by James Barlow
‘If he visited his wife …’
Maddocks said with gentleness, ‘What did you read in the diary? Don’t be ashamed to tell us. We realize that Miss Hughes was – tricked.’
‘It said a lot about God and forgiveness. She was religious. There was something about temporal love and eternity. I didn’t understand. You see, I’ve never loved – And then there was some poetry – about breasts.’
‘When were these entries made?’
‘Oh, about May and June. I haven’t seen it for at least six weeks. She locked it up in her case. Besides, after that, I didn’t like to look. It wasn’t like – a bit of fun.’
Maddocks said, ‘Is this house on the telephone?’
Mrs Wilson said, ‘No.’
‘Did Miss Hughes receive letters?’
‘Quite often.’
‘Where did they come from?’
‘They came from Wales.’
‘All of them?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hazel.
‘She had some from Birlchester,’ Mrs Wilson said.
‘From Peggy,’ Hazel suggested.
‘Some were typed,’ said Mrs Wilson.
Maddocks said, ‘Were the envelopes from any company or society or anything like that?’
‘I think they were just plain envelopes,’ said Mrs Wilson, ‘but they were typed.’
‘How many of these typed letters were there?’
‘I can only remember one or two.’
‘Did either of you see the contents? Please be honest – it would help.’
‘No,’ said Hazel. ‘I didn’t even know –’
‘I saw one once,’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘It was lying on the dressing-table. As it was typed, I thought it must be for me. But there was nothing in it.’
‘The envelope was empty?’
‘No. I mean it just said, “I can’t come on Tuesday. I’ve got to go to Bristol,” and it was signed “R.”’
‘What was his address?’
‘There wasn’t one.’
‘Not even the town?’
‘No. Just the day. Friday. It was ten weeks ago at least …’
MacIndoe said, ‘Did Miss Hughes ever describe the man?’
Hazel stared. ‘Do you mean you don’t know anything about him?’
‘No. Why should we? Who is going to tell us if you don’t? Mrs Harper doesn’t know him; the girls in her shop do not; Mrs Wilson here has never seen him –’
‘Well, I have,’ said Hazel.
‘You’ve met him? She introduced him?’
‘No. Not exactly that. They were in a cinema and when the lights came on I saw Olwen with him.’
‘Was that the only time you ever saw him?’ In a poor light, thought MacIndoe, but better that than nothing.
‘Yes,’ said Hazel. ‘He was talking to Olwen. I didn’t like to interrupt – they seemed so happy.’
‘What did the man look like?’
‘Well, that’s what I mean. I can’t believe – because he looked really nice – a gentleman. Even the way he sat was sort of – distinguished. And his clothes.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘He’d still got his overcoat on – it was a long time ago,’ explained Hazel. ‘It was a brown tweed – heavy and expensive.’
‘How tall was he?’
‘A head taller than Olwen.’
‘Was he as young as she?’
‘No. Over thirty, I should say.’
‘What colour eyes?’
‘Brown, I think. His hair was brown.’
‘Was his complexion good?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Was it fresh? Had he a good colour? A smooth skin? Or did he have skin trouble of any sort? Blotches or pimples?’
‘He had a brownish complexion – sallow, d’you call it?’
‘What was his build?’
‘I don’t know. He’d got his overcoat on. I don’t think he was fat. Of course, I was some rows off, but naturally I was curious because Olwen had said it might be serious. I couldn’t blame her.’ Hazel’s voice faltered. ‘If only –’
‘What about his facial expression?’
‘His expression?’
‘Had he any jowls, heavy creases, birthmarks, large lips or deformities?’
Hazel smiled wanly. ‘I only saw him side-faced. He’d rather a small face – wedge-shaped. There were sort of hollows under each cheekbone. He hadn’t got any marks or anything.’
‘What shaped ears?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter? Big ones, I think.’
‘Every detail matters if we’ve no name, Miss Murphy. What about his nose?’
‘Sort of beakish. Aristocratic’
‘Did he have any characteristic walk or gestures?’
‘I didn’t see him walk. He waved his hands about a lot – rather slowly.’
Mrs Wilson said, ‘Good Lord. All these questions after a day’s work. Give the kid a break.’
MacIndoe smiled. ‘I’m sorry. We were rather going it. Would you like to show us now which were Olwen’s things?’
‘All right,’ said Hazel nervously. It was obvious she hadn’t yet visited the room she’d shared with the dead girl.
‘I’ll put a kettle on,’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘You come and have a cup of tea while they’re having a look.’
As the detectives mounted the stairs behind the girl MacIndoe said, ‘Ye’ve been a fine help, Miss Murphy. Are ye quite sure now that your friend did not have any other male friends?’
‘No; none at all.’
‘Did she ever say she had been followed by anybody?’
‘No.’
‘Did she ever receive threats from any man? Did she jilt anyone?’
‘No. I’m sure nothing like that happened. Honestly, she treated everyone the same – with kindness.’
‘Yes. I believe you.’
