A Habit of Dying

by D J Wiseman

  There was the stray at the end of the album, the one she had copied and sent to Dorothy, that one had been more contrived than most. ‘Self ’ had been deliberately placed right there, half profile, looking past the camera to some unseen point. But even if it were Worthing or some other identifiable place, Lydia could not see there was more to be made of it. As she turned the pages again and took another sip of wine, a second picture took her attention. At face value it was unremarkable and easily overlooked amongst all the other snaps. The two girls, Susan and Linda, uncaptioned but certainly them, sitting on a dry stone wall somewhere in the Dales. They sat either side of a signpost, the old-fashioned country type, with arms that ended in pointing fingers to indicate the direction. The girls were looking at the camera but each was also pointing at the other. Susan, on the left pointed right at Linda, while Linda on the right pointed left at Susan. Lydia could not imagine any reason for such positions to occur naturally, they had certainly been asked to sit and point, but for what purpose? Whatever it was, they were happy to take their places, for the usual scowls were replaced with broad grins. They shared the joke, understood why they were sat there. Now they just needed to share the joke with Lydia.

  Maybe it involved the places pointed to, that the signpost was wrong and the correct directions were exactly opposite. Under her magnifying glass Lydia could just make out the places indicated. Above Susan was ‘Arncliffe’ and above Linda was what appeared to be ‘Ingleby’. Lydia was about to find them in her gazetteer when she saw the joke. The joke was the names themselves. Susan, beneath the sign showing Arncliffe, pointed at her friend whose name was Linda Arncliffe. Linda sat beneath the name Ingleby, pointing at her friend Susan. And if the joke were to have any meaning at all then Susan must be Susan Ingleby. No wonder the families stopped at the sign, arranged their children and snapped the event. Lydia was away and running with the scene, tasting the packed lunch with spam and salad-cream sandwiches, listening to the laughter as they arranged each other beneath the signpost, half a dozen photos no doubt. Only one made it to the album, the best one of course. The Arncliffes would have put their own version of it into their album with no caption either, the same joke needing no explanation for them either. That was if she really had the joke. Lydia was so pleased with herself that she did not dare spoil it by allowing more than a flicker of doubt to creep in.

  Where there was Susan Ingleby there also was her father, Fred, and her brother Paul, and the as yet unnamed ‘self ’. But she would be found soon enough, her children were aged about seven and six on the Dales holiday and that appeared to be 1960 give or take a year or so. She would start with Susan, find the likely births from 1950 onwards, move on to Paul, and with their mother’s name find Fred’s marriage to her. Simple stuff, the kind of thing she had done a thousand times. Unless they were not Inglebys, but like Bertie Myers, playing ducks and drakes with their name, sometimes double barrelled and sometimes not. Back at her desk, it took a few moments to discover there were but three Susan Inglebys registered between 1949 and 1954. Hardly daring to look, Lydia checked each of the mother’s maiden names, willing the word Joslin or, if pushed, then Myers or Dix to appear. The second of the three was so exactly what she hoped for that she could scarcely believe it. ‘Ingleby, Susan D, September quarter 1952, Aylesbury, mother’s maiden name Joslin’. Not only that but there was that ‘D’ again, a ‘D’ that to Lydia said ‘Dix’.

  Paul Ingleby was easier still, just two entries to check and the first gave the same mother’s name as for Susan. And Paul was also Paul D. D for Dix, it was more probable by the minute. Instead of Aylesbury, he was registered in Oxford. Finally she was home, the connections were all becoming apparent, the Inglebys were Oxford, the very reason she was sat there now looking at their births was Oxford. Lydia hugged the pleasure to herself, even thought of opening another bottle of wine to celebrate. But it grew late and as the euphoria of the moment passed she was overcome by a wave of tiredness. Mrs ‘Self’ Ingleby could keep her secrets for one more day.

