By Charles Harrison’s side was Zoe Harrison, his daughter. As Alec had hoped, Zoe looked stunning in a fitted black suit with a short skirt that showed off her long legs, and her hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon that set off her classic English-rose beauty to perfection. She was an actress, whose film career was on the rise, and Matthew had been mad about her. He always said Zoe reminded him of Grace Kelly – his dream woman, apparently – leading Joanna to wonder why Matthew was going out with a dark-eyed, gangly brunette such as herself. She swallowed a lump in her throat, betting her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle that this ‘Samantha’ was a petite blonde.
Holding Zoe Harrison’s hand was a young boy of around nine or ten, looking uncomfortable in a black suit and tie: Zoe’s son, Jamie Harrison, named after his great-grandfather. Zoe had given birth to Jamie when she was only nineteen and still refused to name the father. Sir James had loyally defended his granddaughter and her decisions to both have the baby and to remain silent about Jamie’s paternity.
Joanna thought how alike Jamie and his mother were: the same fine features, a milk and rose complexion, and huge blue eyes. Zoe Harrison kept him away from the cameras as much as possible – if Steve had got a shot of mother and son together, it would probably make the front page tomorrow morning.
Behind them came Marcus Harrison, Zoe’s brother. Joanna watched him as he drew level with her pew. Even with her thoughts still on Matthew, she had to admit Marcus Harrison was a serious ‘hottie’, as her fellow reporter Alice would say. Joanna recognised him from the gossip columns – most recently squiring a blonde British socialite with a triple-barrelled surname. As dark as his sister was fair, but sharing the same blue eyes, Marcus carried himself with louche confidence. His hair almost touched his shoulders and, wearing a crumpled black jacket and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he oozed charisma. Joanna dragged her gaze away from him. Next time, she thought firmly, I’m going for a middle-aged man who likes bird watching and stamp collecting. She struggled to recall what Marcus Harrison did for a living – a fledgling film producer, she thought. Well, he certainly looked the part.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.’ The vicar spoke from the pulpit, a large picture of Sir James Harrison in front of him, surrounded by wreaths of white roses. ‘Sir James’s family welcomes you all here and thanks you for coming to pay tribute to a friend, a colleague, a father, grandfather and great-grandfather, and perhaps the finest actor of this century. For those of us who had the good fortune to know him well, it will not come as a surprise that Sir James was adamant that this was not to be a sombre occasion, but a celebration. Both his family and I have honoured his wishes. Therefore, we start with Sir James’s favourite hymn, “I Vow to Thee My Country”. Please stand.’
Joanna pushed her aching legs into action, glad that the organ began playing just as her chest heaved and she coughed loudly. Reaching for the order-of-service sheet on the ledge in front of her, a tiny, spidery hand, the translucent skin revealing blue veins beneath it, got there before her.
For the first time, Joanna looked to her left and studied the owner of the hand. Bent double with age, the woman only came up to her ribs. Resting on the ledge to support herself, the hand in which she held the service sheet shook violently. It was the only part of her body that was visible. The rest of her was shrouded in a black coat that touched her ankles, with a black net veil shielding her face.
Unable to read the sheet due to the continued shaking of the hand that held it, Joanna bent down to speak to the woman. ‘May I share with you?’
The hand offered her the sheet. Joanna took it and placed it low so the old lady could see it too. She croaked her way through the hymn, and as it ended, the woman struggled to sit down. Joanna silently offered her arm, but the help was ignored.
‘Our first reading today is Sir James’s favourite sonnet: Dunbar’s “Sweet Rose of Virtue”, read by Sir Laurence Sullivan, a close friend.’
The congregation sat patiently as the old actor made his way to the front of the church. Then the famous, rich voice, that had once held thousands spellbound in theatres across the globe, filled the church.
