Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  ‘About 1932. Her name was Eleanor Christiana Shackleton – née Beckett.’

  ‘Christiana, eh? Rather a nice name, that.’ He flashed his friendly smile and opened the appropriate register. His finger slid down the page as he scanned it looking for the name. ‘Is she buried here, do you know?’

  ‘I couldn’t find a grave,’ Stephen answered.

  He looked through the records as far forward as 1936 but found no trace of her death. ‘Of course, she might not be buried here. Do you know where she came from? Was it this parish?’

  ‘She was married here, if that’s anything to go on, but she came from Evenlode.’

  ‘Evenlode! Then you may have more joy there, methinks. But her death is not registered here.’

  ‘Would the vicar know more?’ Stephen asked. ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘Oh, since Adam was a lad, I suspect. Would you like to ask him if he remembers this lady?’

  ‘If he’s about. If it’s no trouble. He might have some recollection.’

  The curate closed the register, put it away and led Stephen out of the church. As they were walking down the path, the vicar himself was coming towards them, an elderly man with grey hair and wise eyes.

  ‘Ah, Vicar!’ the curate greeted. ‘This gentleman is seeking information on one of our parishioners who passed away about 1932. We wondered if you might remember her.’

  ‘Stephen Hemming,’ Stephen said, offering his hand. ‘Actually, I’m trying to find information about an Eleanor Christiana Shackleton, née Beckett. I’ve driven down from Birmingham this morning specially…’

  ‘Shackleton?…’ the vicar mused and rubbed his chin where odd white whiskers that he had missed during his morning shave still sprouted mutinously. ‘There was an Arthur Shackleton, I recall…a Londoner. Came up with the Guild of Arts and Handicrafts in 1902. Devout Christian as I recall. Worshipped here regularly.’

  ‘You remember him!’ Stephen exclaimed and felt his heart beating faster again. ‘He was a Londoner, was he?’

  ‘Yes…One of Charles Ashbee’s craftsmen. Charles Ashbee was a disciple,’ he explained, ‘if I may use the word in its more liberal sense – of William Morris, the designer.’

  ‘I see. That explains him being a silversmith,’ Stephen interjected.

  ‘The whole thing was an exercise in idealism, I think, to arrange the migration of fifty or so craftsmen and their families up to this neck of the woods from London. They integrated eventually, though there was some resentment of them at first, as I recall.’

  Stephen, suddenly excited, felt that he was getting somewhere already. ‘What else do you know of Arthur Shackleton – his family?’

  The vicar scratched his head and his eyes manifested a distant expression as he went travelling back mentally in time. ‘Yes, it’s coming back to me now. Amazing what you can remember when the old memory is jogged, what?…Arthur was a single man when he moved here. However, he met and married a local girl…Can’t think of her name, though, for the life of me —’

  ‘Emma,’ Stephen offered. ‘Emma Price.’ He witnessed the light of recollection in the vicar’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, of course, of course…Emma. Pretty girl. Oh, a very pretty girl. Dark hair. In service at Lady Truscott’s house, I recall. Yes…of course I remember her. They had a son, Brent. He attended the Grammar School. Keen on music, I think…yes…In fact, he was in the choir here as a boy for a number of years. They had a daughter too, two or three years younger…Damned if I can think of her name…’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help you there,’ Stephen said. ‘I didn’t know they had a daughter.’

  ‘Pretty girl, too, like her mother…The image of her mother—’

  ‘But can you recall the son’s wife?’ Stephen interrupted impatiently, sensing he was getting close to solving his mystery if only he could keep the vicar’s thoughts focused. ‘He married in 1931. Surely you remember the occasion if you recalled him as a choirboy?’

  ‘I vaguely remember the wedding. I must have officiated. Don’t remember the bride, though…’ The vicar paused to rack his brains, struggling to recall it. ‘No, not for the life of me…Don’t believe she came from this parish. Otherwise, I’d have known her, I’m sure.’

