The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  I don’t know what she makes of being asked to attend. Her manner towards me has softened, I know that; and I know she now understands that I have not stolen Carson’s inheritance. But I cannot forget the radiance in her expression when she looked at him. If she is called upon to describe our first meeting, will she feel she’s being made to speak against him?

  Talk of the devil. In he walks. Pausing to glance about, he looks confident, untroubled. He hangs his trilby on the hatstand and takes a seat, peeling off his gloves. He looks well turned out and (dammit) handsome.

  Dr Jennings enters the room. I rise to shake hands before introducing him to Messrs Sowerby and Turton. Handshakes all round.

  ‘Are you a witness?’ I ask.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he tells me. ‘Only if the magistrate wishes to ask questions about your loss of memory.’

  ‘Dr Jennings and I have been in correspondence,’ says Mr Sowerby. ‘He has advised me not to divulge to you the identities of the witnesses. He hopes—’

  ‘I know what he hopes,’ I say.

  Jennings smiles wryly. ‘You never know.’

  There it is: that spark of hope. I crush it. It can lead only to disappointment.

  ‘But you’re permitted to know who the first witness is,’ says Mr Sowerby, ‘since he is unknown to you. Chap named Hardy, a handwriting expert.’

  There is no time for more. The magistrate walks in and takes his place. I had expected iron-grey hair and whiskers, an old fuddy-duddy. This fellow won’t see fifty for a few years yet and his bright eyes and ruddy cheeks give the impression he has marched five miles in the spring sunshine to get here.

  ‘Good morning.’ He addresses the room. ‘My name is Sturgeon and I’ll be hearing this matter. We’re here to establish formally the identity of Gabriel James Linkworth. Mr Sowerby, have you any opening remarks?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m happy for the first witness to be invited.’

  Mr Eric Hardy is announced. This is the handwriting wallah. Mr Sturgeon asks him questions. They talk about upward strokes and downward strokes, closed and open loops, casual and formal capitals. Mr Sturgeon might look as if he is going to sprint out of here at the close of proceedings and swim twenty lengths before lunch, but he has clearly prepared for today.

  At a nod from Sturgeon, Mr Sowerby comes to his feet.

  ‘Mr Hardy, you were provided with two letters and asked to perform a comparison. Please can you inform us of your findings.’

  ‘What letters?’ I whisper to Mr Turton, my eyes on Mr Hardy.

  ‘One that you wrote to Mr Sowerby; and one you wrote some years ago, before the war.’

  My head snaps round. Turton keeps his gaze fixed on Mr Hardy.

  ‘What letter?’

  And how the hell did they get their hands on it? My gaze meets Carson’s. For one moment we look at one another, then his glance flicks aside, back to Mr Hardy, who is busy answering questions I haven’t listened to. I feel at a disadvantage. The feeling builds up, a robust mixture of impotence and anger and – yes, fear. It is not an unknown feeling – ask anyone who has complete memory loss – but I have never experienced it so strongly before. All these bloody people who know about me; and I don’t know a single damn thing.

  What letter?

  Mr Hardy stands up. Mr Sturgeon thanks him. I have missed everything he said. He quits the room, the clerk holding the door open for him.

  Mr Sturgeon looks at me. ‘I’ve been requested not to call for the remaining witnesses by name. Is this acceptable to you, Mr Linkworth?’

  Is it? I don’t know. The room contains only Messrs Sturgeon, Sowerby, Turton, Carson and myself, plus Miss Layton and a couple of clerks, but I feel as if a thousand eyes are on me; and they will remain fixed on me when the door opens for the next witness to be admitted.

  Impotence, anger and fear.

  ‘Fine by me,’ I say.

  Mr Sturgeon signals to the clerk. He opens the door and nods to someone outside. A woman appears in the doorway. Tallish, with a thin face. She looks at me and gasps audibly. Her eyes fill with tears. The clerk indicates the wooden chair and she sits down, her gaze swinging straight back to me. She presses her lips together as she delves in her handbag and produces a hanky. She sniffs discreetly into it and clears her throat.

  Mr Sturgeon looks at me. Everyone looks at me: I can feel it.

  Sturgeon turns to the woman. ‘You are Mrs Irene Rawlins?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ It is barely above a whisper.

  ‘A little louder, if you please, madam. It is important everyone can hear you clearly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Louder this time.

