The Girl in the Letter

by Emily Gunnis

  Kitty smiled. Her teeth were perfectly white and straight. Sam tried not to stare, but there was something impossibly perfect about her. She knew Kitty had to be in her sixties, slightly older than Nana in fact, but in contrast to her grandmother she barely had a wrinkle, and her skin looked like it belonged on Emma’s bottom. Her fingernails were neat and her pretty face freshly made up. Sam felt the urge to reach out and touch her, just to check she wasn’t a hologram.

  She clutched her mug in her hands for warmth. ‘My mum died when I was twelve. She was an alcoholic. I didn’t know my grandmother existed before that; they weren’t in touch. My family history is quite colourful, to say the least. I think these letters have affected us both deeply.’

  ‘May I see them? The letters?’ said Kitty.

  For reasons she was unsure of, Sam suddenly felt protective of them and hesitated before reaching into her bag and pulling them out.

  ‘They’re written by a woman called Ivy, who had a baby at St Margaret’s and was forced to give her up. They would be thought-provoking for anyone, but Nana was adopted and never met her mother, so I guess more so for her.’

  ‘I think a baby being taken from its mother can affect families for generations,’ said Kitty, reaching out for the letters in Sam’s hands. ‘These look very old; where did you get them?’

  ‘My grandfather was an antiques dealer, and Nana found them in his paperwork after he died – presumably they were in an old desk he bought.’ Sam paused. ‘I think I may have run into a relative of Ivy’s, but I don’t know where to find her.’

  ‘Oh?’ Kitty looked up from the letter in her hand.

  ‘Yes, I went to Father Benjamin’s funeral service and there was a very elderly lady there. I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before. She put this picture on Father Benjamin’s coffin.’ Sam reached into her bag and pulled out the photograph of Ivy, handing it to Kitty.

  As Kitty looked at the picture, her hands began to shake. She stared, transfixed.

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Sam, taken aback by Kitty’s reaction. Sam looked down at the black-and-white image of Ivy, then back up at Kitty. ‘Do you recognise her?’

  Kitty shook her head slowly, ‘No, not at all. I just, I think last night is catching up with me.’ Kitty went to put her coffee cup down and misjudged it, sending it toppling, its contents spilling all over a cushion.

  ‘Shit,’ said Sam, as she looked around for something to mop it up with.

  ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ said Kitty, putting the photograph down and walking out with the cushion.

  ‘Of course. Are you okay?’ Sam called after her. There was no reply.

  Sam pulled her mobile from her bag and dialled. After a few rings, Fred picked up. ‘Fred, it’s me, how you doing?’

  ‘Fine. I forgot to tell you yesterday, someone called Jane Connors called, asking for your address; said she wanted to write to you.’

  ‘Jane Connors? As in the Jane Connors I got an exclusive with on Saturday?’

  ‘Yeah, the one who lives next door to a witch. How’s it going anyway?’ said Fred, as Sam scribbled Mrs Connors’ name in her notebook.

  ‘It’s okay, though I haven’t slept a wink and it’s D-Day today. St Margaret’s is coming down tomorrow morning and there’s still a mountain to climb. Think I’m going to have to call in sick later, which Murray will love.’

  Sam flicked through her notebook. Since reading the last letter, another name had been haunting her, one that had been mentioned several times by Ivy; Dr Jacobson. He had referred her to Father Benjamin when she first fell pregnant and been at the birth of Ivy’s baby at St Margaret’s. She lowered her voice. ‘Fred, could you do me a favour and see if you can dig up anything about a Dr Jacobson, and also Helena Cannon. They’re local to Preston, I think.’ Sam glanced up as Kitty returned to the room.

  ‘Sure,’ said Fred. ‘Oh, and you know that footballer you asked me to find out about? The only person who played for Brighton and died suddenly was a guy called Alistair Henderson. But it was an asthma attack, so I don’t know if that counts as suspicious?’ Sam could hear his keys tapping in the background.

  ‘Interesting, thanks,’ she said, scribbling Alistair Henderson on her pad.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Fred. ‘Kitty Cannon was engaged to him when he died.’

