whether she could clear her diary for the day. She had a university seminar to prepare and some notes to make for a meeting about an upcoming museum exhibition, but there was nothing that wouldn’t wait.

Eleanor tapped her glasses against one name on the list. ‘I never thought I’d see that one before I retired.’

‘None of us was ever sure she even existed,’ Amy replied. ‘Are we any the wiser as to her identity?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘Not yet. Collections Care haven’t found anything in there to identify her, but obviously we’ll go through the file with a fine-tooth comb.’

‘Just to have concrete proof that she wasn’t an invention designed to put the wind up the Germans is enough for now.’

‘We’ll cancel our catch-up later, shall we?’ Eleanor said. ‘I’ve a feeling you’ll be busy today. Do you want me to handle that radio interview this afternoon?’

‘Would you?’ Amy said, remembering she was due at Broadcasting House after lunch to record a short piece on a Special Operations Executive agent about whom a major new film had been made.

‘Leave it to me.’

‘You don’t want to check this file over before me?’

‘No, this is your baby. You put so much work into planning that exhibition about female agents before . . .’ She hesitated.

‘It’s OK, Eleanor, and being back at work is really helping.’ Amy appreciated the kindness of the older woman who had employed her five years earlier, possibly seeing a younger version of herself in Amy’s dedication to finding the human stories behind the facts.

‘Good.’ Eleanor hesitated. ‘I know things have been tough, but I’d love to see you fly with this stuff again. This might not have been a career you’d planned to get into, but you’re bloody good at it.’

‘What do you mean?’

Eleanor smiled. ‘I did read your CV, you know. People don’t spend three years at music conservatoire in order to become historians.’

Amy was surprised. She’d been employed on the back of the History degree she had taken after her need for an abrupt change of direction, the Masters in records management she had been recommended to pursue. She had thought her background was truly that – in the background, where it belonged – and had been careful to avoid sharing with Eleanor some of the more painful twists and turns of her path away from music. Amy never wanted anyone to think that her work was a consolation prize – it was a passion, a vocation she felt privileged to have found. ‘You know I love my job?’ she said.

‘Of course. I just want you to find your spark again.’

Amy was tired of people knowing what was best for her. Eleanor, Claire, Holly’s teachers . . . even Michael’s parents constantly weighed in about how Holly should spend more time with them and give Amy the break she really didn’t want.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but I’m fine, honestly.’

She watched Eleanor walk away, feeling suddenly incredibly exposed by the reference to her earlier life. If Michael hadn’t tried to drag it up again, maybe they wouldn’t have argued that last day, and they might still have the rest of their lives to look forward to together. Instinctively she rubbed at the scar on the palm of her hand, the old tic that always surfaced alongside memories of her former life.

Amy already had a long-term life partner when nearly twenty years ago she let her guard slip in a smoky pub and fell in love with the shaggy-haired drama student who happily accepted that he would always come second. Music was such an ingrained part of Amy that it was like her twin, her head and her hands full of tens of thousands of notes that poured from her for hours each day. The fact that Michael supported her so wholeheartedly, would regularly sit in the corner of a practice room pretending to learn lines late into the evening so that she would not have to walk home alone, only made her love him more. Instead of sulking in her shadow, he had been proud of her elevated status at the performing arts school where they had been undergraduates together, as she scooped up prizes and awards both at home and internationally. Her waif-like Celtic beauty had no doubt played some part in the feelers put out by a small independent label hoping to feature her strawberry-blonde locks and delicately freckled complexion in their marketing campaign for a recording of little-known twentieth-century French piano music. It had taken years to learn to leave all this behind and make a new life, and the conversation with Eleanor had unsettled the fragile equilibrium through which she navigated each day.

Amy made herself take some deep breaths before she ordered up the files that had sat dormant on a dusty Foreign Office shelf for decades. Already she found her mind shifting away from her own life towards the secrets she might uncover about one of the most successful yet enigmatic spies of the Second World War.

She was about to meet Agent Colette.

Amy loved the peace of the staff reading room, where her colleagues pored over files or worked quietly at microfiche readers. This was the beating heart of their profession, the direct interaction with voices from the past. This was where she understood why she had been steered towards history as an alternative career.

She was a musical storyteller, her professor had told her, and after the accident, he had tried to persuade her to transfer to the conservatoire’s orchestral conducting course, where her talent could be applied on a larger scale. Amy had been adamant, however, that if she couldn’t play as she used to, then music would no longer be part of her life. He had understood, suggesting instead that perhaps in studying history she could exercise her curiosity about hidden narratives. It had been a stroke of genius, and one that had allowed Amy to find a new passion.

