by Liz Trenow
When I plugged my phone into its charger, it clattered with incoming messages:
Are you ok? I’m thinking of you, what time is clinic? J xox
Your current account is overdrawn. Please contact 0800 156748 immediately.
Justin’s interested and wants you to contact him. Yay! Ring me. J xox
Where are you? I’m getting really worried now, please call me. Jo xox
Hope roads not too bad and you got home safely? Ben
‘You poor thing. It must have been a nightmare,’ Jo said, when I rang.
‘It was bloody painful,’ I started, then remembered that I should be careful not to scare the life out of her. She’d probably be going through the real thing before long.
‘How are you feeling now?’
‘A bit sorry for myself,’ I said, struggling not to buckle. ‘It’s probably just the hormones but I keep blubbing at a moment’s notice. It just feels as though someone’s got it in for me this year.’
‘I wish I could give you a big hug,’ she said, ‘but we’ve got this exhibition deadline and I promised Annabel I’d work through this evening till it’s done.’
‘Please don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘In a weird kind of way, it’s a relief. I was trying to decide whether or not to tell Russell and this has taken the decision away from me.’
‘I thought Russell was with you? Who’s this “we” then?’
She’d cornered me. ‘It was Ben, you know, the local hack we contacted about the quilt, remember?’
‘The journalist? How did he get involved?’
‘It was so random. He rang out of the blue when I was waiting for the ambulance. I tried to put him off but he insisted on coming to the cottage and staying until the paramedics arrived.’
‘What a gent. Is he married?’
‘Separated. He’s got a son.’
‘Tell me more,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave anything out.’
I found myself smiling, in spite of myself. ‘Not much to tell, to be honest. Couldn’t be more different from Russ if he tried.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Tall, forty-something, lots of hair. Nice eyes. Wears stonewashed jeans. Nothing to get too excited about …’
‘Sounds good to me. You’re being very cagey. Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Was there? Unlikely, but not impossible, I thought, trying to interrogate my response. Back here in London, the events of the past couple of days at the cottage felt unreal, like an interlude from everyday life.
‘He’s a lovely guy but honestly I don’t think anything’s going to happen. It was such a strange set of circumstances,’ I said firmly, as much as to myself as to Jo. ‘I’ve hardly had a moment to think.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Promise. I’ve got lots to get on with, to keep myself busy.’
‘Text me tomorrow when you’ve spoken to Justin? I’d love to know what he says.’
‘Will do.’
I made an appointment with the bank, sent a reassuring text to Ben, emailed the homeless shelters that he’d sent details of and then, feeling more nervous than I’d been for a long time, plucked up the courage to dial Justin’s number. I remembered him only vaguely from my design studio days – a very influential supplier who dealt in bespoke, slightly off-the-wall schemes for high-end clients, just the sort of people who might go for my wacky patchwork.
To my surprise he answered at once and was typically effusive: ‘Caroline, darling, it’s been years. Fab that you’re back on the scene.’ We arranged to meet early the following week, which would give me time over the weekend to work up a broader portfolio of ideas.
Finally, I made my usual call to the police – it had been several days since I last checked. Perhaps, just perhaps, there might be news. The man on reception was distracted and dismissive; I could hear in his voice that he wished I would just give up on my stupid quilt.
Then I got to work on my portfolio, making several detailed sketches of individual items of furniture upholstered in patchwork, and two A3-sized sheets with worked-up full-scale living room designs showing how these pieces worked together, set against plain walls and carpets in dark blue or light ecru. I raided the bag of sixties design furnishing fabric remnants I’d brought back from Rowan Cottage and traipsed to charity shops to gather further materials for swatches. My presentation was simple, with no fancy mounts or bindings, and the designs had a slightly thrown-together effect; I hoped the air of casual spontaneity might strike a special chord with Justin.
