by Pat Herbert
November Jones was sitting with her boyfriend, Mike Farbon, at breakfast several days after her visit to Robbie. She was feeling, and looking, as tired as ever, the dark circles around her pale blue eyes even more marked.
“Yes, but only a month’s supply,” she said, pouring out a third cup of tea from the big brown teapot that used to be her grandmother’s. “I don’t think it’ll be enough.”
“Have you started taking them yet?” he asked, munching on his cornflakes.
He was already late for work but didn’t really care. He hated his job at the bank. It was so tedious that he almost looked forward to getting the sack.
“No, I only got the prescription filled out yesterday, and I forgot to take one last night. Did I sleepwalk again?”
Mike sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid you did. I steered you back to bed as per usual. I’m nearly as tired as you these days. No wonder I’m always late for work.”
November smiled. “Well, you keep telling me you hate the job, so I don’t think that’s bothering you. But I’m sorry I keep disturbing you. Anyway, I’ll take a pill tonight and see if it helps.”
“Good,” he said, standing up reluctantly and moving slowly front door-wards.
“Take your mac,” she called after him. “It’s raining again.”
After he had gone, she cleared away the breakfast things and started to get ready to go herself. She worked at the local post office just around the corner, so didn’t need to hurry, she still had plenty of time. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Though never a complete stunner, she had once had a youthful bloom, and her pale blue eyes had been her best feature. Now her skin looked almost parchment yellow and her eyes had a dull gleam inside their dark-rimmed sockets. She did her best with some foundation and lipstick, while the mascara only seemed to accentuate the tiredness in her eyes.
Always the last one to leave the house in the mornings, she clumped her weary way down the stairs and put on her mackintosh and boots by the front door. Would she ever feel better? Mike was getting fed up with her nightly perambulations, and the others who shared the house were getting disturbed now, as well.
She opened her umbrella and set off for work. Her job was just as boring as Mike’s but, at the moment, it was all she could handle. It was so monotonous, she could have done it in her sleep. Her boss was also beginning to be anxious about her. She had snapped at a customer the other day, which wasn’t like her. If only she could get an uninterrupted night’s sleep, she would be all right.
What was the matter with her? What was she to do?
“What are you talking about, Nova?”
She was sitting at the kitchen table, a book propped up against the tomato sauce bottle, her supper of cheese and mushrooms on toast beginning to congeal. Mike Farbon was at her elbow, nudging her.
“Who’s this bloke you keep talking to?”
“Bloke?” she asked, refocusing her gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You must do. You keep telling him he’s ‘a bad man’ and he’s ‘got no right’, and then you ask him what he proposed to do about your child. What’s all that about?”
Mike was completely at a loss. For the last ten minutes his girlfriend had been staring into space, her supper going cold, talking gibberish.
“You’re mad, you are,” she said, but she knew he wasn’t.
She had blacked out again. What else could account for the cooling temperature of the food she had been enjoying what she thought was only a moment ago? She had started taking her sleeping pills, but so far they hadn’t prevented her from sleepwalking. She felt like screaming.
“My poor love,” said Mike kindly. “You know you’ve not been with it – look at your supper. You were really enjoying it, as well. But, all of a sudden, you just stopped what you were doing and your eyes glazed over. Then you started talking in that funny cockney voice again. I’m going to record it next time.”
“You do that,” said November, pushing her cold food away and reaching for the teapot. “I suppose the tea’s cold as well.”
“Do you think you should see a specialist?” he asked, pouring out the tea for her.
She glared at him. “I suppose you mean a psychiatrist. You think I’m mad, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t, love, but you must admit all this sleepwalking is getting you down. Lack of sleep would send anyone round the twist. At least go back to the doctor and see what he has to say.”
“Okay, Mike. If you think it’ll do any good,” she sighed. She was running out of options. “I mean, will it do any good? Really?”
“I don’t know,” he said, taking her hand across the table. “But maybe he can suggest something.”
“Like what?”
He didn’t reply. He couldn’t think of anything to say. What sort of illness was she suffering from? Blackouts, sleepwalking, talking like someone else? It wasn’t any syndrome that he’d ever heard of. But, then, he wasn’t a doctor, was he?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Robbie’s morning surgery had finished on time for once. He removed his new glasses to scratch his nose. They had made a red mark across the bridge and it was a little sore. He had resisted visiting the opticians for ages, ignoring the fact that he was getting headaches and blurred vision on a fairly regular basis. His housekeeper, Lucy Carter, had badgered him into going at last, and the result was the new tortoiseshell-framed spectacles he now sported. They gave him gravitas and made him look even more handsome and distinguished. Or so he thought. Lucy liked him in them, anyway. Would Dorothy? he wondered.
He did his usual check of the waiting room before ‘shutting up shop’ and was just about to do just that when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the weird old lady again. Where had she sprung from? She hadn’t been there the last time he looked.
Sitting in front of him a moment later, she eyed him quizzically. “Hello, Doc. I thought I’d come and see you again. My flu’s much better, thanks to the jollop you prescribed.”
