by Roberta Kray
She queued up to buy a ticket for the Tube before making a careful study of the Underground map. The route didn’t seem too complicated: four stops along the Northern Line to Moorgate before a change to the Metropolitan and District Line and one more stop to Liverpool Street. From there, she would have to take an ordinary train to Kellston.
The platform was busy, but she found a bench with a space at the end and perched on the edge. It felt strange, unnatural, to be down in the bowels of the earth. Her eyes scanned the people around her before moving on to the sooty curved walls of the tunnel with its bright advertisements for shampoo and raincoats and gin. Immediately ahead was a poster for a play: Death of a Salesman. She found the title disturbing and quickly glanced away.
She felt the train before she saw it, a slight but distinct shifting of the air. There was a rumble like distant thunder before it rolled in. She stood up, waited for the doors to open, joined the crush to get on, stepped into the carriage and sat down in the first available free seat. As the train moved off, she hoped she was on the correct one and going in the right direction.
It was a relief when the train arrived at King’s Cross a few minutes later. She’d had visions of having to jump off, of trying again, of spending half the day going round and round in circles. Now that she knew she hadn’t made a mistake, she was able to relax. She wondered if Dan ever used the Tube. Her gaze slid across her fellow passengers as she looked for his face, his eyes and mouth, the shock of fair hair. The odds might be slim – he was just one man in a city of millions – but she believed in fate.
By the time she’d negotiated her way to Liverpool Street, Judith was glad to be back on the surface of the earth again. Although she appreciated how efficient the Tube was, a quick and easy method of getting around London, the narrow tunnels made her feel claustrophobic. Some of the smells weren’t too pleasant either. There wasn’t much ventilation, and the body odour of her fellow travellers lingered in the stuffy air.
The journey to Kellston was a slow one, with stops at numerous places she’d never heard of. The view from the window was none too inspiring: cranes, building sites, ramshackle warehouses and endless rows of squat terraces, their walls blackened by steam from the trains. The only green she saw was along the side of the tracks, straggly weeds poking through the nooks and crannies.
The scene didn’t improve as the train approached Kellston, becoming if anything even more grey and dismal. But she refused to be downhearted. It didn’t matter what the place looked like so long as Dan was somewhere in it. The thought that she might see him soon made her heart leap in her chest. Whatever had happened to make him stay away, whatever had gone wrong, she would find a way to make it right.
Judith hurried off the train, eager to begin the search. She climbed the stairs and exited the station. Her first job was to find somewhere to stay. Although she’d packed sparingly, she didn’t want to be carting her suitcase around. Her luck was in. Directly opposite was a row of B&Bs, nearly all of them with a sign saying ‘Vacancies’ in their front window.
She crossed the road, wondering which one to choose. Well, she wasn’t going to waste much time on the decision; she only had a week and didn’t intend to squander a minute of it. A week to find Dan. Was that possible in a city this size? Before her confidence could ebb away, she strode purposefully up the short path of an establishment called Sycamore House and rang the bell.
The door was answered by a man in his fifties wearing fawn trousers, a stained white shirt and braces. There was an unlit cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. He gave a nod, glanced down at her case and back up at her again.
‘After a room, are you?’
Judith hesitated, worried that she’d made the wrong choice. What if the room was as grubby as the man standing in front of her? But it was too late to backtrack now. ‘A single,’ she said. ‘Just for a few nights.’ She could always move on, find somewhere else if it was truly dreadful. ‘How much would that be?’
‘Seven bob,’ he said.
‘A night?’
One of his eyebrows arched up. ‘That’s good value, love. You won’t find anything cheaper round ’ere.’
Judith had no idea if this was true or not. She’d have paid less for a hotel room in Westport, but London was an expensive place. Should she shop around, try somewhere else? No, she had more important things to do. ‘All right.’
‘You’d better come in, then.’
She followed him into the hall.
‘Front or back?’ he asked. ‘It’s quieter at the back. You don’t get the noise from the street.’
She was about to agree that this would be better when it occurred to her that there might be advantages to being at the front. She could look out of the window and see everyone who went in and out of the station, everyone who walked past the house. ‘I’d prefer the front, if that’s all right.’
‘You sure?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
He gave a shrug, opened the drawer of a small table, took out a key and gave it to her. ‘Second floor, first on your left. Bathroom’s at the end of the landing.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Breakfast is between six thirty and eight.’
Judith climbed the stairs quickly. She found the room, unlocked the door, stepped inside and looked around. Her heart sank. It was small and dingy, with an odd, musty smell. The carpet was worn, almost threadbare, and there were cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. She laid her case on the narrow bed and went over to the window. From here there was an excellent view of the street at least, but she didn’t linger. It was time to start looking for Dan.
7
Judith was halfway up the high street when she noticed the library on the other side of the road. She stopped and stared at the building, dithering for a moment, undecided. In the end, figuring she might as well do it now as later, she crossed over and went inside.