On Saturday I was back on the A12 to see Mum, worrying about how she might react when I arrived. What if she cried and begged me to bring her home? Happily, my worst fears were unconfirmed. I found her in the sitting room overlooking the golf course and the lake. Her cheeks had filled out, she had a good colour. In the distance, brown fields and bare trees were beautifully illuminated by a low wintry sun and I began to feel optimistic that she was settling in.
We drank tea and I encouraged her to talk about Granny in hopes that she might have remembered something more about the quilt, but she ended up reminiscing about Dad with stories I’d heard before: how overawed she had been by his intellect and how astonished she was when he had asked her out to ‘the flicks’, what a gentleman he had been when she’d lost her purse. Her memory of events long ago seemed undimmed, but when it came to the present she was even more confused than ever.
‘How are you enjoying things here at Holmfield?’ I asked.
‘Things?’ she repeated, looking at me vaguely. ‘What things do you mean?’
‘Are you settling in okay? Remember, we said you could come for a holiday and decide whether you wanted to stay longer.’
‘It’s a lovely hotel,’ she said. ‘But I do miss home. Need to get back for Richard,’ she said. It felt like a little stab to my heart.
‘Let’s see what happens when the cottage has been repaired,’ I said, trying to be positive.
‘“Repaired”?’ she repeated, vaguely. ‘Have I ordered any repairs?’
On my way out I went to see the matron.
‘Your mother’s getting on rather well, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘She’s got friendly with some of the other ladies and they’re talking about setting up a whist drive. How did you find her?’
‘She certainly looks fine,’ I admitted, ‘but she seems more confused, and she’s still talking about going home to see Dad, how she misses him. He died thirty-something years ago, it makes me sad that she’s so confused and disorientated.’
‘It’s not uncommon,’ she replied. ‘When ladies who have been widowed first come to live here, the presence of men reminds them of their lost loved ones. She’ll soon get used to it. And the confusion is not surprising, either. A move often does that, but she’ll recover soon enough, the longer she stays.’ Her calm, no-nonsense explanation was a relief, but it raised the stakes. Should Mum decide she really didn’t want to stay, moving her again could cause yet another setback.
‘On the upside, she keeps saying it’s a lovely hotel,’ I said.
‘That’s a good sign,’ the matron said, laughing. ‘But, just like a hotel, I regret that there are bills to pay.’ She handed me an envelope. ‘There’s an invoice in there, payable weekly by card or cheque, please. If you decide to make it a permanent arrangement, we encourage people to set up a direct debit, but of course we can keep her on a respite footing for another week or so to give you time. Also in there is a whole bunch of other information you probably won’t need, about financial assistance and so on.’
The envelope felt like a lead weight in my hands. What it meant was that Rowan Cottage would have to go on the market, sooner rather than later.
Justin was as I had remembered him: the tightest jeans imaginable in emerald green clashed crazily with psychedelic patterns on his tee-shirt and the crimson in his hair. His ear lobes were punctuated with wide holes like tarpaulin grommets, and carefully manicu
red slivers of facial hair traced his chin. It was the look of someone Mum would probably have called a ‘waster’, but when he started talking you could tell at once that beneath the peacock and slightly camp exterior was a sharp-nosed businessman who really knew his market.
We met at an uber-trendy wine bar occupying the ground floor of a former industrial building in Shoreditch that appeared to have changed little since its days as a sweatshop: it still had the flaking plaster, rough wooden floors, chunks of metal machinery hanging off the walls, and staff who looked deadly bored.
I ordered cocktails which cost the probable equivalent of a week’s wage for the poor souls who had once worked in this place and, after the usual ‘how’s things’ chat, spread my paintings and sketches out across the table. Knowing how too much talk can so easily destroy a pitch I said little, leaving my work to speak for itself.
‘Love the look,’ he said, after examining my worksheets for a few moments. ‘Cottage chic comes to the city. Your colour combinations are joyous. And this’ – he fingered one of the fabric swatches – ‘is surely a Marianne Straub? Original?’
