by Emma Fraser
‘When did Lord Glendale die?’ she asked.
‘A month ago. He was diagnosed with a fast-growing brain tumour a few months before that.’
Which would explain why he hadn’t visited her mother in hospital. ‘This has come as a bit of a shock. I still can’t help but think some mistake has been made.’
‘As I said, if you are the daughter of Lily Davidson, last residing at Cliff Top near St Abbs, and it certainly seems you are, then there has been no mistake. Naturally, as a reputable firm we have carried out the necessary background checks.’ He closed the folder and set it to one side of his otherwise clear desk. ‘And I do have to emphasise your mother only inherits as a “whom failing”. We will, of course, make every effort to locate Miss Drobnik but that could take years.’
‘Drobnik is an Eastern European name, isn’t it?’
‘Polish, actually.’
‘Have you thought about looking for Miss Drobnik there?’
‘Of course,’ he said, looking as if he’d sucked on a lemon. ‘Unfortunately the Polish government, for all the talk of perestroika, isn’t too helpful when it comes to assisting the West with information regarding their residents, although now that democracy looks a real possibility we may have more success in accessing information.’
As there seemed little else Bailey was able to tell her, Sarah returned her passport to her handbag and stood. ‘I’ll take a set of keys for the houses. I should check on the one in Charlotte Square. It may have sprung a leak or something…’ She tailed off. There was no need to justify herself. He’d already said he was happy to give her keys.
Alan Bailey opened the drawer of his sleekly modern oak desk and tipped the contents of an envelope onto the table. ‘A member of the firm has already carried out an inventory.’
Sarah stiffened. Did he think she was going clear the house and flog Lord Glendale’s possessions on a street corner? ‘I can assure you, Lord Glendale’s belongings are safe with me.’
His cheeks reddened. ‘It’s standard practice. I’m sure you aren’t planning to remove anything from either of the properties until such time as we are certain that Miss Drobnik can’t be located.’
His obvious embarrassment softened her irritation. She took the keys from him. ‘You will let me know as soon as you find Miss Drobnik, won’t you?’
Back on the street she paused outside the entrance to Hardcourt & Bailey. She checked her watch: two thirty. Afternoon visiting was from two to four and the Astley Ainslie – or the Ghastly Astley, as she secretly called it – was a good half-hour walk from here. But given that Lord Glendale’s Edinburgh home was only on the other side of the square, she couldn’t resist a quick look.
Situated between Rose Street and George Street, with their designer shops, cafes and bars, and only a stone’s throw from Princes Street, Charlotte Square was one of the most expensive places to live in the capital. Unlike many of the grand townhouses elsewhere in Edinburgh, most of these hadn’t been subdivided into flats and were therefore highly sought after.
She found number nineteen and stepped back to look at it. Lord Glendale’s home – a three-storey, neo-classic sandstone building – had to be worth a small fortune. If Mum did inherit it, she could sell it and there would be money for her to buy a ground-floor flat with a garden near Sarah and if necessary, God forbid, as much private care as she could possibly require. It seemed that fate had stepped in just when they needed it most.
Although she was itching to see inside, her mother was expecting her at the hospital and after that, she really had to get back to the office.
She hitched her handbag onto her shoulder and hailed a passing taxi. There was no point in getting too excited; there was still the matter of Magdalena Drobnik to consider. If she were still alive then her mother would get nothing. But who the hell was Lord Glendale and why had her mother been named in his will?
A short while later, Sarah paused at the door of ward 18 where her mother had been a patient for the last four weeks. Mum had only recently turned fifty. According to the doctors, it was unusual but not unheard of to have a stroke at that age. It could, they said, have been caused by any number of reasons, most likely a small bleed. It was possible that her mother would make a good recovery, but equally possible that she would continue to have small bleeds and if this happened her mother might lose what movement she still had.
After a couple of weeks in a medical ward, Mum had been transferred here for rehab. At least that’s what it was supposed to be. In reality it was filled with old people with dementia, a few like her mother who were post stroke, and, heartbreakingly, a young girl who’d come off the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike and who spent most of the time curled up in her bed, her day punctuated only by visits from the physios and her anxious family.
Sarah took a deep breath and walked in, wincing at the faint but unmistakable smell of urine. When she saw Mrs Liversage bearing down on her, she was tempted to hide. Not today of all days. An encounter with the old lady was rarely short and sweet. But too late – she’d already been spotted.
‘Is Mother waiting for me?’ Mrs Liversage, clutching the frame of her Zimmer, stopped in front of her, peering past Sarah to the ward entrance. She always asked the same thing. ‘School’s just finished, and I mustn’t keep her. Mother so hates to be kept waiting.’
‘I didn’t see her,’ Sarah said evasively. ‘Perhaps you should ask the nurses?’
‘Nurses? What nurses?’ Mrs Liversage frowned. ‘Don’t be silly. There’s only teachers here.’
Sarah bent to whisper in the elderly patient’s ear. ‘Don’t tell everyone, but I think there’s cake for tea.’