‘“Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, delightful lily …”’
Joanna was distracted by a creak behind her and saw the doors at the back of the church open, letting in a blast of freezing air. An usher pushed a wheelchair through them and placed it at the end of the pew opposite Joanna’s. As the usher walked away, she became aware of a rattling noise that made her own chest problems seem inconsequential. The old lady next to her was having what sounded like an asthma attack. She was staring past Joanna, her gaze through her veil apparently locked on the figure in the wheelchair.
‘Are you okay?’ Joanna whispered rhetorically, as the woman put her hand to her chest, her focus still not leaving the wheelchair as the vicar announced the next hymn and the congregation stood again. Suddenly, the old lady grasped at Joanna’s arm and indicated the door behind them.
Helping the woman to her feet, then holding her upright by her waist, Joanna virtually carried her to the end of the pew. The old lady pressed into Joanna’s coat like a child wanting protection as they came adjacent to the man in the wheelchair. A pair of icy steel-grey eyes looked up and swept over them both. Joanna shuddered involuntarily, broke her gaze away from his and helped the old lady the few paces to the entrance, where an usher stood to one side.
‘This woman … I … she needs …’
‘Air!’ the old lady cried between gasps.
The usher helped Joanna lead the woman into the grey January day and down the steps to one of the benches that flanked the courtyard. Before Joanna could ask for further assistance, the usher had ducked back into the church and closed the doors once again. The old lady slumped against her, her breathing ragged.
‘Should I call an ambulance? You really don’t sound very well.’
‘No!’ the old lady gasped, the strength of her voice at odds with the frailty of her body. ‘Call a taxi. Take me home. Please.’
‘I really think you should—’
The bony fingers locked around Joanna’s wrist. ‘Please! A taxi!’
‘All right, you wait there.’
Joanna ran out of the gates into Bedford Street and hailed a passing black cab. The driver gallantly got out and walked back with Joanna to help the old lady to his vehicle.
‘She okay? The old duck’s breathing sounds a bit off,’ he said to Joanna, as the two of them settled the woman on the back seat. ‘Does she need to go to hospital?’
‘She says she wants to go home.’ Joanna leant into the cab. ‘Where is home by the way?’ she asked the woman.
‘I …’ The effort of getting into the cab had obviously exhausted her. She sat there, panting.
The cabbie shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. ’Fraid I can’t take her anywhere in that state, not by herself, like. Don’t want a death in the back of my cab. Far too messy. Could take her if you come too, of course. Then it’s your responsibility rather than mine.’
‘I don’t know her … I mean, I’m working … I should be in that church now …’
‘Sorry, love,’ he said to the old lady. ‘You’ll have to get out.’
The old lady lifted her veil and Joanna saw her terrified milky-blue eyes. ‘Please,’ she mouthed.
‘Okay, okay.’ Joanna sighed with resignation and climbed into the back of the cab. ‘Where to?’ she asked gently.
‘… Mary … Mary …’
‘No. Where to?’ Joanna tried again.
‘Mary … le …’
‘Do you mean Marylebone, love?’ the cabbie asked from the front seat.
The woman nodded with visible relief.
‘Right you are.’
The old lady stared anxiously out of the window as the cab sped away. Eventually, her breathing began to ease and she rested her head against the black leather seat and closed her eyes.
Joanna sighed. This day was getting better an
d better. Alec would crucify her if he thought she’d snuck off early. The story of a little old lady being taken ill would not wash with him. Little old ladies were only of interest to Alec if they’d been beaten up by some skinhead after their pension money and left for dead.
‘We’re nearly in Marylebone now. Could you try and find out where we’re going?’ called the cabbie from the front of the taxi.
‘Nineteen Marylebone High Street.’ The clipped voice rang out crisp and clear. Joanna turned to look at the old woman in surprise.
‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes, thank you. Sorry to put you to so much trouble. You should get out here. I’ll be fine.’ She indicated that they had stopped at a traffic light.
‘No. I’ll see you home. I’ve come this far.’
The old lady shook her head as firmly as she could. ‘Please, for your own sake, I—’
‘We’re nearly there now. I’ll help you inside your house and then go back.’
The old lady sighed, sank further down into her coat and said no more until the taxi came to a halt.
