Her Own Rules

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “You were such a bonny little girl,” he said to her, smiling. “Marigold. I always thought it was such a lovely name for a child. Anyway, to continue, that morning you came looking for me you were so upset. Crying. You thought your mother was dead—”

  “But she wasn’t was she?” Meredith cut in swiftly.

  “No, but she wasn’t well. You’d come to the police box on Canal Road. I carried you home, it was quicker. And anyway, you were weeping, so upset you were. We found your mother sitting in a chair in the kitchen. She was white, white as a sheet, and obviously very sick. At least that’s what I thought. She said she’d fainted earlier that morning. I’d put in a call for an ambulance, and it came within fifteen minutes. They took her to Leeds Infirmary.”

  “And what happened to me?” Meredith’s eyes were riveted on Patrick O’Shea.

  “The last thing she said to me, as the ambulance doors closed, was ‘Look after my Mari for me, Constable O’Shea.’ And I did. I spoke to my sergeant at the station, and we decided the best thing to do was take you to Dr. Barnardo’s Home in Leeds, the children’s home, until your mother was well.”

  “And what happened when my mother got better?”

  “You went back to live with her at Hawthorne Cottage, as I recall. But I don’t believe things were good with her, she was struggling, you know, trying to find a job.”

  “What happened to . . . my father?”

  “I don’t rightly know. At least, I don’t have a lot of details. Kate told me once that he’d left her, gone off to Canada. That’s all I knew. I suppose he didn’t come back.”

  “I don’t remember him. He must have left when I was very little.”

  Patrick O’Shea nodded. “I believe he did.”

  “Do you think my mother became ill again, Mr. O’Shea?”

  “She did indeed. She was in the infirmary a second time . . . oh, it must have been the following year . . . about 1957, if my memory serves me well.”

  “Do you think I was put back into the children’s home?”

  “Possibly. Yes, that’s very likely. There was no one to look after you. And I sort of lost track of your mother after that. In fact, I never really knew what happened to you both. Suddenly you’d left Hawthorne Cottage, another family was living there. I never saw you or your mother again, Mari. I mean, Mrs. Stratton. A few years later I did hear she was working in Leeds.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Yes, just let me think for a moment . . . it was a dress shop, I do know that. A posh one, too, in Commercial Street . . . Paris Modes, that was the name of it.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “Oh yes, I think so.”

  “As I explained, Constable O’Shea, my mother and I got separated. I was sent abroad. I thought she was dead. But I’ve just discovered she’s probably still alive. I must find her.”

  “I understand. She’s not listed in the phone book, then?”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Perhaps there’s someone at Paris Modes who can help you, give you more information about her whereabouts.”

  “Well, he was certainly nice enough,” Patsy said as she and Meredith drove away from Constable O’Shea’s house at Hill Top, heading for the city. “But you don’t remember him, do you?”

  “Not really, Patsy. I wish I did.” Meredith sighed. “I suppose I truly blocked everything out. If only I could recall those early days more fully, but I can’t. I have flashes of memory like an amnesiac sometimes does, but that’s it.”

  “Try not to worry I’m sure we’ll get more information at the dress shop.”

  “I’m not sure at all. Very frankly, Patsy, we’re on a wild-goose chase, in my opinion. All of this happened thirty-eight years ago, and my mother’s not going to be still working at Paris Modes. And I’m certain there’s no one there who will remember her.”

  “You don’t know that for sure, Meredith. So let’s just go to the shop, ask a few questions. Somebody might remember Kate Sanderson, and give us a lead.”

  “Yes, we can go, but hasn’t it occurred to you that my mother might not live in Yorkshire anymore? She could have moved away. Moved anywhere, in fact. There’s a very big world out there.”

  “I know what you’re saying, darling, but I think you’re wrong. I have this feeling inside, call it intuition if you like, that your mother is very close by. You’ll see, we’re going to find her.”

  When Meredith was silent, Patsy sneaked a look at her. Her heart sank. Meredith’s face was bleak.

