Mrs P's Book of Secrets

by Lorna Gray

  You see, I knew the Blaze Hotel. It was near Bristol and it belonged to a chain of hotels that marketed themselves solely upon their panache for occupying a formerly derelict mansion and donning its history like an elegant robe.

  Blaze Hotel was terribly near Blaise Castle and traded shamelessly upon all possible connections with that place. Or at least it had done until it had been required during the war to temporarily house engineering officers from the Royal Navy training base.

  My husband had been billeted there during his eight weeks of training at HMS Bristol. It had kept the valuable new recruits safely out of range of the terrible blitz that had pounded the city – the same blitz, in fact, that my sister and I had endured for all that time on a daily basis as we had scurried to our respective places of work.

  Knowing the tomfoolery of my husband’s fellow seafaring engineers, and the number of men who must have been housed there during the years that followed, I doubted very much that the Blaze Hotel had been returned to its owners in a better state than this place.

  Jacqueline was watching my expression. She must have deduced that I was foreseeing the day when her book would be sold from the reception counter with all the little guides to the sights and scenes in the area. But I wasn’t misled into thinking that I had also discovered she was a woman who had her eye fixed firmly on the profit. This was just the new excuse.

  In truth, Robert hadn’t been far from the mark when he had told me that he believed she was pursuing this project as a means of forging a fresh start and a new bond with a child who had been upset by the move to this country house.

  Only the child wasn’t her own. She was saying, ‘You know, he really did have giraffes here. Look at this picture.’

  She drew out a notebook from one of the coat’s enormous pockets. It was bound with a piece of string. She had evidently been saving this moment. She shared it like it was a fragile secret.

  The small square print was of a girl of about eleven staring coldly at the camera in that way people always seemed to do in early photographs. Quite crucially, the giraffe was holding its head low so that the girl was able to rest her hand upon its cheek. It wasn’t dead like some great sacrifice to a trophy hunter. It wasn’t miniature either. It was very tall and very much alive because it hadn’t learned to stand like a statue for a long exposure, so it was a little blurred. Jacqueline drew my attention to the small square of white behind the giraffe’s left ear. She was convinced that it was the tip of one of the pipes which carried heat into the coach house.

  ‘Who—?’ My voice failed so that I had to try again. ‘Who is that girl?’

  ‘Harriet Clare.’

  Since Jacqueline enjoyed using people’s full names, I ought to have realised long before that Clare was the girl’s surname. I had a feeling Jacqueline spoke that way as a kind of epitaph to the departed.

  I was shaken. I had no explanation for the experience except to blame it on the strangeness of being brought back to a contemplation of the flow of departed lives in this house after the relief of learning that Jacqueline’s husband had survived.

  Jacqueline was telling me seriously, ‘Harriet Clare is the tragic case in this story. She’s Walter’s niece. Her mother was his sister. His own wife had died five years before. When Harriet’s mother died in 1870, the little girl was sent to live with her uncle here. That photograph was taken the following year.’

  After all that pressure to immerse myself in her obsession, it was hard to discover that the entire story had been a preparation for steering me into engaging with this. I felt as if I’d been tricked, and the reason why I was finding it so distressing was because it was dawning on me that, while I might never have been capable of deducing Jacqueline’s marital status from the evidence available, I had a feeling she could easily have guessed at mine.

  Married women didn’t tend to have a declared profession, in the main, unless they were poor. Not even my aunt would have gone running about after a job like this in the days when she had still been working with my uncle. But I was here and I had suspected all along that I was being recruited to her cause. Now I was afraid the hook she was using was the loss of my husband.

  Jacqueline was adding, ‘We know from the few letters Walter’s own children wrote that their father wasn’t a terribly warm man. And she was much younger than her cousins. It must have been very strange to come here and live amongst these people who were all so terribly grown up. She must have been lonely. You can almost see it in those eyes of hers, can’t you? And, awfully, all references to Harriet Clare cease about two years later. It was the year some of the village children died from diphtheria. I always think it a terrible shame that her Great Uncle Graham Hanley Ashbrook hadn’t still been alive.’