The rooms were large and cool and hushed. There were several people sitting at tables, a few more perusing the books on the shelves. She went to the counter, where a severe-looking woman was working through a pile of novels, opening them and slipping tickets into the inside pouches. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I don’t suppose you have a list of local locksmiths, by any chance?’
The librarian glanced up. ‘There’s one just past the station. Taylor’s, they’re called. Beside the café. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you. Are there any others in the area?’
The woman looked at her more closely, wondering perhaps why anyone would need more than one locksmith. ‘Others?’
‘Yes, I, er … I want a few quotes. You know, to get the best price.’
The woman seemed to sense that she was lying. Her tone became even chillier as she gestured towards the rear of the library. ‘You could try the telephone directories. They’re in the reference section.’
‘Thanks,’ Judith said. ‘I’ll do that.’ She could feel the older woman’s gaze on her as she walked away. Why hadn’t she told the truth? Because the truth sounded plain crazy: My husband was presumed dead but there’s a chance he could be working as a locksmith in Kellston. She didn’t need to see any pitying looks – time enough for that when she went knocking on doors. For now, she simply wanted to gather whatever information she could.
There were a couple of directories covering the East End. She took them to a table, sat down and got out her notepad and pen. Within a quarter of an hour she had a list of over twenty locksmiths, one other in Kellston, up at the top end of the high street, the rest in places like Shoreditch, Bethnal Green, Hoxton, Whitechapel, Poplar and Stepney. And that, she suspected, was just the tip of the iceberg. There could be lots more businesses that were in adjoining areas or weren’t even listed.
She sighed as the enormity of her task began to sink in. And what if she was looking in the wrong place entirely? The Mirror picture had been taken in the West End, not the East. Maybe that was where she should be focusing h
er attention. As she pondered on this, she tapped her pen against the pad. An elderly man sitting at the far end of the table scowled at her and cleared his throat disapprovingly.
Judith stopped tapping, put away the pen and pad, stood up, placed the directories back on the shelf and hurried out of the library. She had to get on with her search before she lost heart. As she strode up the high street, she tried to prepare herself for what lay ahead. Door-to-door enquiries: wasn’t that what the police called it? She checked her bag to make sure the photograph was still there. She’d placed it in an envelope with cardboard on either side so it wouldn’t get creased. Maybe she should have shown the picture to the librarian – but Dan had never been a great reader. She doubted he’d ever crossed the threshold of a library in his life.
The street seemed to go on for ever, long and straight, with shops on either side. It was shabby but busy, a hustling, bustling place full of people. Buses roared past, spewing out their exhaust fumes. She passed a butcher, a tobacconist, a pawn shop and a café called Connolly’s. Peering in through the window of the latter, she saw a list of the day’s specials chalked on a blackboard. The prices didn’t seem too steep. Maybe she would eat there later.
As she continued northwards, the shops petered out and the street became much quieter. It was only when she reached the end that she realised why. Her heart sank as she surveyed the bleak landscape in front of her. Where Mansfield Road should have been, there was only ruin and desolation. Most of the area had been flattened, destroyed by bombs, and all that remained was a few walls and a heap of rubble.
She stared at the destruction with horror and disappointment. What now? Her shoulders slumped as the reality sank in. Nothing was left of Dan’s childhood home or the homes of his neighbours. Her plan, like the street, had been blown into a million pieces. Tears of frustration sprang into her eyes. This had been her best hope, and now it was gone.
For a while, she couldn’t move; her feet were rooted to the spot. She wondered how many people had died here, their lives wiped out, their futures ripped away from them. It was too terrible to take in. There was an eerie feel to the place, a sense of ghosts – resentful ghosts – lurking in the rubble. She felt their gaze on her, their bitter indignation. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
She shook her head. She was just being fanciful. The dead couldn’t harm you. It was the living you had to watch out for. At least that was what Aunt Laura had always said. But the feeling she was not alone persisted. Instinctively she took a step back. There was nothing here to harm her, and yet she still felt threatened.
The nearest houses were a fair way off. She started walking again, trying to jolly herself into a more positive frame of mind. All right, it was a setback, but she couldn’t give up at the first hurdle. There might still be people living in the vicinity who remembered Dan. She skirted round the wasteland, knowing that at some time in the past he must have walked here too. It was strange to think of it. Had he come back from the war and stood where she had stood? How awful it must have been to see everything destroyed. But then maybe he had seen far worse things, things she couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Eventually she arrived at a tangle of streets, the first of which was Talbot Road. She took a few deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves. Anxiety tugged at her guts. The long terrace stretched ahead of her, and behind every front door was a stranger she would have to talk to. ‘You can do it,’ she murmured. ‘You have to do it.’
Quickly she took the photograph from her handbag, marched up to the first house and rapped on the door.
Her knock was answered by a girl in her late teens with a baby in her arms. ‘Yes?’
