The secret keeper, p.1
The Secret Keeper, page 1
Praise For The Secret Keeper
“Not since Practical Magic have two literary sisters felt as distinct and animate as Dot and Dash Wilson. I was so attached to both these richly, lovingly developed characters, and stayed up far too late hungrily devouring their stories. This is the most unputdownable book I’ve read in a long time. Impeccably researched, educational, emotional, and immersive, The Secret Keeper is Genevieve Graham at her finest.”
Heather Marshall, #1 bestselling author of Looking for Jane
“Genevieve Graham unveils the strength of Canada’s women in their efforts during World War II with her incredible research. Dash and Dot are intrepid heroines you’ll want to root for, and The Secret Keeper is a story you won’t want to put down.”
Madeline Martin, bestselling author of The Keeper of Hidden Books
“Genevieve Graham never fails to fascinate with incredible stories of Canada’s past, and The Secret Keeper is no exception. A sweeping novel about the bonds between sisters and the burden of secrets in a time of war, it will thrill and charm readers in equal measure.”
Julia Kelly, international bestselling author of The Lost English Girl
“Reading a Genevieve Graham novel is like reading a love letter to Canada. In The Secret Keeper, impressive research, tender family dynamics, and an absorbing plot intertwine to pay homage to the quiet heroes of the second World War.”
Ellen Keith, bestselling author of The Dutch Orphan
“Through impeccable research, harrowing flight scenes, and equally tense codebreaking ones, Graham deftly captures the emotional and physical toll of war on the home front, while beautifully illustrating the capacity for human resilience, camaraderie, and connection inside us all.”
Natalie Jenner, bestselling author of Every Time We Say Goodbye
“I fell in love with Dot and Dash from the get-go. These two sisters were brilliant and full of heart, and I was rooting for them equally during their harrowing and sometimes heartbreaking journeys. A fabulous read!”
Sara Ackerman, bestselling author of The Unchartered Flight of Olivia West
“A riveting tale of the steadfast bond between sisters in the midst of wartime adventure. In Dot and Dash’s extraordinary journey, Genevieve Graham vividly captures the courageous heroics of women in World War II.”
Paullina Simons, internationally bestselling author of The Bronze Horseman
“Graham is the reigning queen of historical fiction about Canada, and The Secret Keeper is her most sweeping, searing story yet, an intricate tale of the Canadian women of World War II, many of whom were sworn to keep their wartime heroics secret.”
Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Daughter
“Genevieve Graham once again takes a deep dive into the world of women at war with Dot and Dash, twin sisters from Oshawa who overcome male prejudice to make a massive contribution to the defeat of evil. Vivid characterizations and pinpoint research bring that dangerous—yet exciting—world alive.”
C. C. Humphreys, bestselling author of Someday I’ll Find You
“My favorite historical fiction author has done it again, bringing to light the untold story of women in wartime whose oath of silence protected the fate of the free world.”
Elinor Florence, bestselling author of Bird’s Eye View
“Thrilling and heartfelt, The Secret Keeper showcases the oft-forgotten contributions of Canadian women to the war effort through twin sisters Dot and Dash, whose commitments to serve puts them at odds with their commitments to each other. With a particularly heart-pounding third act, The Secret Keeper is Genevieve Graham at her masterful best.”
Bryn Turnbull, internationally bestselling author of The Paris Deception
“The Secret Keeper is at once touching and harrowing. Graham masterfully and lovingly recreates the lives of two women engaged in wartime service, capturing their youthful idealism, sense of duty, and sheer energy. You will follow the adventures of sisters Dot and Dash with your heart in your mouth. Not to be missed!”
Iona Wishaw, Globe and Mail bestselling author of To Track a Traitor
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Dedicated to the memory of Lynn-Philip Hodgson
(1946–2023)
And to Dwayne, always
“There are millions of women in the country who could do useful jobs in war. But the trouble is that so many of them insist on wanting to do jobs which they are quite incapable of doing. The menace is the woman who thinks that she ought to be flying a high-speed bomber when she really has not the intelligence to scrub the floor of a hospital properly, or who wants to nose round as an Air Raid Warden and yet can’t cook her husband’s dinner.”
C. G. Grey, Editor of Aeroplane magazine (1942)
The role of women has always been undervalued in the spy world, always undermined in terms of recognition. Unfairly so. It’s a world that needs women.
Helen Mirren
prologue
— 1928 —
Margaret Wilson clambered onto the kitchen chair, her four-year-old brow knitted with concern. She had a very important question to ask her mother. Her twin, Dorothy, climbed up beside her, fascinated by how neatly her mother could fold the laundry. All the seams matched up perfectly every time.
Their mother smiled. “What are you two up to?” Her gaze dropped. “Oh, Margaret. You skinned your knee again.”
“I put a bandage on it for her,” Dorothy said.
Margaret didn’t care about her knee. It was fine. Dorothy had washed all the blood off it, and Margaret had hardly cried at all. “Why’s the back room empty, Mommy? Where did all the stuff go?”