Although she missed the buzz of performing, the direct communication with the past through documents, private letters and government papers was thrilling. Every noisy, bloody and epoch-defining event in recordable history could be found within the miles of shelving that housed the archives, be it a police report on a Suffragette rally or the minutiae of colonial handovers in the Far East, the details of a Royal wedding or papers relating to the formation of the National Health Service.

Her pulse quickened as she opened the plain box file in front of her and saw the folder inside, ‘SECRET’ stamped in bold red ink beside another stamp bearing the release date of the file. Taped to the front was a piece of paper with the hand-typed name of the subject:

Agent ‘Colette’, SIS Section VIII, French Division

Amy could still not quite believe she was looking at the physical proof that Agent Colette had not only existed but had been an active part of the Secret Intelligence Service’s resistance activities. Her work had been so undercover that she had become almost mythical, her correspondence with London so need-to-know that even some members of Churchill’s War Cabinet were unaware of her. It was said she had provided information that led to the destruction of German armament factories and coastal defences, as well as delaying the deployment of lethal long-range missiles that would have lengthened the German grip on mainland Europe.

Whereas the Special Operations Executive had been disbanded at the end of the war and many of its agent records eventually made available, Secret Intelligence Service personnel files from World War Two were notoriously thin on the ground, much of the collection still held by the Foreign Office under the post-war reclassification of the agency into the more commonly recognised MI6. For a file such as Agent Colette’s to become accessioned was a rare and important event.

Amy carefully untied the fabric tape wrapped around the thick folder and opened out the envelope leaves. Atop the official letters and memorandums, reports and accounts was a cellophane wallet containing a photograph of a woman in a flimsy couture gown, a background of mirrors and chandeliers framing her slender neck, immaculately styled blonde Hollywood hair and tear-shaped face, with its slightly wistful smile and the disarmingly direct gaze of her huge eyes. Amy wondered how anyone so beautiful could have operated undetected for so long, but maybe her beauty had dazzled the enemy into seeing only what they chose to see.

One by one, Amy removed the treasury tags from each document. The first few tissue-paper-thin sheets were reports from other agents in the field, recommending ‘Colette’ for active duty. An officer named ‘Kestrel’ had written to Sir Richard Tremayne, the Chief Staff Officer of Training, suggesting his unnamed asset could take over operations in Paris and that SIS should arrange formal training for her. A high-level contact in Paris had expressed an interest in working with her, on the condition of absolute anonymity. There followed various communications in which plans were outlined for her transportation to London, and a few panicked messages when her initial meeting in Whitehall in March 1941 was delayed due to a bombing raid. All references to her real name had been redacted in thick black pen.

Reports on Colette’s subsequent training in Morse and unarmed combat followed, along with doctors’ reports on her recovery from a head injury during the bombing, and a psychiatrist’s assessment of her suitability as an agent. Amy examined receipts for clothing – 1 silk blouse with seams in the French style, 1 set underwear, 1 red suit, repaired – and for the Colt .38 revolver issued to her. Alongside three million French francs in cash, false identity papers and the means to disguise herself, she had of course also been issued her radio set and crystals.

Colette had returned to Paris in June 1941 with her affairs in order: letters from the accounts department confirmed that her monthly salary of thirty pounds and five shillings be paid directly to a school in Surrey Amy knew to have cared for Jewish children who had escaped from Europe. A copy of her will stated that her estate should be shared between her cousin, whom she had named as executor, two other friends and the daughter of a family called Goldmann. A copy of the Official Secrets Act had been signed in an undecipherable script in the presence of Chief Staff Officer Sir Richard Tremayne, and there followed an RAF form outlining the details of her return flight to France and successful parachute drop.

Months’ worth of reports from returning agents, including Kestrel, cast light on the activities of Agent Colette, and occasional correspondence between herself and her case officer Verity Cooper revealed a demonstrable fondness. ‘My dear godmother . . .’ Colette’s notes always began, and records of gifts between them, transferred via the Lysander shuttle plane service, outlined a love of small luxuries such as soap and perfume, tea and stockings – a bunch of French irises had even found their way across the Channel at one point. Letters to and from Tremayne and the War Office testified to successful missions carried out by Bomber Command on the strength of evidence passed along Colette’s network.

Nothing in the file related to events after January 1944, but as Amy turned over the last sheet of paper she saw an envelope addressed to Flight-Lieutenant Alec Scott, 614 Squadron, in the same hand as Colette’s own signature. A note clipped to it read, ‘To be delivered in the event of death.’ The envelope had already been sliced carefully open by the conservators, and Amy took out the folded piece of paper, laying it on the table in front of her.