Mrs Liversage perked up. ‘Tea? And cake!’ She allowed Sarah to turn her around and guide her to the day-room. When she was seated, Sarah poured her some tea from the thermos she’d brought and after scrabbling around in her bag, gave her a slice of the pre-packaged ginger cake she’d intended for Mum.
Leaving a pacified Mrs Liversage munching, Sarah hurried down the ward, past the nurses’ station and to her mother’s bay. Her heart squeezed painfully as she caught sight of her mother. As usual she was in the high-backed chair next to her bed, but the pillows that normally propped up the side that had been affected by the stroke had fallen to the floor and without their support her mother was tipped over to the right. She was dressed in a green cardigan that didn’t belong to her and blue polyester trousers with an elasticated waist. No one had applied her lipstick for her or found the time to comb her hair. Sarah groaned. Before the stroke, Mum would have died rather than let anyone see her like this.
‘Hello, Mum,’ she said, dropping a kiss on her cheek.
Her news would have to wait until she’d seen to her mother. She laid the pile of clean laundry on the bed and pulled the screens. ‘Okay, Mum, let’s get you sorted. What would you like me to do first? Help you with your lunch or change that cardigan?’
Her mother smiled lopsidedly but said nothing. The stroke that had robbed her of movement on her right side had also affected her speech.
Sarah pushed aside the plate of congealed blended mince and mashed potato that the hospital optimistically called lunch. Luckily, as well as the cake, she’d also brought a yogurt and a plastic spoon with her. The last few weeks had taught her to come prepared.
She peeled off the lid and sat down on the bed. ‘Try some of this, Mum. It’s your favourite.’ But when Sarah lifted the spoon, her mother pressed her lips together.
‘Please, Mum, you have to eat something. You must keep your strength up.’ Since the stroke her mother had lost weight from her already slim frame. Sarah tried again, but her mother turned her head away.
‘How will you get better if you don’t eat?’
Her mother pointed to her stick, which was propped up against the wall, and Sarah placed it in her good hand. It had become her mother’s preferred way of communicating. Two taps meant no and one, yes.
‘Do you need the bathroom?’
One tap. Yes
.
‘I’ll go and get a nurse, shall I?’
Another tap.
Sarah could have taken her mother to the toilet herself, but something inside her shrank away from such an intimate act. Mum would hate it too.
She pushed the screens aside and avoiding Sister Haggerty, who quite frankly terrified her, found a staff nurse writing up some notes in the duty room. To her relief it was Linda. Sarah rapped softly on the door. ‘Excuse me, Linda, but I’m afraid my mother needs to go to the bathroom.’
‘Oh, hello, Sarah. How are you?’
‘I’d be happier if Mum had had lunch and was wearing her own clothes.’ She did her best to keep the exasperation from her voice. She didn’t want to risk the nurses taking against her – or more importantly – her mother.
‘We’ve been a little short-staffed today,’ Linda said. ‘Nurse Gillespie called in sick this morning. Sister tried to get the powers-that-be to send us a replacement from one of the other wards but no joy. Short-staffed all over, apparently. Surprise, surprise.’
The beginning of a headache tugged at Sarah’s scalp. ‘Does the ward ever have its full complement of staff?’
‘Sometimes. I can’t remember the last time, though.’ Linda placed her pen in the top pocket of her uniform and stood. ‘I’ll take Lily to the loo.’
It was something else Sarah disliked about the ward; her mother would hate to be called by her first name. She’d pointed this out to the nursing staff several times but she might as well talk to a brick wall.
‘How is my mother doing?’ Sarah asked. ‘I don’t see much improvement.’
‘You have to be patient. It can take months for a patient to recover as much as they are going to. In the meantime, we’re carrying on with physio and speech and language therapy.’ Linda paused and squeezed Sarah’s shoulder. ‘I know it’s hard and that you don’t see much difference, but she has some movement in her right side now. You’re doing all the right things – coming in to see her, helping with the passive movements, talking to her.’
It didn’t feel like enough. Her mother had never been one for socialising and to be stuck here with people she had nothing in common with had to be hellish. But what could Sarah do? Mum needed more care than Sarah could give her. Which was why, if the houses did come to Mum, it would be a godsend. Although she wished this Magdalena Drobnik no ill, it wasn’t as if she knew her and if she was dead, the sooner it was confirmed, the better. Then she could move Mum to a private facility while they sorted out a long-term solution.
By the time Linda had taken her mother to the toilet, a laboriously slow process, Sarah was seething with impatience. She’d tidied Mum’s locker, returned the tray of uneaten food to the metal food trolley, poured her mother a cup of tea from the thermos and replaced her mother’s soiled clothes with the clean ones she’d brought with her.
After Linda had settled her mother back in the chair, she helped Sarah change her mother’s cardigan. ‘Always work from the affected side,’ Linda said. ‘You’ll need to get adept at this for when Lily comes home.’
‘Surely she isn’t ready quite yet?’
‘Oh, I’m not talking about right now, but in a few weeks’ time perhaps,’ Linda said. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Lily? Back in your own home with all your things around you.’
Mum rapped the stick again and her eyes blazed as she held Sarah’s gaze.
‘Oh, Mum, I know you want to go home but you heard what Linda said – it won’t be long now.’
