by M J Lee
She scanned forward to the next Monday, October 20. There, in the most prominent place at the top of the page, was a headline, Local Girl Marries, and beneath it her beaming bride, Emily Clavell.
Next to her was a man, smiling contentedly into the camera. He had put on weight but she recognised him immediately.
Chapter Forty-Two
Bradford, Yorkshire. June 1923 - September 1924.
He didn't know the exact moment he fell in love with Emily Clavell. Probably because there was no exact moment. Instead, it was a process of forgetting, of losing himself in his new life and becoming entwined with hers, that gradually formed itself into love. A realisation that he could no longer live without this woman in his life.
After their first meeting, he had stayed in Bradford, taking rooms in a pleasant house on Ash Grove run by an old Irish woman, Mrs Flaherty. He told Emily he needed to stay to resolve some family business but, in reality, he didn't know why he remained in this city. It was dirty and dark and depressing. But there was just a feeling that he had to be here, at this time. And what do we have to go back to in Ireland? Nothing except war and killing and death.
He finally found out why he had stayed when one day over tea Emily had spoken to him directly.
'You are a man of the world, are you not Mr Trichot?'
'I wouldn't know about that, Miss Clavell.'
'Please call me Emily.'
'Only if you will call me Charles.'
'Charles, let me be direct.'
'Ah, I've heard about this Yorkshire directness.'
'My brother told you about it?'
He didn't answer. Silence implied the memories were too painful to talk about.
'I'm sorry. Sometimes, I forget and talk about him.'
He remained silent. She carried on. 'What I have to ask you is quite an imposition, I know, but, if you hear me out, I have to speak my mind. I owe it to those who work with their families and me. Please excuse my directness.'
'For a direct woman, you are taking a long time to ask your question.'
She stopped speaking and looked at him. Her mouth broadened into a lovely smile. 'You must stop teasing me, Charles. Not when I have something important to ask anyway.'
'Ask away, Emily. I'm all ears.'
She settled herself and took a small sip of tea from her china cup. He couldn't help but notice the way a stray tendril of hair hung down from her chignon, caressing her neck.
'As I was saying, you are a man of the world. I have never left Bradford. This is all I know.' She raised her hands, indicating the room in which they sat. 'It strikes me that if we are to survive at the mill, and I am determined that we are, we must develop new markets for our cloth. Relying on what we have done in the past is no longer good enough.'
'You are thinking how can you develop your business?'
'I am. Last week, we lost another customer. Apparently, the Post Office was uncomfortable dealing with a woman.'
'So how can I help?'
'I would like you to help develop the business and create new markets for us. I can manage the day to day running of the company, I've been involved in it all my life, but it seems the modern world cannot handle a woman being in charge.'
He thought long and hard about her offer. Here was an opportunity to right the wrong he had done her family, to atone for his mistakes and, perhaps, make her life a little better.
'Do you have a problem working with a woman too, Mr Trichot?'
'No, no, of course not. I would be happy to help you in any way I can, Emily.'
Her shoulders relaxed and she sighed audibly. 'Of course, you will be paid.'
'I have one condition, Emily.'
Immediately, her shoulders tensed and she sat upright on the settee. 'And what is that, Mr Trichot?'
'I should very much want not to be paid. It's the least I can do to help you and your family.'
She thought for a moment. 'With the loss of the Post Office contract, our finances are not in the best of shape, so I do appreciate your offer. But I have one condition of my own, Mr Trichot.'
'And that is?'
'We look into our relationship three months from now. If it is proving mutually satisfactory, then I insist that we begin to pay you a salary for your work.'
He raised his cup of tea. 'To our new relationship.'
She raised her cup in return. 'May it prosper.'
'May it prosper,' he repeated.
* * *
The months flew by. He spent most of his waking hours with Emily, planning and organising the future of the mill.
He was amazed at her energy and drive, the way she knew every single one of her workers, greeting them each morning with a word or two or asking after the health of a relative. He was amazed at her enthusiasm and her desire to keep the business open and flourishing.
He threw himself into the work, making sure that he was the male face of the business, but deferring to her on all decisions.
Their first major contract came after two months. It was for uniforms for the newly formed Garda Siochana, the police force of the Irish Free State. He had obtained the contract through an old friend who had risen through the ranks of the new government. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. The saviours of the mill and all those who worked there were the same people who had been fighting her brother and his army.
He was in no doubt that she saw the irony too, but the future of the mill and its workers was far too important to let fear or anger or remorse cloud her judgement.
On the day of the signing, she had sat opposite him after the representatives from the Irish Ministry had left. 'With this contract, we will be able to take on new workers. We are secure for the next two years.'
'I think even better than that. The cloth could be used for police forces everywhere. It's hard-wearing and resilient. I'll start contacting the British police forces tomorrow. We must be able to expand now that we have the machines up and running.'
