Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘Clare knew how important they were to me. I thought she’d understand my need to find the missing pieces of the jigsaw.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Like David – like my mother, in fact – she felt it was all in the past and therefore irrelevant.’ Smiling ruefully, Zoe shook her head. ‘Is it me? Am I really such an idiot? ’

  ‘No, it’s important to you.’ She leaned over Zoe’s shoulder to look at the sepia images. ‘What is it about old photos? I mean, look at them – she’s stunning, and there they are, two young, dishy blokes in their twenties, captured forever by the click of a camera. All those years ago. You just long to know about them.’ She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Lord, even I want to know what happened after that, and they’re nothing to do with me!’

  Zoe laughed, suddenly feeling better. ‘Well, that’s the point – I’m hoping to find out!’

  When her friend had gone, Zoe lingered for a while, looking at the brothers. Her last trip to York had managed to establish, at long last, the Australian soldier’s name. ‘Liam,’ she softly whispered, and as always, it gave her an absurd rush of pleasure to speak his name.

  Two hours after leaving King’s Cross, the Intercity 125 was pulling into York. It had been a gloomy morning in London, steadily improving as the train swished northward. York was sunny, with blue skies and cotton-wool clouds, and a strong breeze which caught Zoe’s skirts as she stepped down onto the platform.

  The exit was on the far side, and from the overhead bridge which spanned the tracks she immediately spotted Joan Elliott’s generous form. Beside her was a tall man with light brown hair. Striking rather than handsome, he stood with hands thrust deep into the pockets of a Burberry raincoat.

  They were clearly together, so he must be the man she had spoken to on the telephone. Stephen Elliott, old Sarah Elliott’s grandson. Descending the steps, she saw he was much younger than she had expected. Somehow, with a generation between them, she had imagined him more her mother’s age. Noting the deep tan as she came down the steps, Zoe suddenly remembered that he had said something about working abroad. Perhaps the tan was genuine.

  For a moment she was enveloped in Joan Elliott’s warm embrace, then he stepped forward, smiling, his handshake dry and firm.

  He said he was delighted, while his eyes seemed intent upon registering everything about her. Almost before she knew it, he had relieved her of the overnight bag and was steering both women through the concourse. Had she not been so intent upon his aunt’s conversation, Zoe felt that she might have been annoyed.

  But all irritation fled as they came out of the station. Directly facing them across a broad and busy thoroughfare, the city walls seemed to be smiling above ramparts covered in daffodils. The sight was so unexpected, and so welcoming, it brought smiles and an involuntary halt. Zoe thought that she had never seen anything so uplifting as that waving mass of cheerful yellow flowers.

  ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’

  ‘They certainly are,’ he agreed. ‘Almost worth being away to come back to this.’

  Zoe glanced up in surprise. ‘Yes, I can imagine. You said you’d been abroad, Mr Elliott,’ she reminded him brightly. ‘Was it anywhere interesting?’

  He chuckled as they moved on. ‘Not really. And by the way, the name’s Stephen.’

  Not a man for conversational gambits, Zoe thought with dismay.

  Taking her arm, Joan Elliott told her not to be foiled. ‘He does it all the time, you know – lets people think he’s a travelling salesman, or some such nonsense, just because it amuses him. He’s not,’ she declared, shaking a finger at his mischievous grin. ‘He’s a Master Mariner, and I’m very proud of him.’

  ‘There now, Joan, you’ve done it again – just spoiled my best line...’

  Zoe could not help laughing. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I usually say, in answer to the next question, that I travel in oil and steel – it sounds so much more impressive.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Captain Elliott – I’m impressed already!’

  Across the gleaming, dark-green bonnet of a Jaguar XJ-S, he smiled at her, a curiously intimate, knowing smile. ‘Now it’s my turn to be impressed, Miss Clifford — most people have no idea what a Master Mariner does.’