  ‘Can you please tell me how you are related to Mr Gabriel Linkworth?’

  ‘We’re first cousins, sir. His father and my mother were brother and sister. I’ve known Gabe all my life.’

  Gabe?

  ‘I believe I already know the answer to this from seeing your reaction, but I must ask you nevertheless. Do you recognise the gentleman seated in the middle there?’

  A whoosh of breath escapes her. Her face lights up. ‘Oh yes, sir. That’s him, that’s my cousin Gabriel Linkworth. I thought you were dead,’ she says to me. ‘We all thought you were dead.’

  Mr Sturgeon clears his throat, drawing eyes to him. ‘Thank you, Mrs Rawlins. I realise this has been an emotional experience for you. The clerk will show you out.’

  She rises to her feet, throwing me a tremulous smile before she leaves. I swivel in my seat to face Mr Sowerby.

  ‘I want to know who the other witnesses are and I want to meet them before they walk in here.’

  Sowerby doesn’t look at me. He comes to his feet and addresses Mr Sturgeon.

  ‘Might I have a word with Mr Linkworth in private?’

  ‘I’ll allow you five minutes.’ Mr Sturgeon leaves the room.

  I follow Sowerby out. Turton and Jennings come too.

  ‘This plan for me to be jolted into recognising people has gone far enough. I want to meet the other witnesses. There’s no reason why we should be kept apart in advance, is there?’

  ‘Only for the purpose of awakening your memory,’ says Jennings.

  ‘If my memory is going to wake up, it can do it in a private room.’ I’m sick of being at a disadvantage. I live my whole life at a disadvantage.

  ‘The next witness is your old CO.’ Sowerby is brisk. ‘Do you wish to meet him?’

  ‘No, I was thinking more of… what you might call personal witnesses.’ I see the looks that pass between the three of them. ‘You saw how hard that was for my cousin.’

  ‘Very well.’ It is Jennings who steps in. ‘But there isn’t time now. We’ll ensure you meet the final witness in advance, you have my word, but please don’t ask who it is at this stage. Please let the meeting involve no prior knowledge on your part.’

  ‘You never give up, do you?’ I turn to Mr Turton. ‘Please find my cousin and take her somewhere quiet.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’ll make sure she has a cup of tea and I’ll remain with her while she composes herself.’

  ‘Thank you. Don’t let her leave. Tell her I want to see her when this is over.’

  He nods. I know Cousin Irene will be in good hands.

  Jennings, Sowerby and I return to the magistrate’s room. Mr Sturgeon comes in and takes his seat. Dumping his elbows on the desk, he clasps his hands and looks expectantly at Sowerby.

  ‘Are you ready to proceed?’

  ‘By all means, sir. The next witness is Mr Linkworth’s former commanding officer…’

  My heart is still jumping from the business with Cousin Irene. I must ensure she goes home knowing that her inheritance from my father is safe and I shan’t chase her for it. Most of all, I live again the moment when she smiled at me; that breathless dazzle of amazement and joy in her face. She didn’t just recognise me – she was thrilled to see me. I feel as if I have run a victory lap in front of cheering crowds.

  When he rises to leave, I realise
I have barely attended to the evidence of my former CO. Who is the other personal witness I am to meet?

  Mr Sturgeon waits for the door to close. ‘We’ll stop for now and resume after lunch.’ He says it as if it is a suggestion he hopes everyone will find convenient. A quick nod to the room and he departs.

  I catch Miss Layton’s eye before I speak to Mr Sowerby. ‘I’ll find somewhere to take Miss Layton for lunch. I don’t want to leave her high and dry. I also need to see my cousin—’

  ‘First of all, there is someone you should meet.’

  I sense a new alertness in Dr Jennings. My senses spring to attention. I signal to Miss Layton to accompany us and we leave the room. We stand in the anteroom; Mr Sowerby waits until Carson has walked past us and left. He glances at Miss Layton, then sends a look of enquiry my way.

  ‘Miss Layton may stay,’ I tell him.

  ‘If you will kindly wait here, Mr Linkworth,’ says Sowerby.

  He leaves the room. The air is heavy with anticipation.

