by Peter Hey
Invitations were sent out and girls were brought in by army truck from East Dereham and its surrounding villages. The events were weekly, but alternated between the officers and the enlisted men, their social lives being strictly segregated on the base. Mary, as a land girl, was only invited to dance with the lower ranks. The daughter of a miner, she’d been raised to know her place in society and never felt the snub. She was somewhat more self-conscious about what she was obliged to wear. Her crops officer insisted that, as proud members of the Women's Land Army, the girls should always be in uniform when attending a military site.
And so it was that Mary found herself sitting on a wooden bench that ran the length of one side of an ancient barn, whose roughly hewn timbers curved and bent in organic sympathy with the trees that donated them centuries before. The room was brightly lit, and a parachute had been hung from the rafters like a canopy. Further decoration was provided by United States flags adorning all four walls. One end of the building was given over to a low stage, on which a small band of five musicians did their best to recreate the hits of Glenn Miller and his contemporaries. The American airmen were dancing in their dress uniforms, which apart from the insignia on their sleeves, made them all look like officers, certainly in comparison to anything their British counterparts might be issued. The town girls were wearing their finest frocks and spinning and giggling as their partners tried to outdo each other with ever more elaborate steps.
In her baggy brown corduroy breeches, knee socks and green sweater, Mary felt like an ugly sister but still held her head high. She was doing her bit. She was serving king and country and not just a silly shop assistant or cinema usherette. She also knew she was pretty. She had to be or she wouldn’t have caught James’ eye.
She was staring up at the parachute when she became aware of a man standing in front of her. Looking down, her eyes quickly flicked away again as she tried to ignore his gaze. He wore a sergeant’s stripes but Yanks were supposed to be tall and this one was a head shorter that most of the men in the room. He had thinning blond hair and a narrow, pinched face with a sallow complexion. If anything, he looked malnourished, though everyone knew the Yanks ate like lords, whilst the native population suffered the rigours of shortages and rationing.
Through a toothy smile, he finally found the confidence to speak, raising his voice over the trumpet and clarinet. ‘Ma’am, I’d be mighty grateful if you’d do me the honour.’
The voice too was a disappointment, pitched somewhere nearer Ginger Rogers than Fred Astaire. Mary wanted to say no, but couldn’t think of an excuse. She opted for damage limitation.
‘Of course, but just the one. I’m really not much of dancer.’
It was a realistic assessment of her abilities if not her intentions, but the diminutive sergeant made up for her shortcomings and was soon leading her through a complicated and energetic jitterbug. The boy sure could dance and despite her plan to remain coolly detached, Mary was soon beaming with delight as she lost herself in the music and the whirling happiness of being young and alive. The American introduced himself as Woody, and when the number ended, thanked Mary and offered to show her back to her seat.
‘I’m happy to stay on the floor,’ she said. ‘Unless there’s someone else you want to dance with?’
Woody shook his head. ‘No, ma’am. I’m already dancing with the finest girl in the room.’
They stayed together all evening, taking occasional breaks from the floor to drink at the makeshift bar. Woody stuck to beer, properly chilled, and Mary sipped Coca Cola whilst tucking into the plentiful supply of cakes and what Woody insisted on calling cookies. They were a treat she’d rarely enjoyed since sugar had become so hard to get hold of.
He told her he was from the cornfields of the Midwest and had never seen the sea until Uncle Sam shipped him over 3000 heaving miles of it. He was a gunner in one of the giant four-engined B-24 bombers, and his small stature meant he could squeeze into one of the key positions defending the plane against fighters coming up from below. Mary asked him what it was like and whether he was ever scared. She expected a bravado answer, but Woody told her it was cold and it was very frightening when the air was filled with exploding flak or a Messerschmitt was blasting its cannons straight at you. He acknowledged the view could be great and then changed the subject. His watery-blue eyes had seemed to age, and it was clear he would rather not talk about the dirty business of war nor reflect on the danger facing those who hit back at occupied Europe from daylight skies.
