by M J Lee
The voice on the other end giggled. 'I'm sorry, I'll start again from the beginning. Earlier this week, you made a request at the Scottish People’s Research Centre in Edinburgh to see the original returns from Gretna Green for the period of April 1916.'
Jayne remembered now. It was the Scottish Chinese archivist. What was her name? 'Is this Julia speaking?'
'It is, Mrs Sinclair, anyway I just thought I'd ring to tell you the returns are now available for you to look at. Would you like me to book a time in the Reid Room for you?'
Jayne looked at Mark and his father. They were both waiting patiently for her to finish her phone conversation so they could go and eat. Mark indicated with a nod of his head that it was time to go.
'I don't think…' Jayne began to say before she was interrupted.
'And I must apologise to you, Mrs Sinclair, we found an error at the centre.'
Jayne stopped speaking. For a moment, there was a rushing noise in her earpiece, like a wave crashing against a shore. Then she heard the woman's voice as clearly as if she were standing next to her.
'We made a mistake. For some reason, the returns for April 25th, 1916 were filed under Glasgow and not Dumfries and Galloway. We've found the marriage record you were looking for between…' here the sound stopped as the woman searched for the names,'…a Captain David Russell and a Miss Rose Alexandria Clarke.'
Jayne didn't hear the rest of the woman's explanation. Something about wartime and the lack of experienced staff. She turned to Mark and his father. 'They've found the record.'
The next few minutes passed in a blur. Rushing back into the building, persuading the same security guard they wanted to revisit the same department. More phone calls, more waiting, more silent journeys in a lift.
Meeting Tom again, this time he was wearing a jacket and obviously ready to go home. Begging him to check his fax machine, the proof of marriage would be arriving from the Scottish People’s Research Centre. Jayne checking her watch. Mark glancing nervously at her. The old man stroking his white Elvis quiff again and again. Watching the clock in the foyer tick over to one minute to five.
Finally, Tom came round from behind the desk, holding a limp fax sheet in his hand. 'I have received this paper. It seems to be confirmation of the marriage of David Russell and a Rose Alexandria Clarke, and it’s signed by the archivist.’ He checked the time. The clock ticked over so the hour hand was pointing straight upwards at the twelve.
Five o'clock exactly.
'It's very tight timing after 30 years, but I will place this confirmation with the rest of the documents in your file. It will be up to my senior to adjudicate on the validity of the claim in due course. Meanwhile, I would get them notarised if I were you.'
Jayne reached over and gave him a big kiss on the side of the face. He went red with embarrassment.
'There's no need, I'm simply doing my job.'
'There's always a need for a hug, Tom, don't you agree, Mr Russell?'
The old man walked up to Tom, Elvis quiff quivering on top of his head, and placed another big kiss on the solicitor's cheek. 'Don't reason the need, Tom, just enjoy.'
Chapter Eighty-One
The Eagle Pub, Didsbury, Manchester. April 24, 2016.
'I've never had champagne in a pub before.' Mark's father held up his glass to the light, watching the little bubbles fight their way to the surface. 'I didn't even know pubs sold champagne.'
'Well they do, Dad, so cheers.' Mark raised his glass to Jayne and his father.
'Can we afford this?' asked the old man after swallowing a large mouthful. His quiff looked even more extravagant now, teased into a large curl of hair that was folded back on itself and stroked with Brylcreem.
'Not really, but it's my treat.'
'You've finally been told of the value of the estate?' asked Jayne.
'2,468 pounds and 68 pence. The Bona Vacantia people even informed me they paid interest on the sum for the first 12 years but not after that.'
'I thought it would be worth a lot more.'
'The last Lord Lappiter lived life to the full and then some. What with taxes, death duties, debts and the rest, there's not much left.'
'What about Holton Hall?'
Mark shrugged his shoulders. 'Mortgaged to the hilt, and then mortgaged again. Something had to fund his lifestyle. The land sale has been halted though. Our claim has thrown the whole process into disarray. The developer won’t be building 'executive residences and country maisonettes’, whatever they are, for a very long time.
‘I went to Holton Hall, it’s a falling apart. Aren’t you just a bit sad?'
'Not at all, the place only held bad memories for myself and my father. Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say. And remember we started this quest to vindicate my great grandmother and discover the truth. We've done that, the money doesn't matter.' He raised his glass once more, 'Cheers.'
They toasted each other once more. This time the old man finished his glass and held it out for a refill. 'Quite nice this champagne stuff, bit like lemonade.'
'But one amazing result has come from our investigations. The College of Heralds is looking into whether my father has the right to call himself Lord Lappiter,’ Mark said.
Jayne bowed in the direction of Mark's father.
'Even funnier, if they find in his favour, he will have the right to sit in the House of Lords. The first Elvis impersonator to take a seat.'
The old man rubbed his hands. 'I'm looking forward to the money; 300 quid a day for signing my name in a book.' He rubbed his hands in glee. 'Money for old rope or old dopes. That's what I call a job.'
Mark filled all their glasses. 'Jayne, you called us here. What was the news you were so excited about?'
