The Last Night in London Karen White (books for students to read txt) 📖

stories to go along with most of the dresses—where Precious and her friends had gone, what songs they’d danced to. But I didn’t have the rest of the story—Eva’s story. I needed to find out what had happened to her, for Precious. And for me. Every story had a beginning and an end. I needed to know the rest.

I opened my search engine and typed in “Bournemouth.” I felt ignorant, not even knowing where it was. I quickly discovered the town was on the southern coast of England, almost one hundred miles southwest of London, and that it had a large number of new retirement communities.

An old photograph of an impressive villa caught my attention. It had been constructed, along with other villas, in the early nineteenth century, when Bournemouth was a resort for tuberculosis victims seeking to recover their health. I wondered if this was the type of house K. Nash might have lived in, and eagerly clicked the link for Quayside Cottage villas. But, as I’d long ago discovered, nothing was ever easy.

I distracted myself by searching for anyone with the name K. Nash, or anything resembling it, in Bournemouth. Exactly four names met the criteria. I wrote down the four associated phone numbers to call during daylight hours, although I didn’t hold out much hope that whoever K. Nash was might still be living.

Of course, Precious had nearly made it to one hundred, so it was a possibility. I flipped back to my original hunt for Quayside Cottage, expanding my search to include the entire county of Dorset, and then focusing on just the words “Quay,” “Quayside,” and “Cottage.” My finger rested against the down arrow key, the screen scrolling by so quickly that I almost missed the word “Quay.” I lifted my finger and began tapping the up arrow, reading each line to find it again.

Seventy-fifth Anniversary of German Bombing of Poole Quay, December 16, 1942.

I scanned the article, stopping at a black-and-white newspaper photo of a street with the improbable name of Barbers Piles. One side looked normal, with small seaside cottages nestled against one another like children, jagged and uneven rooflines and chimneys adding to their charm. The opposite side of the street lay in complete rubble, bricks and debris, the odd piece of furniture protruding from the piles. A child’s shoe lay in the foreground, making me pause.

Lightning raid by German bombers in broad daylight obliterates an entire row of cottages near the Poole Quay.

I sat back in my chair, deflated, my gaze straying to the shoe again and again. Maybe the reason I couldn’t find Quayside Cottage was that it no longer existed.

An alphabetical list of the victims of the attack appeared in the article. There were sixty-seven names, and I examined the list twice, to be sure. No one with the last name Nash had been killed in the attack. Or at least killed and identified. Judging by the photos, some victims might have been completely obliterated.

I blew out a deep breath of frustration, then looked down at my notes, at the four phone numbers. I didn’t hold out much hope that they’d lead me anywhere, but they were something. Maybe in the morning, I’d think of something else.

I closed my laptop, then rested my hand on it until it grew cool under my fingers. The gentle swish of traffic against the pavement below soothed me with its rhythmic regularity. I tried to imagine standing at this window and listening to the wireless eighty years before, as war had been declared. Hearing the air raid sirens and having to run from the building.

Precious could. She’d been here, had seen and heard all of it. There was so much more we needed to know, so much more she could tell us. Yet the more questions arose, the more uneasy I became.

 . . . no heroic deed is done for the simple act of heroism. There’s always some payment due, some penance owed. Some wrong to right.

Goose bumps erupted on my arms, as if Precious and her ghosts were standing behind me, whispering in my ear. It made me think of the purse I’d placed on her dresser. The heft of it. Just memories.

Leaving my laptop on the desk, I flipped off the lamp and left the room, telling myself I was going back to bed, no matter how futile my efforts to find sleep would be. I was wide-awake now, my thoughts on an old woman dying and taking her memories with her.

Without intention, I paused outside her door, imagining I’d heard a sound inside. I remembered the open windows from the night before. With thoughts of pigeon poop all over Precious’s antiques and lace linens, I pushed open the door, quickly crossed the sitting room to the bedroom, and hit the wall switch.

The small chandelier filled the room with more shadows than light, but at least I could see that the windows were closed, the curtains still. The bed had been made, Precious’s peach silk dressing gown placed neatly at the foot, with her slippers waiting for her on the floor. All was as it should have been. I paused, waiting to hear the sound again, eventually realizing it must have come from one of the neighboring flats.

Turning to leave, I spotted the box purse still on the dresser, where I’d placed it the night before. I stood on an especially creaky floorboard, changing my weight from foot to foot, listening as it protested. As if it knew what I was thinking. As if it knew my mama had raised me better.

I took a step toward the doorway, remembering Precious moaning softly as she sat by the window, holding the purse. How she’d told me that she felt as if she were watching a stopped clock but could still hear it tick. There had been a sense of desperation to her words, a dim hope. As if, for the first time, she could see a glimmer of salvation.

I turned back and