The more Alice thought about it, the more she realized that Bletchley was a logical place for an ex-Company person to go. Especially one with a new face. Now those young men Louise had sat next to in the lecture halls would surely remember her. Alice had always heard Louise say, “It takes the fun out of flirting if you know the fellow won’t remember you the next day.”
Alice sighed. “It’s sort of exciting, I suppose. . . .” Alice’s voice dwindled. Then she became suddenly animated. “So, what do you want to look like?”
“Me! I want to look like me.”
Alice giggled. “But that’s impossible. I mean, don’t you want to look like, say . . .”
“Greta Garbo?” Louise said with a trace of contempt.
“Why not? She’s not exactly hideous, you know.”
“Nor is Joan Crawford, or Hedy Lamarr or Lana Turner.” All the movie stars they saw at the cinema were gorgeous in their own ways. And memorable. “I want to be me. Just me.” She sighed. “You know, Alice, the other night I went to that pub with Lucy. And this fella is sitting near me and asks if he can buy me a pint. Here’s exactly what he said. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Rita Hayworth?’”
“The movie star?” Alice asked.
“Indeed! The movie she’s starring in, Only Angels Have Wings, was playing at the cinema right across the street. He had just seen it.”
“What did you say?”
“‘I’m not Rita Hayworth. No red hair, and I wear mine up in a French twist.’
“‘Doesn’t matter,’ he answers. ‘You remind me of her. I see a red glow in your hair, and if you let it down, it would tumble just like hers.’” Louise took a sip of her tea, then gave a harsh laugh. “Alice, that movie is in black and white!”
“Doesn’t seem to matter.” Alice began to giggle.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Did I tell you what happened when I went to the apothecary the other day to pick up that medicine for Mum?”
“No. What happened?” Louise leaned in closer.
“Mr. Jenkins, he screws up his eyes and starts studying me. Then finally he says, ‘Blimey, I can’t ever remember your first name, dear. Is it Minnie?’”
“Oh no!” Louise gasped.
“Yes! He’d most likely been to the cinema and seen that cartoon. Minnie Mouse. It’s playing there now.”
Louise sighed again. “Did I also tell you about Mrs. Blackmore?”
“The lady down the lane from us?”
“Yes. She comes running up to me on that little road off Cromwell Square. I had some parsnips and things in my shopping bag, and she stops short and says, ‘You’re Jillian, aren’t you?’ And I say, ‘Jillian? Who’s Jillian?’ And she says, ‘The butcher’s daughter. I heard a rumor that he has some pork chops in.’”
“I get it, classic WTS,” Alice said.
“Exactly. Wishful thinking syndrome. She’d probably been yearning for them. She just wished me into the role of Jillian Wirth, the butcher’s daughter.”
“I know Jillian from school. She’s not exactly a beauty. Terrible spots and rather unfortunate hair. Thin and limp.”
“But you remember her, don’t you?” She leaned back in her chair. “Case made!” she announced with a trifle of smugness. Then her tone quickly changed. The satisfaction evaporated.
“No one can really know us. Such is our fate, Alice.” Her voice was mournful. “But it doesn’t have to be.”
Alice thought for several seconds. “But what will you be after your surgery? What will the real you look like?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t wait to see me! I know that ‘me’ is there. Inside me someplace. I want to be me.” She paused. “The true me!” she whispered, as if this was a deep secret. “And Dr. Harding, the plastic surgeon, is supposed to be a real genius.”
At that moment Lily the waitress returned. “Anything more, ladies?”
“No, that will be all, thank you,” Alice replied, smiling up at her.
Lily seemed to beam. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like Shirley Temple?” Alice resisted rolling her eyes. Her hair was straight as a stick, unlike the child movie star’s.
“No curls.”
“But I can almost see them! I’m not kidding. You’re the spitting image. You should go to the cinema. The Blue Bird is playing around the corner now, and Shirley stars in it.”
“Okay, maybe.”
“Bye-bye, Shirley!” Lily called out as the two sisters left the café.
Three
Swapping Vowels
“It will settle,” Dr. Harding had said in the hospital room at the unveiling. It was as if he had been speaking of a house settling on its foundations. Or perhaps, Alice imagined, the ground after an earthquake. The features of Louise’s face were almost the same, but ever so slightly different . . . just rearranged, perhaps? Not the right word, Alice thought as they sat down at the dinner table. Louise’s nose was still in the middle, and her mouth was where it should be. “Disturbed” was a better word than “rearranged.” Disturbed, but not in a bad way, yet an interesting way. The swelling had almost vanished, as had the bruises. She no longer looked tarnished.
Posie set down the casserole in the middle of the table. “Tomorrow night, I promise, no more snoek. We’ll use the last coupon in my ration book.” It was the fourth time that week they had eaten tinned snoek, a South African fish that had escaped being rationed. Alice looked across the table at her sister and wrinkled her nose. Louise attempted a nose wrinkle herself but failed. Her nose was still slightly swollen but nice. Alice hadn’t dared ask Louise if this face across from her was the one her sister had sought. She recalled her sister’s words from that day in the café: I want to be me. The true me!
In a sense, Louise Winfield, or Lou Lou, still looked basically the same. But there was something definitely more memorable about her face. It was as if it had been quickened in some way that would make it not so forgettable. Nevertheless, Alice would sometimes hear their mum give a little yelp if she came around a corner in their house and Louise was coming the other way. It was not as if she was encountering a complete stranger, but still someone she hadn’t expected to see.
It was the next evening, the evening of no snoek casserole—as Alice came to think of it—but instead stuffed peppers, when Louise made her big announcement. “Lou Lou, pass the white sauce,” Alice had said.
“Please pass the white sauce,” her mother corrected.
“Lou Lou, please pass the white sauce,” Alice repeated. Louise giggled a bit. A little private giggle, as Alice would come to think of it. Perhaps a coded communication with her newly released inner self.
“Another minor correction,” Louise said softly, and slid her eyes first toward their mother and then Alice. “From now on, please don’t call me Lou Lou. Dispense with the nickname, kindly.” Although there was nothing kindly in her voice. It was brittle.
“Of course, Louise,” Alice murmured. She felt as if something had collapsed inside her.