I nodded.
‘Very now, darling,’ he said. ‘Impressive. Where do you get your ideas?’
It was a courtesy question; when I began to explain about the quilt he lost interest after a few moments, his mind already racing forwards.
‘Have you got anything made up yet, or are these just ideas on paper?’
I’d anticipated this. ‘I’m planning to commission the work on a few pieces shortly, and then set up my own studio in the next couple of months,’ I lied. Paying an upholstery company to produce such work-intensive items would be pricey, I knew, but it would be worth it. Renting a workshop in London would be expensive, and I’d need to have a few orders already in the bag to support my business plan before a bank would consider any kind of loan.
Justin finished his cocktail, chewing his olive stick thoughtfully.
‘They’re very original,’ he said. ‘Possibly a bit too homespun to cut it with my clients, but you can never really predict what they’ll go for. I’ll certainly bear you in mind. Can I keep these?’
‘Of course,’ I said, holding tight to my cheerful smile, even though I feared this might be the brush-off. I’d tried to stay realistic, but a small part of me had nursed a flicker of hope that he might fall instantly love with my sketches and give a kick-start to my fledgling company. But that would have been too easy, and it was not to be, not today, anyway.
‘Keep in touch,’ he said, air-kissing both cheeks. ‘And let me know when you’ve got a few pieces made up.’
As I left the bar and checked my phone, there was a text: I’ve got a new lead! Phone when you’re free. Ben. When I returned the call it went to voicemail. Shortly after I got back to the flat, the phone rang again.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘So much better, thanks. I don’t know how I’d have coped without you.’
‘Good. Now, this’ll cheer you up even more. I’ve got a new lead on your quilt-maker.’
‘That’s great,’ I lied, trying to sound cheered. Finding the quilt-maker had become somehow irrelevant since the quilt itself had been stolen and this was just another uncomfortable reminder that – perhaps through my own stupidity – it was probably lost forever.
‘You were right all along, you know,’ he was saying. ‘Pearl’s daughter Julie – you know she works here at the newspaper – told me today that her mum had been talking to an old friend, another former nurse from the Hall, and mentioned that you’d been inquiring about Queenie. The friend remembered her real name: it was Maria, just like you said.’
‘I got this strange feeling when Pearl talked about her. It all makes sense now.’ Maria, the patient Pearl had remembered as being an exceptional seamstress, who had a fantasy about working for the queen. Was this Granny’s friend, the one who made the quilt?
‘She remembered something else.’ I could hear the smile in his voice.
‘Go on.’
‘Apparently some sociology student from the university went to the hospital, back in the nineteen seventies, to interview staff and patients just as the place was preparing for the big change-over to care in the community. Research for a doctorate or something. They think Maria might have been one of those she interviewed.’
‘The University at Eastchester?’ I asked, stung by the coincidence. ‘My father was professor of sociology there.’
‘We can soon find out. Her name was Patricia Morton. Hang on a minute.’ I could hear the click of his keyboard. ‘Go to the Helena Hall website and look under publications,’ he said, waiting as I tapped through. ‘Got it? See the title?’
‘The story of Helena Hall Hospital, by Patricia Morton, University of Eastchester? Oh my goodness, she might even have known my dad.’
‘Listen, I’ve got to go, there’s someone waiting for me,’ he said. ‘I’ll call again later to see whether you’ve made any progress.’
‘Thanks so much for this, it’s a great lead.’
‘We aim to please.’
I searched on the title only to discover that the book was out of print, second-hand copies were selling for fifty pounds, and no library copies were available in my borough. I’d have to ask the British Library. Then I looked up Patricia Morton, now Professor Morton, and still at the same university after nearly forty years. I made a quick calculation: she would almost certainly have known my father.
