by M J Lee
Happy days, away from her mother. Just she and her father together, not talking much, except when she spotted something interesting like the dippers digging for grubs in the fast-flowing river. Her father was a fount of information, a man who seemed to know the name of every flower, every rock and every bird.
She parked the car in the centre of the village next to a war memorial. 'In remembrance' was carved at the top of the stone pillar, followed by the names of six men, all privates, who had died in the First World War. Beneath these names, in a different style of carving, were two others, casualties of the Second World War.
Around her, the robins sang as they fought for territory. A village shop-cum-post office-cum-cafe had a Walls Ice Cream sign posted outside the door. Inside, an old woman was arranging a plate of home-made scones on the counter.
As Jayne opened the door, a bell rang loudly and the woman looked up. ’I’m sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Hatherton Hospital. I believe it's around here.'
'The old asylum?'
Jayne nodded.
'Nothing left of the place, dear. Closed 20 years ago it did. Village nearly closed with it. No jobs any more.'
'So it's not there?'
'Gone, like everything else. They put up a whole lot of maisonettes, townhouses and detached residences in its place. Or so they described them. Look more like boxes with windows, if you ask me. Some people drive as far as Sheffield every day. More fool them is what I think. Still, it kept the village alive, but why you would want to see the place beats me. You had a relative there, did you?'
'Yes, an aunt,' Jayne lied.
'Wasn't a very nice place. Oh, it were pretty enough, the old building, and they kept the grounds beautiful. Well, they had free workers with the residents, didn't they? But not a happy place. Wouldn't want to live in the new estate myself, too many memories, I think. It stands to reason, don't it?'
'I suppose it does.'
'Now, Mrs Atkins, she worked there for years and the stories she tells. Well, the hair on the back of your arms stands up at the thought, it does. Not a nice place, you couldn't pay me to live there.'
'Thank you.' Jayne was about to go, but then turned back. 'This Mrs Atkins, does she live nearby?'
'She's down at the end of the village, lived here all her life, and intends to die here, or so she says. Me, I think she has the secret of eternal life that one.'
Jayne pointed left. 'This way?'
'That's right, my love. Green door, you can't miss it. If you're going there, could you be a dear and take her milk for her. Save me doin' it later.'
'No problem. And could I have four of your scones, they look delicious.'
'She loves a scone, does Amy, she don't get many visitors and she loves to chat about the old days.'
Chapter Forty-Three
Hatherton, Derbyshire. April 2, 2016.
Jayne was sat in a small living room, balancing a cup of tea on one knee and a plate with a freshly buttered scone on the other.
She had knocked on the door and Mrs Atkins had greeted her like a long-lost friend, inviting her in immediately. So different from the big city where people were afraid of strangers, treating everybody with suspicion.
Mrs Atkins was a small woman with a back bent like a branch of hawthorn and a trace of white stubble around her jaw. Her eyes were the clearest shade of eggshell blue and probably still as sharp as the day she was born 83 years ago. Her one problem was her hearing.
'You'll have to speak up, dear, I'm as deaf as last Sunday.' She cupped her hand over her right ear, turning her head so it faced Jayne.
'I said lovely to meet you. The lady in the post office said…' Jayne shouted.
'I'm deaf dear, not stupid. You don't need to shout, just speak slowly and clearly.'
The old woman still had the ability to put people in their place. 'Sorry, Mrs Atkins. I just came to visit the old asylum,' Jayne enunciated as clearly as she could.
'Not there any more, dear, knocked it down years ago.'
'Did you work there?'
'I did. Started there when I was 16 and they had to throw me out when they were pulling the walls down. I were sad to see the place go, but the world changes. Care in the Community is what they called it. Just saving money it was. Dumping people who had nowhere else to go onto the streets. You know some of them had lived in the hospital all their lives, didn't know anything else. One man had been in Hatherton since he were five years old. Mr Sanderson, we called him. He was placed in the asylum in the 1920s and they shoved him out into a half-way house when he was in his 60s. I heard he couldn't manage. Wasn't used to looking after himself, see. Died, he did. Or so they said.' She touched the side of her nose. 'But we know better, don't we?'
Jayne decided to let the old woman talk. 'That's why I'm here, Mrs Atkins.'
'What, speak up woman, don't mumble.'
'I said that's why I'm visiting you. I wonder if you remember an old woman by the name of Clarke, Rose Clarke.'
The old woman spent some time with her head cocked to one side, before lifting up her cup with both hands and loudly slurping a large mouthful. Jayne saw the fingers were arthritic, knuckles swollen and wrists bending inwards. A hard life working in a mental hospital for all those years.
Shakily she put the cup back onto the saucer. 'Don't remember no Rose Clarke. We only had one Rose in those days. A lovely old woman she was, always polite and beautifully groomed, every day, making sure her hair was combed and her clothes were immaculate. Not like some of the others, I'll tell you. Some of them just let themselves go, but not Rose. Loved to draw too. Sat out in the garden sometimes, drawing the old building. I have one of her drawings somewhere. Now where was it?’
