by Roger Bax
“I see,” said Mr. Stubbins, thumbing his notes. “So you think it’s the ideal age? And what would you say had been the most interesting event in your life, Mr. Appleby?”
“Being sent to jail for a month!”
“Oh, William!” said Marion in a tone of reproachful resignation.
“It was over a matter of conscience, of course,” said Thomas with dignity. He could see that he was going to have his leg pulled unmercifully about this at the next meeting of the Judiford Bench.
“It was nothing of the sort,” said William. “It was on Guy Fawkes Night. I hit a policeman on the head with his helmet, and the magistrate said he was going to make an example of me. A most salutary experience.”
“That was some time ago, I suppose?” said Mr. Stubbins.
“It was seventy-five years ago,” said William.
Mr. Stubbins felt that this particular peccadillo could no longer be considered hot news, and passed to the next question. “I suppose you’ve seen a great many changes during your lifetime, Mr. Appleby?”
“Of course I have,” said William testily. He was beginning to think that this young man was a fool. “Mostly for the worse,” he added in sudden disgruntlement as his eye lighted on Neville. He was started now on a reminiscent journey, and once started nothing could stop him. Mr. Stubbins’s pencil flew over the pages. “Farming not what it was … interfering bureaucrats … craftsmanship dying out … best land taken for airdromes … too much cinema-going … not enough hard work … everyone gone soft.…”
Barbara felt she had to interrupt the old man in the end. “There must still be some good things, William,” she protested.
“Of course there are,” he said promptly, his mood changing in a flash. “Pretty girls. The girls are as pretty as ever they were. Look at my Barbara.” He stretched out a hand to her and gazed around. “I call her ‘Life’s Last Smile.’”
There was a murmur of appreciation from the assembled company. Mr. Stubbins made a note of the phrase, since everyone seemed to think it a good one, and plodded on. “When did you give up active farming, Mr. Appleby?”
There was a moment’s silence while William pondered. “It must have been about twenty-five years ago. After the last war but one. I was farming nearly fifteen hundred acres until then, but it was too much for me and I had to give it up. I remember George Peckitt and I retired the same year.”
“You and Mr. Peckitt …” began the reporter, and suddenly stopped as he caught Thomas’s warning glance. George Peckitt had been William’s lifelong friend, and only that days news had come that he was dangerously ill. It seemed a pity to cast a shadow on the old man’s hundredth birthday.
William intercepted the glance. “You can stop making faces, Thomas,” he said sharply. “I know poor old George is on his last legs. Gertie told me this morning.” He gave a long, rather theatrical sigh. “Only ninety-three, too, poor fellow! I always said he wasn’t strong!” He looked round to see if he had succeeded in shocking anybody, and was gratified to notice his daughter Eleanor shaking her head at him.
Mr. Stubbins wasn’t sure whether he’d just heard a wisecrack or not, so he let it pass. “You’ve traveled, of course, Mr. Appleby?”
William cast his mind back over the abyss of the years. “Yes, young man, I’ve traveled. I’ve seen some fine places in my time. I’ve journeyed all over the Middle West of America. I went to Australia when I was over seventy. A wonderful country—lots of room. I thought of settling there—they told me they needed new blood! But I decided not to—I’ve never found a better place to live in than these Fens. Wide skies and strong east winds—there’s nothing like it. Men born and bred in these parts are real men.” His challenging eye dwelt for a moment on Thomas. “Most of them, anyway.”
“So you like the Fens?” echoed Mr. Stubbins.
“Yes, I do,” said William. “Mind you, they’re not what they were in the old days. I liked them the way Nature made them—I don’t like them tamed, useful though they are. One day they’ll go back to Nature, you mark my words. It’s all very well to drain them and plow them and sow them with that alien crop, sugar beet, every time there’s a war, but what does it all amount to in the end? High drainage rates, floods and droughts, soil blowing away, and a lot of heartache. No, the Fens were best when they were all like Rough Fen, and you could go off and gather sedge for the cattle, and osiers to make baskets, and barges plied up and down Judy’s Lode. They were fine and free then.”