They had reached the landing, and the girl fumbled nervously at the particular door, her mouth open in protest. The room they entered was, as Mrs Wilson had said, quite large; it was threadbare, but clean. There was a large, faded pink carpet on the floor, an old dressing-table and chest of drawers, an electric fire, a gas-ring, a cumbersome old wardrobe and two single beds. On the chest of drawers were some books, including the New Testament. That’s hers, MacIndoe thought, meaning Olwen’s. The books were a mixed lot: a nurse’s dictionary, Pride and Prejudice, Gone With the Wind, the poems of Shelley, the poems of St John of the Cross, some romantic novels and some pocket mystery books. The windows were closed and the room was musty. A few saucepans were stacked inside each other by the gas ring and there was some cutlery by the chest of drawers.
‘Where were Olwen’s things kept?’
‘She had the chest of drawers.’
‘You have the dressing-table?’
‘Yes.’
‘How about the wardrobe?’
‘We shared it.’
‘Would ye mind getting her things out of the wardrobe?’
The girl opened the wardrobe and withdrew three frocks, a spring overcoat, three pairs of shoes, some undies and some dirty handkerchiefs. These she laid across one of the two beds. ‘Her bed?’ MacIndoe queried, and Hazel was only able to nod. From the top of the wardrobe she pulled down a yellow suitcase. ‘This was hers too. It’s locked.’
‘One other thing,’ said MacIndoe. ‘Have a skim through your own stuff to see if ye’ve by accident got any of hers – ye know, letters, bills, photographs … Then we can be sure …’
While the girl did this MacIndoe watched her. The two other officers stood about awkwardly, Baker gazing through the window to the road below, Maddocks examining the ce
iling. Hazel said, ‘There’s nothing.’ A pause while she blew her nose. ‘Shall I wait?’
‘No,’ said MacIndoe. ‘You have your tea, lassie.’ The girl sniffed. ‘And try not to be upset. Think of it this way: Olwen’s disillusionment didn’t last long – only a few minutes of terrible unhappiness – it probably seemed quite unreal.’
As soon as the girl had left, the three officers became busy. They looked through the chest of drawers, examined the pockets of the clothes, and even stripped the late girl’s bed in case anything had been put under the mattress. In the chest of drawers was a box which had originally contained stationery. Inside it MacIndoe found a bundle of letters tied up with pink ribbon. Some other letters were also there, not tied up and having different handwritings on the envelopes. As well as the letters the box contained a regimental cap badge, a cheap, tarnished brooch in the shape of a lighthouse, some lavender and a few seashells. Inside the books was the name Olwen Hughes and the year each had been bought: she had purchased Pride and Prejudice in 1949, Gone With the Wind in 1953, and the New Testament had the same rounded feminine handwriting, only younger, the year being 1944. Inside the works of Shelley was the inscription He says it so much better than I can, Stephen, and the year, 1950.
MacIndoe moved the frocks and sat suddenly on the bed. ‘This is a damn long day,’ he explained. ‘Ye mustn’t think I’m callous. I’m awful tired.’ He stretched his feet along the bed and settled down to read the letters.
Baker said, ‘The case is locked.’
‘Ye have my full permission to open it.’
MacIndoe untied the ribbon and examined the letters. He saw in disappointment that they were postmarked in 1944 and had been sent to the address in Wales which he had already been given. The first one was written from a military camp in Bar Quay and read:
DEAR OLWEN,
I am terribly sorry about Satday, but none of the blokes was allowed out, see, including me, so I couldn’t let you no. I may be goin to another part of England soon. Can’t tell you where or when, but will try to see you even if I have to brake camp.
Hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. You’re a nice girl and I no you might be upset. My love to your mama and dad and Tom. My everything to you.
Wait for me.
JOE
MacIndoe sighed and picked up the next letter. The first he passed to Maddocks. Baker was still working on the suitcase. The second letter came from a military camp in Wiltshire and was dated May, 1944:
MY OLWEN,
Here I am in another camp, miles from you. Am I brownd off? The sun is boilin hot and I think of you all the time. At least, when they let me. We’re so busy here that I don’t have time to do anything – I am riting this in the lav.
I am tired each night, but before I go to sleep I think of you. I was thinking last night of that day we parted. You are beautiful, Olwen. I feel ugly and afraid beside you. I’m glad you stopped me loving you – if you had let me it might have spoiled things. You are not like other girls. I mean you are better than them.
All my love.
JOE
The other letters from Joe were all in the same vein, but the last one, from France in October, 1944, gave an indication of the reason for finality:
DEAREST OLWEN,
Thanks for your letters. I got three together and it made that day a good one. We have some bad days, although I am not too frightened. The noise is terrific but you get used to it.
Yesterday I killed a German. I can’t tell you more, except that I wasn’t frightened. And I don’t feel guilty. Please tell me you don’t think I should. You won’t dislike me for it, will you? Please keep riting because England seems a long way off. I think of you whenever I have the courage to think of anything at all – especially about that day. God be with you. Harry has been promoted.