  The door opens and Mr Sowerby ushers a lady inside. Yes, a lady. Roughly my own age, she is beautifully dressed in a blue costume with a dashing indigo feather in her hat. She walks towards me. How beautiful she is, how graceful. Yet when she comes closer, I can see the marks of strain about her lovely face; tiny lines etched at the corners of her mouth; and crow’s feet: not laughter-lines, but lines of sadness. Her eyes are brown, warm but wary; they seem to gaze deep inside me. I am supposed to know her. It hurts her that I do not. She knows me. That is evident. I stretch into myself, into my mind, trying to find the memory of her, the knowledge she wants me to have – but it isn’t there.

  And then she comes closer still and – there it is! That scent. Sweet but sophisticated. A light fragrance with heady depths.

  I smile at her. I can’t help it. I smile so little in this new life. I have so few reasons to smile, other than out of politeness.

  ‘Do you know me?’ Her voice trembles. ‘Do you remember me, Gabriel?’

  In the troubled warmth of her brown eyes, I see how much it matters.

  My smile widens. My face seems to crack open. There is lightness inside my chest. I know that later I will be consumed by frustration at my lack of memory, but here, now, right this moment, with this beautiful creature standing in front of me, willing me to know her, and with her fragrance teasing me and enfolding me, I am… happy. Yes, happy.

  My senses are consumed by her perfume. Certainty radiates through my entire body.

  ‘I know you,’ I tell her. ‘You are the scent of roses.’

  Richard strode away from the magistrates’ courts in search of a meal. Why couldn’t the whole bally matter have been dealt with before lunch? Yes, all right, so Linkworth really was who he said he was – or rather, who everybody else said he was. He wasn’t capable of saying whether he was Gabriel Linkworth, the court jester or the governor of the Bank of England. Richard wasn’t trying to claim he wasn’t Linkworth. Yes, he had ‘failed’ to recognise him that first time, but what of it? Any fellow would have done the same. Christ, what idiot would leap forward to shake the hand of the man whose return from the grave would overturn all his own long-held hopes and expectations?

  But old Sowerby had insisted on dragging Richard here to listen politely while a hundred and one witnesses trailed in to establish Linkworth’s identity. And there were yet more witnesses to come this afternoon. All Richard wanted was to state his own case.

  God, what a mess. He still hadn’t told his colleagues in the office that his good fortune had crumbled to dust, though he would have to soon. Why climb down before you were forced to? Bloody hell. All his hopes and expectations.

  But he still had his own case to make. He had clawed back all the boxes of Aunt Victoria’s treasures and as many of the sold books as he could – or Miss Layton had. Her efforts should make him look good. Cooperative. Disposed to do the decent thing. Sturgeon should look on him with an accommodating eye. After all, he wasn’t about to ask for anything unreasonable.

  He ate some chops and mashed potato at a dark corner table, then went for a brisk walk. At last it was time to resume his seat in the magistrate’s room. The others were already there.

  Mr Sturgeon came in and took his place. ‘I believe we have one more witness.’

  Mr Sowerby rose. ‘That’s correct, sir. I should like to ask Mrs Naomi Reed to join us.’

  Old family retainer? The shopkeeper who sold him gobstoppers when he was a nipper with scabby knees? Please not another dewy-eyed cousin with trembling lips and a wobble in her voice.

  The clerk opened the door and Richard sat up straighter as a beautiful creature dressed in blue entered the room. Crikey! What a peach! The clerk, who had merely waved the previous witnesses in the direction of the chair, escorted Mrs Naomi Reed to it.

  Mrs Reed lifted her head and the feather in her hat shimmered.

  ‘My name is Sturgeon,’ said the magistrate. ‘I’m in charge of these proceedings. Could you please confirm your name and address.’

  ‘Certainly.’ She gave her name and an address in the Lake District.

  ‘Is the gentleman over there known to you, Mrs Reed?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He is Gabriel Linkworth.’

  ‘And in what capacity do you know Mr Linkworth?’

  She looked directly at Linkworth, almost as if expecting him to answer on her behalf. Then she turned her face towards Sturgeon.

  ‘Mr Linkworth… Gabriel and I… were once engaged to be married.’

  Richard sat up straighter, aware of Miss Layton doing the same close by.

  ‘This was some years ago, before the war.’ Mrs Reed spoke softly. ‘Shortly before the war ended, he was posted missing presumed dead.’

  And she had married another man. Richard could almost believe her situation was worse than his own – almost. But just look at that rig-out and those amethysts: Mrs Reed had undoubtedly done well for herself out of her disappointment.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Reed,’ said Sturgeon. ‘And thank you for coming all this way.’