  ‘What?’ Sam looked up at Kitty, who was moving around the room, opening the curtains, turning on lamps, glancing over at Sam occasionally. Something about the way she was acting jarred with Sam. She didn’t come across as a sixty-something woman who had been up all night finding her way round a derelict building site. She seemed calm, composed and totally unrattled.

  ‘Yeah, March 1969, so she was what, eighteen or nineteen? Maybe explains why she never married or had kids. You can ask her about it when you see her next,’ said Fred, chuckling to himself.

  ‘Will do,’ said Sam. ‘Thanks, Fred, call me if you find out anything about those names I gave you.’ She ended the call, then looked at Kitty, who had sat back down on the sofa. ‘Can I ask you something, Kitty?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you know if your mother ever, um, worked for St Margaret’s?’ she said nervously.

  Kitty looked away and began playing with the tassels of a blanket lying next to her. ‘Yes, she did, but Helena Cannon was not my birth mother.’

  It took every ounce of self-control Sam had not to react to Kitty’s statement. Instead, she stayed deathly still, scared to speak or move in case she put her off continuing. Kitty was so composed, she thought: she moved so gracefully, sat up straight and thought hard about what she wanted to say before she said it. The result was that when she spoke, you felt compelled to listen.

  ‘I have a twin,’ Kitty said. ‘She is called Elvira. I think my father had an affair, and the woman, whoever she was, had us at St Margaret’s and probably died in childbirth, though there are no records to prove it. They told my father Elvira was brain-damaged, but she wasn’t. She was adopted by a family, but after six years they returned her to St Margaret’s, where she lived a very miserable existence as far as I can tell.’

  Kitty sat still, perched on the edge of the sofa. Sam reminded herself to breathe.

  ‘Of course I knew nothing of all this. I grew up an only child in Sussex, mostly happily, mainly with my father caring for me, as Helena, the woman I thought was my mother, was very sick in hospital with kidney disease.’

  Sam looked over at her notebook, desperate to grab it but terrified that any movement might tip Kitty into silence.

  ‘Then one Sunday in February 1959, when I was eight years old, I went to church in Preston, which is half a mile from St Margaret’s. I was on my own because my father was with Helena in hospital. I was standing outside the church, alone, when I saw a little girl hiding behind a gravestone, signalling to me. I looked around, not sure what to do, and eventually I went over to her.’ Kitty paused. ‘It was me, thinner and dirtier but we were identical; it was like looking in a mirror.’

  ‘My God,’ said Sam, unable to stop herself. ‘That’s unbelievable. What did you do?’

  Kitty shook her head. ‘She was freezing and had been waiting outside all day for me. She was clearly terrified, whispering that we had to hide and taking me by the hand to an outhouse. She was dressed in dirty brown overalls and open-toed sandals, and it had been snowing. I gave her my coat and begged her to come with me to find my father, but she refused. It’s hard to describe the state she was in, she had escaped from St Margaret’s and was paralysed with fear.’

  Kitty stopped for a moment. ‘I stayed in the outhouse with her for two hours or so until it got dark. I told her I would find my father, our father, and that he would take her home with us, but she just became hysterical about who else was out there looking for her. She said that if they found her, they’d take her back to St Margaret’s, and that they’d kill her.’

  ‘That poor little girl,’ said Sam. ‘Is it really possible to return a child you’v
e adopted?’

  Kitty paused, her face blank, unreadable. ‘In those days, certainly. I remember when I came home from hospital after all this had happened, Father Benjamin came to the house to talk to my father. I sat on the stairs, straining to listen and overheard him saying that the couple who adopted Elvira had gone on to have a baby and that Elvira had tried to harm him.’

  ‘So they just gave up on her? Nice people.’ Sam shook her head.

  ‘I asked Elvira about it,’ Kitty continued, ‘I think she said they sent her back because she did something bad. But I was eight; you can imagine it was all totally overwhelming and too much to take in. In the end I said that I would have to go and get help, then come back for her. She begged me not to go, tried to pull me back, but I told her it would be all right. And then I ran out into the dark.’ Kitty stood and walked over to the window, crossed her arms and looked out.