Linda folded a rug over her mother’s legs. ‘Right. I’ll leave you two in peace.’
At long last, they were alone. Sarah crouched by the side of her mother’s chair.
‘Remember I told you yesterday that I had an appointment with the solicitor today?’ she said. Her mother lifted her good shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug.
Sarah moved in front of her mother so she could see her better. ‘They had something very interesting to say. Mum, did you know a Lord Glendale?’
Her mother frowned and shook her head slightly.
Sarah sat back on her heels. ‘Well, that’s weird because he’s named you in his will.’ When her mother continued to stare blankly at her, Sarah took the envelope from her bag. ‘The solicitor also gave me this. It’s for you. From Lord Glendale.’
When her mother still didn’t respond, Sarah continued. ‘Would you like me to open it?’
Her mother nodded.
To Sarah’s surprise, all the envelope contained was two photographs. She’d been so sure there would be a note explaining the will. She double checked to make certain there was nothing else before turning back to the photos. The first was of a woman in a skirt and blouse standing next to a man in a Second World War uniform. Sarah was just able to make out the wings of the RAF insignia on his chest. He was very good-looking and judging by his easy smile and confident stance, knew it. Could he be a young Lord Glendale? In that case he was a lot older than she’d assumed. Certainly too old to have been her mother’s lover.
The woman next to him was beautiful, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. She was standing awkwardly, her body turned slightly away from the man at her side, almost as if she didn’t want to be in the picture. One thing was for sure: neither was Sarah’s grandparent. Although she’d never met them – they’d died before she was born – there were several photographs of them in her mother’s house.
Sarah looked past the figures to the building in front of which the couple were standing. Only the steps and pillars were visible. It could be any building in any city.
She placed the photo in her mother’s good hand. ‘Do you recognise them?’
While her mother was looking at it she picked up the second one. It was of a little girl, four – possibly five – years old. The length and style of her smocked dress and velvet-trimmed coat as well as the lace-up boots suggested a bygone era; the forties maybe. A chain with a tear-drop pendant hung around her neck. Sarah studied the child more closely. There was something in the set of the mouth, the steady, almost angry stare that was familiar.
‘Is this you, Mum?’ Sarah leaned over to show her. ‘It is, isn’t it? Look, she’s wearing the same necklace you have. When was it taken? How come Lord Glendale had it?’
But her mother was still staring at the picture of the couple, tears sliding down her cheeks and into her mouth, her thin shoulders shaking.
Sarah stared at her aghast. She’d never seen her mother cry. She knelt beside her and dabbed her wet cheeks with her hanky. ‘Oh, Mum, what is it?’
Her mother raised her head. ‘Mm… Ma…’
Sarah could see the frustration in her eyes. ‘God, sorry, Mum.’ She’d forgotten it was no good asking Mum questions that she couldn’t give yes or no responses to. Sarah grabbed the stick and placed it in her mother’s hand.
‘Okay, let’s start again. Do you recognise the man?’
Two taps. No.
‘What about the woman? Do you recognise her?’
One tap. Yes.
‘Is she Magdalena Drobnik?’
A firm tap. Yes. Her face crumpled and she clutched Sarah’s hand. ‘Ma… Ma… elp. Nu…’
‘What is it, Mum? Do you need a nurse?’
Once more a series of taps. ‘Huh…’ She managed.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I don’t understand.’
‘Ho… Ho…’ Her mother blinked and waved her stick at the door again.
‘Home? You want to go home?’
One tap.
A lump lodged in Sarah’s throat and she took her mother’s hand, rubbing her cold fingers. ‘Oh, Mum. You can’t. Not yet. You have to be here so they can continue with the speech therapy and the physio. You know that – although Linda and I are hoping it will be soon.’
At that moment Sister Haggerty came over. ‘Now, Lily, what’s upsetting you?’ She pinned Sarah with a look. ‘You know it’s not good for your mother’s blood pressure if she gets agitated.’ She whipped the screens around t
he bed. ‘What your mother needs is peace and quiet. Perhaps you should come back later. When Lily is calmer.’
Sarah reluctantly got to her feet. She placed the photograph of the little girl back in the envelope but when she tried to retrieve the one of the couple from her mother, she curled her fingers around it and pressed it to her chest.
Sarah bent and kissed the top of her mother’s head. ‘It’s okay, Mum, you keep it. I’ll see you this evening.’
As Sarah walked to the door, her head was spinning. So the woman in the photograph was Magdalena Drobnik. But how did her mother know her and why did her photo distress her so much? One way or another, she was going to find out.
Chapter 3
Warsaw, 1939
Irena wiped the sweat from her brow. It was hot inside the hospital and she’d been on her feet for almost fifteen hours. Yesterday, as soon she’d regained control of herself, she’d fled to the bathroom. She’d hardly recognised the woman in the mirror. Her dress was ripped and covered in blood; her face, hands and arms equally bloodstained. Pulling off her dress, she’d stood in her underwear and scrubbed her skin until it burned. She’d found a hospital gown and, thankful it covered her from neck to shin, redressed. Then she’d gone in search of Sister Radwanska who’d immediately put her to work.