  As predicted, Dorothy’s answering letter arrived in a couple of days, along with a message from Stephen. He replied in the same vein, a postcard with a picture of St John’s College, Cambridge. ‘It was just a glimpse, if you would like a longer look, come over and tell all about Joslins and sandcastles. Stephen. PS I have plenty of room.’ Coded words, just as hers had been, as if to say ‘two can play at that game.’ Behind the cipher were answers to questions she didn’t realise she’d asked, hadn’t even framed in her mind. But, the answer to one that she had: Stephen had no wife at home. Now it was clearly up to her to take him up on the offer or let the matter lie. It would wait until she knew what to do, but the invitation pleased her.

  Dorothy’s letter held nothing between the lines, simply a note to say the photograph held no meaning for her and nothing further had come to light. She wished Lydia would think about visiting her again, she would be pleased to have her stay over. Two invitations in one day, next thing she knew she’d be out partying with Gloria.

  Lydia replied immediately.

  Dear Dorothy

  Thank you for your kind invitation, I will take you up on it one day, but I am not sure when, perhaps later in the summer.

  You will be interested to know that in the short time since I last wrote there has been progress with your second cousin Ethel Beatrice Joslin. She married Frederick Ingleby in 1951 at Chelsea and they had two children (as far as I know), Susan and Paul who are technically your ‘second cousins once removed’. I found something about Ethel’s father and it seems that he was killed by a V1 in June 1944 while he was on ARP duty in south London and Ethel died in 1972. I have not yet tracked down anything about the other two girls, Ethel’s sisters Violet and Rose. With Susan and Paul the family is almost up to date, although I am waiting for quite a few birth and death certificates to be absolutely sure. You will see that I have enclosed yet another version of the little diagram of your family.

  Hope this finds you well and enjoying the warm weather. Maybe we can go back to your mother’s place at Highdown next time I see you.

  Kind regards

  Lydia

  The first of the new batch of certificates arrived at the beginning of July, confirming all that Lydia had expected about the Joslin girls, Ethel’s marriage, and their father’s death. The informant to the registrar was not his wife Hannah, but a police constable, suggesting that Hannah and her daughters were not living in the area when Albert was killed. Lydia wondered if they might have been staying out of London, out of harm’s way, in Essex perhaps, with the children’s grandparents. How would they have heard the news of their father’s death? Who at that time would have known their whereabouts? A neighbour maybe, a neighbour who opened her door when the police called at the house in Ansell Road to give Hannah the news. A neighbour who said no, Mrs Joslin was away with the girls at Mr Joslin’s parents in Essex and how sorry she was to hear of poor Mr Joslin, such a nice man. Yes, it would have been something like that, no screaming or hysterics, it was one bomb amongst a thousand bombs, one death amongst a thousand deaths. The first bomb of the Doodlebug Summer, special in its own peculiar way, but for Albert it could have been any bomb.

  The surprise came a day or so later with Susan and Paul’s details. They had been registered as Susan Dorcas and Paul Donald. So much for her Dix idea. Lydia had been so sure it would be Dix, that some undetected connection would have led to that name reappearing. But it was not so, she must have spent so long chasing the name that she was ready to assign it to any stray ‘D’ that appeared. But Dorcas? Where did that come from? No Joslin bore that name as far as she knew and surely it wasn’t fashionable in 1952. She began to rehearse the steps she would take to check back through the family in search of a Dorcas, before she stopped herself. What did it matter, beyond her own curiosity? For an instant a great depression welled inside her again. What did any of it matter beyond her own curiosity? She fought down the feeling before it had a chance to take
hold. It was, yes she could say it to herself, her passion, her interest. In some way it defined her. And there was Dorothy, kind, gentle, slightly other-world Dorothy, who knew something of her own family because of Lydia. There was also Stephen, for the moment Lydia could not quite grasp how he fitted in to her reasoning, but without her passion she would never have met him, and after all, it was he who had first described it so. Which reminded her about his still unanswered invitation. The reply had taken shape in her head, and the answer was going to be ‘yes’, but first she would do as he had thought she might, she would google him.