  ‘And did you find your father?’ Sam shifted slightly, her legs stiff from not moving them for so long.

  Kitty shook her head. ‘I just remember running, my breath a freezing fog, my heart thundering. It’s hard to describe how cold it was, late at night, in February. And I had no coat because I’d given it to my sister. I was in the middle of the countryside. I didn’t know what pitch black meant until that night: I couldn’t see a thing. She’d made me promise not to call out, but I was desperate. I could hear animals scuttling in the undergrowth. The moon was covered in cloud. I got very cold very quickly. I ran across a few fields hoping to find a road, but I know now I was just getting deeper onto the Sussex Downs. All I could think was that I had to get back to Elvira or she’d die.’

  ‘Poor you, and poor Elvira.’ Sam shook her head. ‘It’s so sad.’

  ‘I don’t remember what happened exactly, but there was a ditch and I fell and broke my ankle. I was in agony, unable to move, unable to get out. For that whole night I lay there alone, crying, and by the time the sun came up, I had hypothermia. I don’t remember thinking about myself, though; I just remember seeing my sister’s face and feeling as if I’d let her down.’

  ‘But you didn’t let her down; you did everything you could.’ Sam walked over to Kitty and went to put her hand on her back, then stopped herself.

  Kitty turned and looked at her. ‘Three days later, I woke up in hospital. I’d nearly died. I was very upset, of course, asking for Elvira. Father told me she was dead. He said he’d had no idea she was back at St Margaret’s, that he thought she’d been adopted. He never admitted that Helena wasn’t my birth mother.’

  ‘Is there no record of Elvira? I heard from one of the sisters at St Margaret’s that their records had been destroyed, but I didn’t know which records they meant,’ said Sam as Kitty walked back to the sofa and sat back down.

  Kitty shook her head. ‘They were referring to birth and death records, which St Margaret’s should have handed over to the council. There was no record of Elvira at all. Most of the records from around that time were destroyed in a flood, or so they claimed. I tried to find her, but there was no trace. She had disappeared. I’ve never cried for her, Samantha, not once. It’s as if I never really believed she died, and now it seems I might be right.’

  Sam’s eyes widened and she leant in towards her. ‘Sorry, you think your sister is alive?’

  ‘Yes, the girl at the crash site where my father died. I think that was Elvira.’

  ‘But what makes you think she didn’t die?’ said Sam.

  ‘Father Benjamin told my father that she was buried in the graveyard at St Margaret’s, but there was no trace of her body in the graveyard excavation report,’ said Kitty, straightening the cushion behind Sam. ‘I hadn’t been back to St Margaret’s since that day. I thought it might help me see what could have happened to her. To feel closer to her. It’s stupid, I know, but I left her alive; maybe somebody found her.’

  ‘Who?’ said Sam.

  ‘I don’t know; the person who wrote these letters perhaps,’ said Kitty, looking down at them. ‘You said yourself that the people Ivy wrote about, who were involved with St Margaret’s, died in suspicious circumstances. And I’m pretty sure that people like Mother Carlin and Father Benjamin were the ones responsible for Elvira being in the state she was in.’

  Sam watched Kitty’s face. It was the picture of serenity, despite the harrowing nature of the conversation they were having. She felt herself torn between wanting to go on and feeling uncomfortable at the lack of emotion Kitty was showing. The words she was saying made sense, but something was amiss. They felt rehearsed somehow, as if she was in a bad play in a village hall.

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ said Sam.

  ‘Of course,’ said Kitty.

  ‘Your fiancé, Alistair Henderson, do you know how he died?’

  ‘Yes, he had an asthma attack.’ Kitty frowned.

  ‘And was there anything strange about the circumstances?’ Sam watched Kitty’s face. As usual, it gave away nothing.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Kitty, an edge to her voice suddenly.

  ‘Ivy’s letters are written to the father of her child, who was a footballer with Brighton football club. He might be another piece of the puzzle that relates to you,’ Sam replied.

  Kitty paused. She was suddenly elsewhere, her shoulders and jaw clenched as she took herself back to what must have been a painful time. She had never married, or had children, so there was no doubt that Alistair had been the love of her life.