  Patsy drove on in silence, but after a while she said, “I’m not too sure about parking in Leeds. I think the best thing to do is to go to the Queens Hotel and park the car there, near the railway station. It’s only a few minutes’ walk to Commercial Street from City Square.”

  “Whatever you say I don’t remember Commercial Street. Only Leeds Market.”

  But, twenty minutes later, as they walked down that particular street, Meredith suddenly stopped and clutched Patsy’s arm. “Marks and Spencer is somewhere near here. I remember that now. My mother liked to go there; she bought my underwear at Marks.” Meredith had an instant vision of herself walking down this street, clinging to her mother’s hand. She said to Patsy, “Almost always my mother bought me an ice cream. Once I tripped and dropped my cone. I was so upset, I started to cry. And I remember how she comforted me . . . and gave me her ice cream. . . .”

  “You see, more and more memories are coming back,” Patsy exclaimed, looking pleased. “And here we are at Paris Modes.”

  Patsy pushed open the door, and the two of them walked into the elegant dress shop. Immediately a young woman in a neat black dress came gliding forward.

  “Can I help you?” she asked politely, smiling at them. “We have some wonderful new lines in from Paris.”

  “Oh, yes,” Patsy said, “we know you have lovely clothes, very smart indeed. But we don’t want to buy anything. Actually, we came to see the manager.”

  “We don’t have a manager,” the young woman replied. “Mrs. Cohen owns the business, and she runs it herself.”

  “I see. Is she here? Can we see her?” Meredith asked.

  The young woman nodded. “I’ll go and get her, she’s in the office.”

  A few seconds later a woman of about fifty, elegantly dressed and well put together, walked out into the shop from the office behind a Coromandel screen.

  “I’m Gilda Cohen,” she said, extending her hand to Patsy.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cohen. I’m Patsy Canton, and this is my friend, Mrs. Stratton.”

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Stratton,” Gilda Cohen said, shaking her hand.

  Meredith smiled at her. “I’m looking for someone, Mrs. Cohen. A woman who used to work here. But many years ago. I’m afraid it was long before your time.”

  “Whom are you looking for?” Gilda Cohen asked curiously.

  “My mother. She worked here in the late fifties, or perhaps the early sixties. Her name was, or rather is, Kate Sanderson. We were separated when I was small and I always believed she had died when I was a child. But lately I’ve been given reason to believe she’s still alive. I want to find my mother.”

  “I’m sure you do, Mrs. Stratton, that’s quite understandable, and you’re correct, Kate did work here, when my mother was running the shop. I inherited it from her. I was at college in those days, but I knew Kate slightly A lovely woman. My mother was very fond of her indeed, and sorry to see her leave.”

  “When was that, Mrs. Cohen?” Meredith asked.

  “I think it must’ve been in the middle or late sixties. But don’t let’s stand here in the middle of the shop. Come into my office and sit down. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “No, but thank you anyway,” Meredith said.

  Patsy also declined, and the two of them followed Gilda Cohen into her office. They sat down together on the sofa and looked at Gilda, who had positioned herself behind her desk. “As I said, my mother was rather fond of Kate,
took her under her wing a bit, and she stayed in touch with her after she left.”

  “Do you know where she went to work?”

  “Yes, she returned to the town she came from, Harrogate, and took a job with Jaeger. My mother once told me Kate hadn’t been happy in Leeds, and she always referred to her as ‘my wounded bird,’ although I’m not certain why. I married young and had a child, so I wasn’t working in the shop in those days. I didn’t know her all that well. But she certainly made an impression on my mother, and on other people too. Everyone spoke nicely about Kate.”

  Meredith sighed. “I don’t suppose she could still be working at Jaeger. What do you think, Mrs. Cohen?”

  “Oh, I know she’s not, Mrs. Stratton. She didn’t stay at Jaeger for longer than a couple of years, then she moved on. The last time I heard about her from my mother, Kate was running Place Vendôme in Harrogate, a really fine boutique selling couture clothes.” Gilda Cohen leaned back in her chair. “If only my mother were still alive, she would be able to tell you so much more about Kate.”

