Not just the ointments, Alice thought. She suddenly had an image of Narcissus from the myth, kneeling as he peered at the liquid-silver pond and began to fall in love with his own reflection. The myth came back to her vividly. Transfixed by his own image, Narcissus stared at his reflection until he disappeared, and all that was left was a flower—a daffodil. But it was the opposite with Louisa. She was not disappearing. Alice and her mum were. Just two days ago there had been another little yelp when Louise-ah entered the parlor and said, “Oh, Mum, you surprised me.”
“Me? What’s so surprising?” Posie had said. “Don’t I sit here every afternoon, knitting for those dear soldiers? Working on a batch of amputation covers now. Cozies, they call them, like tea cozies.” She harrumphed. “But there’s nothing cozy about having your hand blown off. I’ll tell you that!”
Alice remembered this moment distinctly, for there had been a strange yellowish light in the sky and they could hear the distant rumble of air raids. Alice recalled thinking that at that moment, another young man’s limbs were being flung into the bloody coffers of war.
She continued to look at her mother now.
“Louisa was at the mirror again.”
“Well, I can get it fixed, and there’s always the mirror down here in the hall.”
Don’t encourage her, Alice wanted to say.
Why was her mother so dismissive? She felt a sudden compulsion to talk to her mother about this, to ask if she had also noticed a deeper change in Louisa.
“Mother?”
“Something else, Alice darling?” Darling—the word struck Alice. Her mother hadn’t called her that since they had lived on Eaton Square in London. She must be daydreaming now of those days when they had lived in a very fancy house with an entire staff of servants. She had often called Alice and Louise “darling” then. It was part of their cover. Fancy titled people used different words. What was “dearie” now, or “dear,” would have been “darling” in their Eaton Square days.
Posie had assumed that aristocratic posture, and her voice had instantly acquired the porcelain timbre of an upper-class British lady, the wife of a duke or a lord. She could have been sitting in the royal box at Ascot, discussing the king’s newest thoroughbreds. Of course, the Ascot races had not been run since the beginning of the war. But Alice knew that her mother often slipped into these dreams. Perhaps because of the many past roles she had played as a spy. She was fine now with this new role, Posie Winfield, purely lower middle-class.
This was her legend, as it was called in espionage. The legend was the term for a spy’s background, supported by documents, along with a vast number of memorized details. According to Posie Winfield’s new legend since she had arrived in Grantchester, she had once served as head housekeeper in one of the grand houses in Hampshire, where her husband had been a chauffeur. She was very proud of her eldest daughter, the first Winfield ever to attend university. High hopes for the younger one. Content to knit for the wounded soldiers and live on a smallish stipend in this modest, slightly dilapidated cottage.
Praying and knitting, that’s what she did now. Oh yes, and her work with the ladies of St. Mark’s Church. Father Morris had finally remembered her name and put it with her face. Well, not really her face. But a face suggested by a dream he had one night about his sister, who had died some years before. The sister was named Phyllis. In his mind, it wasn’t such a leap from Phyllis to Posie. Now he often commented on Posie’s resemblance to his late sister. But none of this bothered Posie Winfield. She was used to it. For Posie was a spy among spies, and one of the best, the shrewdest. Had she not been a spy, she could have been an actress. She could play any role.
“Uh . . .” Alice was hesitant to interrupt her mother’s daydream.
“Out with it.” Posie sighed, gazing out the window. “Though we’re still in February, it does seem that the days are actually quite a bit longer. Spring is what—another three weeks away? A blessing. More light to knit by for the poor lads. And less darkness for the Nazis to bomb us.”
“Mum, do you think Louisa has changed?”
“Changed? Well, of course she’s changed. My goodness, when I read about how those plastic surgeons work. You know they actually lift the whole face off at one point during the surgery. That’s why they call it a face-lift. But all the scars are hidden. Not a stitch to be seen unless you look behind the ears. They have the cleverest ways of disguising their stitchery.”
“But I mean in other ways—not just her face. She said she wanted her true self to come out. ‘The true me,’ she called it.”
“Hah!” Posie laughed. “Makes it sound like one of those Russian dolls where one fits inside the other . . . now what do they call them? Matryoshka dolls!”
“But Mum—whoever this inside, innermost doll is, she’s not like Lou Lou.”
“Nonsense, dear.” She paused. “Louisa.” Her mother enunciated the word with particular care, giving the final vowel a flourish. “She’s still the same old Louise, or Lou Lou. Remember, beauty is only skin-deep.”
That might be true, thought Alice, but there was something else inside this new Louisa. It was beginning to feel as though her true identity was a maze that Alice had become lost in.
Posie gave a groan and got out of her chair. “Come along now. Help me pull down the blackout curtains. Soon enough it will be as dark as Satan’s heart.”
Half an hour later, Alice and her mother had been seated at the dinner table for four or five minutes.
“Where’s Louisa?” her mother asked.
“Primping, undoubtedly.”
“Now, Alice, don’t be jealous.”
“Mum! I am not jealous of my sister and her utterly artificial face.”
“Well, then don’t be nasty. Give her a bit of a break.”
Break. Just like the broken mirror that got sick and tired of her reflection! Alice thought.
“Your sister is still there beneath her new face. You haven’t lost her, Alice.”
“But Mum, in a funny way I feel I have.”
“No, you haven’t. I promise you.” Then she tipped her head back.
“LOUISA!” Posie screeched loudly. “Supper!” Posie winked at her daughter, and Alice giggled.
She was using her Lina the fishmonger voice. Posie had once served as a spy during the First World War, the Great War, in a fish market in Belgium, stuffing coded messages into the gullets of cod and bream.
“Sorry, sorry.” Louisa swirled into the room. She flashed her mum and sister a smile that really set off her dimple. Soon it was replaced by a grimace.
“Snoek again!”
“I know, it’s hard to flirt with a snoek,” Alice murmured.
They had just taken the first bites of the dismal fish casserole when they heard the creak of a wagon on their lane.
“Jeremy!” Posie Winfield exclaimed in a hot whisper. Alice’s eyes opened wide with excitement. Louisa’s would have too, but they were still a bit swollen. Posie was at the front door before the knock came. She opened the door and gave a little gasp. Jeremy Walpole stood with a bottle of milk. “Nearly shortchanged you on your order today.” Outside was the milk float, now a horse-drawn wagon because of gasoline rationing. His horse stomped the ground. “Oh, thank you, Jeremy! Thank you so much!”