  Zoe had once known a girl whose father was at sea, but she did not intend to reveal the source of her information. Let him wonder, she thought, as she sank back against soft leather upholstery. While Joan pointed out various places of interest, Zoe was mentally assessing the man in the driving seat: probably unmarried, an eye for the ladies, and judging by the car, as image-conscious as Philip Dent. But was he? She stole another look at Stephen Elliott, noticed that while the sweater looked new, his old Burberry wore a comfortable patina of age. His hair, she decided, would have benefited from trip to the barber’s. She smiled and almost forgave him the car.

  He dropped Zoe and his aunt outside the hotel on Gillygate, with an arrangement to meet them by his flat in Bedern.

  ‘He can park his car there,’ Joan explained as he drove off. ‘It’s impossible anywhere else in town, so many streets are blocked to traffic now. I’m glad I don’t drive.’

  Zoe said she did, but doubted whether her disreputable old car would cope with the journey north, which was why she travelled any distance by train.

  She checked in and Mrs Bilton was glad to see her, handing Zoe the usual two keys, and smiling at Joan Elliott’s unabashed curiosity.

  ‘So was Granny Louisa born here?’ Joan asked Zoe as they went upstairs.

  ‘No, but she and Edward were living here at the time of Letitia’s birth. She was the youngest, so I imagine the boys were here too. Robin was your father, wasn’t he? Liam was the one who went to Australia?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Joan paused, peering out at a network of twigs and branches, and the Minster towers beyond. ‘Fancy my father living here, and I never knew. It’s strange, Granny Louisa often talked about her cottage at Clementhorpe, but she never mentioned Gillygate…’

  There was wistfulness in her eyes and voice, and Zoe thought she was about to say more. But with a glance at her watch, she was suddenly brisk, reminding Zoe that Stephen was waiting to take them to lunch.

  Conversation over their meal, Zoe thought later, was rather like a business meeting. With the salient points covered – Stephen’s profession, Zoe’s work as an illustrator, and Joan’s decision to move house – they were beginning to see where each of them stood in relation to each other and the Elliott family.

  Over coffee, Stephen introduced the main topic: the birth certificates he had found in that box full of letters. Zoe was at first surprised, and then embarrassed as she read Joan’s reaction.

  ‘There was a marriage certificate too,’ Stephen said dryly. ‘They should have matched. A marriage followed by three children, roughly a couple of years apart, that’s what you’d expect. But it wasn’t like that. They didn’t marry until years later…’

  ‘I’d no idea,’ Joan confessed to Zoe. Coming so soon after her mother’s death, these facts had clearly been a shock to her. It seemed that lies had been told and deceits continued, but by whom and for what reason, she had no idea.

  Zoe could see she was upset, and did not know what to say.

  Refusing a second cup of coffee, the older woman said that she would leave them. She had the estate agent to see and some shopping to do; and she had no real wish to be present while they probed the mystery of Louisa Elliott’s life.

  ‘It’s not that I mind you doing that,’ she explained gently to Zoe, ‘but I couldn’t. I’d like to know what was going on – and if I can answer any questions at all, I’ll be happy to do so. But I don’t want to go through those papers myself. Besides,’ she added with a sad smile, ‘you seem to know what you’re doing – I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  Watching her retreating back, Zoe was seized with guilt, seeing herself as the harbinger of pain, and wondering what Pandora’s box had
been opened by those first, innocent enquiries of hers. About to say something fatuous to the man beside her, such as his grandmother Sarah had been right, and she should never have come, she was silenced by the pressure of his hand on her arm.

  ‘Don’t say it,’ he softly advised, ‘and stop feeling guilty – I can see it in your face. I did ask Joan, a day or so before I phoned you, whether she wanted me to go ahead with this.’ He paused, seemed suddenly aware that he was touching her, and removed his hand. ‘She was so shattered, I didn’t think she’d want anyone to know about it — least of all a comparative stranger. But,’ he smiled, ‘in her own way, Joan’s as curious now as you are. And she’s accepted you as family, which, I may say, is quite a compliment.’