Robbie smiled benignly at her. It had just been coloured water. “That’s good. Now, what can I do for you, today?”
She looked at him sheepishly and gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Nothing, really. I just came to thank you.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
He wondered what would happen if all his patients came back to thank him when he had cured them. His waiting room would be overflowing. Or maybe it wouldn’t, he thought wryly. He was a good doctor, but there were some maladies even he wasn’t able to cure.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but I’m worried that your flu will return if you’re sleeping rough.” Imaginary though it was, next time it could be only too real, he thought. “You need to find somewhere to stay now that the winter’s coming on. I can help you find a place, if you want.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right, Doc. I’m used to it.”
She gave him a cheeky grin, and he noticed one of her front teeth was missing.
Robbie sighed. She was certainly an obstinate old so-and-so. “Do you remember your name now, dear?”
“Remember my name?”
“Yes. You said you didn’t know it when you came to see me the other day.”
“Well, I was known as Araminta from a baby, but it’s not my real name. I’ve only just found that out.”
“I see. That’s something, I suppose. What about your last name? Do you have any idea about that?”
“I had one all my life, but I don’t use it now. It doesn’t belong to me – it never did.”
“Is it all right if I call you Araminta, then?”
The old lady shrugged again. “If you like.”
“Thank you. Now, you can tell me to mind my own business, but what about the money you got from the sale of your house? Can’t you use that to put a roof over your head?”
“That money? I gave it away. I wouldn’t touch it.”
“Why on Earth di
d you do that?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said, enigmatically.
He gave an inward sigh. He was tired at the end of his morning surgery, so didn’t feel up to probing any further, even though she seemed to be inviting him to do so.
“Maybe you should talk to my friend, Bernard,” he suggested instead.
Bernard was probably a more appropriate source of help for this poor woman, anyway. Medically, he’d done all he could for her.
“Why should I talk to him? Who is he, when he’s at home?”
“He’s the vicar of St Stephen’s.”
“Oh, him!” she said dismissively. “He won’t be much help, I shouldn’t think. Not if his barmy housekeeper’s anything to go by. She told me to ‘bugger off’ the other day. Can you credit it?”
Robbie wanted to laugh out loud. Could he credit it? He certainly could. Dear old Mrs Harper would tell the Pope to bugger off if it suited her book.
“Oh, dear,” he said in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She can be a bit – how shall I put it? – acerbic at times.”
The old lady sniffed. “You can say that again.”
“Anyway, the reason I suggested you talk to the vicar is because you’re obviously distressed, and he’s a good listener. And he may be able to help you find out your real identity, if that’s your aim.”
“I don’t believe in religion,” she said firmly. “All that mumbo jumbo. What good did believing in God ever do me, you tell me that?”
Robbie felt himself out of his depth. “Even if you don’t believe in God, Bernard isn’t one of those priests who sermonise at you all the time. He’ll sit you down by the fire and give you a cup of tea and just chat. Now what’s wrong with that?”
Araminta looked undecided now. “I suppose I could go and see him,” she admitted. “But I know he won’t be of any use.”
“It’s worth a try, at least. Bernard is a very kind, humane man. Leave it with me, Araminta. I’ll talk to him first and let you know. Where can I get in touch with you?”
“You can’t. I’ll come by the surgery tomorrow morning.”
After she had gone, Robbie finished some paperwork, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Funny old soul, he thought. Araminta was a fairly unusual name, there couldn’t be that many in the parish records. Bernard would probably be able to find her there. After all, she said she’d lived in Wandsworth all her life.
Araminta wandered slowly down the High Street, her single bag of belongings clutched in her hand. It was bitterly cold, and the dampness was seeping into her bones. She had told the doctor earlier that morning that she liked roughing it, but she didn’t. She was getting too old. When he had mentioned the vicarage fireside and hot tea, she had liked the idea. She had liked it very much. She couldn’t remember the last time she had sat beside a roaring fire. Perhaps she wouldn’t wait for the doc to make the introductions. Why shouldn’t she go now?
Then she remembered the housekeeper. Maybe she should wait until the doctor had had a word with the vicar first. She hobbled her painful way towards the library where she knew it would at least be warm and she could have a nap by the radiator in peace.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The wind and rain whipped around Araminta as she stood outside the library staring at the hours of opening notice. Wednesday! Early closing. How could she have forgotten that? Oh well, she thought, maybe she would chance the wrath of the vicar’s housekeeper, after all.
She turned her footsteps in the direction of the vicarage and, five minutes later, she was at the gate. The prospect of a cosy fire was pulling her towards the front door. Fortunately for her, there seemed to be no sign of the old battle axe, and this young vicar, if Dr MacTavish was to be believed, was a decent sort. She hobbled her weary way up the front path and pressed the doorbell. What had she got to lose?
She was about to ring again, having waited what she considered long enough, when Mrs Harper appeared at the door, wiping her wet hands on her apron and looking decidedly unfriendly. But Araminta was so cold, tired and hungry now, that she didn’t care.