“I’m glad you asked. Sit down, please. We don’t climb on furniture.” She set the laundry aside then sat at the table with her daughters. “Do you remember Gus Becker? The little boy from up the street? His father is going away tomorrow, so Gus is coming to live here with us. That will be his bedroom.”
The twins exchanged a glance.
“But this is our house,” Margaret declared, arms crossed. “We don’t want boys in it.”
Dorothy sat beside her, saying nothing but mimicking her sister’s pose. The idea of having a boy living in the house didn’t frighten her as much as the idea of anyone new moving in. How would it feel, having five of them at the table, not just four? Who would he sit beside? Would she have to talk with him?
“Of course, Margaret. This will always be your house. Yours and Dorothy’s. But I want Gus to feel like it is his as well. You two have each other. He doesn’t have anyone when his father is away, and he knows very little English. I am counting on you girls to make him feel welcome.”
“But what if he’s a bad boy?” Margaret asked.
“He is not a bad boy. I expect you to be nice to him,” their mother replied. Margaret doubled down on her pout, so Dorothy did, too. In response, their mother’s left eyebrow shot up. The one that always meant the discussion was over. “Come and help me get his room ready, please.”
Grudgingly, the girls followed her to the room at the back of the house, and Margaret swept the floor while Dorothy helped make up Gus’s little cot. Afterward, Margaret decided she and her sister should play in there, since the room was so tidy, but their mother took their hands and led them back to the kitchen, where she made it very clear that they were never to go into that room again unless Gus invited them.
“It’s like you have a brother now.” She crouched in front of them. “He’s probably going to be shy at first, but we must make him feel like part of the family, and that means giving him privacy.”
Dorothy twisted a lock of her blond hair between her fingers, feeling badly for the boy when she thought about it that way. She couldn’t imagine not having a sister—or a brother in Gus’s case. Dorothy’s sister was everything to her. Maybe it would be all right to have a big brother. Maybe she wouldn’t have to talk to him if she didn’t want to.
Margaret had no such illusions. Their house was just fine without a boy in it. Boys were big and bossy and sometimes smelled bad. “He should live in his own house, Mommy. We don’t want him here. What if he’s mean to Dorothy?”
“Gus is not a mean boy,” their mother replied. “If he was, I would not have agreed to take care of him in our house. Now, I want you to imagine being in his place. What if Daddy and I were not here to take care of you, and a family offered to take you in? Wouldn’t you hope that they would love you as if you were already a part of their family?” Her expression cleared as if she remembered something. “You know, I think he might be very good at baseball, Margaret. Maybe you could play catch together.”
Gus arrived with his father the next morning, his blond hair disheveled under a black cap, his wary gaze darting around the front entry. Margaret stood in silent judgement of the boy while Dorothy concealed herself behind the grandfather clock. Her stomach hurt.
The two grown-ups spoke for a bit while Margaret and Gus remained in the entry, eyeing each other like a pair of dogs—without the wagging tails.
“Come in, Gus,” their mother said after his father left. “You can call me Mrs. Wilson. I think you already know my daughters, Marga
Dorothy tiptoed over and whispered, “Hello.”
“Hello,” he replied, observing her closely.
“Margaret?” their mother prompted.
“Hello,” she said tightly.
Concern flickered across Gus’s pale brow then was gone. “Hello.”
Their mother took the boy’s little suitcase and told him where to hang his coat and cap, then he followed her to his room. Margaret and Dorothy trailed behind, then they loitered in the doorway after their mother got him settled and returned to the kitchen. He sat on the edge of his bed, feet dangling halfway to the floor, and regarded them through big blue eyes.
Dorothy wondered if he was as nervous as she was. When she was scared, she could hide behind Margaret. Gus didn’t have anyone to hide behind. She tilted her head, feeling a little sorry for him.
“How old are you?” Margaret asked.
“Six,” he said.
Margaret was impressed. Six was practically grown up. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad after all. Especially if her mother was right and he knew how to throw a ball. She decided to give him a chance.
“Mommy is making beef stew,” she informed him.
His eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything.
“You have to help with the dishes after,” Dorothy put in, feeling brave.
“Ja.” He hesitated. “Does your mother cook potatoes in the stew?”
“Lots,” Margaret informed him. “I like potatoes.”
He nodded slowly. “I also like potatoes.”
Both girls were pleased, having established this important common ground. He couldn’t be all bad if he liked potatoes in his stew.
“Anyway,” Margaret continued, “we’re going outside to play if you want to come.”
Margaret led the parade into the yard, indicating points of interest. “That is Daddy’s shed. Don’t go in there. That’s the swing he built for us.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Think you could push us high in that?”
“Ja, I could.”
His accent sounded odd to Margaret’s ears. Dorothy thought it was nice.
“All right.” Margaret stopped by the tall maple tree beside the house. “This is my tree. I’m the only one who climbs it.”
“Why?”
“Because Dorothy doesn’t like to climb trees. She sits on the stump.”
Dorothy nodded. She preferred to watch her sister climb. Just to show him what Margaret meant, she hopped onto the old stump and swung her feet a little. Gus seemed to take that in, then he stepped closer to the tree, looking up.
