BEFORE I FOUND YOU

by Daisy White

  “Bye, ladies, I’ll see you all on Monday. I’m taking a little trip up to London. Ring me if you need me!” Johnnie waves and dashes across the road, blue striped umbrella held aloft to protect his sleek blonde hair.

  Catherine and Eve hurry away to pick up various children, and I pull out my list. Mary slumps on a chair by the window, drawing swirls in the condensation with a shaky finger. I cast another worried look in her direction, and quickly try to hide it.

  “Stop looking at me like that! I’m fine, honestly. I just need to try a bit harder with Summer and I’m sure she’ll be over this stage soon . . .”

  “OK. Look, there are three people on Kenny’s list who have telephone numbers but no addresses, so are you OK if I call them before we get the bus?”

  Mary glances at her watch, “Yes. It goes in fifteen minutes so make sure you don’t have a really long conversation . . .”

  Five minutes later, and any optimism I may have had is replaced with gloom as dense as the fog outside. One woman slammed the phone down when I explained my mission, another said she quite understood but she hoped Beverly Collins rotted in hell, and her daughter was obviously dead so I was wasting my time. I had high hopes for the third, who was quite interested and chatty until she suddenly announced her husband was home, she had to go, and please not to ever mention Beverly Collins to her again.

  Despondent, we lock up and walk briskly down to the bus stop. A policeman cycles past, rain dripping from his helmet, and a few shivering families are queuing down on the seafront for fish and chips. I lean our shared umbrella towards Mary as the rain cascades down, making rivers in the gutters, and swirling dirt and rubbish into little whirlpools in the road.

  “Did that WPC Stanton say anything else about the Beach Girl?” Mary asks.

  “No.”

  “Well, maybe we could take Summer to see her again, because I’m sure I noticed something in her expression when she looked at the baby. That sort of pinched blankness went for a moment. Maybe she has a little sister at home?”

  “Mmmm . . . It would be worth a go.”

  We march along the promenade, arm in arm, clutching wet bags and occasionally wiping rain off our faces with a soggy sleeve. The sea is almost invisible behind a thick grey cloak of cloud, and the beach is all but deserted. The pier seems to be floating above the water, its struts hidden in the greyness. A few lights flash through, but it looks like most of the traders have given up and gone home. Even the Ghost Train and the dodgems are deserted. Other groups huddle underneath the pier, smoking, hoods pulled up. Cars flash past, soaking our legs with icy spray, and we walk a little faster.

  Chapter Ten

  “Do you think anyone will talk to you about Beverly’s case?” Mary asks, as we sink gratefully down onto the seats in the bus, breathing in the muggy smells of damp coats and wet shoes.

  “I hope so. I can’t tell Beverly that I’m giving up after a week. That would be pathetic. Something will turn up. Maybe Kenny will get some more information . . .” I rub the steamy window and frown at the downpour. “Why didn’t we bring coats today?” We’re both shivering, and huddled together for warmth. The bus is now crowded with other workers heading home, and full of gossip. I imagine I catch Beverly’s name a couple of times, but mostly the talk is all about the Profumo affair and the train robbery in Berkshire. Apparently the mail train was carrying over two million pounds. My head spins just thinking about that amount of money.

  “I bet you could buy a whole country with that. What would you do with the money?” Mary whispers to me.

  “Not sure. Buy a house?” I consider her question idly, although actually I’m more interested in Christine Keeler.

  All too soon the bus trundles to a stop, and we are back out on the streaming pavements, walking up White Oak Road, counting the house numbers.

  “Shall we stop and see those two on the way up? I really don’t want to cart Summer around in the pouring rain, and weren’t they 98 and 104? That’s nearly at the top of the hill anyway.” Mary takes over umbrella duties again as I fumble with the damp scrap of paper.

  “OK. Annie lives at 98, which is opposite the house Beverly used to live in, and Stan Macrae at 104. We can ask Annie about the others on the list too. No point in wasting time with people who aren’t likely to talk to us, and she should know who they are.”