Mary found herself unexpectedly attracted to him. Like the millions of cinema-going women who had fallen for weedy, odd-looking Fred Astaire, she was partly won over by his dancing but more by his sense of humour and his charm. James was funny and charming too, when he wanted to be, but the American seemed a nice, decent man. Even through the blinkers of her infatuation, she’d never fooled herself that James was either of those things.
Towards the end of the evening, the band struck up a slow waltz. Woody held Mary tight as they shuffled round the dance floor one last time. It was what she expected, but somehow it was sexless, as if he were a little boy clinging to his mother, never wanting to let go because of the terrifying world that lay outside the embrace.
The music stopped and Mary asked Woody if he wanted to go outside for some air. The look in her eyes suggested she was offering something else, and he briefly wondered what his staunchly religious parents back home would think. And then he remembered the Plexiglas gun turret that awaited him, so tight that his parachute had to be left outside and cut by an icy slipstream that threatened frostbite to nose, ears and fingers. He saw planes falling from formation, with broken wings and shattered tails. He saw burning figures throwing themselves to oblivion. Woody knew some of the enlisted men would not make the next dance. He might well be one of them.
Documentation and confirmation
The certificates confirmed all of Tommy’s assumptions, even his guess that Mary’s birth name had been Mary Dye Butler. Reuben Dye was registered as her father, so he had clearly taken responsibility for his new daughter from the outset. Mary was, indeed, the fourth sister and shared her full parentage with Margaret Stothard’s mother.
The paternity of Mary’s own children was also clearly documented. Woodrow Jensen, sergeant US Army Air Force, was registered as the father of Lois Elizabeth Jensen. James Smith, small trader, was shown as the father of Ernald James Smith. Having the exact dates also verified that Mary was pregnant on both her wedding days.
Lois died of cancer in her early sixties. Her husband, Robert Aimson, a retired newsagent, was 13 years older and predeceased her by a year. The couple stayed in the same house until the end of their lives and there they raised their only son, Christopher Robert.
Lois’s half-brother, Ernald, also had the one child, Dean Ernald James Smith. On Dean’s birth certificate, Ernald’s occupation was given as ‘labourer’. Manual work appeared to have taken its toll: Ernald only made it to 49, dying of heart failure. At that stage he was unemployed.
In terms of locations, Jane knew from her previous research that the Derbyshire village of Dowley appeared to have little attraction for the younger generations of Dyes. Nearly all of them, including three of the four sisters, moved away. The youngest sister emigrated all the way to Australia. Mary had Lois in Norfolk, but then she bucked the trend and moved back to Dowley with her second husband for the birth of Ernald. In time, the pattern repeated and Lois married, had her son and ultimately died some 70 miles away on the outskirts of Birmingham. Ernald travelled less far to the nearby town of Chesterfield, taking his last breaths in its main hospital.
Jane sat back and considered the evidence in front of her. All these people summarised by the registrar’s trinity of birth, marriage and death: snapshots of data – occupations, addresses, relationships – standing in for lives, personalities and motivations. She could see nothing to even hint at why Mary became such a pariah that her own sister denied her very existence. The fa
mily history databases were offering no more clues. There were no wills to document disputed inheritances, no overlapping family trees linking to distant relatives with a story to tell.
Jane could see only one way forward. She needed to track down Mary’s surviving descendants, her grandsons, Christopher Aimson and Dean Smith. Assuming Mary was less secretive than her sisters, the two men might hold the key to solving the mystery.
But first, Jane had some news to break.
Revelation and reconsideration
There was already a car in Jane’s usual parking space in front of Margaret Stothard’s bungalow. It was a rather grand white Mercedes which, fortunately, had been parked tight against the garage door, allowing Jane to fit the Mazda alongside. She checked the other car over as she walked past it; the number plates were this year’s and a rental agreement had been tossed onto the passenger seat. She could just make out Heathrow scrawled in one of the boxes on the form.
Jane had thought it best to update Margaret in person. Whilst she’d said she was prepared for the worst, it was a big secret for her mother to have kept from her.
