by Mary Nichols
‘We’re not going to wait for him, are we?’ she said. ‘We’ve got to go down and confront this woman, whoever she is, and settle this thing once and for all.’
‘How can we if she isn’t prepared to admit it?’ he said. ‘We’ve never met her. Besides, they probably won’t let us see her in a military hospital.’
‘Then we’ll get Donald Walker to come with us. It’s all his fault anyway. You’d think he’d know his own daughter-in-law, wouldn’t you? I’m beginning to think that dreadful Austen man was right and he deliberately said it was her when he knew perfectly well it was not.’
‘Angie, that’s unfair,’ he said. ‘You heard what he said when we talked to him about it. The features were unrecognisable, and if she was the same colouring and build as our Rosie, it’s understandable.’
‘Well, are we going down or not?’ she demanded.
He sighed. She had become bitter and short-tempered since that last meeting with Ted Austen. He wished the horrible man had never reappeared. She had been so much better since she had come to accept that Rosie was dead, and this didn’t make their daughter any more or any less dead. It would be better to let matters rest. Unfortunately, it was not her way, and he knew he would have to take her down to London yet again, doodlebugs or no doodlebugs. ‘I’ll write to Mr Walker and ask him to suggest somewhere for us to meet,’ he said. ‘We don’t need to involve Mr Austen.’
Unfortunately Ted could not be excluded, because the meeting place Donald Walker suggested was his home in Islington.
The minute he unlocked the door and stepped inside Donald knew that someone had been squatting there. Afraid he might still be in the house, he made Hilda wait outside while he searched all the rooms. He was furious when he saw the state of the sitting room: there was an unwashed glass mug making a ring on the polished table, a dirty plate on the floor and scattered newspapers over the sofa. He was even angrier when he saw his unmade bed and a wardrobe full of strange clothes, but there was no one there. He went back to Hilda. ‘Whoever it was, they’re not here now. We’ll have to report it to the police.’
As he spoke, Ted came whistling up the path. He came to an abrupt halt and the whistle died on his lips when he saw his one-time employer. ‘Mr Walker,’ he said, recovering himself quickly. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming, I’d have made sure the house was aired.’
‘It’s aired all right,’ Donald said grimly. ‘I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on the place. Someone’s been in and made themselves at home.’
‘Really? But I was here a few days ago and I didn’t see anyone. It must be a tramp, or perhaps someone who’s been bombed out. They do that sometimes when they’re desperate. I’ll sort him out, never fear.’
‘You can start by gathering up all that stuff in the bedroom and throwing it out. Better still, take it to the WVS, they can no doubt make use of it.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Come, Hilda, we’d better clear up the mess in the sitting room before the Summers get here.’
‘Did you say the Summers?’ Ted put in. ‘You mean Mr and Mrs Summers, Rosie’s parents?’
‘Yes. You’d better stick around, considering you seem to know more about Julie than any of us.’
Ted followed them into the sitting room, had a quick look round to see if there was anything that could identify him as the intruder, and then hastened to the bedroom to gather his clothes and toiletries into a couple of suitcases. He took them down and stood them in the hall before rejoining Donald and his wife in the sitting room. He would put them back after everyone had gone. ‘Would you like me to make you both a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure you could do with it.’
‘Is there anything to make tea with?’ Hilda asked.
Ted knew he had slipped up but as usual he quickly recovered. ‘If someone’s been squatting here, ten to one they brought tea and milk with them,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and look, shall I?’
While he was in the kitchen, Mr and Mrs Summers arrived and the conference began with Ted serving tea. It was perfectly clear to all of them that there was a difference of opinion about what should be done. Donald and Hilda wanted everything left as it was. ‘If I see Julie, and I’m yet to be convinced it is Julie,’ Donald said, ‘I’ll tell her to take herself off and stay dead. Harry can do without the upheaval in his life. He’s happy with Pam and they have two beautiful children. I reckon we should leave well alone.’