  Fifteen minutes later I bang on the door of a faded red-brick terrace house. My heart is pounding, and I’m not sure what to expect. A big part of me is convinced the door will be slammed shut when I start asking about Beverly, but Annie was her neighbour. She and her husband spoke out for her when she was arrested. Not only that but she took her in when she came out of prison.

  The door opens and a large blonde woman in a polka dot dress peers out. Her small beady eyes are dark and her eyebrows are black, but the hair is a triumphant riot of yellow curls. She studies us for a second, then — thankfully — smiles. “You must be Ruby Baker. You’d better come in. Beverly said you were a pretty girl.”

  We obey her thankfully, and stand dripping in her hallway until she emerges from the bathroom with a couple of towels. She ushers us into the kitchen, tutting in a maternal way over our soaked clothes and wet hair.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” I begin, sinking down onto an orange bench seat, trying to arrange the towel under my damp skirt. “This is my friend Mary. She has a baby we need to collect, so I’m afraid we can’t be long . . .”

  “Not a problem, loves. Beverly told me you might pop round. She’s in Rottingdean now with her Aunt Sarah. My husband drove her over last night. Nice woman, Sarah, and she was always loyal to Beverly, even when she was younger and first got herself into trouble. She still owns the house opposite, but of course she had to rent it out to other tenants. Bev’s uncle passed away when she was a lot younger, but he was a smart cookie, and he made a lot of money. All because he bought a couple of houses off that John Stocker, not to mention the post office in Rottingdean and coffee bar in Eastbourne. He rented them out, just like Stocker did. Sarah sold the others when he died, but kept the house in White Oak and the post office.”

  “Beverly didn’t tell me that,” I tell her, slightly confused by this sudden flood of information.

  “No? Maybe she wants to see how much investigating you are really doing! She isn’t stupid, our Beverly. But that’s just family history really, and nothing to do with Ella’s disappearance.” Annie sighs, and flicks open a drawer to reveal a large brown paper bag. “Anyway, since you made it this far, I can give you this. I’ve got a few others I can look for but I want to keep the ones with my Martha in. These are the best ones of Beverly and Ella.” Her deft, podgy hands delve inside and carefully display the contents on her white kitchen table.

  Fascinated, Mary and I lean forward. There are photos of children playing, couples dancing, a street party, a baby’s christening . . . In each photo I can recognise a small pretty woman as Beverly. In most of the pictures, her long brown hair hangs to her waist in a mass of curls, but in the pictures with the baby it is caught up in a sleek ponytail. Most of the photographs are black and white but a couple are in colour, including the last one in the pile.

  “That’s Ella just before she went missing.” Annie picks up the slightly faded photograph of three children grinning, their backs to the Downs, and the remains of a picnic at their feet. The little girl is in the middle, flanked by two blonde-haired boys. Her hair is brown and curly, just like her mum’s. She has that same direct stare too, though her eyes are blue instead of dark brown. Even at four years old the little face is Beverly’s in miniature. She is beautiful. With the pink dress and grubby bare legs, she looks just like any happy four-year-old enjoying a summer picnic.

  “Ella was such a happy little thing. She hardly ever cried, even when she took a tumble.” Annie’s voice cracks a bit with emotion and she clears her throat. “It was such a normal day when she went missing. Martha told me the kids were playing out in the road, Stan was fixing up th
eir swings in the playground, and it was the start of the school holidays so lots of kids were on their bikes too. I left for work early but I remember the ice cream van was there because Martha said they all had a cone. Such a sweet couple who used to run it. The children loved them . . . It was like one of those perfect summer days you read about in books, and somehow by the end of it, Ella was gone. Martha went off to visit a friend in the next road after that, but she didn’t remember anything about Ella. That’s what it was like, you didn’t have to look out for anyone especially because you knew the whole estate looked after their own.” She glances down at the photograph and sniffs again, pulling out a hanky from her skirt pocket.

  “How long after the photo was taken did it happen?” Mary asks, her voice blurred with emotion. I feel it too. This innocent little girl, so happy and loved . . .