Jane climbed the steps and rang the bell. This time it was not the live-in helper, Caroline, who appeared at the door, but a handsome man in his early forties with a neat mop of straw-blond hair casually swept back from his face. Jane was only partly surprised to see Julian Stothard standing in front of her. She’d already decided he was a likely candidate for the sort of person who would arrive at an airport and rent a Mercedes rather than a Volkswagen or Ford. She was a little more surprised that he was only of average height: she had always pictured someone bigger.
Julian smiled warmly. ‘Jane. Lovely to meet you at last.’
‘Julian. Your mother said you were in Europe, but I understood you weren’t due to visit her until next week?’
‘Last minute change of plan. A business meeting got moved, so I hopped on a plane and came straight over.’
Jane waited to be invited in, but after a slightly awkward pause it became obvious there was something Julian wanted to say out of earshot of his mother.
‘Look, I feel I owe you an apology. Mum thinks you’re wonderful and I suspect I was a little hard on you when we spoke over the Internet.’
Jane replied with a noncommittal smile and Julian continued. ‘I’d got my work head on and I was gearing up for some serious negotiations later that day. Mining’s a tough business, getting tougher, and you can’t pussy-foot around. I sometimes forget that in the outside world a bit of tact and diplomacy can go a long way. Anyway, will you accept my apology?’
‘Of course. It wasn’t a problem. I’m not a sensitive flower.’ Jane wanted to believe she was being honest.
‘Good. Thank you. And, about your fees, I’ll happily pay for all your time. That results-only condition was unreasonably stringent.’
Jane nodded, more in acknowledgement than agreement. ‘I accepted the terms, but as I told your mother on the phone, we’ve now found something very significant. I’m confident it’s what we’ve been looking for. It’s the what, even though we don’t understand the why just yet.’
Julian raised his eyebrows and Jane hoped that indicated he was impressed as well as intrigued.
He gestured towards the first door down the hallway. ‘Well, please go through and you can reveal all.’ As Jane passed, he added, ‘You are tall, aren’t you?’ and then followed her into the sitting room.
Margaret Stothard was waiting for them. She looked up unseeingly when they walked in.
Julian confirmed what his mother already knew. ‘It’s Jane, Mum. Prompt and on time as you said she’d be.’
Margaret held out her hand for Jane to take. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Jane dear. It sounded very exciting on the phone. You’ve identified the unknown woman in the wedding photographs. Was she a close cousin as we suspected?’
Jane looked at Julian before replying. She felt like a doctor breaking bad news. ‘She was closer than that. If you remember, my initial reaction was that she looked like a fourth sister. I’m afraid that’s who she was – your grandparents’ first child and your mother’s oldest sister.’
Margaret looked shocked. ‘But why, dear? Why would my mother keep something like that from me? Are you sure?’
Jane laid out her evidence. The Stothards agreed it was compelling: the names, the dates, the places fitted together faultlessly. Jane gently quizzed Margaret to try to unearth some hidden memory, something her mother or father might once have said, that would explain why the deception had been maintained. The older woman could do little more than shake her head.
Eventually, Julian tried to lighten the mood. ‘Well, on that bombshell, to quote Jeremy Clarkson, I need to eat. The sun’s shining; it’s a glorious day; I’ll buy us all lunch in the pub by the bridge.’
Margaret declined. ‘No thank you, darling. Caroline has already made something and I’m not in the mood. I’d rather just have a bit of a think. Maybe there is something I’m forgetting.’ Sensing an air of concern, she added, ‘Don’t worry. It was a bit of a shock at first, but I’m actually quite excited now. It’s a real life mystery, isn’t it? You young people go out and enjoy the sunshine.’
Julian and Jane walked the short distance down the hill and over the main road to the Midland, named after the railway company whose locomotives had once steamed down the far side of the gorge. The pub was on the corner of the bridge and the busy A6, but its rear backed onto the River Derwent, where it had a large number of tables laid out on terraces cut into the riverbank. They ordered at the bar and then Julian led the way down to the lower terrace, a few feet above the gently flowing water. It was a lovely spot and it was easy to ignore the constant background rumble of traffic. Their conversation quickly returned to the reason they found themselves in each other’s company.