  Meredith gave Mrs. Cohen a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry you lost your mother.”

  “Yes, it was sad for us all. However, she had a really grand life and lived to be ninety. Never had a day’s ill health as long as she lived.”

  There was a small silence and then Patsy said, “Is Kate Sanderson working at Place Vendôme now?”

  “I don’t believe she is, Mrs. Canton. The last I heard she had left there. She’d moved away from Harrogate, actually.”

  “Another dead end,” Meredith said in a miserable voice.

  Gilda Cohen said, “I can ring Annette Alexander, the owner of the boutique. She just might have an address for Kate.”

  “Oh, would you? Are you sure you don’t mind?” Meredith asked. “Otherwise, we can just drive over to Harrogate.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s only four-thirty.”

  “Yes,” Patsy said. “We can pop in to see her on our way to Ripon. We have to pass through Harrogate.”

  “No, no, that’s all right, I’ll call her for you right away. I don’t mind at all.” So saying, Gilda Cohen picked up the phone and dialed the boutique.

  “Hello, this is Gilda Cohen, is Mrs. Alexander there?”

  There was a small silence as Mrs. Cohen listened. Then she covered the mouthpiece and explained: “They’ve gone to get her, she’s just saying good-bye to a client. Hello, oh, there you are, Annette, how are you?”

  Gilda listened once more, and then said, “I have two ladies here who are looking for Kate Sanderson. I know she left you a few years ago, but you wouldn’t happen to have an address or a telephone number for her, would you?” The next short silence was followed by an exclamation. “Oh really!” Gilda cried. “Just a minute, let me ask.”

  Again covering the mouthpiece with her hand, Mrs. Cohen said, “According to Mrs. Alexander, your mother left to marry someone. But she can’t remember his name. She wants to know where she can contact you if she does remember?”

  “Skell Garth House in Ripon, Mrs. Cohen,” Patsy said. “The number is Ripon 42900.”

  Gilda Cohen repeated this to Annette Alexander. After thanking her and saying good-bye, she hung up. Looking directly at Meredith, she said, “If my mother were alive, she’d be very pleased to know Kate got married finally. Mother always thought Kate was so sad, and she used to tell me Kate had had a tragic life.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Cohen,” Meredith murmured softly, standing up. “Thank you so much.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Patsy added, also standing.

  “It’s been my pleasure, I just wish I could have done more to reunite you with your mother, Mrs. Stratton. Annette is very dependable, and I can guarantee she’ll ring you if she remembers who it was your mother married.”

  “I hope so.”

  Gilda Cohen escorted them to the door, shook their hands. As they stepped out into Commercial Street, she said, “I’d love to know if you do find Kate, Mrs. Stratton, she was such a favorite of my mother’s.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Meredith promised.

  “Why didn’t we think of that,” Patsy muttered as they walked along Commercial Street. “It’s the most obvious thing. She was a young woman, and pretty, you said.”

  “Very pretty. Beautiful really.” Meredith linked her arm in Patsy’s and continued. “We’ll never find her. This is yet another dead end, you know.”

  “No, it isn’t!” Patsy cried. “Quite the contrary. I’ll call Valerie at the office first thing in the morning and she can go to St. Catherine’s House. They keep marriage certificates there. I’m quite sure they do. We’ll find out who your mother married.”

  Meredith instantly brightened. “What a great idea! Let’s call her now.”

  “She’s not in the office today. Don’t you remember, she went to Milan for the weekend. She won’t be back until late tonight.”

  “Are you certain they keep marriage records?” Meredith asked in a quiet voice as they walked down into City Square.

  “I’m positive. It’s a general register office of births, deaths, and marriages.” Patsy paused before adding: “I’ve been thinking . . . perhaps we ought to go to Dr. Barnardo’s Home, make inquiries there. They may be able to throw some light on what happened to you. And to your mother.”

  Meredith looked at her askance. “No way. I know those places. They never tell you anything, they’re cloaked in secrecy. I’d go to see them only as a last resort.” Her mouth settled in a grim line.