‘Here we are, love.’ The cabbie opened the door, relief that the woman was still alive clear on his face.
‘Take this.’ The woman held out a fifty-pound note.
‘Haven’t got change for that, I’m afraid,’ he said as he helped the old woman down onto the pavement and supported her until Joanna stood beside her.
‘Here. I’ve got it.’ Joanna handed the driver a twenty-pound note. ‘Wait for me here, please. Back in a tick.’ The old lady had already slipped from her grasp and was walking unsteadily towards a door next to a newsagent’s.
Joanna followed her. ‘Shall I do that?’ she asked as the arthritic fingers struggled to put the key in the lock.
‘Thank you.’
Joanna turned the key, opened the door, and the old lady almost threw herself through it.
‘Come in, come in, quickly!’
‘I …’
Having delivered the old lady safely to her door, Joanna needed to get back to the church. ‘Okay.’ Joanna reluctantly stepped inside. Immediately the woman banged the front door shut behind her.
‘Follow me.’ She was heading for a door on the left-hand side of a narrow hallway. Another key was fumbled for, then finally fitted into the lock. Joanna followed her into darkness.
‘Lights are just behind you on the right.’
Joanna felt for the switch, flicked it and saw that she was standing in a small, dank-smelling lobby. There were three doors in front of her and a flight of stairs to her right.
The old lady opened one of the doors and switched on another light. Standing just behind her, Joanna could see that the room was full of tea chests stacked one on top of the other. In the centre of the room was a single bed with a rusty iron bedstead. Against one wall, wedged in between the tea chests, was an old armchair. The smell of urine was distinct and Joanna felt her stomach lurch.
The old lady headed for the chair and sank onto it with a sigh of relief. She indicated an upturned tea chest by the bed. ‘Tablets, my tablets. Could you pass them, please?’
‘Of course.’ Joanna gingerly picked her way through the tea chests and retrieved the pills from the dusty surface, noticing the directions for use were written in French.
‘Thank you. Two, please. And the water.’
Joanna gave her the glass of water that stood next to the pills, then opened the screw-top of the bottle and emptied out two tablets into a shaking hand and watched the old lady put them in her mouth. And wondered if she was now okay to leave. She shuddered, the fetid smell and dismal atmosphere of the room closing in on her. ‘Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?’
‘Quite sure, thank you. I know what’s wrong with me, my dear.’ A small, twisted smile appeared on her lips.
‘Well then. I’m afraid I’d better be going back to the service. I have to file my piece for my newspaper.’
‘You’re a journalist?’ The old lady’s accent, now that she had recovered her voice, was refined and definitely English.
‘Yes. On the Morning Mail. I’m very junior at the moment.’
‘What is your name, dear?’
‘Joanna Haslam.’ She indicated the boxes. ‘Are you moving?’
‘I suppose you could put it like that, yes.’ She stared off into space, her blue eyes glazed. ‘I won’t be here for much longer. Maybe it’s right that it ends like this …’
‘What do you mean? Please, if you’re ill, let me take you to a hospital.’
‘No, no. It’s too late for all that. You go now, my dear, back to your life. Goodbye.’ The old lady closed her eyes. Joanna continued to watch her, until a few seconds later, she heard soft snores emanating from the woman’s mouth.
Feeling horribly guilty, but unable to stand the atmosphere of the room any longer, Joanna quietly let herself out and ran back to the taxi.
The memorial service was over by the time she arrived back in Covent Garden. The Harrison family limousine had left and there were only a few members of the congregation still milling around outside. Feeling really wretched now, Joanna just managed to take a couple of quotes from them before hailing another cab, giving up the entire morning as a bad job.
2
The bell was ringing. Again and again, it seared through Joanna’s throbbing head.
‘Oooh God,’ she groaned, as she realised whoever was at the door was determined not to take the hint and leave.
Matthew … ?
For a split second, her spirits rose, then sank again instantly. Matthew was probably still toasting his freedom with a glass of champagne, in a bed somewhere with Samantha.