‘So, Jane. What next?’
‘I need to track down Christopher Aimson and Dean Smith, your cousins, or rather your second cousins.’
‘Do you think that’ll be straightforward?’
‘Aimson is a very uncommon surname. It might not sound like it, but it is. Are you still registered to vote in this country?’
Julian looked puzzled at the apparent change of subject, prompting Jane to quickly explain. ‘Okay, these days you have the choice of whether your name and address should go on the public or private copy of the electoral roll. The public, or open, register is sold to anyone who wants to buy it, including online websites, so people are increasingly opting out.’
‘I would for one,’ interjected Julian.
‘Same here. So does Christopher Aimson, now. But, I’ve found him living at his parent’s old house as recently as 2009. Since then someone else appears to have moved in, but I’ve written to them asking if they’ve got a forwarding address. There’s also a Chris Aimson on Facebook. The account’s locked down quite tightly so you can’t see any personal details. The profile picture is of a young child, so this Chris is obviously a parent. Trouble is, I’m not 100% sure if it’s Christopher or Christine. They don’t accept friend requests, but I’ve sent them a message. There’s been no response yet, but I’ll try again and hopefully they’ll get back to me.’
Jane took a sip from her coke before continuing. ‘If Aimson’s uncommon, Smith, of course, is as far in the opposite direction as it’s possible to go. Dean’s got two middle names, so that ought to help, but he’s proving elusive. I can’t see any evidence he’s ever registered to vote. There are lots of Dean Smiths on Facebook. Too many. I’ve contacted a couple who look like they might be possibles, but I’m not optimistic they’re our man. If not, I’ve got a few other strings to my bow. Maybe I’ll need to call in a favour from my previous life in the police to find Mr Dean Ernald James Smith.’
Julian looked satisfied. ‘Sounds like you’re the right woman for the job.’ His expression suddenly changed. ‘You know, that’s a weird name, isn’t it? Ernald, I mean. But I’ve got a nagging feeling I’ve heard it somewhere befo
re.’
Julian took out his iPhone and began tapping on the screen. After 30 seconds, he looked up. ‘Yes. That’s why it’s familiar. My degree was from the old Royal School of Mines at Imperial College in London. But I did an optional module on 20th-century history and one essay I wrote was about the rise and fall of British fascism between the wars. The leader of the British Union of Fascists in the 1930s was Oswald Mosley. I’m sure you know that, but you’ve probably never heard his middle name. Sir Oswald Mosley, baronet, was Christened Oswald Ernald Mosley in 1896.’
Limehouse 1936
They were standing on a wide cobbled street overlooked by tall, soot-stained dockland warehouses. Behind them was a high brick wall, with spirals of viciously barbed wire fixed on its crest to deter access to the imported riches beyond. The people of Limehouse were poor; many were desperate. The Depression had bitten deep and nowhere were its teeth sharper than on the dark streets and alleys of London’s East End.
It was a cold October morning, but none of the assembly wore coats. All the men were puffing on cigarettes, as were several of the boys but fewer of the women. Icy breath mingled with tobacco smoke as if a thin London fog had settled on this one backstreet.
The voices were loud and confident. The mood was expectant and arrogant. They were wearing their uniforms with pride and stood in sufficient numbers to deter any gang of left-wing dockers or their Jewish friends. But if they chose to turn up looking for trouble, the men in black would readily oblige. They would argue, with limited conviction, that they would never start fights, but would always finish them.
A military voice barked out a command. ‘He’s coming. Form ranks!’
Cigarettes were thrown to the ground and stamped on. Those who remembered wartime parade grounds lined up quickly, and the younger men and women copied as best they could. The Blackshirts stood together, then the cadets and finally the women in their berets and flared skirts. Behind the cadets were the standard bearers holding the Union Flag and the Flash and Circle high above their heads.