  To her complete astonishment, Lydia found she would have to sift through more than a thousand entries if she were to read everything on offer regarding Sir Stephen Kellaway. By excluding certain words associated with other Stephen Kellaways, like ‘athletics’, ‘aerial’ and ‘lettings’, she could dispose or more than half. There seemed little alternative to simply wading through them. Such a well-documented man would surely have had a few biographical notes written about him. There was more than enough about his career, papers he had published, committees he had chaired, his honours and awards, but she could find nothing about the man himself. What she was looking for, as she recognised after a while, was something to tell her about his private life, or to be more precise, whether he was or had been married. She could ask him, but the asking would also be asking ‘are you available?’ and the question would suggest she was interested. In her mind’s eye it was not that she was interested, rather that she did not want any surprises if she were to become interested. Gloria’s cautionary words came back to her, ‘if you don’t ask and they don’t say, then they’re married.’ She was probably right more often than not, but he had freely given his address and phone number, he could be the exception that proved the rule.

  With no additional information of any use, Lydia decided on a tentative acceptance, something she could withdraw from easily enough if she later chose. A private note rather than a public postcard was called for and she would keep the tone light. Continuing with the post rather than using email retained a certain distance that she wanted to preserve, at least for the present. After a few minutes thought, she settled on ‘to avoid further surprises I took your google advice, but it didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.’ It was asking without asking, and sat comfortably enough in the middle of her brief acceptance. She also suggested a couple of possible dates.

  As soon as she had posted it, she regretted the words. Stephen would see exactly what they meant and why she had asked in that way. If only she’d had the courage to have come straight out with it and simply asked him. And what did it matter anyway, she was hardly involved with him, she was not contemplating an affair with him. She hadn’t contemplated an affair with anybody, ever, not while she was married and certainly not in the immediate aftermath. There had been one or two invitations, more hints and suggestions really, in the months after the divorce, all from the husbands of her few friends from the world of coupledom. As that world had receded and with it the friends, so too had the suggestions. As the months and years had passed she’d found her own level, contented herself with her own company, and found that answering to no one was compensation enough for the absence of a man in her life. Lydia could remember quite vividly thinking as a child that when she was grown up she would be able to eat a whole tin of peaches whenever she wished. On odd occasions her single status had allowed her to do exactly that.

  As the film reader whirred its way through the months Lydia paused its progress every few seconds to check the date. She was looking for what she hoped would be a very specific day. According to his death certificate, Paul Donald Ingleby drowned on August 27th 1967 and his death registered on 2nd of October ‘after coroner’s inquest’. It had been a surprise to find the entry for Paul, the first of the Ingleby deaths, before those of his parents and with no sign of anything for Susan. But there was no denying it, she had all three unfolded on the table beside her in the library while she searched the micro-film for some mention of the affair in the newspaper archive. If he died on the 27th then any report would likely be in the Oxford Times for Friday 1st. She stopped at the 8th September and slowly wound back. There it was on page 4, ‘Boy 12 Feared Drowned. The search for Paul Ingleby, who disappeared last Sunday while playing near the river at Iffley, was officially called off on Wednesday. A police spokesman said that a watch would be kept on the river down to Henley but that the formal search had been abandoned. Paul was last seen with his sister Susan (14) near the boat slide at Iffley. An extensive search was mounted immediately but nothing has been found. Police and river authorities again warned parents of the dangers that the river presented.’ A sad little addition to the long list of those claimed by the Thames.