“I came to see the vicar,” she said, before the housekeeper could speak. “I was invited. Leastways, the doc said I should come. You ask him if you don’t believe me.”
“Well, as ’e ain’t ’ere to ask, I’ll ’ave to believe you, won’t I?”
Mrs Harper stared at the old woman who she could see was in obvious distress, and she took pity on her.
“I suppose you’d better come in, then,” she said. “Wait ’ere in the ’all, and wipe your feet. Don’t drip all over the place.”
Araminta did as she was told, grateful to be invited into the warmth of the vicarage, while the old housekeeper hauled her excessive weight up the stairs to Bernard’s study. She knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an answer, as usual. This was one of Bernard’s bugbears. In all the years that she had been his housekeeper, he had never been able to drum into her the need to wait to be asked before entering. She said she would try to remember, but never did.
“There’s an old woman downstairs wanting to see you,” she told him.
“Do you know her name by any chance?” he asked, not very hopefully.
“Didn’t ask her. Said she’d been told to come by the doc.”
“Robbie asked her?” Bernard was puzzled, then he remembered. “Oh, yes, I think I know who she is. Show her up, Mrs Aitch, and bring us some tea and some of your nice scones.”
Mrs Harper struggled back down the stairs, puffing as she went.
“Are you all right?” asked Araminta with some concern. “Them stairs look a bit much for you.”
“I’m not getting any younger,” said Nancy with a dismissive shrug, trying to hide the pain she was feeling. “Would you mind showing yourself up? The vicar’s study is second on the left.”
Araminta took an immediate liking to Bernard. She could see at a glance he was that rarest of breeds, a good person. As a vicar, she supposed it was his job to be good, but she could sense he was genuine and not merely paying lip service. She had always been a good judge of character.
“Hello, dear,” said Bernard, smiling at her. “Do come and sit by the fire, you look frozen.”
“Dr MacTavish told me to come and see you, Vicar,” she said, as she sat down with obvious relief. “He said you and I should have a chat.”
“Indeed, I’m pleased you felt you could confide in me,” said Bernard. “I think you’re the lady he told me about. He said you’d found out something that had made you question your own identity. Is that correct?”
“Something like that, Vicar. It seems the people I thought were my doting parents weren’t.”
Bernard steepled his fingers under his chin and sat looking at her thoughtfully for a moment.
“So, you’ve just discovered you were adopted? That must have been a bit of a shock. You probably thought they should have told you a long time ago?”
“It’s more than that. Believe me, if I’d just been adopted, all legal and above board, I wouldn’t be here talking to you now. I’d be living on the proceeds of my inheritance in a nice flat somewhere, not walking the streets without a penny to bless myself with.”
Just then, Mrs Harper wheezed in with the tea tray. It looked too heavy for her, and Bernard jumped up and relieved her of it.
“Thank you, Mrs Aitch,” he said. “I’ll do the honours.”
When she had gone, Bernard poured out the tea and offered his guest a buttered scone. Araminta sank gratefully back in the armchair and sipped the strong brew with pleasure.
“Now, Miss ...?”
“Araminta, please.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Not really mine, though.”
“How come?”
“Even though I’ve been known as Araminta all my life, it still doesn’t make it my real name. Here.” She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper
from her capacious bag and gave it to him. “Read that.”
Bernard unfolded the paper, which was yellow with age and torn along the crease. He saw that it was a letter written in a very old-fashioned hand, and it was dated ‘November 1887’. He started to read.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was just before one o’clock as Robbie and Bernard arrived at Paddington Station in a taxi. Robbie’s car was once again being patched up in the garage. The mechanic, who was sick of seeing the bloody thing, had warned Robbie this time that it wouldn’t last much longer and was, in fact, positively dangerous. Robbie, however, couldn’t bear to part with it. Bernard was secretly relieved not to be travelling beside his friend in the rattle trap today, especially as Dorothy Plunkett was to be their passenger on the return journey.
They told the cabby to wait. Both men paced up and down the platform, vying with each other for the first sight of the train that was to bring Dorothy back into their lives.
As the train pulled into the station, Dorothy looked out of the window, saw the two men standing there, and her heart leapt. They both looked very well, Bernard especially. He looked charming, his hair still as floppy with little or no grey in it. He must be nearly forty, she reckoned, but he still looked like a lost little boy. Robbie, who she knew was older than Bernard by about ten years, looked as handsome as ever with his tall physique and steely blue eyes now framed in tortoiseshell spectacles.
She smiled at them as the train came to a halt, and they approached her carriage door. Bernard opened it for her and she stepped lightly onto the platform. She had lost a good deal of weight lately and she knew she looked good, even if the men’s admiring glances hadn’t told her so. Robbie picked up her suitcase while Bernard greeted her by kissing her on both cheeks.
“Hello, Dorothy, dear. How have you been keeping?” he asked.
“Oh, not so bad, thanks, Bernie, dear. How are you both? It’s good to see you again.”