“So you think the Fens have been spoiled?” said Mr. Stubbins.
“I think they’ve been messed about with too much. I don’t say they’re not still pleasanter than most other places. There’s one thing about these parts—we don’t have a lot of pasty-faced townsmen hiking all over the place.”
William had a strong dislike of towns and everything to do with them. He hated the encroachment of bricks and mortar; the dirt and noise and futile speed of the cities. To him there was no villain quite as bad as the city slicker. He thought that people who exchanged country for town were asking for trouble, and experience had borne him out. His favorite daughter Mary—Barbara’s grandmother—had married a Londoner, and they had both died within a week of each other at the age of seventy—their vitality sapped, according to William, by the urban life. As for Barbara’s parents, if they’d stuck to farming, they obviously wouldn’t have been bombed.
“Of course,” William went on, “they’ll tell you we’re an awkward opinionated lot in these parts, and so we are, I dare say, but if you ask me the country could do with a bit more of our independence. There’s too much bowing and scraping to Authority these days. The Fenman still has a will of his own. I like to think there was an Appleby in the Isle of Ely when Hereward held it against the Conqueror, and I dare say there was.”
“You think there was an Appleby there then?” said Mr. Stubbins.
William lost patience at last, and his great nose twitched angrily. “For heaven’s sake, am I talking to a man or a gramophone?”
Mr. Stubbins wrote quickly, “At this point Mr. Appleby wittily observed ‘Am I talking to a man or a gramophone?’” That would give the interview a bit of color! Yes, the news editor would like that touch. He read the sentence through again, more doubtfully, and on second thoughts put a question mark against it.
Thomas felt that this was the moment to intervene. “I think that will have to do, Mr. Stubbins. My grandfather will be getting tired.”
“Not a bit of it,” cried William. “Don’t mollycoddle me, Thomas.”
“The other man wants to take a picture,” said Barbara soothingly. “Before the light goes.”
“Ah,” said William. That was different.
Mr. Stubbins fell back, and the photographer proceeded to marshal the assembled company into a photogenic family group with the help of sundry tiers of chairs and tables. The Ancient sat in the center, needing only a Silver Challenge Cup to make him look like some prophetic captain of the Appleby Wanderers after a successful season. Above and around him, the family radiated out in order of their diminishing relationship. The photographer gave the fifth-generation Appleby baby a mechanical pat on the head and dumped him into William’s lap.
The only hitch was caused by Neville Hutton. “I’d better not be in this,” he said. “I oughtn’t to butt in—it’s a family photograph.”
“Darling, what nonsense!” cried Barbara indignantly, and there was a chorus of protests from everyone.
Neville still hung back. “I’m sure Mr. Appleby would prefer to keep it just family,” he said, looking at William, who glared back at him.
“But you’re almost family,” said Barbara. “Don’t be so silly. William, do tell him not to be absurd. You’d like to have him in, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course he must come in,” said William, squeezing her hand. Under his breath he muttered, “Young puppy!”
With a smile and a shrug of his wide shoulders, Hutton took his place beside Barbara.
Chapter Two
The librarian in charge of pictures at the London Evening Courier replaced her telephone receiver and looked across at her bespectacled assistant. “Mr. Henderson would like the file on ‘Women Aviators,’ Gordon.”
“Okay, Mrs. Thornton.” Gordon, a lanky, willing youth, slid a tall ladder along the shelves, mounted it, and extracted a dusty buff envelope from somewhere just below the ceiling. He brought it to Wanda Thornton, who quickly fanned through the prints it contained.
“That seems all right,” she said after a moment. “You may take it along.” Her voice was low and attractive, her accent unmistakably foreign.