  Lydia scrolled on to October looking for a report of the inquest. Friday 6th October would be favourite and sure enough, a few moments scanning the pages brought her to it. ‘Misadventure Verdict. The Oxford coroner on Monday returned a verdict of misadventure following the death of 12-year old Paul Ingleby. The court heard evidence that Paul, a good swimmer, had gone missing at Iffley following an argument with his sister Susan (14). Despite an extensive search his body was not found until 20th September when it was recovered from the Thames near Sutton Courtenay. In announcing the verdict, the coroner stated that Paul’s sister Susan should not feel any responsibility for her brother’s death as she had done all that she could by promptly raising the alarm when he had disappeared. He was entirely satisfied that the disagreement with her brother over the need to return home played no part in the tragedy. The coroner also warned that it was unsafe to swim in the river where unseen currents could present a danger to the strongest of swimmers.’

  What a scar to bear through life, thought Lydia. What a burden to carry, the tears of your parents and your own guilt, no matter how misplaced. She could see the teenage Susan, running screaming to the nearest person, gasping her story then watching and waiting helplessly. Her father and mother, panicked and distraught, torn between comforting their daughter and weeping for their son. Long days with any realistic hope quickly diminished until weeks later a policeman calls and suggests they sit down and they know that the news they have waited for has finally arrived. The grim day is brought back to life and Susan heaves great inconsolable sobs into her pillow, while her parents hold each other and wonder at the meaning of anything. Lydia felt the prick of a tear in her eye as she read again the official record that she held in her hand. All these certificates, be they death or otherwise, these anonymous records, they all held stories of joy and tears, smiles and anguish in other lives.

  Had that family, Fred and Ethel, the teenage Susan, had they ever recovered? Or had the trauma gnawed at them like the cancer that took first Ethel three years later and Fred three years after that? Maybe that was all the cancer needed, a trigger to begin its insidious progress. On August 27th 1967 Susan had woken in her fourteen year old world, pop-music on the radio, family around her, unknowing of what the days and weeks ahead held for her. Unknowing that by nightfall her brother would be drowned, that before she would be eighteen her mother would be gone and by twenty she would be reporting her father’s death. What of her after that, what would she carry through her life from these losses?

  Lydia looked again at the entries on Fred Ingleby’s death certificate. There was Susan, ‘S.D.Ingleby – Daughter’, neatly typed in the box provided for the informant. Lydia paused and looked long and hard again. Perhaps it was the simple juxtaposition of the initials, perhaps it was the time spent feeling for her young life, but whatever it was Lydia saw them properly for the first time. Susan Dorcas Ingleby. SDI. She knew exactly what happened to Susan. She’d grown up to become a teacher, to marry a man like Mr Punch, she’d grown up to have baby who died after a few brief hours. In that box of albums there could only be one SDI, one SDI who featured in both the journal and sandcastles. And knowing who she was, knowing her life, meant she knew who the journal writer was, who it was w
ho wrote of Mr Punch and hiding a body where it would never be found - ‘like a leaf on the forest floor’.

  11

  Quite what she expected to find at Stephen’s house in Grantchester, Lydia was not entirely sure. She had a picture half formed in her mind from the address, The Old Rectory, and she knew something of it from the satellite image Google Earth provided for her, but the feel of the place eluded her. She would discover soon enough but it was not only the physical she couldn’t quite grasp, it was also Stephen. She could not see how or why he was ready to make her even the tiniest space in his life. These questions were born in part from her fragile self-confidence, but also from serious and, to her own satisfaction at least, objective thought on the subject. Admittedly, these thoughts had troubled her more after she’d written to accept his invitation than before, but as Gloria had said in her no-nonsense way, what was there to lose, she would get a nice weekend, some good food and a few drinks. To this list of potential benefits, Gloria had added the possibility of Stephen being good in bed, although she had put it more bluntly than that. Where once Lydia would have done her utmost to conceal any hint of her life outside of the office, those few words that she and Gloria had exchanged about married men had begun a subtle change between them. For years Lydia had seen nothing but the shallowness of the younger woman’s view of life, her brashness, her apparently single-minded pursuit of sex and pleasure. More recently, she been surprised to discover beneath all the dross was someone who had deeper feelings and a previously unseen generosity of spirit.