Love,
JOE
MacIndoe looked again at the unit number on the letter and then picked up the cap badge. They tallied. He makes her even more real, he thought. He was scared to death, but able to think of her. God be with you. And with you, too, MacIndoe thought. God be with both of you, and forgive me for intruding upon your privacy. He picked up the small bundle of other letters. The first was postmarked Forest Gate, E.7, but he could not see the date clearly. It seemed to be 1942. The letter was written in a rounded, youthful script:
DEAR OLWEN,
I’ve started at the new school. It’s all right, but I’m not used to it yet. I’ve got to do French now – nobody teaches Welsh here of course. It’s awful because the teacher refuses to speak English at all. I tried to explain that I’ve only just started to learn French, but he just jabbers. Perhaps he can’t speak English! It means that I have to copy the homework, so now I daren’t even mention that I don’t understand French. All very confusing!
The town here is awful. Noise and smoke. Nowhere to walk to and no one to walk with. I miss your honest eyes and face and your serious talk, your lovely hair and your tenderness. I wish we could walk again along the silent February shore. Nothing will ever be the same. I suppose there’s barbed wire now and soldiers in the lighthouse. It seems ages ago – another, more perfect world.
Please do write again, and don’t forget me, will you?
LESLIE
If he hadn’t gone away – but what’s the use of thinking like that? I wouldn’t be here if he had remained, MacIndoe thought. What bad luck that at the end she met the rotten one! Where are his letters? Where’s the current stuff? He saw a letter postmarked Birlchester and picked it up eagerly; but it was several years old. There was no address, but the contents explained the whereabouts of the writer:
OLWEN,
(Heaven forbid that I should call you Nurse. This letter is from me to you, nothing to do with the dear creature who humiliates me by bringing breakfast, thermometers, bed-pans and cod-liver oil. I love her too, but she has me at a disadvantage).
You have been gone only a few hours to the women’s section but already I ache with misery. (I ache with other things, too, but to hell with them.) I miss you, Olwen. I lie here like a prisoner and I can close my eyes now or at any time and see you. It is my only advantage. The others get up and go outside. They are bedazzled by the sun and the glitter of trees; they are free to exercise and chatter; they are bemused by that horsy woman with her library and the other with her occupational gibberish. But I lie here and see cream walls and an occasional passing face, and I know it can’t be yours for another six months unless you act outside the discipline. It’s unbearable. I would willingly be a patient for ever if you would be the nurse.
Against my cream-wall background you have come so many times and I know your every movement and detail. I know when you change your uniform; that you keep scissors in that upper pocket and cigarettes (a bad example to the patients!) in the lower. Your starched cuffs have the exquisite numeral 248 on them. I know that on Mondays or Tuesdays you have a letter from home which goes into the cigarette pocket. I know that you have small hands, although your other bones seem large. (Oh, yes, I’ve looked at your black stockings and your ankles.) These hands are warm, a little roughened by work, dry and friendly. I’ve touched them at every feeble excuse. You don’t use lipstick and your lips have little lines, like the grains in wood, except on the left side where you’ve been biting the lower one. (Why?) You have the face of a saint and a model; it is honest yet sensual, beautiful and yet severe. You have long, smooth, fully-shaped arms; no doubt your shoulders and legs have the same perfection. Your breasts wobble in innocence when you walk. Don’t you know about yourself? Hasn’t anyone ever told you? Why aren’t you conceited? Oh, Olwen, I do not just want you that way, but I am a man and how can I help but ache when I know that I shall die and another, who could not love you as much, will know your face and eyes and shoulders and breasts and acceptances?
Alm
ost you persuade me that there is a God. But not quite. Somewhere is imperfection. Somewhere is the trick. Somewhere the dive-bombers wheel, waiting to plunge again. Come to convince me that I’m wrong, my loved one. Come and tell me convincing lies. It would trick them all if I could die happy.
STEPHEN
Baker said, ‘I’ve opened the case, sir.’
‘You’ve what?’ MacIndoe asked, still disturbed by the letter.
‘I’ve got the case open.’
‘And the contents?’
‘The diary, sir. This year’s.’
‘Thank God. It will have all the names and addresses. Is there anything else?’
‘A pair of stockings.’
‘No letters?’
‘No. What made you ask, sir?’
‘Where are her parents’ letters?’
‘Aren’t they with those?’
‘No,’ said MacIndoe. ‘These seem to be from boys.’
‘Oh,’ said Baker. ‘Then she was the usual sort?’
‘Premature conclusion,’ said MacIndoe wearily. ‘Every girl has boys. This one seems to have known less than half a dozen. She must have been a nice lassie … I’ve got two more letters to read. Have a skim through the diary and tell me who this damn Roy is.’
The handwriting of the next, most recent letter seemed familiar. MacIndoe turned to the signature and saw that it was ‘Peggy’. It read:
DEAR OLWEN,
Yes, I can come, and I’m bursting to hear your news. You sound serious about him. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.
After leading a gay life I have become hitched myself. The engagement will become official in another month when I’ve in intimidated Matron. You know how she loves us to become friendly with the patients! Michael is a patient, but won’t be much longer. (You don’t know him; he only came last year.)
Anyway, he’s an angel and has pots of the stuff!
Will bring beer and fags.
PEGGY