'I've seen a new American loom. It's three times faster than our old machines, and uses less labour.'
He held up his hands. 'We shouldn't run before we can walk.'
She laughed. 'You're right. We mustn't over-expand. It's just that, for the first time, we seem to be out of the woods, our future is more secure than it ever was and it's all down to you and your work.'
For a moment, he stared into her blue eyes. So open and honest and trusting. The image came back to him of the hill above Dublin, a car's engine idling in the distance, the smell of cordite in the air and a body lying on the coarse earth. Not just anybody, the body of her brother.
She reached out and touched his arm. 'Are you all right? Your face has turned white. Almost as if you've seen a ghost.'
'It's nothing,' he stammered, 'just thinking about what we have to do next.' He stood up. 'I should get started on collecting the names of the Chief Constables...'
'Are you sure you're feeling well? You don't look good. You've been working too hard.' A broad smile crossed her face. 'We'll go out on Saturday. Take a day off. A picnic at Bolton Abbey. Have you ever been there?'
He shook his head.
'Then, it's decided, we must go. I'll ask Mr Rawlings, and Mrs Hopkinson from the mill to join us. We must all celebrate our success.'
He stood up and walked to the fireplace, As he did, the image of a smoking gun, a body lying stretched out on the ground, blood slowly seeping from its head, and above, high in the sky, the sad trill of a lark ascending, intruded into his mind.
He shook his head and looked down at her face looking up at him.
A beautiful face, open and honest. Emily's face. A face he longed to hold in his hands.
* * *
The preparations for the day out to Bolton Abbey proceeded quickly. On the day, there were eight people altogether and three cars. He drove one of them, with the picnic hampers, Emily and the maid, Daisy. The factory manager, Mr Rawlings drove the other, while one of the foremen was the driver of the third.
They reached the Abbey and immediately began to unpack the picnic baskets. Emily walked up to him. 'Today, you are to do nothing, Mr Trichot. Today is a day for enjoyment and games and relaxation.'
'I thought you were going to call me Charles.'
She looked over her shoulder and smiled. 'You're right, it is definitely a Charles day.'
He smiled back. 'And it shall be an Emily day too.' He looked across at the others fussing over the laying of the rugs and the placement of the food. 'Hang the English formality, for one day at least.'
She took out a hamper from the back of the car. 'Sometimes you surprise me, Charles.'
He took it from her and together they walked to join the others. 'And how do I do that, Emily?'
She looked down at her feet. 'Oh, just something I've noticed. Sometimes, you talk about the English as if they are another people, not your own people.'
Before he could answer, Mr Rawlings came rushing up. 'Here, let me take that from you. It's got the beer and the pies in it this one.'
Mr Rawlings wrestled the hamper and hurried back to where Daisy was laying out the food on the rugs. Emily had joined her and was helping. He stopped and lit a cigarette. He would have to be careful in the future.
The rest of the afternoon went beautifully. The sun had shone down on them. The pies and sandwiches had been eaten. Bottles of Mackeson had been drunk by the men and cups of tea for the women. Games had been played and won and lost.
After a while the others had wandered off to explore the ruins of the Abbey. Only himself and Emily remained sitting on the rug. He was smoking a cigarette and she drinking her umpteenth cup of tea.
'We make a good partnership, Mr Trichot.'
'I believe we do. But I thought it was a Charles day?'
'We make a good partnership, Charles.'
'Thank you, Emily. With a bit of luck, we should get the Yorkshire police contract. I've a meeting with the Chief Constable on Wednesday.'
'Remind him that he used to know my father. They were old school chums.'
'On such close friendships, the British Empire was built.'
She laughed. 'I suppose it was.' She looked around her at the ruined buildings, collapsed stone and half fallen arches. 'You know this was once a thriving monastery, full of monks and food and life.'
He tried to imagine the monks singing the mass, following their rituals, walking through these now ruined cloisters.
'Look at it now, a few beautiful ruins…'
'Things change. Nothing is permanent.'
She turned to stare at him. 'Not even happiness?'
'Happiness least of all. A fleeting moment, as soon as one realises it has happened, it's gone.' He blew on the end of his fingers.
'Yes, a mayfly. Alive for a day and then gone forever.'
He sat up and leant on his elbow. 'You're very thoughtful today, Emily.'
'It's just...it's just that nothing lasts forever,' she stammered. 'I thought we were a happy family with our futures settled: John would run the mill when father retired and I would get married, have lots of children and live happily ever after. Such childish dreams.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'Then, the war came and all was changed, all changed.'
He went to comfort her, to touch her arm, stopped for a moment and then went ahead, touching her elbow.
She didn't move away.