  She meant because the man had done so much work on infectious fevers.

  She was waiting for my answer. I think she really did care about the demise of the girl. I thought she believed she had found a good reason to expect me to care too. She was also really hoping to hear me marvel at the coincidence that made this girl, through the possibilities contained within that fragment of pipework in her photograph, the key to proving this entire mad story about the giraffes.

  I moistened my lips.

  ‘That,’ I remarked slightly hoarsely, ‘puts an entirely grim feel on the wartime use of this place as a children’s hospital. A bit behindhand, weren’t they?’

  It was then that it hit me that it was insane to be worrying about why Jacqueline might have led me like this. Or why indeed I might be finding this strange house so sad.

  Because what did it matter that I couldn’t sense any of the legacy that each new generation Ashbrooks had sought to build in this place for those who followed? It barely even mattered that I could only see that were no Ashbrooks left at all.

  My response to this empty, old shell made no difference to anything because I meant nothing to those people. I only mattered to Jacqueline. And we were, as far as Jacqueline was concerned, fully ready to publish her tale of the giraffes. We were already committed to her cause.

  I was able to observe then, ‘You don’t mention Harriet Clare in the book.’

  ‘Except her name. The version I’m laying out for public consumption is, as you know, Graham Hanley Ashbrook’s life and contribution dressed up in a palatable form for the children. But, privately, I feel passionately that this is Harriet’s forgotten story. That’s why I want her name beside mine on the cover. To redress the balance, poor girl.’

  And it was then that I understood something more about Jacqueline and her relationship with this house. In a way, she really had succeeded in recruiting me and my emotions.

  Because if one small branch of an old genealogy had been extinguished – as must have happened to families all through time – I could finally see that the only legacy that really mattered here was the one that was growing at this moment, when a woman like Jacqueline decided to think of them and learn their stories.

  A person’s grasp on permanence didn’t only dwell the physical traces constructed by them in the course of their lives. It grew gently, selflessly, in the thoughts given freely by of those of us who were still living, who cared to remember them and speak their names now that they were gone.

  In this great, neglected house, it was easy to believe that this gift of care was the only real legacy any of us might have.

  I didn’t have the heart then to tell Jacqueline that it wasn’t entirely the done thing to attribute a book to someone without their permission. Even if they were dead, I’m sure it counted as passing-off or plagiarism or something along those lines that wasn’t quite lawful.

  I didn’t really tell her anything of what I was feeling. In that way people have of putting things aside, I managed to enthuse my way through the next few hours of mulling over the edits so that all Jacqueline got from me was positive encouragement.

  She was elated.

  I was thoroughly unsure of what I was feeling. If, in fact, I was feeling anything
at all by the time I caught the bus.

  Chapter 7

  It wasn’t the silence of a town that was shutting up for the night that met me as I alighted at Bourton-on-the-Water in another blustery shower. It was Robert’s voice mentioning my name: Mrs P.

  At least, I recognised the voice for his when I turned and peered at him through the dark. It was a very odd sort of moment to encounter a colleague in the wrong town when I had just been quietly contemplating the peaceful prospect of an hour between buses and the chance of a cup of tea.

  He was clad in a long grey raincoat and a hat that was about as serviceable in this weather as mine. He was stepping out of the shelter of a doorway into the light of the shop window that illuminated the bus stop. About five people splashed past and then we were standing there beside the bus with our heads on a slight tilt because we were each having to hold onto our hats and I was raising my voice above the noise of the gusting wind to say, ‘Is this a meeting by chance or by design, Mr Underhill?’