She resumed her scrutiny of the pile of photographs in front of her. She was a woman of a little over thirty, with a slim, straight figure and a sophisticated appearance that was enhanced by the well-cut black suit she was wearing. The dark glossy hair drawn back from her pale oval face was carefully coiled; the brows over her gray eyes were extraordinarily delicate. Taken separately her features were charming, but the expression of the face in repose was hard and made her look older than she need have done. The truth was that in the course of an unusually precarious life she had endured more than her share of hardships, both physical and mental, and the marks showed.
She had been lucky, she knew, to get the Courier job. Though the department employed only three people, its role in the office was important, and the work was both interesting and well-paid. The Courier had been lucky in its picture librarian, too, for Wanda was extremely good at her work. She had an orderly mind and an excellent visual memory, and at a moment’s notice she could produce from among those mountains of envelopes and box files, pictures of almost anything under the sun. It wasn’t enough in her job, she had long ago discovered, simply to have a sound filing system. Intelligence and imagination were required, and something of a news sense. People often came in with extremely vague requests. They wanted pictures, but they didn’t always know what pictures. Then she had to make helpful suggestions.
One by one she studied the photographs in front of her, reading each caption and marking a filing reference on the back for the guidance of whoever put them away. These were the pictures that the Art Department had processed and used, or discarded as of no immediate interest. Most of them were in the latter category. They came in every day by the score—mainly from agencies—covering news stories great and small, domestic and foreign. Whether or not they were actually published, they still had to be classified and kept. You could never tell what a newspaper might suddenly want out of its pictorial lumber room.
The routine task was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Holmes, the assistant editor. He was a cheerful, friendly man, but today he looked ruffled as he spread out a copy of the previous evening’s Courier, with a woman’s photograph ominously ringed in blue pencil. “Who would you say that is?” he demanded.
Wanda read the caption. The story was about a society woman who had been sent to prison for smuggling watches. “I hope,” she said, “that it’s Mrs. Pottington-Evans.”
“That’s just where you’re wrong,” said Holmes. “It happens to be a Miss Georgina Scrubbs, Vice-President of the British Women’s Temperance Council.”
“Oh dear,” said Wanda.
“We’ve had a most unpleasant solicitor’s letter,” pursued Holmes balefully.
Wanda sifted through a pile of photographs in a wire basket and found the one from which the block had been made. She looked at the name and date. “It says Mrs. Pottington-Evans. It was the only one in her file. I’m afraid it was put in before I came here—look, in 1944. I’m sorry.”
Holmes grunted. “Another little legacy from Marsden, eh? Oh, well, I suppose we shall have to pay up.” He smiled as he turned at the door. “Pity—I thought we’d caught you out at last.”
Wanda gave him an answering smile, marked the offending photograph for refiling, and took up another picture from the heap. “Five generations of Applebys …” Amusing, but hardly worth circulating to national papers when space was so short. What a fine-looking old man! Her glance traveled quickly over the group, as during the past five years it had traveled over every one of the thousands of pictures that had passed through her hands. Suddenly her heart gave a leap. Surely … ? She reached for a magnifying glass and studied the face. The head was partly turned away, but the resemblance was startling. A wave of faintness overcame her and she leaned back in her chair. Could it possibly be—after all these years of searching? She stared at the photograph, twisting it about to get different angles on it. Presently she lifted her receiver and rang the agency that had circulated the group. They had had it, she was told, from the Judiford Echo.
She sat very still, undecided what to do. Judiford—that was somewhere in East Anglia. Should she go down there? It might be nothing more than an uncanny coincidence—that likeness. Again, even if it were not coincidence, would she do any good by going? It would only cause pain and distress to herself—certainly not to him. Once more she looked at the photograph, and her face hardened. She knew she would have to go. After all this time, the wound was as raw as ever. It would never heal until she had seen him once again—until she had in some measure avenged the trusting girl of eight years ago.
Wanda slipped the picture of the Appleby family into her handbag and sent the junior filing clerk to the library to borrow a road map. She would drive down first thing in the morning, she decided. Gordon could be left in charge of the department. Certainly she wouldn’t be able to work with this nagging query in her mind—much better to go down now and settle things one way or the other. It would take her just over two hours each way, she estimated, looking at the map, which meant that she would know for certain by the evening. Arrears of work could easily be dealt with on Saturday morning.