Judith smiled at her. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for this man.’ She held up the photograph. ‘His name’s Dan Jonson. I don’t suppose you know him, do you?’
The girl glanced at the photo and shook her head. ‘Nah.’
‘His family lived in Mansfield Road.’
But this snippet of information didn’t jog the girl’s memory. She shook her head again. ‘Nah, I ain’t never seen him before.’
‘Do you know anyone round here who might be able to help?’
The girl gave a shrug. The baby began to cry, a soft whimpering sound that gradually grew in pitch and volume. ‘Sorry,’ she said, retreating back inside and closing the door.
Judith wasn’t too disheartened. The girl was probably too young to remember the Jonsons anyway. She moved on to the next house. An older woman came to the door and gave her a hard look.
‘What do you want?’
Judith held out the photo. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for this man. His name’s Dan Jonson and he used to live round here, on—’
‘No, love,’ the woman interrupted. ‘I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Are you sure, only—’
She shut the door in Judith’s face.
Judith moved on to the third house, and the fourth, and the fifth. By the time she’d completed the street, she was no better off than when she’d started. Some of the residents were friendlier than others, but it was the same story again and again: nobody recognised Dan, and nobody had heard of the Jonsons.
She shifted her search on to Henry Road but had no joy there either. A tiny glimmer of hope came when she was almost at the end of Boxley Street. An elderly woman, her face as wrinkled as a prune, peered down at the photo.
‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Dan, Dan Jonson. Do you recognise him?’
‘He looks a bit like …’
Judith waited, but no further information was forthcoming. ‘Who does he look like?’ she prompted, grasping at the only straw she’d had to date.
Another woman came to the door. ‘What’s going on, Mum?’
‘This young lady’s looking for someone. She’s got a photograph.’
The daughter frowned at Judith, and then at the picture. ‘He’s not here, that’s for sure. We don’t know him.’
‘Your mother thought she might.’
‘Yes, well, her memory’s not what it was. She gets confused. Don’t you, Mum?’
The old woman sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s my eyes, you see. They’re not as good as they used to be. I thought … but no, it’s not him, not him at all.’
Judith would have pressed her further – who was this man who looked like Dan? – if it hadn’t been for the daughter staring daggers at her. Clearly she’d outstayed her welcome. ‘All right. Thanks for your time.’
The daughter pulled her mother inside and closed the door.
The sound of doors shutting was becoming familiar to Judith. She made a mental note of the address: 18 Boxley Street. Maybe it would be worth coming back if she could catch the old woman when the daughter wasn’t around. It was probably something and nothing, but it was the nearest she’d got to a lead all morning.
She continued to trudge the surrounding streets for the next two hours, up and down, up and down, always getting the same answers to the same questions. How was it possible that Dan had grown up in this area and yet nobody recognised him? It didn’t make any sense. The only conclusion she could draw was that she’d been lied to, either by the locals – but why would they? – or by Dan himself. Maybe this wasn’t where he’d lived after all. Maybe everything he’d told her had been pure fiction.
She dwelled on this as she retraced her steps. She didn’t want to believe it, but she couldn’t dismiss it. After all, this was a man who was supposed to be dead. What bigger lie could there be? If he was capable of allowing her to believe that, he was capable of anything. And yet she didn’t want to think badly of him. It was too soon to be imagining the worst. She was just tired and frustrated, disappointed by her lack of progress.
Her next port of call was the locksmith at the top end of the high street. She went inside and approached the counter, behind which a man was working on a machine that sounded like a dentis
t’s drill. He finished what he was doing, turned to her and nodded.
‘How can I help?’
This time Judith tried a different tack. Instead of immediately producing the photograph, she smiled brightly and said, ‘Hello. I’m looking for Dan Jonson. He does work here, doesn’t he?’
‘There’s no Dan Jonson here, I’m afraid. Only me. Sure you’ve got the right place?’
‘I could have sworn he said the high street.’
‘You could try Taylor’s down by the station.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you. I suppose you know most of the other locksmiths in the East End?’
‘Some,’ he said.
She took out the photograph and put it on the counter. ‘This is Dan. Have you come across him at all, seen him around?’
The man looked at the wedding picture and suddenly smirked as if a penny had dropped. His gaze slid to her face and then down to her stomach, as if he expected to see a tell-tale bump. ‘Done a runner, has he?’
Judith felt her cheeks redden. ‘Not exactly. It’s complicated.’
He carried on grinning at her. ‘Sorry, I don’t know the geezer. Like I said, you should try Taylor’s.’
Judith left the shop with her face still blazing but with something new to think about. Maybe all the other people she’d shown the photograph to had jumped to the same conclusion. But so what if they had? Unless they’d been trying to cover for Dan, to put her off the scent. No, that was just ridiculous. Why would they protect him like that? Most of the people she’d talked to had been women. Wouldn’t they be more inclined to take her side? But then again, she was a stranger, someone they’d never met before. Perhaps their loyalty would always lie with the local boy, whatever he might have done.