  ‘Yes, in answer to your question, something strange did happen,’ she said eventually. ‘I told the police, but they never followed it up. I was due to collect him after a match on the day he died, but I received a phone call to say he had left with another woman. So I never went, and he died waiting for me. I’ll never forgive myself,’ she added, her voice quieter now.

  ‘Who was it who called you that day?’ Sam eyed her notebook again.

  ‘They wouldn’t say, but it was a woman.’ Kitty looked at her. ‘It has never occurred to me before now, but I suppose it could have been Elvira.’

  ‘You said you met Elvira in 1959. These letters are dated around the time Elvira would have been at St Margaret’s. Maybe Ivy knew her. God, I wish I could remember where I’ve seen that woman before,’ said Sam quietly.

  ‘The woman at Father Benjamin’s funeral?’ said Kitty. ‘What did she look like? Was there anything about her that stuck in your mind? You said she was very elderly; did she have trouble walking?’

  ‘Yes, she had a Zimmer frame.’ Sam thought back to her conversation with Fred, and suddenly it all began to make sense. The one who lived next door to a witch, he’d said. The woman who had stared at her as she had walked down the path to Mrs Connors’ house: she was the one who had put the picture of Ivy on Father Benjamin’s coffin.

  ‘That’s it! I remember now.’ She sprang to her feet. ‘I need to talk to her.’

  ‘Are you going there now?’ said Kitty, standing up too.

  ‘Oh God, I can’t, I need to get home to Nana and Emma,’ said Sam, gathering her things.

  ‘Does this lady live in Sussex?’ Kitty followed her out into the hall.

  ‘Yes.’ Sam pulled her boots on as Kitty stood over her.

  ‘Well, you could go on your way home, leave her a note. It needn’t hold you up too much. We don’t have long before they tear St Margaret’s down, and if she knows something, we need to know today.’ Kitty stood in front of the door; her face was hard suddenly, and Sam looked down at her hands, which were tapping her legs anxiously.

  ‘Did you want to come with me? It would make the journey much quicker if you could drive us,’ said Sam hopefully.

  ‘I’m sorry, Samantha, it wouldn’t be safe for me to drive. I’ve been up all night and I really need to get some sleep. I’d be a danger to us both.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve spoken to her. She may know if Elvira is alive!’

  Kitty smiled and waved from the window as Sam’s cab disappeared down the road. Then s
he picked up a holdall lying on the floor in the hall, stepped outside and closed the front door behind her.

  Chapter Thirty

  Saturday 1 March 1969

  Alistair Henderson staggered off the pitch just as the spring light began to fade.

  It had been a close call as Brighton football club found themselves 0–0 in the last ten minutes of the friendly away match against Fulham. As the seconds ticked by at an alarming rate, Alistair had finally slowed for a moment and watched Fulham’s defence closely. He was breathless, but his Ventolin inhaler had remained firmly in his bag in the changing room for fear of drawing attention to himself.

  His manager had been expressing concern over his performance of late, and Alistair was not going to hand him an excuse to bench him because his asthma was playing up. Having been selected for Brighton FC when he was twenty, he had now been on the team for thirteen years and was in no doubt that his golden days were over. The season had been a particularly bad one for him, and if he didn’t get a result soon, he was in serious danger of being replaced.

  Two minutes from the final whistle, he had attacked the fleeting moment when Fulham’s guard was down and scored. As his team-mates clambered all over him, his breathing became so strained that his legs began to feel weak. He looked up to the stands, where hundreds of supporters were waving their blue scarves and shouting his name, the cheers ringing in his ears. He scanned the faces at the front; he couldn’t see her, but it was a comfort knowing Kitty was there.

  As the referee ended the match and the players dispersed, he punched his closed fist on his chest. It was cold, and the stands were emptying fast, everyone keen to get to the warmth of the pub. He stood on the edge of the pitch, looking around for any sign of Kitty. She would normally have appeared by now, leaning against the doors to the players’ tunnel, her arms crossed, her long black hair framing her beautiful face.