The opening sentence was a handwritten plea for understanding from a woman forced to abandon the man she loved so that she might fight for her country. As well as the familiar, uncomfortable sense of trespassing on long-preserved intimacy, Amy was struck by the visceral, too-close-to-home shock at reading an unspoken goodbye, and she quickly folded the letter with shaking hands, unable to banish the sudden ghost of her own unspoken goodbye and the pain its memory caused. The last time she had seen Michael, he had left the house too angry for breakfast. Too angry to kiss and make up. Too angry to turn round and say goodbye, and she had been too angry to say ‘I love you.’ Or even ‘Goodbye.’ She felt tears prick at her eyes, and quickly rubbed them away, looking around in the hope that none of her colleagues had witnessed her rare display of grief. Staying strong was how she managed to get up each day, how she managed to work, parent, eat, breathe, but something about this letter had unsettled her.

As she replaced the letter in the envelope, forcing herself back into historian mode, she couldn’t help wondering why it had never been delivered. Had Colette and her pilot enjoyed the reunion that Amy and Michael were denied? Surely the occasional happy ending was possible?

Amy had seen enough for one day and was too fraught to do professional justice to Colette’s papers. She suddenly needed to be with Holly, who would have finished school and be at Claire’s by now. She needed to go home and find a quiet place where she could release her grief safely. She placed the file on her allocated stretch of shelving, gathered her belongings and headed out of the building into the fresh air rippling the shallow lake that softened the edges of the Brutalist building.

She had a feeling that discovering Agent Colette’s story would be a challenge in more ways than one.

‘Oh, Amy, I’m sorry,’ Claire said, pushing a box of tissues across the crayon-strewn table.

‘No, I’m sorry. You must think I’m stupid, sobbing like this about some letter written fifty years ago. And only one line of it! It just really got to me. I thought I could handle it, but . . .’ She trailed off, dabbing a tissue against her wet cheeks.

‘Don’t worry. You are allowed to let it out sometimes, you know? And besides, I could tell something was up the minute you walked through the door.’ Claire squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘It’s not just about the letter, is it? You haven’t ever really talked about what happened with Michael that morning before he left – it’s no wonder this has upset you.’

Amy blew her nose and smiled. ‘Damn, you’re good.’

Holly had turned away from the television in the corner of the room to watch her mother. ‘It’s fine, sweetheart,’ Amy said. ‘Something at work made me sad.’ She turned back to Claire. ‘Does she always just watch telly when she’s here?’

Claire shrugged. ‘Sometimes she plays with Susie, but only when I don’t push it. Anyway, it’s Blue Peter. Edifying as well as entertaining. And she’ll know how to make you a coathanger cover when she gets home.’

‘Perhaps I should ask Susie round to play more often.’

‘Ask me round more often, and I’ll bring her with me. How about that?’

‘Touché.’

‘I only want to help, you know? David and I hate seeing you like this. It’s no way to exist.’

‘Unless you can bring Michael back, I’m not sure there’s anything anyone can do to help.’

‘I can make five-year-olds eat green vegetables, but I’m not a miracle worker. There must be something that would bring your spark back. What about that piano Michael got you?’

Amy shook her head. ‘That’s the last thing that would help. It’s what caused the argument in the first place.’

Claire slapped her forehead. ‘Jeez, I’m an eejit. Well, how about joining a running club?’

‘Now you really are being ridiculous.’

‘You could come to yoga with me?’

‘I’m so tense, I’d snap.’

‘Take up golf.’

Amy laughed. ‘That would be the day I give up entirely.’

Claire sat back, running her fingers through her dark, shiny hair that was just beginning to show a sprinkling of grey. ‘Then what about this spy woman you were telling me about?’

‘Agent Colette?’

‘That’s her. You say you don’t know why the letter wasn’t delivered to her pilot?’

‘I assume it’s because they found each other and there was no need.’

Claire leaned forward on her elbows, narrowly missing a piece of cold buttered toast. ‘Exactly. You only assume. What if you were to find out for yourself?’

‘I don’t know. It’s none of my business.’

‘Except that it completely is your business. Literally. You’re . . .’ She sat back, searching for the words, then stared at Amy. ‘You’re a history detective. Aren’t you even a bit curious about what’s in the rest of the letter? Don’t you want to know what happened to the spy and the pilot? It’s like some war film without an ending. I’m on tenterhooks – read it for me, if not for yourself.’