“Can I go up?” he asked. There was a pause.
“I don’t know about that.” In an instant, Margaret had scrambled up to her favourite spot, a sort of “V” in the branches where she’d built a nest of leaves. Nobody had ever sat there before, except for her. “Can you climb this high? Because this is pretty high.”
“I can.”
Dorothy studied him. He stood right beside her, observing Margaret, and she thought he probably could climb it easily. He was six, after all, and a boy.
“It’s very high,” she warned him quietly. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
He faced her, and Dorothy could tell he was thinking carefully about what she’d said. His expression was serious, but he had pretty blue eyes, and so far he wasn’t bossy at all. He hadn’t even argued with Margaret. Then he smiled, and it was such a nice smile that she returned it.
“Can you climb this high?” Margaret asked again, now higher in the tree.
Dorothy’s stomach flipped. Her sister was showing off. “Margaret! That’s too high!”
“No, it isn’t,” she called back.
“Come down! Mommy will be angry!”
“I don’t care. Can you climb this high, Gus?”
He took another step closer to the tree, frowning a little. “I can.”
Margaret shifted in place, a little off balance without her nest on this higher branch, but that was all right. She wasn’t scared. She wanted to show Gus how grown up she was. She folded her arms and leaned as far out as she dared, watching his face. “Prove it!” she yelled.
Then her foot slipped, and she screamed as the other one went as well. Suddenly she was flying—and then she was on top of Gus, gasping and trying not to cry. Dorothy rushed to her side and pulled her off the boy, who lay quite still on the ground.
The front door slammed, and their mother rushed out, apron flapping. “Gus! Margaret! Oh, what did you do?”
“Don’t tell Mommy!” Margaret begged. “Promise!”
Gus blinked up at Dorothy, who shook her head and whispered, “Don’t tell!”
Their mother knelt beside Gus before he could answer. All they could do was hope he wouldn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry, Mommy! I’m okay,” Margaret told her, though her chin wobbled. She pointed up at the tree and started explaining, but her mother didn’t appear to be listening.
That’s when Dorothy saw Gus’s eyes were shining. She crouched beside him, concerned.
“Oh, Gus,” their mother said. “You poor thing. I’m afraid you might have broken your wrist. I’ll call the doctor at once.” She glared at the girls. “How did this happen?”
“I fell,” Margaret said. “He’s okay, though.”
Dorothy didn’t know what to say. It was Margaret’s fault. She shouldn’t have been showing off. But she would never tell on Margaret.
“You and that tree,” their mother muttered, helping Gus sit up. “Are you all right, dear?”
The girls held their breath, waiting to hear what he would say.
“He’s okay,” Margaret assured everyone again, though she was a little worried since Gus hadn’t said a thing.
Gus sniffed. His attention shifted to Margaret then came to rest on Dorothy. He had a small cut on his forehead, and Dorothy felt an urge to run and get him a bandage, but she had to make sure he was all right first.
“I am okay,” he told their mother. “It was my fault. I got in the way.”
one DOT
— June 1942 —
Oshawa, Ontario
Dorothy Wilson tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and scowled at the mystery novel in her hand. The author’s latest reveal didn’t seem plausible, and it made the character seem so much more dim-witted than Dot imagined he was. On the other hand—
“Dot!”
She glanced up. Her twin sister was leaning over Mr. Meier’s black Chevy truck’s engine, groaning as she stretched for something. Dot could type a mile a minute, add six-digit figures in her head in no time flat, and speak three languages like a native (not including Morse code), but she’d never been interested enough in engines to bother learning what was inside them. She didn’t mind coming out here, though. The garage was poorly lit by one hanging bulb, and the rain outside the closed door chilled the air, but she always liked to be near Margaret.
In contrast to Dot’s navy-blue dress with its spotless Peter Pan collar, her sister was clad in a grease-stained, exceedingly unladylike pair of overalls, and her thick black hair was tied into a haphazard ponytail. Most people shook their head in wonder, seeing how different the Wilson twins were. Different, yes, but also inseparable.
“Yes, Dash?” Dot asked.
Everyone, except their mother, called Margaret by her nickname. Considering the way Dot’s sister always rushed around, it suited her to a T.
Dash twisted around, her cheek smeared by a thick swipe of oil. “You didn’t hear me? I’ve been saying your name for five minutes at least.”
Dot was aware that she missed out on a lot of what people said if she was engaged in a book, but often she felt—somewhat selfishly, she allowed—that whatever they might be saying couldn’t be as interesting as what she was reading. This time, however, she was contrite. Dash was annoyed. Not with her, but with the truck.
“Désolé. Que veux-tu?” she asked. The novel in her hands was a French translation, and sometimes the words overlapped in her head. Her mother had gotten her started on mystery novels a few years back, but this was the first one she’d read that wasn’t written in English. Her father had found the book hidden away in a bookstore and given it to her, knowing she’d enjoy the challenge. She was already wondering where she could find more translations.