The old woman took a bite of a scone and washed it down with a long slurp of tea, forgetting that she was supposed to be looking for the drawing. ‘Every day, when I was working, she came and helped me serve the food. She was good at it too. Knew exactly where everything went. Shame about her though. She passed away in the 70s. She'd been there for years, nobody knew why, but there was nowhere else for her to go, so she stayed at the hospital. Told me once, her early days in the hospital had been hard, but she became used to it. Well, they all did, didn't they? Nowhere else to go.'
'Can you remember Rose's surname?'
Again, there was a long pause as the old woman dredged through her memories. 'I think she called herself Rose Russell. Quite a common name, Russell, especially round these parts. Had a London accent did Rose, not Derbyshire at all. At times, she acted like it was still 1916 and she was waiting for her husband to come home from war. I suppose that's what sent her round the bend.' Here, Mrs Atkins made a spiral with her index finger against her temple. 'Always talked of her son too, as if one day he would come and take her home. He never did, of course. Nobody ever left that place.'
So Rose had been in the asylum, the Russells had been telling the truth. Quietly, Jayne asked her next question. 'Do you remember when she passed away?'
'It must have been around 1974, I think. No, I tell a lie, it was after the miners’ strike. You know, we had a generator and I had to get it started every evening when the power cuts came. Had to have light and heat, didn't we? But it were a right bugger that generator. Local miners used to send someone round to help me they did. Didn't want the patients to suffer, they said.' She stopped and slurped from her teacup. 'Now where was I?'
'You were telling me when Mrs Rose Russell passed away.'
'It must have been 1975 or 1976, somewhere round then.'
'What happened?'
'Well, she was cremated. Most of them were, you know. Cost too much to bury them and one of her relatives came for her things.'
'Her things?'
'An old case. She loved looking in it, carried it with her all the time. Almost as if she were going on holiday or about to leave the hospital. But it wasn't a large case, more like a vanity case, you know, for make-up and such like.'
Jayne took a deep breath. 'A relative
came for the case?'
'A young man he was, in his thirties, had a London accent too. Quite handsome, with a quiff of dark hair. Looked like Elvis he did.'
Chapter Forty-Four
Northern Quarter, Manchester. April 2, 2016.
Herbert Small relaxed in his office. He liked to separate his work from his home, and coming here every day gave his life a regularity which he enjoyed.
He sipped his warm milk, revelling in the gentle warmth it delivered to his upset stomach. It seemed to be a family trait, a gippy tummy. His grandmother had suffered, and his mother, and now him.
Other people bestowed money and wealth and riches on their offspring, his family had given him an irritable bowel.
He checked his computer once more. After his activities of two nights ago, he was expecting a message from Mrs Sinclair, contrite and apologetic.
Nothing yet.
He laughed to himself. And then laughed again.
He hadn’t had this much fun since he had strung up that cat from a tree by its hind legs. It had struggled and struggled, scratching with its unsheathed claws at an unknown enemy. He had watched it, wriggling and shaking and striking out until finally it had given up and just hung there, unmoving.
Slowly, he approached it and prodded the black chest with a stick. Instantly, it had come to life again, snarling and scratching and screeching.
He laughed again at the memory. Such fun he had as a child. Shame it wasn’t with other children, but he always knew he was different, not like the rest.
And now he played with them like he played with that cat. Mrs Sinclair was smart, but she would never find the birth certificate in time. It took him three weeks of diligent work to dig it up. By the time he had found the truth, the Russells had decided to sack him.
The little scrap of paper proved everything once and for all. What the Russells would give to take a look at it. But he wouldn’t let them, not after the way they treated him. He had placed the certificate back in the same place he found it. There it would remain for another hundred years. Or until hell froze over. Whichever happened first.
He took another sip of warm milk. His stomach felt better as the warm liquid eased the queasiness that had bothered him all day. Dunphy had been easy to deal with too; 5000 pounds now bolstered Small’s account simply for telling him what he could have found out with a single phone call; the Russells were still trying to prove their claim to the Lappiter estate. Another 5000 pounds would be paid after April 4, when they failed in their search. He had assured Dunphy that they would never succeed.
Perhaps, he should set himself up as an assurance company? It was certainly far more lucrative than trolling through the bottom of the Bona Vacantia list looking for pearls in beds of old oysters.
He picked up the silver medallion from his desk with its small bows of purple, white and green. Quite a pretty little thing and worth a bob or two, he guessed. Shame about the picture of the old harridan inside. Perhaps he should take it out and replace it with one of his mother?
One nagging doubt remained though. Mrs Sinclair. She was the wild card in his little game. Or was she a joker? He wasn’t sure, but it was her presence that had made him uneasy.
He took another sip of milk to calm his stomach.
There were only a couple of days to go, no time for her to discover the truth. Shame about the Russells; if they had just been nicer to him, he would be telling them where to find the birth certificate instead of concealing it from them.
But that was the game, wasn't it. Fortune favours the brave.
Sure, he would lose some money from the legacy, but it wasn’t much. Eamon Dunphy had more than compensated him for hiding the information.
All in all, it had been a satisfactory couple of days.
Herbert took another sip of milk and began to laugh. If only he could see the faces of the Russells now, particularly the old bastard.