Amy hesitated. Of course she was curious, but the letter had shocked her with its immediacy and sense of loss, and she hadn’t allowed herself to think further than cataloguing the contents of Agent Colette’s file. It was true, though: the letter wasn’t just a piece of paper; it was part of a love story between two very real people who had endured very real danger and enforced separation.

Claire took her hand. ‘Come on – it might even help, finding a bit of closure for someone else.’

‘And you’ll never give up, will you?’ Amy said, squeezing Claire’s hand in return.

‘Never, my friend. So you may as well give in. Read the rest of the letter or I will never give you another day’s peace.’

It was late afternoon, and there was a definite Friday feel to the staff reading room as weekend plans were whispered and seats vacated in favour of an early train home. Amy had spent the afternoon making preliminary notes on Colette’s recruitment and pre-engagement papers, pointedly avoiding looking at the letter tucked in the back of the file. As she came to pack up for the night, however, she couldn’t help being drawn to the envelope once more. Claire was right: the unfinished nature of an unsent letter was tantalisingly open ended, and she looked once more at the name written on the front. What if Alec Scott were still alive? What if his family needed the sort of closure this letter might bring?

Avoiding reading the letter was helping no one, and so Amy rode on the coat-tails of her curiosity, opening the letter once more before she could change her mind.

The opening was no less powerful, no less emotional than she remembered, and the rest told of a woman who had been forced to keep her identity from her lover, but who longed for the opportunity to explain actions that may have seemed suspicious to anyone unaware of her agent status. Had Alec ever discovered the truth? Or had he died believing the worst of her?

Amy headed back to her desk and rang the number of an ex-colleague now working at the MOD. ‘I don’t suppose you have access to Air Force personnel post-1919?’ she asked. ‘I want to track down the next of kin for . . .’ She looked once more at the envelope. ‘Flight-Lieutenant Alec Scott. He was with 614 Squadron in April 1941.’ She waited patiently, eventually smiling as she received a response. ‘Really? That would be amazing. Yes, just fax it over.’

A few moments later she was holding a piece of paper: ‘Mrs Verity Cooper,’ it read, ‘72 Chalcot Crescent, Primrose Hill.’

There was something familiar about the sister’s name. Where had she seen it before? Amy riffled through her notes, and there it was. Flight Officer Verity Cooper, case officer to Agent Colette and now apparently sister to Colette’s lover. Had Verity Cooper known she was a third side of the triangle linking an RAF pilot, a French spy and an SIS officer?

Amy had begun all of this simply to reunite a family with a wartime story that had remained untold, but now it seemed she had stumbled upon something far more complicated. She grabbed a copy of Kelly’s Directory and ran her finger down pages of Coopers until, incredibly, she stopped at a W. and V. Cooper of Chalcot Crescent. It had to be the same household. There, hidden in plain sight, was the woman who helped train and organise Allied spies until the German retreat in occupied France in the summer of 1944. And yet where Vera Atkins of the Special Operations Executive had retained a reputation that outlived the war, SIS personnel such as Verity Cooper were notoriously difficult to research after the war had ended. Amy had seen photographs of female staff leaving Bletchley Park for the last time and wondered how easily these women would swap Enigma coding for housekeeping bills. Had one-time Flight Officer Cooper been one of those who had slipped into the fifties advertising idyll of the satisfied housewife?

She picked up the telephone again and dialled Claire’s number. ‘I’ve found his next of kin,’ she said. ‘She’s still alive.’

‘Then what are you waiting for?’ Claire yelled across the sound of boisterous Friday-night letting-off-of-steam. ‘Phone her up.’

Verity Cooper was likely to be an elderly, fragile lady who would not take kindly to shocks being delivered by telephone, and so instead Amy sat at her desk and typed a letter in which she explained that papers relating to the family during World War Two had come to light. If Mrs Cooper would like to discuss this further, Amy would be very happy to meet with her.

As she walked back across the river towards home, oblivious to cyclists and weekend-hungry drivers, Colette’s words clung to Amy like a heady scent, the power of her love for Alec undiminished by time. What were you meant to do with love when it could no longer be received? Amy so often found herself overwhelmed by her feelings for Michael, only to know they had nowhere to go, no one to receive them. Would she ever find a way to negotiate life without the pain of his loss?

Verity Cooper would not like to discuss this further, Amy soon discovered. A curt reply by post from Mrs Cooper’s daughter stated that her mother was unwell and, further, unwilling to discuss family matters. Mrs Penny Marshall thanked Amy for her thoughtful offer of a visit and wished her well.

. . .