I'd been trying for six months' sick
leave, and just got it when I read that stuff in the paper about Beckett
being killed, and his parents hearing the news the day they arrived. It
struck me like drama: things do. I was born dramatic--took it from my
mother. The thought came to me, how dead easy 'twould be for some girl
to pretend she'd been engaged to Beckett, and win her wily way to the
hearts and pockets of the old birds. Next I thought: Why not Dierdre?
And there wasn't _any_ reason why not! I told her it would be good
practice in acting. (She hasn't quite given up hope of the stage yet.)
We started for Paris on the job; and then I read in a later copy of the
same paper about the smart young lady who'd stepped in ahead of us. If
old Beckett hadn't been bursting with pride in the heroic girl who'd got
a medal for nursing infectious cases in a hospital near St. Raphael, I'd
have given up the game for a bad job. I'd have taken it for granted that
Jim and the fiancee had met before we met him at St. Raphael. But when
the paper said they'd made acquaintance there, and gave your name and
all, I knew you were on the same trail with us. You'd walked in ahead,
that was the only difference. And _we_ had the snapshots. We could call
witnesses to swear that no nurse from your hospital had come near St.
Raphael, and to swear that none of the chaps in the aviation school had
ever come near them. Dierdre hadn't been keen at first, but once she was
in, she didn't want to fail again; especially for a North of Ireland
girl like you.
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