'Have they realised yet they’ll never find the truth?' And he began to laugh again, spilling the milk down his blue V-neck jumper.
Chapter Forty-Five
Sale, Manchester. April 2, 2016.
Jayne drove the 35 miles back to Manchester as quickly as she could, parking outside the Russell house in the suburb of Sale just as the sun was going down. She had stopped off for a short time at Bakewell Library on the way back to check out the local studies department.
As she walked up the path, the curtain at the window twitched again.
When she pressed the bell, Mark answered the door. 'Mrs Sinclair, I presume you want to return the envelopes?’ He held out his hand.
'I think I've discovered something you need to hear, Mark.'
The father appeared at Mark's elbow. 'She's just after your money. They're all the same these bloody genealogists.'
'I thought I made it clear we didn't need your services any more,’ Mark said.
'You did make it clear. But there's something you should know. Are you going to invite me in, or am I going to stand on the step with the neighbours watching all day long?'
Almost reluctantly Mark stepped aside and showed Jayne into the front room. The decor was a throwback to the early 70s, complete with a flock of geese climbing the wall and a picture of Tretchikoff's Green Lady hanging over the mantlepiece.
They sat down on a couch that had seen better days. The father remained stood next to the old, unused fireplace. There was no offer of tea or biscuits.
'I made a trip to Hatherton today. You'll remember it well, Mr Russell?'
'It's where my grandmother was in hospital, what of it?'
'Well, I met an interesting old lady who used to work at the hospital. I always wondered, Mark, why you had just a suffragette medallion and an old drawing. Are they all your great grandmother left behind when she died?'
He looked at his father. 'It's all we have of her. If there was anything else we would have given it to you. It was hard enough getting my father to give you those two things.'
'Well, the old lady who worked at the hospital remembered your great grandmother. Said she always carried a small case, a vanity case, with her all the time. It was her prized possession, staying by her side wherever she went.'
Mark looked again at his father, who flicked up his quiff of hair with his fingers. 'And?'
'And when she died, the case was given to a young man with a solid black quiff.' She stared at the father. 'A man who looked like Elvis.'
The old man suddenly became nervous, fumbling with his matches to light a cigarette.
Mark stood up, looming over his father. 'Dad, is this true?'
'What of it? When she died, I went to pick up her stuff. Your grandfather had already passed away and I was living in Manchester with you and your mother. We hadn't split up yet, or more accurately, she hadn't left me yet. I made the long traipse out to Derbyshire. I hated her and I hated that place.'
Mark's voice was quiet, but menacing. 'What happened to the case, Dad?'
The old man looked like a trapped ferret. 'I don't know, lost it somewhere.'
Mark took a step towards his father. The old man shrank backwards. 'I'd had enough of it all. Never should have shown you the picture or the medallion. I thought if I just gave you those things it would keep you quiet, but you carried on.'
'What was in the case?' The voice had a hint of violence now. Jayne tensed herself, ready to spring forward if Mark attacked his father.
The old man sat down in an armchair. It was as if all the air had been let out of his body and he had become smaller. 'It destroyed her and my father. He always had to live with the stigma of a mother in a mental home. He couldn't ever escape it. And I just had enough. I didn't want you to go through it the same way I did. Not after all this time. I wanted to forget the past.'
'Dad, where's the case?'
The old man's shoulders sagged even further. The answer when it came was a whisper. 'Upstairs. Under my bed.'
Mark jumped up. Jayne heard feet running up the stairs and across the ceilin
g.
The father stared at her with undisguised malevolence. 'See what you've done, you interfering bitch.'
Then, the feet raced down the stairs and Mark rushed into the room with a small grey vanity case, placing it on the coffee table by the couch.
'Mark, don't open it. It's not worth it, not now,' the father pleaded.
Mark clicked the old latches and they snapped open. He lifted the lid and looked inside.
Chapter Forty-Six
Sale, Manchester. April 2, 2016.
Beneath a pile of drawings of the old asylum building, Mark found a studio photograph of Rose holding a small bunch of flowers, lying on top of some letters bound in a purple ribbon. She was dressed in a neat white uniform with a dark cross imprinted in the centre of her apron and a small white hat perched on her head. On the top right of the photograph was embossed a name. Mark tilted it in the light to read it.
'I think it says, John Thomas and Sons, Oxford Road.'
'Probably the name of the studio,' said Jayne.
'It must be her photograph, looks like she's wearing a nurse's uniform. What was she doing in Manchester?' He looked at his father, who was staring at a spot on the old carpet. 'Dad, why did you hide these from me?'
'You'll see. It'll do no use. Destroyed my grandmother, it did, chasing after fantasies. Chasing after the Russells all her life. And my father? What sort of life was it, a mother in a mental hospital and him trying to make the best of life with a great aunt in Worthing? He spent his whole life living down the shame. It destroyed him, I didn't want it to destroy you too.'
Mark reached into the case and pulled out the bundle of five yellowing envelopes, again tied with purple ribbon. The first envelope bore the stamp of the British Army and a postmark from France. The address on the cover was written in faded blue ink and a clear, confident hand.