Stuart was inclined to agree with him, but not so Angela. ‘We can’t leave our daughter in a grave with the wrong name on it,’ she said. ‘I want her exhumed and buried again in our own kirkyard.’
‘And what about our grandson?’ Hilda snapped. ‘What you are proposing will mean digging him up too. It will break Harry’s heart.’
‘You are assuming it is your daughter in that grave,’ Donald said. ‘We only have Mr Austen’s word for it.’
They all looked at Ted, who was standing with the teapot poised over Hilda’s cup. ‘I am ninety-nine per cent sure,’ he said, carefully pouring tea. ‘I know it isn’t Julie because I’ve seen her recently.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t keep that information to yourself,’ Donald said.
‘I couldn’t do that,’ Ted defended himself. ‘Not with Mr and Mrs Summers searching all over for their daughter and asking me to keep an eye out for her. It was my bounden duty to tell what I knew.’
‘Not to mention seeing a way to make money,’ Stuart put in.
‘I haven’t made any money out if it.’ Ted pretended to be aggrieved. ‘If anything, it has cost me money, what with travel and board and lodging down in Kent and having to pay other people for information. I am well out of pocket.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ Donald said. ‘We can’t decide on anything until we’ve spoken to Julie. So where is she?’
‘In hospital in Oxford,’ Ted said. ‘When she’s discharged, she’ll have to report back to Manston. I’ve got someone there who’ll tell me when she arrives and I’ll bring her to you.’ He wished he hadn’t been so offhand with that WAAF at Manston. He needed to know when Julie returned from hospital so he could take her to her husband and watch them tearing each other apart. And if she wouldn’t come willingly, he’d kidnap her. The idea of that appealed to him.
‘If she’ll come.’
‘Oh, I have ways of persuading her.’
‘Then what?’ Hilda demanded.
‘If she confirms that it is Rosie in that grave, then we can’t put off telling Harry,’ Donald said. ‘And then there’s Pam. How’s she going to take it? I think we should warn Mr and Mrs Godwin so they can break the news to her when the time comes.’
‘Who are Mr and Mrs Godwin?’ Angela asked.
‘Pam’s parents. They live at Swanton Morley in Norfolk. Our son was stationed there until recently.’
‘Then that’s where we’ll go,’ Angela said. ‘We can see them all together.’
‘Flight Lieutenant, there is someone to see you,’ the station commander told Harry. ‘I’ve put her in my office, you can talk to her there.’
Harry had settled down at Cosford, living in barracks, working with new intakes and enjoying pandering to their youthful enthusiasm, but he missed Pam and the children more than he could say. He wrote every day and had loving letters in return, some with small smudged fingermarks or crayon squiggles, purporting to come from the twins, which made him smile and long to hug them both. They had talked of Pam bringing them up to Cosford on a visit, but he had been so tied up with work, nothing had, as yet, been arranged. Had she decided to pre-empt him and come up to surprise him? His face wore a broad smile as he hurried from the outer office where he had been talking to the group captain and went into the inner sanctum.
But it was not Pam who stood with her back to him looking out of the window, it was someone in a WAAF uniform with a sergeant’s stripes on her arm. She turned when she heard the door open and he was confronted with the ghost he had seen at Canterbury Hospital. Except this time he kne
w she was not a ghost. This was Julie. This was the girl he had loved and married and mourned. He stared, his mouth half open, unable to frame the hundreds of questions that battered his brain.
The silence between them went on and on until at last she spoke. ‘Hallo, Harry.’ It was her voice too, soft and appealing, just as he remembered it.
‘Julie.’ It was a croak. ‘I thought … I thought—’
‘You thought I was dead, yes I know. I’ve seen my own grave.’ She gave a cracked laugh. ‘How many people can say that, I wonder? “In memory of a beloved wife, Julie Walker, and son, George Harold, twenty-one months, who died as a result of an air raid, September the 7th 1940. May they rest in peace until we meet again in heaven.”’ The laughter stopped as she stumbled over the words.
‘Oh, my God, Julie!’ He opened his arms.
She ran into them.
