Lost Property

by Isabella Muir

  ‘What would you like to know?’ Hugh removes our drinks from the tray and carefully measures two teaspoons of sugar into his cup. As he stirs the sugar the table wobbles, spilling some of our drinks into the saucers. Either the table legs are uneven, or the floor below us is as rickety as the shack itself.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …I’ll get a paper serviette,’ he says.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, it was the table.’

  Perhaps he is not used to clandestine assignations with young women, or perhaps there is another reason for his nervousness. He places the serviette inside the saucer to mop up the spilt liquid and then he begins to cough. I’ve heard him cough this way before. The first time he came into the library van he had a coughing fit, which ended with rasping and wheezing. Now it appears he is suffering again. He struggles to catch his breath and the elderly woman who served us brings over a glass of water.

  ‘You alright there, ducky,’ she asks him.

  He doesn’t respond as he tries to calm his breathing, but after a few minutes the episode passes and he is settled again.

  ‘That sounds nasty,’ I say, ‘is the doctor helping with medicine?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, let’s start again. I’m grateful you’ve agreed to meet me.’

  ‘You said I could help you, but I need some background. So, if you don’t mind, I’ve prepared some questions.’ I take my notebook and pencil out of my duffel bag.

  If I had been a Brownie or a Girl Guide, perhaps I would have learned the motto, Be prepared. Instead Poirot taught me. His methodical approach to detecting has become mine. I’ve added to my toolkit since my search for Zara. My notebook forms the basis of it, but now I am the proud owner of an Instamatic camera. There were several occasions over the last few months when a snapshot would have proved useful, a visual record to support my note-taking.

  With my detective’s toolkit at the ready, I am prepared to take on a new challenge. New assignment, new notebook, new focus.

  My questions are listed under five separate headings - Who?, What?, Why?, Where?, When? - a page for each. Every possible detail about the person I’m seeking is critical, but I also need to know more about Mr Furness and the ‘What?’ of my investigations. What is the purpose of the search? What is Mr Furness doing in Tamarisk Bay?

  Too many questions to tackle in one sitting, but at least today I can make a start. I open my notebook and flick through the various sections. I decide to start with the Who?

  ‘You’d like some help tracking down a friend?’ My pencil is poised.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is your friend’s name?’

  ‘Dorothy Elm. At least that was her name when I knew her, she may have married since.’

  ‘And what is your relationship to Dorothy?’

  ‘I don’t have one. Not now at least.’

  ‘She was your friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I make a few notes on the Who? page and he watches me.

  ‘How long is it since you’ve seen her? When were you friends?’

  ‘During the war.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen her since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’re talking twenty years ago?’

  ‘Twenty-five actually. I last saw her in 1944.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Furness. Hugh. But why now?’

  He glances down at his cup and saucer, at the tea that is cooling and remains undrunk.

  ‘My wife died. Last year.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. That’s very sad. You must miss her.’

  A bubble of indignation begins to surface. I am ready to confront Greg with an unfair question. ‘So, if I died, how long would you wait before tracking down an old sweetheart?’ I am so focused on imagining Greg’s response that I miss the next thing Hugh says.

  ‘Pardon?’ I ask him.

  ‘She had been ill for a long time.’

  ‘It must have been a difficult time for you both.’

  I’m not sure I want to continue with the conversation. I’m already annoyed with Hugh Furness and I haven’t even reached the When?, Where?, or significantly, the What? sections of my notebook. What does he think I can do that he can’t? If you want to track down an old friend, why on earth would you enlist the help of a twenty-four-year-old librarian? A pregnant one as well, come to that.

  ‘Shall we call a halt for now, Hugh? I need to get back to fix my husband’s supper.’

  He remains motionless, his face blank. I wonder if he has heard me. I stand, so that he gets the message that our conversation is over, at least for now.

  ‘I loved my wife very much,’ he says.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that.’

  I sit again, prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘And you have already checked the obvious places?’

  He gives me a quizzical look, but says nothing.

  ‘The telephone directory?’

  ‘Yes, of course. There are three Elms listed in the local directory, but none with the initial D. Besides, I doubt Dorothy would have a telephone and, as I explained, she may have married. You must understand that I wouldn’t be asking you if it was as simple as looking in a book.’ His jaw tenses and there is frustration in his voice. ‘I really need to find her.’

  ‘Why is that Hugh?’

  ‘I think she may be in danger. That’s the point, you see. I’m scared that if I don’t find her and warn her, then something very bad may happen to her.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you involve the police?’

  ‘They are not always helpful, are they? I think you know what I mean.’