  ‘She came from Evenlode, Mr Watkins,’ the curate prompted, endeavouring to be helpful.

  ‘Ah, that would explain it,’ Mr Watkins said. ‘Tell me, was there a child? Did she die in childbirth?’

  ‘That’s a point,’ Stephen said, looking at the curate as if he were also in complicity. ‘Actually, I hadn’t thought of that. I’m not aware of a child still living at any rate…There’s no grave for a child here either with the name Shackleton.’

  ‘Then it’s almost certain she left this parish before she died. However, I do recall Arthur and Emma passing away quite unexpectedly. She, very soon after him. There was a great deal of sympathy for young Brent at the time. A great deal. Then we saw no more of the lad. Presumably he moved out of the area.’

  ‘Yes, to Birmingham.’

  ‘Well, well! But if you know of his whereabouts, Mr Hemming, why don’t you ask him what you want to know?’

  ‘He’s in America now, Mr Watkins. If he were in Birmingham I’d ask him, have no fear. Anyway, thanks very much for your help. It’s been useful talking to you. Given me some other options to think about. The possibility of a child, especially.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t be of more help. But really, you might find it worthwhile to visit Evenlode. St Edward’s church. I’m sure the rector could be of help. He’s been there some years.’

  It had been in Stephen’s mind to scout the High Street to see what he could glean from old neighbours. The vicar’s suggestion that he visit Evenlode, however, had more appeal. If he met with no success there he could always come back. For the moment, maybe it was better not to draw attention to the past among neighbours who might not have known the Shackletons anyway. And if they did, who knew what hornet’s nest he might stir up?

  So Stephen drove on through country lanes to Moreton-in-Marsh and then to Evenlode, about seven miles in all. He passed through some of the prettiest villages imaginable and wondered why on earth Brent would want to leave such an idyll. It did not make sense. As long as there was a living to be earned here why migrate? But, perhaps there was no living to be earned. Brent had his heart set on music and the opportunities for music, other than the local Salvation Army band, were most likely very limited.

  At Evenlode the road forked and he did not know which one to take. He consulted his map and saw that it didn’t matter, since the road formed a ring around the village. So he took the left option and passed a row of cottages then fields. The lane, overhung with trees, narrowed and twisted to the right. As he drove slowly, peering in every direction, looking for a pub now where he could get refreshment and perhaps a cheese cob, he saw a small church on his left. A few yards from the front of the gate to the churchyard stood a largish tree, and he decided to park beneath it, to take advantage of its shade.

  He looked around. The place seemed deserted. It was such a sleepy little village. He peered over the yellow stone wall encrusted with lichens that surrounded the ancient churchyard. The notice board that stood at the gate confirmed it was the church of St Edward; five or six hundred years old, Stephen estimated. He opened the gate, ready to repeat the exercise of looking at the inscriptions on graves. This was a small churchyard. It would not take long to read this lot. And most were so old as to be unreadable.

  As he walked between graves he happened on a bunch of freshly cut sweetpeas left lying in brown paper on the ground, alongside a pair of scissors that glinted in the sunshine. Somebody attending a grave had evidently been called away. He would place the flowers on the grave for whoever it was; it would take no effort. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a young woman walking towards him carrying an enamelled grave vase that was dripping with water. She looked at him apprehensively at first then, sensing that he was not unfriendl
y and, typical of the people of the area, smiled trustingly and wished him good morning.

  He greeted her with his friendliest grin, as much to reassure her of his integrity in so deserted a place. ‘I was about to place the flowers on the grave,’ he said affably, ‘till I noticed there was no vase.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the young woman replied. ‘It was a kind thought.’

  ‘At first, you see, I thought whoever it was, must have been called away.’

  ‘Only by the need to get some fresh water for them.’ Her softly spoken voice was refined.

  He watched her as she bent down self-consciously and began trimming the stems of the flowers. He tried to think of something to say that did not sound trite. She was in her early twenties, slim and very pretty, with eyes the colour of amethyst and fair, unruly hair that cascaded over her face appealingly as she worked. She wore no stockings and her light summer frock was clean and crisp and, although it was plain and far from new, she looked becoming enough in it.