'We can't change the past, Emily. Just make a better future.' As he said those words, it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. There was no point atoning for a past he could never change. What had happened, had happened. All he could do was work to create a bright future. For both of them.
She looked up and he could see a tear forming in her eye. 'It's just sometimes, it's so hard to forget.'
He nodded his head. 'I know. The past intrudes on our lives. A thief of the future.'
He looked down at the tartan pattern on the rug. He could feel the soft cotton of her shirt beneath his fingers and the promise of an even more delicate skin beneath it. It was now or never. Time to speak to her, tell her the truth. She would hate him, but at least, he could stop the pretence, stop the lies.
But she spoke first, interrupting his thoughts.
'I'm going to be a direct Yorkshirewoman again, Charles.'
'If you are going to tell me to you want to pay me for my work, the answer is still no. Perhaps, if we get this police contract...'
'It's not that.' She stared directly at him. 'We make a good partnership, don't we?'
'We do, silk and steel. I'm the silk.'
She laughed and then recovered herself quickly. 'I want to be serious for a moment so please don't interrupt me because I think I'm only going to be able to say this once.'
He placed his finger across his lips. 'I won't say a word.'
She sighed loudly, sat up and turned towards him. 'We make a good partnership. We work well together and complement each other. Over the last months, I think we've grown closer, been honest and open with each other, hiding nothing...'
His head went down, so she couldn't see his eyes. He would have to tell her soon, he couldn't keep maintaining the lie much longer. She deserved to know the truth, his truth.
She carried on speaking, rushing the words as if this were the only way she could finish what she had to say. '...Well, it strikes me we should make our relationship more permanent. As permanent as anything could be in this world that's full of change. Look, Charles, damn it all, what I want to tell you is I think I have fallen in love with you. There I've said it...'
She looked down at the tartan rug.
He was stunned. She feels the same way I do. I've loved her from the moment I set eyes on her, loved every inch of her, every smile, every frown, every word she's ever spoken.
And then the memory came back to him. The body lying on the ground, blood seeping out from a hole in his head. Not a body, her brother. But that was the past. He couldn't change it. It was done, over, finished. All he had was here and now and her. Nothing else mattered. He looked up at the broken walls of the once-great Abbey. Nothing was permanent, it was all in the past.
'Forgive me, but didn't you hear what I said? I'm asking you to marry me.'
In that moment, he realised the truth meant nothing, all that mattered was here and now. He sat up, took hold of her hands in his and said, 'I've loved you from the first moment I set eyes on you. I would love to be your husband if you'll have me?'
His face broke out into the broadest smile. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close to her. 'Let nobody ever part us, Charles. Let us stay close forever,' she whispered in his ear.
'Aye up, what's all this then?'
The factory manager was standing over them both, hands on his hips, his moustache bristling.
'We're to be married, Mr Rawlings.'
'Well, lass, it's about bloody time. I thought you'd never get round to asking him.'
Chapter Forty-Three
Bradford Library, Yorkshire. November 20, 2015.
Jayne adjusted the focus on the microfilm reader, making it as sharp as she could. She squinted her eyes. It was the same man, she was sure of it. The same man who was in the photo of the prison camp in Frongoch. The man whose name was Michael Dowling. He looked a little older, the hair had a few grey streaks through it and the eyes were set deeper, but it was the same man.
She read the caption beneath the photo: Miss Emily Clavell married Captain Charles Trichot at Heaton Methodist Chapel on
Saturday, October 18.
The man who had been involved in the killing of John Clavell was now married to his sister. What a strange story. How had they got together? How did he meet her? And why did he pretend to be somebody who was dead? She thought back to Declan Fitzgerald's memoirs. Hadn't Michael Dowling been given the personal effects of the British officer they had shot? Fitzgerald wrote of the promise Dowling had made. Had he returned the effects personally, masquerading as a dead British officer? But then to fall in love and marry the sister? She supposed stranger things had happened. Was it love or was it a strange sort of guilt? Atonement for the death of her brother?
She would never know. The past often gave us dates and times and events but it didn't leave much trace of people's feelings. The reasons why they acted as they did. We could know the past but never really understand it.
She checked the clock on the library wall, 3.30. Time to drive back to see Annie.
At least now, she had a name for John Hughes' father. Michael Dowling. So John Hughes' real name was not John Trichot, as on his birth certificate, but John Dowling.
She was making progress. She rolled the spool to the end and shut off the microfilm reader. The librarian received the boxes back like a priest holding the chalice at Mass.
'One other thing, if I may?'
The librarian pushed her glasses back on to the bridge of her nose and sighed audibly.
Jayne wasn't going to be put off by such an obvious display of petulance. 'Do you have any records for the Ilkley Children's Home?'
'Well, if we did, they wouldn't be here.'
'Where would they be?'
'In Wakefield, with all the other records.'