Chapter One: Dotone 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. "Hand me the half inch, please?" Setting one finger on the page to hold her place, Dot scanned the scattered assortment of tools on the table beside her. She picked up a wrench, eyed it for size, then placed it in her sister''s hand before returning her attention to the book. "That should do it," Dash said to herself, sticking her fingers into the engine and checking the tension of whatever it was before climbing into the driver''s seat. The engine gave a noisy series of clicks, but that was all. "Damn," she whispered under her breath as she marched back to the hood. Dot''s mouth twitched.
She loved when her sister swore. She understood Dash''s determination. There was nothing Dot liked better than solving puzzles, and engines were her sister''s idea of puzzles. Her mother often said that Dash''s fascination with mechanics and Dot''s puzzle-solving skills came from their father''s side of the family, then she rolled her eyes and finished with, "Thank heavens you inherited my practicality." Usually, their father popped in at that point and added "and your beauty," making their mother glow. Dot figured her mother was right. Her father was a whiz at math, and he almost always had a crossword puzzle going. His brother, her uncle Bob, was a solid man with a devilish grin who always had engine grease under his fingernails.
Uncle Bob, Aunt Louise--Lou for short--and Dot''s cousin Fred came over for dinner often, since they lived close by. Dot still fondly remembered the night more than ten years ago when the whole family had been celebrating the girls'' very first day of school. Her mother had made the grand concession of allowing them to sit at the grown-up table for the evening. At age seven, Fred and Gus were practically adults, so they got to sit there as well. Dorothy was always happy when Fred came over, because he and Gus were friends. It was good, she thought, that Gus had a friend who was a boy, not just Margaret and her. After supper that night, her mother and aunt had gone to the kitchen, leaving the children with her father and Uncle Bob. Fred beamed at his father.
"Tell Gus about the war and your airplane." Uncle Bob obliged, and Gus listened carefully, his eyes wide. Uncle Bob''s voice rose louder and louder as he lost himself in the memory, and Dorothy watched his fist move forward, left, forward, right, shifting in front of him as if he were holding the control stick of his "Canuck." When at last the doomed enemy plane crashed dramatically into the sea, everyone yelled hooray, and Uncle Bob puffed his chest, pleased with their reactions. He was a flight instructor now, but back then, he had served with distinction as a pilot in the Royal Flying Corps. Fred loved to remind the girls that Captain Robert James Wilson was on the short list of Canadian flying aces, having shot down sixteen enemy planes. Dash, who they still called Margaret back then, adored her uncle and hung on his every word. She had wanted to fly her whole life, so when Uncle Bob started to tell his pilot stories, she got stars in her eyes.
Dot loved Uncle Bob, too. Her favourite thing about her uncle, and the only part of him that didn''t intimidate her, was his dashing moustache, its ends waxed to a curly perfection. She was impressed by his exploits, of course, but she was confused. She was almost certain he had told them that he''d shot down fourteen planes, not sixteen. But surely he knew best. She must have simply forgotten. She was only five, after all. In Dorothy''s view, though, Uncle Bob lived in her father''s quieter shadow.
Her father was a gentle man with a thin, out-of-fashion pencil moustache and a postwar habit of constantly checking a door or window. His smiles were quick and self-conscious, and he had very few visitors outside of family. But beneath his understated exterior, he radiated intelligence, and when he did get into a conversational mood, Dot listened to every word. He was, as her mother fondly said, very good at working with his hands, and he kept a small woodworking table in the backyard shed. Two years before, he''d built the sisters a dollhouse for Christmas, complete with tiny furniture, and her mother had sewn two perfect little dolls to fit inside. One had blond hair and wore a grey dress to match Dorothy''s favourite. The other had dark hair and a bright emerald dress, since green was Margaret''s favourite colour. A year after that, her father constructed a bookcase for Dot''s burgeoning collection of books.
Uncle Bob might be a flying ace, but her father didn''t have to fly a plane to be a hero in her eyes. "Tell us your flying stories, Daddy," Margaret prodded, and Dot felt a twinge of betrayal. He had flown? Had he kept his history secret from her? But her father only chuckled, his pale cheeks flushing. "I wasn''t a pilot, Margaret, dear. You mustn''t think I was one of those brave lads. No, no." "But you were in the war," she insisted. "Did you go in airplanes?" Sometimes Dot thought Margaret was altogether too bossy.
"Yes, I did, but I was not a dashing pilot like your uncle. My job was to sit in the airplane and transmit locations through my Marconi." "Macaroni!" Margaret cried, delighted. Beside her, cousin Fred guffawed. "No, dear," her father said patiently. "Marconi." "What''s that?" Gus asked. "Marconi was the name of my radio.
Operating it was not nearly as exciting as what Fred''s father did." Dot leaned forward. Her father rarely spoke about himself, so this was a rare treat. "Your dad is being too humble," said Uncle Bob. "You should be proud of him. He held a very important position as a telegraph operator for the Royal Flying Corps. He saved many, many lives by sending locations from the airplane to the military. With that information, they were able to direct artillery fire to that position.
He also." Uncle Bob consulted his brother, and Dot noticed her father scowling slightly. "Well, he wrote regularly to your mother, keeping her happy." Dot was intrigued. "How did you do that with the fire, Daddy? If you were in an airplane, how did you tell them?" "I tapped the coordinates in Morse code, and they reached the receivers on the ground. For example, if we saw a munitions cache, I would do this." He tapped his middle finger rapidly on the table in an unpredictable rhythm. To Dot, it sounded like there was a purpose to the uneven taps, as if they were trying to say something.
"Do that again, Daddy!" So he did. She gaped at him in wonder. "What''s the tap tap tap? What''s it saying?" "You heard that, did you, my little genius? That is Morse code. It is a different kind of language made up of a series of dits and dahs. Each letter of the alphabet has its own pattern. Listen. I''ll show you your name." He tapped once slowly, then twice fast.
"We call that a dah, then two dits. That is the first letter of your name, Dorothy, which is.?" She sat up straight, staring at his finger. "D! Do more, Daddy! What''s an ''O''?" He tapped three times again, but evenly, and a little slower. "Dah-dah-dah is ''O.'' When you write it down, it is in dots and dashes." "What''s an ''M''.