  Annie bustles around, setting two mugs of tea and a bowl of sugar in front of us. “I know you’re in a hurry, but get that down you. A month later she was taken. It was just over the road, and I’ll never forget that day. I was out at work and I came home, picked up my kids from Gwen on the corner, and when I got back I found Beverly on my doorstep. She was in pieces. She loved that child more than anything, and after her bastard boyfriend buggered off to America she worked all hours to keep Ella fed and clothed. Her parents never bothered to visit. You know they both passed away while she was in prison? They never found the car that hit theirs. They were coming back from a day out in Eastbourne, and the accident happened on the cliff road . . .” She shakes her head. “The only person who ever helped Beverly was her aunt — she was the one who lent her that house when she found out she was pregnant.” She looks hard at both of us, black eyes serious. “Beverly would never have hurt Ella. That child was her whole world.”

  Aware of the time, I glance at my watch and leaf through the rest of the pictures. There are newspaper articles too, carefully clipped and pasted onto cardboard, and a little poster, worn away at the creases, with a picture of Ella.

  “We handed those out to half of Brighton, but whoever took her got her right away, I reckon. If she was still down this way she would have been found long ago. Look, this is her on the beach. See that scar on her cheek? That was when she fell off the sea wall and onto some glass. Funny, I said to Bev, that she ended up with a scar on the same cheek.”

  “How did Beverly get her scar?” I ask, then feel myself flush as I realise how rude my question sounds. But Annie isn’t bothered.

  “Some loony bitch in prison cut her face soon after she was locked up.” Annie frowns. “After that I just kept hoping someone would find Ella and she would be let out. Crazy, the kind of things you hope for. I wrote to Beverly every week, and I used to worry until I got her letter back saying she was safe. Prison is a terrible place when you're innocent.”

  “Can we take these away to look at, please?” I’m half expecting her to say no, but she nods briskly.

  “Anything that will help find Ella. I want them back, mind. If Doug — that’s my husband — or my boys can help at all, you let me know. My daughter’s away in France with some friends of hers . . . I’ve got a telephone now so here’s my number. Pop everything in this bag to protect it from the weather.”

  We do as she suggests, and unexpectedly, she gives us both a hug. “Anything you need. I mean it. I was so sorry for Bev when she heard about that girl on the beach. We both really thought it might be Ella and then she . . . well, she was back where she has been these last ten years. In hell, she calls it.”

  “Well, we have got a list of people who are connected to Ella’s disappearance. Could you maybe have a really quick look and see if you think any of them might speak to us? There are a couple more addresses in White Oak — one up this road and another near the infant school, I think.” I offer Annie the damp piece of paper. “The crosses are the ones I already phoned.”

  Annie scans the sheet with narrowed eyes and reaches for a pencil from a pot on her hall table. “I’ll just scribble a note by any I recognise, shall I? That’ll be useful . . .”

  “Oh great, thanks!” Mary and I lean in, watching her write, and soon I’m fighting to keep my face straight, suppressing giggles.

  The woman who told me Beverly could rot in hell is ‘A real bitch, always jealous of Bev because she was pretty, and convinced she was after her fella. Married to Reg who likes his drink and works down the market.’

  Next to Stan’s name Annie scribbles, ‘In hospital — fell off ladder. Not all there in the head poor love. Worked for John Stocker.’

  “These others, well, Laura would be good if you can get her to talk, but I doubt she’ll see you — the lying little cow. Bethany, she worked down at Brenda’s Cafe for a bit, but she didn’t really know Bev, and Marion . . . she would help you but I doubt she knows anything. Her and her husband moved out to Patcham in ’54. I think they had some kind of inheritance come in, because their new house had five bedrooms! Oh and Karen and Dave emigrated to Australia.”

  Well, I guess that takes care of that, then. My head is spinning with all these names, and I’m still wondering if any of these lovely neighbours might be the very ones who broke into her house and left the blood and the bottles that helped to convict her. I catch Mary’s eye and she gives me a little smile but shakes her head. Nothing to break the case yet.

  Finally Annie thumps the pencil back in the pot and hands me the sheet. “Right, all done. Now take care and let me know if I can do anything else. That poor girl . . . Little Ella. I’m sure she’s alive somewhere and she needs to come home.”