Jayne put her glass down on the table and pulled out a folder from her bag. 'I don't know if excited is the right word. After we came back from London, something was troubling me.'
'Could be fleas. London's full of them, that's what the Daily Mail says.' The old man had a slightly glassy look to his eyes. The champagne was definitely going to his head.
'It was the court case. Lieutenant Crawford reported seeing David Russell alive on the 3rd July, but he was reported as killed on the 1st July. Then, there was the letter from the Feldlazarett. It all made me wonder: What if David Russell didn't die at the Somme? What if he survived?'
Chapter Eighty-Two
Queen Mary's Hospital, Sidcup, Kent. August 12, 1919.
'I can assure you, Lord Lappiter, that here in Queen Mary's we are at the cutting edge of the latest medical developments.' The doctor waved his hand to take in all the buildings of the hospital. Two nurses walking past caught his eye and smiled.
Toby stifled a yawn. This earnest young doctor bored him to distraction. He would much prefer to be in London, indulging in the delights of Fanny Ross, a delicate little actress at the Haymarket.
His mother nudged him to pay attention. 'I thought Mr Gillies was going to meet us?' asked the Dowager Lady Lappiter.
'I'm afraid he's unavailable at the moment, pressure of work, you know.'
Lady Lappiter stared at the young doctor. 'How disappointing.'
The man coughed nervously. 'Facial reconstruction or plastic surgery as he calls it, is in its infancy. He's writing a book on it at the moment, based on his experience and medical practice during the war.'
'I'm sure he would have had many opportunities to practise,' she said.
The young doctor coughed again. 'I'm sure he did. Over 5000 men have passed through this hospital. But let's be moving on. The patient is waiting in the recreation room.’
He held out his arm to guide them towards the left.
'My son was reported killed on the Somme, Mr…?'
'It's Doctor Moore, actually.'
Lady Lappiter stared at him again. 'So young for a medical doctor. Because of the war, no doubt,' she sniffed. 'Anyway, Doctor Moore, my son was reported killed on the Somme in 1916, so you can imagine my surprise when I received Doctor Gillies' lette
r saying he was here in the hospital.'
They pushed through the swing doors guarding the entrance to the wards. A patient was coming through in the opposite direction, propelling his wheelchair. Lady Lappiter stared at the heavily bandaged face as the man passed by. A shiver of disgust ran down her spine.
The young doctor frowned. 'I thought Mr Gillies made it clear in his letter. We're not actually sure this is your son. The patient has suffered extensive damage to the left side of the face and head. There seems to be brain damage, because even though the voice box and throat remain intact, the man has no power of speech or memory of who he is.'
They pushed through another set of swing doors into a bright, cool area. On their right a small group of men were weaving baskets, their hands moving quickly as they threaded the lengths of willow through upright spokes. All had bandaged faces with only the mouth or nose visible. All except one. This man had an open space where his nose should have been, and a hole the size of an orange in his left cheek.
Lady Lappiter could see the teeth sticking out from raw, red gums through the hole. She shuddered again, and quickly marched on.
'If he can't speak and can't remember who he is, how do you know he's my brother?’ asked Toby.
'We don't. That is, we're not certain. In the Prisoner of War Hospital in Germany he was identified by one of his fellow officers.'
'Why weren't we notified straight away? We published his obituary in the Times, for God's sake.'
The doctor shrugged. ‘The answer is I don’t now. There wasn't much communication with the POWs, and he only came to us last week from Germany. We wrote to you as soon as we could.'
The doctor approached one patient sitting all on his own, concentrating on weaving a small basket.
'Captain Russell?'
No response. The man carried on weaving his basket.
The doctor reached forward and touched him on the shoulder. 'Captain Russell?'
He looked up. The left side of his face was enfolded in a fresh white bandage, covering the top of the head and ending below the jaw line. The only visible eye was glazed and watery, the eyelid hanging over it like wet washing. The tongue lolled from the corner of the mouth, saliva dripping from its end.
'Captain Russell, I've brought some guests to see you.' The doctor placed two chairs in front of the Captain.
The man stared at Toby and Lady Lappiter for a long while before finally returning to weaving his basket.
'As you can see, he's not communicative at the moment. But we feel, given time, and once the surgical procedures have been completed, he will at least be able to interact with people.'
The man stopped what he was doing and stared at them both through his one functioning eye.
Lady Lappiter looked away. She could see an anger there, a bitter betrayal.
'Anyway, I'll leave you alone together for a few minutes. We often find talking with relatives helps the patient recover lost memories.'
The young doctor marched back out through the swing doors.
Lady Lappiter and Toby sat down on the chairs, facing the patient.
'David.' Lady Lappiter reached forward and touched her son's hand. He recoiled immediately and stared at her once again.
She knew it was her son the moment he looked at her. She knew David's face, even though only half of it was visible. It was him, her son was alive.
She reached forward again. 'David.'
The man jerked his hand back before she could even come close to touching him. He started to cry and a muffled grunt, like a piglet calling for its mother, came from his lips.
'Don't touch him mother. You'll only set him off.'
Lady Lappiter sat back in her chair. What was she going to do with her son?
