She remembered it all. The terror of the blitz, the destruction of her home in Islington. Her rush to join the war effort and her assignment to cryptanalysis project codename Boniface. The thunder of bombshells over London every night. The fear that every sundown would be her last.
And she remembered Roger. He was the cabbie with the Hollywood smile and a penchant for red suspenders. Who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time, saving her from air raids on more than one occasion and always keeping his good humor about it. He seemed to have an intuition for survival.
They rode bicycles in the park and shared Chelsea buns over tea until late into the night. When he kissed her, Roger’s ears wiggled and Margie couldn’t help but smile.
The Ministry of Information warned her. It warned everyone, with posters spread across the walls of every butcher shop and newsstand in town: “Keep mum!” Margie knew. Careless talk costs lives.
And now here she was, four inches from a bullet in her skull.