  I’ve still got an emotional lump in my throat as we brave the downpour again, hoisting our umbrella high, and I can tell Mary is moved as well. She gives a quick sniff, and wipes her damp face on the back of her cardigan.

  “I think with a friend like that, Beverly doesn’t need anyone else in the whole of Brighton to believe her. She amazing, isn’t she — Annie, I mean?” I say as we slosh up the road. “All the other neighbours must have given her hell for supporting Beverly. She had a brick thrown through her window too, after Beverly got out of prison and stayed at her house.”

  Mary meets my eyes. “She is amazing. And you know what, we’ll bloody find out what happened to Ella, even if we get doors slammed in our faces every day. Nobody deserves to lose a child like that.”

  We link arms and continue uphill, before picking our way around bits of broken car, a pram without wheels, and a rusty swing, to bang on Angela’s door.

  “No use asking her about Ella, she only moved in two years ago,” Mary reminds me, plucking her child from the throng of noisy toddlers and babies on mats.

  The lino floor is sticky with little footprints, and there must be about fifteen children racing around, but as usual Angela is beaming, oblivious to the chaos. She takes some money from Mary, and they arrange times for next week, while I breathe in the smells of a baking cake, mixed with sweat and cigarette smoke. It’s a combination that makes me feel slightly sick, and I’m almost glad to get back out into the gloom. We step around the scattered toys, one discarded nappy, and a naked plastic doll before we manage to escape out the front door.

  Summer is crowing at the rain, and waving her little hands around as we walk back down the hill. Mary holds her close and I hoist the umbrella so it covers them both. The weather seemed to be clearing a bit up here, nearer the Downs, but as we head back towards the sea, splashing carefully downhill, the fog engulfs us once more. It’s like plunging into cold water, and Mary pulls Summer’s little coat over her head.

  The baby is a bit fretful on the bus home, but I distract Mary by explaining that Ted is back and I’ve invited him to come and meet Summer. Mary’s face brightens, and the frown vanishes. “Poor Ted. You know I feel so guilty we all thought he was the murderer. Was he OK? I mean, I know he was in love with Linda . . .”

  I think back to the beach, remembering Ted’s slightly ragged appearance, and the air of sadness that hung about him. “I think he’ll be alrigh
t. I mean, when Pearl dragged him over he just sort of fitted right back in. It’s probably not something you get over in a few months, though, is it? He did seem really happy that I asked him to come and see the baby, though.”

  Mary smiles, smoothing Summer’s fine hair, flicking the droplets off her round pink cheek with a gentle finger. “When is he coming over, then?”

  “Not sure. And he doesn’t have a telephone. I think they're all going to the roller rink at the weekend, so maybe we could find a babysitter and both go out for the evening. Or I can look after Summer and you can go.”

  Mary studies me in silence for a moment, and her smile vanishes. She ignores my suggestion and again fusses over the baby’s little wool jacket. It’s like milk draining from a bottle, or the tide going out, as all her energy and fire vanishes. Her pleasure at Ted’s visit, her enthusiastic detective work, might never have been. The blank look is back in her blue eyes, and I can almost feel the waves of panic engulfing us both, even if I couldn’t feel her body suddenly go rigid next to mine.

  Puzzled, I try again, “Mary? You don’t have to go out. I just thought it might be nice for you to have a break . . .”

  That vacant expression is starting to get familiar. Her eyes are bright but unfocused, and her mouth is set. “I can’t just go out and have a good time like we used to. Summer isn’t a temporary thing, you know. I’m a mum now, and I need to act like one. You go out if you want but I'm just too tired.”

  “OK, OK. Sorry.”

  We sit in awkward silence for the rest of the journey, and although we stop to pick up some sausages, and I cook a hot dinner, Mary stays shrouded in her own personal gloom. When Summer starts crying, at around half past seven, I offer politely to help, but Mary shakes her head determinedly and, instead, puts the screaming child on her shoulder and walks around and around our little bedsit. Occasionally she pats the baby’s back, or shifts her to the other side, but Mary’s eyes still have that detached, unfocused look of a mechanical doll.