For the rest of the afternoon she did her best to concentrate on the affairs of the office. At six she gave Gordon his instructions for the next day, and drove to the mews flat in Chelsea where she lived alone.
She spent a wretched evening. She couldn’t stop looking at the photograph, and it stirred up all the resentment she had thought deeply buried. She tried to detach her mind by writing some overdue letters, but presently she gave up the effort and went to bed with a book. She lay awake far into the night, reliving the unhappy past.
Friday morning dawned fair and clear, with the promise of another hot day. Wanda always dressed with care, but this morning she took special pains with her appearance. She would have all her colors flying, just in case of need. At about ten she set off eastward through London in her rather ancient Austin car.
It was just after twelve when she reached Judiford, and a couple of inquiries took her to the office of the Echo. In contrast to the hectic tempo of the Courier, the atmosphere there seemed very leisurely, and after she had explained who she was she was greeted by Mr. Piggott, the editor, with a courtliness that was quite old-world. He was evidently pleased to see a colleague from Fleet Street, and was anxious to be helpful. “Yes,” he said, on seeing the photograph, “that’s our picture. It struck us as rather more than a local news story, so we passed it on to the Universal Agency. Several papers used it. Now what is it you want to know?”
Wanda put her finger on the print. “I wondered if you could tell me who this person is?”
Mr. Piggott adjusted his glasses and had another look. “No,” he said, “I can’t help you myself. Some relative of the Applebys, no doubt. Let me see, now—the photographer who took it is out on a job, but you might care to have a word with our Mr. Stubbins. He covered the story.”
Mr. Stubbins was called in and introduced. He seemed slightly nervous at first—his report of the centenary party had been received with only modified rapture by the editor—but when the purpose of the summons was explained his face cleared. “You want to know who this is? Oh, it’s Mr. Hutton—Neville Hutton. He lives at Osier Cottage—that’s a little place at the end of Long Wicklen village on the Mildenhall road.”
“Do you know
anything about him—is he a member of the family?”
“Not yet, but he’s going to be,” said Mr. Stubbins. “He’s marrying into it next week. A girl named Barbara Rutherford.”
“Oh.” Wanda bit her lip. She must have been mistaken. Still, now that she was here she must make sure. She tried again. “Did you see him yourself? What is he like?”
“Well, he’s a bit like that picture,” ventured Mr. Stubbins.
“Yes, but it doesn’t tell us much—is he tall or short, dark or fair?”
Mr. Stubbins considered. “Well, he’s taller than me, and he’s got brown wavy hair. Not bad-looking, I suppose. He’d be about thirty.”
Wanda felt excitement stir again. The description was meager, but as far as it went it fitted. “Does the girl he is going to marry live in this neighborhood?”
“Miss Rutherford? Yes, she lives at Monks Farm where the picture was taken. It’s by the church, just before you get to Long Wicklen. You can’t miss it.”
Wanda thanked Mr. Stubbins and the editor and went out to her car. It would be odd, she thought, if Harry had buried himself near such a sleepy little town as Judiford—though of course he might have had good reasons.
Fifteen minutes later she was walking up a mellow brick path to the door of Osier Cottage. She let the iron knocker fall heavily, and waited. By now her heart was beating fast, and her head was beginning to ache as it always did when she was nervous. She had no idea what she would say if Harry suddenly appeared in the doorway. It would be an incredibly dramatic meeting for both of them. She knocked again, loudly, and tried the door. It was unfastened. Cautiously she opened it and peeped inside. The large low sitting room was empty; there were no signs of life at all. If she had felt more sure that the man in the picture was indeed Harry, she would have gone in and perhaps found something to settle her mind one way or the other, but she could hardly walk into the home of what might prove to be a total stranger. There was nothing for it but to come back later.