  She looked at Linkworth. ‘Of course I came.’

  Ooh, interesting. Did she still carry a torch? And Linkworth, poor sap, presumably couldn’t remember her. What a waste. And where was Mr Reed? Lurking outside, ready to spirit his lovely wife back to the Lakes, both of them gallantly pretending she wasn’t heartbroken all over again?

  Mrs Reed was shown out and Mr Sturgeon addressed Linkworth’s solicitor.

  ‘I believe Mrs Reed was your final witness. In that case, I will confer with the clerk of the court and then I will state my findings.’

  He and the clerk conversed in low voices. It didn’t take long.

  ‘It is my belief,’ Sturgeon announced, ‘that it has been shown beyond all doubt that this gentleman is Gabriel Linkworth. I should like to place on record my thanks to the witnesses and I declare this matter closed.’

  This was his moment. Richard came to his feet.

  ‘Pardon me, sir. May I speak?’

  ‘You surely don’t intend to dispute Mr Linkworth’s identity?’ Mr Sowerby exclaimed.

  It gave him a certain satisfaction to say, ‘No, sir, I do not,’ and see the flicker of uncertainty that crossed the other men’s faces. ‘I should like to lodge a claim, not on my uncle’s estate, but against Mr Linkworth personally. As my uncle’s sole heir, he stands to gain substantially from my own investment in my uncle’s property. I believe that money should be reimbursed to me.’

  Sensation, as they used to say in Victorian novels of a certain kind. There was a sharp intake of breath around the room.

  ‘Preposterous!’ exclaimed Sowerby. ‘Mr Sturgeon, this fellow,’ and coming from an old boy of such dignity, fellow was an insult, ‘has already attempted to muddy the waters by claiming not to recognise Mr Linkworth at their first meeting.’

  ‘I didn’t recognise him.’ Richard spoke calmly. ‘Why should I? The one and only occasion we came across one another prior to that was at our au
nt’s funeral.’

  ‘Mr Carson,’ said Mr Sturgeon, ‘if you wish to make a claim on your uncle’s will, this is not the forum in which to do so.’

  ‘I have already stated that I don’t wish to do that. The will leaves everything to Linkworth. I freely admit I never expected him to turn up and claim the inheritance – and for that matter, neither did my late uncle – but here he is and my uncle’s goods and chattels now belong to him. My claim is against Mr Linkworth personally.’

  Sowerby inflated like a bullfrog. ‘I suggest, Mr Carson, that you instruct your solicitor and I will await his letter.’

  ‘I’d prefer to raise the matter now, if Mr Sturgeon has no objection. After all, I’ve just sat through all of your evidence – evidence which was unnecessary in my view, given that I have never attempted to contest the will on the grounds of mistaken identity. I’ve done you the courtesy of paying attention: now I ask the same of you. May I have my turn, Mr Sturgeon?’

  He felt relaxed and sure of himself, the more so when he observed the discomfort in the faces of Sowerby et al. Would Sturgeon permit him to speak? It would give his case greater impact.

  The clerk was at Sturgeon’s side. A quiet conversation ensued. Sturgeon nodded and the clerk stepped away.

  ‘Mr Carson, you understand I have no authority in this matter, but I believe it’s in Mr Linkworth’s interests as well as your own to have this matter out in the open so it can be dealt with as soon as possible. Do you object, Mr Sowerby?’

  What could the old codger say after that except, ‘No’? The look on his face suggested a severe bout of indigestion.

  ‘Very well,’ said Sturgeon. ‘Say your piece, Mr Carson.’

  Richard surveyed the faces that were turned his way. He didn’t care if he appeared smug. He ruddy well deserved to be smug.

  ‘I make no claim on the books in the shop or on the furniture and what-have-you in the cottage; but I have a serious claim on the cottage itself. In recent years, I’ve had work done on it, partly to do my best for my late uncle and partly – I admit it freely to save Mr Sowerby the bother of admitting it on my behalf – partly because I saw it as an investment. I believed Gabriel Linkworth to be dead; as did my uncle. I believed the cottage would one day be mine; as did my uncle. In this belief and expectation, I organised repairs and improvements to the property. I now respectfully request that Mr Linkworth reimburses me for my lost investment.’