  ‘I’m a stranger to these parts…unfortunately,’ he said at last. ‘I must say, I do like it around here. It’s beautiful…and tranquil. Different to Birmingham. I think I could happily settle in the Cotswolds.’

  She looked up at him and smiled, and her blue eyes crinkled engagingly. ‘Everybody says that who comes here.’

  Stephen looked at the inscription on the headstone of the grave she was working on and read it aloud. ‘To the memory of Lady Elizabeth Hunstanton who slipped peacefully away January 22nd 1931 aged 72. Rest in peace.’ He paused, expecting her to say something, but she just looked up at him with that pleasant friendly smile. ‘Your mother?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not my mother,’ she replied softly. ‘A friend.’

  She placed the last of the sweetpeas in the grave vase and adjusted the positions of one or two before she stood up. She was no more than five feet tall in her sandals, Stephen reckoned.

  ‘That’s quite an age gap for friends. You must only be in your early twenties.’ Out of habit he looked for a ring and noticed she was not wearing one.

  ‘Yes. Early twenties.’ She gave him another of her lovely smiles. But the hint of shyness, along with her petiteness, he found very attractive.

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t trying to find out your age. I must seem very ungallant.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She smiled again, self-consciously and her long eyelashes swept her cheek as she cast her eyes down. ‘I don’t really hold with the notion that a woman should try to effect some mystique by withholding her age. Those who do are usually middle-aged and dearly wish they were younger…Are you on holiday in these parts?’

  He was encouraged by her attempt at conversation. ‘No, not on holiday. I’ve just taken the day off work to do some browsing. What about you? Are you on holiday?’

  ‘No, I live in the village.’

  ‘But you’re evidently not at work. It’s feasible you could be on holiday, especially as you’re not married. I’m assuming you’re not married.’

  She looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Sorry. There I go again. I don’t mean to pry. Really I don’t. I design and make jewellery, you see. Instinctively, I always look at a girl’s hands to see what rings she’s wearing. I see you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

  She nodded her understanding without looking at him. ‘Oh, it’s all right. Please don’t apologise. You could say marriage has passed me by.’ Her colour rose appealingly as she uttered the words.

  ‘I’m not married either.’

  ‘You say you design and produce jewellery? That sounds fascinating.’

  ‘Yes, when I can’t escape to the Cotswolds.’

  ‘So what brings you here?’ she asked. ‘Is browsing churchyards your hobby or something?’

  ‘Not especially. I’m looking for a particular grave.’

  ‘A very old one? Some of them are illegible.’

  ‘A fairly recent one, actually.’

  ‘Really? Shall I help you look? I might know it.’

  ‘Oh, please. It’s not likely to take long.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m not in a particular hurry,’ she said.

  He managed to divert his eyes from her exquisite profile and scanned the churchyard. ‘I’m trying to find out what happened to a young woman that came from this village. It’s feasible you might have known her. Her name was Eleanor Christiana Beckett. Have you ever heard of her?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ the girl asked.

  ‘How she died, why she died, under what circumstances…Whatever I can find out about her.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Personal interest. Somebody I know has assumed her identity and I’m intrigued as to why. I also want to know who the impersonator really is.’

  His eyes fastened on hers again. He noticed she offered no smile this time. Instead, her expression was one of earnestness.

  ‘I might be able to help you,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’d like to help you. But you won’t find her grave here…’

  ‘Oh. So you knew Eleanor?’

  ‘Yes, I knew her. I knew her very well.’

  ‘Well, if I won’t find her grave here, perhaps you could tell me where it is. Why not sit in my car under the shadow of that tree there and tell me about her? It’ll be cooler there.’

  ‘All right.’ She put her scissors in her pocket, screwed up the brown paper from her sweetpeas and tossed it into a bin.