He pulled her close, smelt the once familiar scent of her hair, felt the heart of her thumping under her uniform jacket and all his old feelings for her rushed back. This was his Julie, his childhood sweetheart, whom he had loved. ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’
‘It is. I was afraid you might have forgotten me.’
‘I couldn’t forget you, Julie. We meant too much to each other for that ever to happen.’ There was an old horsehair sofa against the wall, which the CO used when he had to stay on call overnight, and he pulled her down onto that to sit beside him, keeping his arm about her shoulders, as if holding her helped him to believe she was real. ‘Tell me what happened. Why did you let me believe you were dead? That was a cruel thing to do, Julie.’
‘I didn’t let you believe anything, Harry. I couldn’t tell you where I was because I’d been injured in an air raid and lost my memory. I didn’t know who I was or anything about myself.’
‘It’s hard to believe.’
‘I’m not lying, Harry.’
‘No, of course not. I meant I find it hard to believe you’re alive,’ he said, shaking his head as if to shake his tumbling thoughts into some sort of order. ‘We buried you. At least we buried someone, or rather my parents did. Dad said there wasn’t a mark on you. He must have known …’
‘I don’t know about that. Perhaps he was trying to spare you. I was pulled out of the shelter alive, but I had a broken leg and a broken arm and my face was a mess. It was ages before I could look at myself in the mirror and not shudder.’
‘And George?’
‘I’m sure George is in the grave, alongside my friend, Rosie. You remember Rosie Summers, don’t you?’
‘I remember you speaking of her but I never met her. Her parents were looking for her. They went to Dad and he contacted me, but I couldn’t tell them anything. I never dreamt … I still can’t take it in.’
‘I can understand that, I had problems believing it myself, but if you listen a minute, I’ll tell you the whole story.’
It took some time to tell, especially as he kept interrupting, and once someone came into the room, apologised, and made a quick exit, but she got it out in the end. She said nothing about Alec; it didn’t seem appropriate. ‘Grace Paterson took me to see the grave,’ she finished, ‘otherwise I might have thought I was having a nightmare and would wake up and find everything as it was before the war started.’
‘It can’t be like that again.’
‘I know.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘It was easy enough. My section officer made enquiries through the RAF and gave me a week’s leave to come and see you.’
‘God, this has taken the wind out of my sails.’
‘I expect it’ll take a little while to get used to the idea.’
‘You can say that again.’ He was silent a moment or two, trying to digest all she had said. ‘I could talk to you the rest of the day, but I think the Group wants his office back and I’ve got to go back on duty, but I’ll be off tonight. Have you got somewhere to stay?’
‘I’ve booked into the Park House Hotel.’
‘Shall I come and see you there? Talk some more?’
‘Yes. No doubt you’ve lots to tell me. And to tell you the truth, I’m exhausted.’
They rose together and he accompanied her to the outer office, where he arranged for a taxi to come and take her back to her hotel. They had little to say while they waited for it to arrive. Harry’s head was still full of questions but there were other people working in the office and he couldn’t voice them. He was glad when the cab arrived. He saw her into it, bent to kiss her briefly, and watched as she was driven away, then he took a huge breath and turned to go back to the workshop where he had been taking a class when summoned to the office. He had been gone a long time and the men had dispersed. He sat at one of the benches, cluttered with earphones and wireless parts, and tried to sort out what Julie’s reappearance really meant to him.
It was not an easy task. She was sturdier and more mature than the half-grown woman he had married – he supposed that was down to being in the services; in wartime you grew up quickly – but underneath she was still Julie, still the lovely girl he had married, still vulnerable, for all her sergeant’s stripes. God help him, still his wife. The fact that he was a bigamist suddenly struck him and he put his head into his hands and groaned. ‘Pam, oh Pam, what have I done to you?’
