When he reached inside his bag for the mock-up, he found an entirely different book instead, one that he must have taken on his hasty departure. This was a journal with stories and illustrations, newspaper cuttings and commentary, and articles of celebrities and politicians visiting London Zoo. There were margins of scribbled notes and drawings—and it was all in Alice’s hand. The title page read: The Zoo Chronicles: Tales from London Zoo, and on the back cover there was an attractive black-and-white illustration, an advertisement for late night openings at the zoo with floodlighting and music. He’d had no idea that London Zoo was still operating or that it was so vast; a map showed there were different precincts for all the animals. His time in London had been spent south of Marylebone Road, and he’d had no reason to visit, although he vaguely remembered it being popular with US servicemen.

There were several clippings about esteemed visitors and noteworthy employees, and he got drawn into reading one about Dr. Burgess Barnett, the “Snake Man,” a former curator of reptiles who had been awarded an MBE for staying behind with refugees during the evacuation of Burma. Theo read about the hero who, as well as facing death by handling poisonous snakes, had endured treacherous conditions to march the party through an unfamiliar and hostile country until they reached safety and much-needed medical treatment. And here I am worrying about facing Walter, he thought. The next feature was about how the penguins’ play-fights with the polar bears had brought them to the attention of the London papers, which commended their show as an antidote to the “jitters.”

At the back of the journal was a suggested itinerary—“A Day in the Life of the Zoo”—also in Alice’s distinctive handwriting. With the doors open at nine o’clock there are a full three hours to wander at leisure and take refreshments in one of the cafés before the midday feed at the Penguin Pool. Then it is a choice between the polar bears at the Mappin Terraces and lions and tigers at the Lion House, and the sea lions or diving birds at three-thirty; one of the problems, or positives, depending on how you look at it, is that there is always so much to do. He could hear her voice as he read, the emotion so very real, and he wanted to visit the zoo with her by his side. This appeared to be a labor of love: the vivid descriptions, the knowledge of the animals, the level of detail.

On the last page was a dedication: For my father, Frederick (Freddie) Charles Cotton and his granddaughter, Eadie.