  Zoe glanced away, feeling a rush of pleasure and embarrassment warm her cheeks. ‘It is indeed, but…’

  ‘But sooner or later, one of us would have gone through that box, and we would have discovered the anomalies anyway. You can’t just throw out the remains of someone’s life without examining it first. That was Joan’s point in giving the paperwork to me. But it’s a responsibility,’ he added with a sigh, ‘and probably why Sarah didn’t throw anything away. She can’t have gone through those letters – they’ve been undisturbed, I’m sure, since Louisa put them there.’

  On an indrawn breath, Zoe said: ‘I just wish I hadn’t been the one to force the issue.’

  His blue eyes caught the light and creased into a warm smile. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  He rose to pay the bill, and she studied him unobserved. There was something familiar about his features, but she could not decide what it was. He turned and she glanced away, not wanting to be caught staring.

  By comparison with the crush of pedestrians in the heart of town, St Andrewgate was almost deserted, peopled largely by workmen engaged in the process of renovating old property and building new. Zoe’s eyes were everywhere, noting the details of windows and brickwork; Stephen had to touch her arm to direct her through a narrow footpath between the houses. It opened into a pretty courtyard, and with some surprise she realized they were back in Bedern, and that he was searching for the keys to his flat.

  ‘It’s a strange name, Bedern – what does it mean?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a plaque over there, by the entrance. House of Prayer, I think – from the Anglo-Saxon.’

  For the first time she noticed an ancient limestone wall, punctuated by lancet windows. Stephen said it had once been part of the college of the Vicars Choral, laymen attached to the Minster. The rest of the buildings — no more than a collection of medieval houses like those in the Shambles – had disappeared long ago.

  ‘It was handy for the Minster, just across the street, but they were turned out at the Reformation. From what I can gather,’ he added with a grin, ‘they were no great loss. More a bunch of medieval lager louts – drinking, brawling in the street, upsetting local residents. It seems nothing much changes!’

  Warming to him, she chuckled at the image he created, but it was hard to imagine such things within the precincts of this modern development.

  ‘And then there was a ragged school here in the last century.’ He paused, looking at the sunlit walls, the pretty little gardens full of spring flowers. ‘But it seems the children are still here,’ he said whimsically. ‘They say you can hear them sometimes, laughing and playing...’

  Zoe glanced in surprise. ‘Have you heard them?’

  With a wry smile he nodded. ‘Possibly, just once, coming home late one night. I’d never heard the story, and honestly thought a bunch of kids were messing about – but I walked right round the place and couldn’t find them. When I asked the neighbours, I found other people had heard it too – right here, in this courtyard.’

  ‘How strange. York seems to be full of ghosts...’

  ‘So they say. I used to scoff at things like that, now I’m not so sure...’

  Beyond the limestone wall with its lancet windows, was a deep archway. When Stephen said the street beyond was Goodramgate, a sudden, sharp memory drew her towards it. She paused in shadow, seeing the other arch leading into Minster Yard. The east end of the cathedral was perhaps a hundred yards distant. She shivered, remembering the mist and those strange images conjured against a shifting wall of light.

  As Stephen joined her, she glanced at him, and for a second he seemed taken aback. For a long moment neither of them spoke. As Zoe looked away, he asked her, gently, whether she had been in York the previous autumn, one evening about six, when mist was billowing around the Minster.

  It was as though he read her mind. Startled, Zoe nodded. With a smile Stephen explained that he had been watching those freak weather conditions when he noticed her.

  ‘You know, ever since you stepped off that train, I’ve been trying to think where I’d seen you before. I remember noticing someone standing by the old College. And then you came towards me, and glared at me before you crossed the road…’

  ‘Did I? What an extraordinary memory you must have!’

  With a rueful chuckle, he denied it. ‘Not at all. It’s just that it was my last night at home – I remember the mist, it was a very odd occurrence – and I remember seeing you too. The only extraordinary thing about it is that I have these gaps in my life. I go off to sea – and a few months later I come back. But to me, it’s as though those months have never been.’ He paused. ‘It’s an odd sensation.’

  She thought it must be, and said so. Grateful for such a prosaic explanation, Zoe felt it answered that nagging feeling she had, that she should know him, too. Obviously, they had seen each other that night, but she retained no conscious memory of it.