  ‘By design,’ he said. I saw what passed for a smile come and go. He added, ‘With a carefully choreographed plan that has already gone slightly awry. Mr Lock and I were out with a hired van for a delivery and we had the bright idea that he should leave me here to meet you while he finished the job before coming back to pick us up. Only, he’s just telephoned to say he’s had to return the vehicle to the garage before they close, so we’d better catch the bus. Shall we take shelter in a tearoom?’

  The information wasn’t given with charm. It was delivered flatly, with that unease of his that these days seemed to run to asking me unplanned questions about my training, my tastes or my happiness before retreating once again into something more businesslike. This evening, though, the focus of his tension was more immediate. This was like that time when I had met him on my aunt’s stairs. He didn’t need to ask me questions, because for him everything had settled to a better kind of calm just as soon as I had stepped down from the bus.

  I thought he was feeling the surprise he had given me and realising that I wasn’t too displeased to see him; which implied to me that he was acting here under instruction.

  All the same, I went with him across the great lake that was the high street.

  Bourton was very like Moreton in that the opposing faces of the buildings which lined this main thoroughfare were divided by a wide space dotted with trees. The difference here was that there was also a shallow river running down the middle – deliberately that is, and not just because of the increasingly heavy rain.

  We crossed at the little humpbacked bridge and dived into a hotel that seemed to be open. And it was as the first glare of electric light slanted across the brim of Robert Underhill’s hat and onto the angle of his cheek that I saw again the fading edges of restlessness in his manner, and felt its strain.

  I asked with rather too much concern, ‘Is everything all right, Mr Underhill?’

  We were shown into a neat little corner booth with seats like pews – high backed benches made comfortable by deep cushions. It enclosed us in dim gas light with darkness outside and it was blessedly near the fire, because two hours and two buses had done little to ease my chill after all that walking about the countryside with Jacqueline.

  The waitress hovered. ‘Soup with pie to follow?’ she asked.

  ‘Soup,’ I agreed, and so did Robert. There was no question today of shunning the two courses permitted in these days of strict regulations.

  The man opposite smiled at the waitress and then smiled at me. Divested of his sodden coat and hat, he was thoroughly presentable in his navy suit and today he definitely matched Amy’s idea of a good-looking man worn by hard experiences to a slightly angular maturity. He had hair that was a mid brown shade and a nice sort of height that he carried like someone who had played a lot of cricket as a youth. He was leaning in with his elbows resting on the tabletop.

  ‘So,’ he asked pleasantly, ‘did you manage to resolve the editing issues today?’

  It was an echo of the friendliness that had joined me at my desk yesterday when we had discussed our options for meeting Jacqueline’s impending publication deadline.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Amongst other things, Jacqueline needs time to examine the markings of the giraffe in her photograph for the purpose of identifying its species, so I’ve got to go back tomorrow to collect the final edit. And on that note, I really wish you hadn’t said what you had yesterday about my coping with the idea of encountering a fellow widow. She isn’t one, and you rather put the thought of my husband’s loss in my mind. At least, I think that’s what was wrong today. And besides all that, I really don’t see why it’s fair that you should get to know all sorts of things about me while I don’t know anything about you. Don’t you ever speak about yourself?’

  If he was looking every inch the man who belonged in this dignified dining room, I on the other hand was looking very much like a woman who had spent the day stamping about a derelict mansion. My windswept state was a fitting accompaniment for my sudden loss of patience.

  Then he asked in an oddly braced sort of voice, ‘Well, what is it you want to know?’

  He was sitting a little straighter, not leaning in any more.

  I leaned in myself. ‘First of all,’ I said shortly, ‘I should like to know whether you and the other people at the office call me Mrs P or Mrs Pea.’

  He looked nonplussed.

  I added by way of a prompt, ‘As in – are you using the initial letter “P”, or is it the green vegetable?’

  Then I allowed an eyebrow to rise.

  For once his reaction to my idea of humour was a shy hint of a laugh rather than a prompt urge to bolt. Or perhaps he never really ran away because otherwise this man before me now was too much of a transformation.