The note was short. It was put together with words cut from a newspaper and stuck on a sheet of white paper. ‘Your husband is a bigamist.’ Pam dismissed it as the work of a crank, but she couldn’t get it out of her head. All day, while she went about her usual chores, bathing and dressing the twins, giving them their breakfast and putting them in the garden in their pram to enjoy the sunshine, washing and ironing their little garments and cleaning the house, she worried about it. Of course it couldn’t be true. Harry was a widower, everyone knew that. But then she remembered him telling her he thought he had seen Julie’s ghost. It couldn’t have been Julie, could it? Julie was dead and buried. But supposing she was alive after all? No, that couldn’t be. She had a grave with a headstone. But Harry had never seen her dead. Could his family have made a mistake? But why wait until now to come back to life? Perhaps whoever had sent that nasty missive had seen the woman Harry had called a ghost and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Or had it been sent by Julie herself to cause trouble?
It all went round and round in her head, from sheer disbelief to doubting and then to thinking it might be true, until she thought it would drive her mad. Harry had loved Julie and made no secret of it. She remembered telling him a dead woman could not harm her. But was she dead? Would Harry abandon his new family for an old love? Jealousy swept through her and made her irritable. She took the rag rug from the kitchen hearth, flung it over the clothes line and thumped it with a cane carpet beater until her arm ached.
‘Pam, whatever’s the matter?’ Her mother’s voice penetrated the red heat of her anger. ‘You’ll knock that rug to bits – it can’t be that grubby.’
Pam dropped the carpet beater and burst into tears. The astonished Jane took her into her arms and let her sob for a few moments, then led her indoors and sat her at the kitchen table. ‘Now what’s this all about? Is it Harry?’
Pam nodded without speaking.
‘Oh, my God. And we thought he’d be safe at Cosford away from the action.’
‘He’s not dead,’ Pam cried. ‘He’s not dead.’
‘What, then?’
Pam bent and picked the screwed-up letter out of the log basket where she had hurled it and handed it to her mother.
Jane smoothed it out to read it. ‘Good Lord, where did this come from?’
‘It was in this morning’s post.’
‘It can’t be true. His first wife’s dead and buried. It’s someone with a grudge trying to cause trouble.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’ She paused and searched her daughter’s tear-streaked face. ‘You surely don’t believe it?’
‘I wouldn’t, except that a few weeks ago Harry said he thought he�
��d seen a ghost, someone the spitting image of Julie. It shook him up so much he had to go to see her grave to convince himself she was dead.’
‘Everyone has a double, they say.’
‘Yes, I’m being silly.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll look after the twins; you take yourself off to Cosford and see Harry, set your mind at rest.’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘Why not? Give him a nice surprise.’
Pam managed a lopsided smile. ‘Or a dreadful shock.’
‘You married again?’ Julie queried, wondering why that surprised her. After all, she had been telling herself ever since her memory returned that he might have found someone else, had even wondered if she might welcome it, considering she had found Alec. Instead it hit her like a blow to the stomach. The sight of him in the station commander’s office, tall and handsome in his uniform, just as he had been when she waved him goodbye at the door when he went to Canada, had flung her back to that day and how miserable she had felt then, and she had run into his arms. She hadn’t intended to do that; her plan had been to remain cool and practical, to discover how he felt about her sudden appearance. Instead she had been overcome with emotion.
She changed into a civilian frock to meet him again that evening, a printed floral cotton with white collar and cuffs and a white belt, and brushed her fair hair out of the severe style she wore in uniform. Then she had ordered a meal and a bottle of wine to be served in her room. ‘I’m on leave and spending precious time with my husband,’ she had told the proprietor.
He grinned. ‘I understand. Seven o’clock do you?’
‘Yes, perfectly. Will you send him up when he arrives?’
She had returned to her room to wait for him with growing trepidation. Their earlier meeting had been unsatisfactory in so many ways. The surroundings had hardly been conducive to loving reunions and he had been too shocked to take in everything she said or to talk about himself. She had known she would have to repeat it all when he arrived, which is exactly what had happened, and this time he had many more questions for her. While they ate and drank the wine, she told him everything all over again, and it was not until after they had finished and sat over the remnants of the meal, drinking the last of the wine, that she began to question him about himself. It was then he told her he had remarried.