‘Go away,’ she moaned, blowing her nose on Matthew’s old T-shirt. For some reason, it made her feel better.
The bell rang again.
‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’
Joanna gave in, crawled out of bed and staggered to the front door to open it.
‘Hello, sex kitten.’ Simon had the nerve to grin at her. ‘You look dreadful.’
‘Cheers,’ she muttered, hanging on to her front door for support.
‘Come here.’
A pair of comfortingly familiar arms closed round her shoulders. Tall herself, Simon, at six foot three, was one of the only men she knew who could make her feel small and fragile.
‘I got your voicemail messages when I got home late last night. Sorry I wasn’t there to play agony aunt.’
‘S’okay,’ she snuffled into his shoulder.
‘Let’s go inside before icicles start forming on our clothes, shall we?’ Simon closed the front door, an arm still firmly around one of her shoulders, and walked her into the small sitting room. ‘Jesus, it’s cold in here.’
‘Sorry. I’ve been in bed all afternoon. I’ve got a really terrible cold.’
‘Never,’ he teased her. ‘Come on, let’s sit you down.’
Simon swept old newspapers, books and congealing Pot Noodle containers onto the floor, and Joanna sank onto the uncomfortable lime-green sofa. She’d only bought it because Matthew had liked the colour and she’d regretted the purchase ever since. Matthew had always sat in her grandmother’s old leather armchair whenever he came round anyway. Ungrateful sod, she thought.
‘You’re not in a good way, are you, Jo?’
‘Nope. On top of being dumped by Matthew, Alec sent me out to cover a memorial service this morning when it was meant to be my day off. I ended up in Marylebone High Street with a weird old lady who lives in a room full of tea chests.’
‘Wow. And there’s me in Whitehall, and the most exciting thing that happened today was getting a different kind of filling from the sandwich lady.’
Joanna could barely raise a smile at his efforts to be cheerful.
Simon sat down next to her and took her hands in his. ‘I’m so sorry, Jo, really.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Is it over forever with Matthew, or do you think it’s just a blip on the road to marital bliss?’
‘It’s over, Simon. He’s found someone else.’
‘Want me to go and give him a good kicking to make you feel better?’
‘Truthfully, yes, but in reality, no.’ Joanna put her hands to her face and wiped them up and down her cheeks. ‘The worst thing is, that at times like this you’re meant to react in a dignified manner. If people ask you how you are, you’re meant to brush it off and say, “I’m absolutely fine, thanks. He meant nothing to me anyway and him leaving is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve so much more time now for myself and my friends and I’ve even taken up basket weaving!” But it’s all rubbish! I’d crawl across burning coals if it would bring Matthew back, so that life can go on like normal. I … I … love him. I need him. He’s mine, he be-belongs to m-me.’
Simon sat with his arms around her while she sobbed. He stroked her hair gently and listened as the shock, grief and confusion poured out of her. When she was all cried out, he gently released her and stood up. ‘You light the fire while I boil the kettle for some tea.’
Joanna turned on the gas flames in the fireplace and followed Simon into the small kitchen. She slumped down at the Formica table for two in the corner, over which she and Matthew had shared so many lazy Sunday brunches and intimate candlelit suppers. As Simon busied himself making the tea, Joanna gazed at the glass jars lined up neatly along the worktop.
‘I’ve always loathed sun-dried tomatoes,’ she mused. ‘Matthew adored them.’
‘Well.’ Simon took the jar full of the offending tomatoes and tipped them into the bin. ‘That’s one positive thing to come out of this, then. You don’t have to eat them anymore.’
‘In fact, now I think about it, there were lots of things Matthew liked and I just pretended to.’ Joanna rested her chin on her hands.
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, going to see weird, foreign art-house movies on Sunday at the Lumière when I’d have preferred to stay at home and catch up on soaps. Music – that was another thing. I mean, I like classical in small doses, but I was never allowed to play my ABBA Gold or Take That CDs.’
The Love Letter Page 2