  Glancing at her, Patsy decided to say no more for the moment. On the drive back to Ripon she talked about a variety of other things, wanting to take Meredith’s mind off her mother. And orphanages.

  Laughing suddenly, all at once she said, “You know, Meredith, we’re really quite awful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once we’d discovered who Eunice Morgan was, we put her through an interrogation and then fled, raced off to find your mother. The poor woman must think we’re crazy. We didn’t even finish our interview with her.”

  “I realized that myself a short while ago. Anyway, how do you feel about hiring Eunice?”

  “I’m all for it. I think she’s the best of the lot. I found Lloyd Bricker a bit of a snob and too arrogant by far, and Mrs. Jones didn’t really impress me that much.”

  “In my opinion she’s a goldbricker,” Meredith said. “I agree with you about Lloyd. So let’s hire Eunice, shall we? She’s certainly a good chef. We’ve sampled her fare.” Meredith gave Patsy a small smile. “And obviously she no longer burns the food as she did when I was a child.”

  Patsy laughed, glad to see a flash of Meredith’s old humor.

  The telephone call came the next morning.

  Meredith and Patsy were sitting in the dining room, having breakfast and going over their notes about the inn, when Claudia Miller came hurrying over to their table.

  “Excuse me. You have a phone call, Meredith. It’s a Mrs. Alexander.”

  Meredith and Patsy exchanged startled glances, and Meredith immediately got up. “Thanks, Claudia. I’ll take it over there on the phone by the door.”

  “All right. I’ll just go and put it through.”

  A few seconds later Meredith was saying, “Hello, this is Mrs. Stratton.”

  “Mrs. Stratton, good morning. Annette Alexander here, I hope I haven’t called too early.”

  “No, not at all, Mrs. Alexander.”

  “I thought I’d better ring you immediately. I just received a bit of information that might help you. Do you know, I racked my brains last night, trying to remember the name of the man Kate married, but to no avail. And then it occurred to me that my sister might know who he was. She used to work for me at Place Vendôme at the same time as Kate Sanderson. In any case, I rang her up last night, but she was out. She just got my message and phoned me ten minutes ago. Apparently Kate married a man called Nigel. My sister thinks his last name was Grange or Grainger, and that he was a ve
terinarian. In Middleham. I know it’s a trifle sketchy, but I do hope it helps.”

  “It does, thank you very much, Mrs. Alexander. While I have you on the phone, perhaps you can tell me something else. Do you recall when Kate Sanderson left Place Vendôme?”

  “She left my employ in the early seventies.”

  “I see. Well, thanks again, Mrs. Alexander.”

  “I was happy to be of help, and give Kate my best, if you find her.”

  “I will. Good-bye, Mrs. Alexander.” Meredith hung up and returned to the table.

  Patsy looked at her questioningly, raising a brow. “Well?”

  Meredith took a deep breath, exhaled, then said, “According to Annette Alexander, my mother married a man called Nigel, and his last name was either Grange or Grainger. He is, or was, a vet. And in the early seventies, when my mother left her employment, he was living in Middleham. Or, rather, they were.”

  “Middleham! Good heavens, Meredith, that’s right next door practically. It’s a small village on the moors, about half an hour from Ripon. You see, I told you I had a sense that your mother was close by.”

  “We don’t know that she is. We don’t know what happened really. And they could have divorced or moved away.”

  “I’ll soon find out if he’s still around,” Patsy cried assertively, and jumped to her feet. “I’m going to look him up in the local telephone directory. He’s bound to be listed if he’s the vet in Middleham.”

  Meredith sat back in her chair and watched Patsy walking across the floor with great determination. Whatever it took, her friend was hell-bent on finding Kate Sanderson. And what a good friend Patsy had turned out to be. Meredith knew that she would have been lost without her in the last few days.

  Patsy was suddenly back at the table, looking pleased with herself. She sat down, glanced at the paper she was holding, and said, “His name’s Grainger, not Grange, and he lives in Middleham. At Tan Beck House. And there’s the phone number.”