As if hearing her thoughts, Toby said, 'This puts the cat amongst the pigeons, doesn't it? Now we have two Lord Lappiters. How will the College of Heralds answer this conundrum?'
He took out a Turkish cigarette from his silver case, tapped it twice to loosen the tobacco and then lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter.
'Toby, I do wish you wouldn't practise that awful habit in front of me.' She waved the smoke away from her nose. 'I think the answer is very obvious, don't you?'
The two of them talked together while David continued weaving his basket until the doctor returned.
'Well, any progress?' He rubbed his hands together like a contented seal.
Lady Lappiter stood up, slowly putting on her black leather gloves. 'I'm afraid there has been a terrible mistake. This man is not my son.'
The doctor was confused for a moment. 'Are you sure, Lady Lappiter, he was…'
'I am positive, Dr Moore. A mother knows her own son when she sees him.' She pointed to David Russell, still intent on weaving his basket. 'And this man is not my son. He died on the Somme in 1916, a war hero.'
The man in front of them began to open his mouth like a fish out of water. His body rocked back and forth, until the chair toppled on the floor and he lay sprawled on the ground.
The doctor rushed over, and was joined by a nurse from the end of the ward.
Lady Lappiter and Toby Russell decided that now was the perfect time to leave the hospital.
Neither of them took a last look at their son and brother lying on the floor, banging his head on the black and white tiles.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Queen Mary's Hospital, Sidcup, Kent. August 12, 1919.
The noises inside his head stopped for a moment. If he concentrated on the work with his hands, they went away. Must concentrate on weaving the willow.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Building up the walls of the basket, shoring up the ruins, making them stronger.
Somebody spoke to him. He heard his name, but far away, distant.
Nobody spoke to him any more. Unless it was that doctor, asking him how he felt today. Or the nurse with the soft hands and softer smile who bandaged his head. She looked like Rose when she did it, the way her tongue kissed her teeth as she wove the white bandages around and around.
It made him cry, thinking of Rose, tears filmed his one good eye. The nurse always got it wrong. 'I'm sorry it's so painful, Captain Russell, I'll be finished in a tick.'
He tried to speak, to tell the nurse not to worry. But the words wouldn't come out. He tried and tried and tried, but it was like there was something missing between his mouth and his throat; a key to unlock the words buried deep.
There was no pain. He felt nothing any more. Except the terrible loss of Rose. Why had she never visited him? What had happened to his child?
The doctor called his name again and he felt a touch on his shoulder.
Who were these people standing in front of him? They looked familiar, as if he had seen them before in a movie or at the theatre. He concentrated on their clothes, nice clothes, modern clothes.
The doctor left and the woman sat down in front of him. She called him by a name, 'David.' Was that his name? It seemed familiar. Was he David? He shook his head. Why couldn't he remember?
The man began to smoke. He remembered the smell, Turkish tobacco. Lieutenant Crawford had smoked cigarettes like these.
Who was Lieutenant Crawford?
An image flashed across his mind. Running across a field. Barbed wire. A sergeant falling backwards. The noise of shells and bullets and screaming.
Was this what had happened to him?
The man and woman were speaking together now. He concentrated on his weaving.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
He picked up a new length of willow from the table.
Stop.
Concentrate on them.
What are they saying?
'You are Lord Lappiter now, Toby. This thing in front of us is no more my son that a jugged hare. Just look at him.'
Were they talking about him? He wanted to join in, to say something, but the words hid in his throat,
so he could never find them.
The man was speaking in between swallowing mouthfuls of smoke. 'But what can we do, Mother? He's been identified as David Russell.'
The woman snorted. 'Leave it to me, Toby. You're just like your father, he avoided dealing with life's difficulties too. Why break the habit of a lifetime?'
'But Mother…'
The woman banged the table. David jumped back holding his basket in front of him.
'See, you've scared him, Toby,' the woman said but she wasn't smiling or warm or comforting. 'Best to leave him here, where the doctors and nurses can rebuild his face and care for him.'
'But what happens if he ever remembers?'
'It's our word against his. And you should remember he has been declared dead by the War Ministry. They won't like one of their soldiers coming back to life, especially not a Lord.'
'I suppose you're right, Mother.'
'I am, Toby. I always am.'
They were standing up now, the doctor had returned. The woman was putting on a pair of black leather gloves.
Soft gloves, soft leather.
He remembered those gloves. He bought them for his mother from Rose's shop. He gave them to his mother for Christmas.
He tried to speak, to say something to this woman, his mother, but the words wouldn't come.
And she was pointing at him, saying something with a stern, unhappy face.
'And this man is not my son. He died on the Somme in 1916, a war hero.'
David Russell knew then that he was dead.
He started to scream but no noise came from his throat. His body rocked from side to side on the chair, until he fell over and sprawled on the floor. He banged his head on the tiles, trying to get rid of the noise and the pain and the nightmares, trying to bring Rose back into his mind.
His Rose.
Beautiful Rose.
His wife.
The man and woman were gone when he woke up the next morning tied to his bed.
Where was Rose?
Chapter Eighty-Four