  He seemed relaxed but contrite as he confessed, ‘It’s the initial letter. Did you think we were mocking you?’

  ‘I didn’t know what you were doing. But I don’t see why I can’t be called by my name.’

  ‘Mrs Peuse?’

  ‘Lucy.’

  I’d surprised him again. And I had surprised myself too, because this was cowardice masquerading as friendliness when really I didn’t dare to launch into all the other questions I had. I also had to notice that he didn’t return the gesture by inviting me to call him Robert.

  After a moment while my mind filled with the memory of that small contretemps we’d had about how equally we were ranked in the office, he merely asked steadily, ‘And if that was your first question, what was your second?’

  I was determined to be at least a little bit brave. I asked him, ‘Are you all right? You looked as though you’d seen a ghost when you met me from the bus.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he assured me and then the soup arrived. It was some time later that he suddenly grimaced, turning his head as if to shake away some inner constraint. Then he followed it by abruptly fixing me with a gaze that made my hand falter with the soup spoon midway on its journey to my mouth.

  His eyes were an intimidatingly intense shade of brown.

  He began by saying briskly, ‘You’ve heard that Nuneham’s is closing down?’

  I hadn’t, of course.

  My heart was suddenly running unreasonably fast. Because this was frankness after a day of disorientation from being required to be a listening ear or a new convert or whatever it was the doctor and Jacqueline or anyone else had wanted from me. This was the decision he had made just now. To talk to me when he might just be silent.

  I asked, ‘Nuneham’s is closing?’

  ‘Do you understand what that means?’

  I nodded. ‘It means that another old business has fallen prey to the war. There’ll be an unseemly rush from all the survivors to claim the redundant stock of paper and ink before any of the other neighbouring businesses can reach it first. And it’ll all be done on the quiet, because it’s hardly legal in these straitened times to repurpose supplies that have been dispensed as rationed goods.’

  ‘Y
ou’re very well informed.’ I didn’t think he had expected me to be quite so forthright.

  I might have also added that I knew that the Nuneham’s Book Press was based near Abingdon, just beyond Oxford, and the trainline from Moreton ran there.

  I said rather uncertainly, ‘Are you trying to tell me that your late return home last Friday marked the end of an attempt to haggle over Nuneham’s remaining supplies?’

  ‘Yes. And since your uncle doesn’t keep a vehicle of any sorts, I spent yesterday organising a hired van. Today, Mr Lock and I travelled to Nuneham’s to stake our claim on the prize we wanted.’

  I disguised the force of my surprise by dwelling only on the smallness of the secret, after all that mystery. I remarked lightly, ‘Poor Doctor Bates, he will be disappointed.’

  ‘Doctor Bates? Why?’

  ‘He’s mentioned Nuneham’s once or twice to me in the manner of a rival interest for Miss Prichard’s book, and, since we’re being honest, I’ll tell you that he told me today to pass on the reference to you.’

  I saw Robert’s eyebrows lift to express mild surprise. He asked, ‘When did you meet the doctor for him to be able to tell you that?’

  ‘Well, this morning, on the bus. He travelled with me as far as Stow.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘We had quite a chat. I have a feeling he’s hoping to use the threat of a rival publishing firm as leverage to encourage you to be generous when deciding Miss Prichard’s terms.’

  If I was probing for his reaction to Doctor Bates’ hints, I certainly won a response of sorts. But not the one I was expecting. I had expected him to treat all mentions of Doctor Bates’ name with the same seriousness that the doctor seemed to place upon the name Robert Underhill.

  But this man’s response was distaste; simple uncomplicated distaste in the form of an unexpectedly direct question. ‘Odd that he didn’t use his car, don’t you think?’

  ‘What I think is odd is that neither you nor my uncle told me this before. When you made me withdraw my question yesterday about my uncle’s part in your various excursions, I thought … Well, I don’t know what I thought, but it was nothing quite like this.’