  They went back to the courtyard. Unlocking his door, Stephen invited her in. At the top of a flight of stairs, several doors opened off the windowed landing. She caught a glimpse of a tidy kitchen before following him into the sitting room; but then, with no more than an impression of books and pictures and modern furniture, Zoe’s attention was caught by the view. Tall chimney stacks, pitched roofs of slate and weathered pantiles, mellow bricks and tiny windows, the whole formed a foreground for the magic of the Minster itself. The picture was framed by the window, and she knew without doubt why Stephen Elliott lived here, and she both admired and envied him.

  He was watching her face, her reactions. She made no attempt to disguise her pleasure, because he deserved to know that she appreciated it too. Laughing, she said: ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  He chuckled in agreement, telling her to sit down and enjoy the view while he made some coffee. A little while later, sharing the window-seat with the tray between them, Zoe was suddenly aware of feeling relaxed and happy. Stephen Elliott, she decided, was very easy to be with. His questions never seemed to probe, and yet almost without realizing it, she found that they had moved from neutral topics to more personal ones, that she was revealing more of herself than usual, certainly on so short an acquaintance.

  Conversation flowed back and forth between them, as though they had known each other for years. He spoke, briefly, about his marriage and divorce. While he did not dwell upon the reasons for its ending, she understood that he must have felt betrayed. It was probably why he had not remarried, despite his evident liking for women. He spoke affectionately of his aunt, and of the wives of close friends, and Zoe could see that his social life was not limited to a few drinking cronies, but encompassed a broad, if scattered field. He was often away for weekends, visiting old friends on leave, and that was why he enjoyed his car. It was an extravagance, he said, but it transported him about the country in comfort, and was such a pleasure to drive. Besides, he admitted with a disarming grin, the Jaguar was something he had always wanted.

  What a change from Philip, she thought, glancing around the room as Stephen went to make another drink. Philip’s flat was smart to the point of sterility, with a few coffee-table tomes, one enormous picture, three large ornaments, and furniture which was designed for utility rather than comfort. She would be hard-pressed, tom
orrow, to recount Stephen’s bits and pieces. Books almost filled one wall, a collection of unusual pictures and ornaments was displayed haphazardly, while things like letters, calculator and keys were dotted on various surfaces about the room.

  The ashtray, she noticed, was almost full. He smoked too much, but she could understand it; after a year without cigarettes herself, passing cravings could still catch her unawares.

  He came back with the coffee in two steaming mugs, all pretensions at gentility, with cups and cream and sugar bowls, had disappeared, for which she was thankful. It was good to know that he felt as relaxed as she did. Outside the light was falling, and between them lay the softness of dusk.

  Only as he moved to light one of the lamps did either of them notice the time and then Stephen was all concern at having wasted it, enquiring as to her plans for the evening.

  ‘Well,’ she said easily, ‘apart from having to be back at the hotel sometime to sleep, I don’t have any plans. And after that excellent lunch, I’m not even hungry. Perhaps we could have a look at those papers this evening? That is, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he assured her. ‘There’s salad and things in the fridge — if you like, we could share something later?’

  On that agreement he went to fetch a thick, decorated album from an open shelf on the bookcase. It was old, the ties and tassels faded, its embossed and gilded cover shabby with use.

  ‘Before we take a look at those certificates, I thought you might like to see a few photographs. Just to show who we’re talking about.’

  Flicking through the first few pages, he came to a pair of portraits, the first of a young woman with cropped, curly hair, and a rather challenging set to her chin. She had a lovely face, intelligent eyes and a well-shaped, generous mouth. Stephen said that her smile fascinated him. Like the Mona Lisa’s, he could not decide whether it was amused, disdainful, uncertain, or downright sexy; although as a man, he preferred to think the latter.

  Zoe laughed and shook her head. ‘Wishful thinking. She looks proud, to me — and just a shade disdainful. But she does remind me of someone...’ Zoe gazed intently for a moment, shading the lower half of the face. ‘It’s her eyes and the shape of her forehead...’