Dear Professor Morton
I am researching the life of a former patient and believe that she may have been one of the people you interviewed at Helena Hall Hospital in the 1970s? Her name was Maria, also known as Queenie. I have also been trying to trace a copy of your book The Story of Helena Hall, but have not been able to find one. I would be very grateful for any help you can give.
With best wishes,
Caroline Meadows
Later that afternoon, there was a reply.
Dear Miss Meadows
Thank you for getting in touch. It is a source of constant surprise that the research I did so long ago (for my PhD) is still being read today. Of course all my interviews were carried out anonymously and I cannot recall offhand the names of all those I talked to. It was a very long time ago. But I’ll ask my assistant, Sarah, to check through the files. As you have discovered, my book is now out of print but there are probably copies in the British Library or in our university library. Do contact me if you need further information.
Professor Patricia Morton
Department of Sociology
The following morning, when I turned on my laptop, a further email had arrived in my inbox.
Dear Ms Meadows
Professor Morton asked me to do some digging into the archives and I’ve found a list of people she interviewed for her research. It includes someone called Maria Romano. Is this the person you are seeking?
Sarah Buckle
PA to Professor Patricia Morton
Department of Sociology
‘Ohmigod! What a result!’ I shouted, doing a little dance around the living room. Maria really had existed, and now I had found someone who had actually talked to her. If she really was my quilt-maker I might – just might – discover the secret of that little verse, and how my granny came to meet her. Who knows, I might even be able to find out how she got hold of those royal silks?
Dear Sarah
Thank you so much for getting in touch. Do you have a transcript of Professor Morton’s interviews and, if so, would it be possible to mail me a copy of the interview with Maria?
Her reply came almost immediately:
Dear Caroline
Unfortunately the written transcripts have been lost, but we still have the original cassette tapes. If you are prepared to pay for transcription we could arrange that through the university. Alternatively, you would be welcome to listen to them here – we probably have an old cassette player you could use.
I arranged to meet her in three days�
�� time. The university was just a few miles from Holmfield so I could fit in a visit to Mum too.
When I texted Ben to thank him, he replied: Great news. Are you free for a drink afterwards?
The concrete brutalist architecture of the university campus that must have been considered so bold in the 1960s now looked weary and rain-stained. The wind howled unhindered from the Arctic Circle via the North Sea, and horizontal sleet soaked me on my short walk from the car park. To soften the hard edges of the place they’d planted shrubs and trees in large concrete tubs in the centre of each of the linked squares, but at this time of the year the plants were dark and leafless, struggling to survive the drifts of litter gathered at their bases. Students, almost uniformly dressed in black, huddled in groups or hurried across the squares while small whirlwinds of paper cups and plastic bags whipped up in every corner.
I negotiated my way through miles of anonymous linoleum corridors with that nostalgic college smell of polish and stale coffee, and entered the door marked ‘Administrative Office, Department of Sociology’.
‘Caroline? I’m Sarah.’ A large smiley woman levered herself up from her chair. ‘The professor’s teaching at the moment, but she’ll be back in a bit. You’ve come about the Helena Hall tapes?’
We shook hands. ‘Thank you so much for helping me at such short notice.’
‘It’s no trouble. Now, let me see …’ she tapped a perfectly French-manicured finger on her temple ‘… I think they’re in here.’ As she opened a large grey metal filing cupboard a roll of flipchart paper fell from the top shelf, glancing off her head on the way down.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
She chuckled. ‘No problem. I’ll leave it there for the moment, probably safer.’
After further excavation, she lifted from the back of a shelf a large cardboard box labelled ‘Helena Hall’ and set it down on a nearby desk.
‘It was Maria Romano you were looking for, wasn’t it?’ She started to rifle through the plastic cassettes stacked inside. ‘Should be in there somewhere.’ She took them out of the box onto the desk one by one, but none appeared to be what we were looking for, and I was beginning to fear I’d had a wasted journey when she peered into the depths of the box once more and pulled out a label which had stuck to the bottom.