  Chapter 30

  Stephen reflected on what he had learned in Evenlode with a peculiar detachment as he drove back home to Birmingham. It was the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him, meeting this girl. She was so appealing. Five feet nothing of sparkling blue-eyed femininity that had really turned his head – when, by God, it needed turning. As he drove through Redditch, heading out towards Alvechurch, his thoughts were focused less on the problem of the woman he had always known as Eleanor, more on this other girl. He kept turning over in his mind their conversation, but not just their conversation; he felt from the outset that somehow he appealed to her as much as she appealed to him. He could hardly believe his luck.

  ‘And you’re sure this has nothing to do with Brent?’ the girl had asked him with a measure of apprehension that was not unnatural in the circumstances.

  ‘Not directly,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s to do with the girl who’s been impersonating your friend Eleanor. I thought if I could track down somebody who knew the real Eleanor, then it might shed some light on who this other girl really is.’

  ‘How is she impersonating her?’ He could still hear her clear soft voice in his head.

  ‘By living her life, till recently, as Mrs Eleanor Shackleton. She evidently moved to Birmingham from Chipping Camden with him.’

  ‘Birmingham? So that’s where he got to. Not so far away,’ the girl had commented. ‘But you could easily lose yourself, so to speak, in a big city like Birmingham.’

  ‘So do you have any idea who this girl might be?’ he’d asked. It was the one question that was burning him up and he could hardly contain himself waiting for her answer.

  ‘Mmm…’ She had hesitated agonisingly, looking down into her lap where her hands were clasped together. Her thumbs revolved around each other disconcertedly while she determined, it seemed, how much of the truth she should reveal. ‘That would be Olive,’ she said at last. ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Olive?’ He had never heard of anybody they knew called Olive.

  ‘Yes, they ran away together the night—’

  Looking back, he knew he should have asked what night. Instead, like the impetuous fool he sometimes was he had let it go and, instead, jumped in with: ‘They ran away together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So who was she, this Olive?’

  ‘Brent’s sister.’

  He remembered scoffing in disbelief. Of course, Brent had a sister…People had been telling him that all morning. ‘But she couldn’t be his sister,’ he’d replied to that lovely girl. ‘No,
they lived as man and wife…With nothing barred – if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like Olive…I’m sorry.’

  There had been a few bewildered moments before he responded to that. It was, after all, a concept that took quite some getting used to. The ramifications finally hit him like the blow from a sledgehammer. He recalled putting his head in his hands in utter disbelief. Was this girl he’d known all this time as Eleanor really Brent’s sister, Olive? He felt sick at the thought of all it implied. How could anybody…? It was perverted. It was human nature at its vilest.

  ‘You poor, poor man,’ she had whispered, and he remembered the depth of her obvious concern for him at receiving this disturbing information. Then she asked the question that confirmed it as the absolute truth: ‘Is she still as stunningly beautiful?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she’s still as stunningly beautiful,’ he’d answered. ‘But only on the outside.’ If it were physically possible to purge her depraved soul clean, he contemplated, she could never be a match for that lovely little fair-haired, amethyst-eyed angel that had put him wise.

  ‘Well, I can tell you that Eleanor didn’t find out about their incestuous relationship until it was too late,’ she had said. ‘She was already married to Brent by the time that became evident.’ At that, she had bestowed on him a radiant smile that he found extraordinarily comforting.

  Stephen should have been sad at what he heard. He should have been angry. He should have felt nauseous at the dark, disgusting secret he had uncovered that day. But he did not. He felt uplifted. He felt relieved. Fortune had unexpectedly smiled on him good and proper this time; not financially, but spiritually. It was entirely because of the lovely girl he had met who was like a fresh breath of springtime ousting a dismal winter fog that conceals ugliness and awful truths. He asked if he could see her again; he had to see her again; he could not lose her now he had found her. And she had said yes. Now he could hardly wait. He laughed to himself, euphoric that something ultimately positive and chaste was unfolding in his life. She had such a wonderful name too, that suited her perfectly. Cassandra, she’d said it was. Cassandra.