  He’s referring to my search for Zara.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘so take me back to 1944.’

  He closes his eyes and I wait. A few moments pass and then he speaks.

  Chapter 3

  1944

  She saw the dog first. It was matching his master’s pace, stride for stride. At least, it was trying to, but not entirely succeeding, as its legs were so short. Short, but willing. Every few minutes the man turned, perhaps to check the dog was still there, perhaps to persuade it that it wasn’t a hopeless cause.

  The man slowed his pace, the dog caught up. She could have watched them for hours, but she needed to scrub up and get back to the farmhouse for tea.

  At the thought of tea she was reminded how hungry she was. She was used to the physical labour now, but still surprised by the appetite that came along with it. They were luckier than most. There was always plenty to eat, vegetables picked that day and made into warming hotpots. Bread was baked daily and she loved the saltiness of the home-churned butter from the dairy herd. She remembers too readily the restrictions of rationing. Before coming to work as a land girl she often spent her mornings queuing for the basics, returning home with barely enough to make a meal. But here on the farm there was no need for powdered egg, the chickens roamed freely, providing more than enough for all the workers.

  Next day, at around the same time, she saw him again. There was such a sense of abandon in the way he strolled, with the little dog trotting beside him. Any pretence at freedom these days had to be grabbed, if only for a moment or two.

  For several days there was no sign of him. There had been talk of successful missions over Germany. Key sites had been flattened, but there had been casualties too, on both sides. She prayed he wasn’t one of the pilots who had lost his life.

  She didn’t even know his name.

  Then the day came when he was there again, with his Scottish Terrier trotting beside him. She could have literally jumped with the joy of seeing them both.

  During the days when he hadn’t appeared, when she’d waited as long as possible before going back to the farmhouse for her tea, she made a pledge to herself. The next time she saw him she would speak to him. Now the moment was here.

  ‘May I pat your dog?’ she said. Her voice startled him, he hadn’t noticed her approach. He stopped walking and his dog continued fo
r a few paces, sniffing among the leaves.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Scottie,’ he said. ‘Original, eh?’ When he smiled, his face took on a glow. His eyes were dark, the colour of blueberries, his hair light brown and wavy. She imagined his mother teasing the knots from his babyhood curls.

  ‘Will you walk with us a while?’ he said. He noticed her hesitation, even though it was momentary. ‘We’re not going far.’

  She didn’t want to admit that she knew his route all too well. She’d watched them skirt around the edge of the field, into the first part of the wood and emerge again on the other side, maybe ten minutes later.

  She was conscious of her untidy hair, wisps of it escaping from the plait that wound around her head. Her hands were muddy from the planting and she was certain she smelled of sweat. She put all her energy into the farm work, taking a pride in it, knowing she was helping to feed a nation. A nation at war.

  Every week since her arrival she had written to her brother, reassuring him that she was justified in making the move. Her home was a little over fifty miles away, too far for him to visit and she missed him.

  ‘Will Scottie chase a ball?’ she asked.

  ‘He doesn’t really run, he’s more of a plodder.’

  ‘I’d like to join you on your walk, but I have to be back at 5pm sharp, for tea. Terrible trouble, if not.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he said, any hope in his expression fading.

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow? If you’re here again? A little earlier maybe, so there’s time for a stroll?’

  ‘If I can, it’s difficult to plan from one day to the next. I’m sure you understand?’

  She glanced sideways at him. Now that she was closer to him she could absorb all the detail of his uniform, without appearing to stare. The light caught the polish on the buttons, on his boots.

  ‘You’re working here on the farm?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve joined the Women’s Land Army, I’m a land girl.’

  ‘Good for you, I mean it’s vital work you’re doing and hard too. Have you farmed before?’

  ‘No, I love it though. I didn’t realise how satisfying it would be. Planting tiny seeds and watching them grow. Harvesting crops that appear from nothing. Just the sun, the rain and the goodness from the soil. It’s all in the preparation, you know.’

  ‘Isn’t everything?’ he said, laugh lines appearing at the edges of his eyes.

  The next day he kept his word and arrived a little earlier, with Scottie bouncing along beside him.

  ‘He’s taken a shine to you,’ he said, as she bent down to greet the terrier. ‘As soon as I told him where we were going, there was an added spring in his step.’

  They walked and chatted about the farm and about dogs, carefully avoiding any mention of the recent spate of bombings that had been terrifying everyone on the peninsula.

  ‘Who watches out for Scottie when you’re on a mission?’ she asked.

  ‘We help each other out. Plenty of chaps have dogs, a brisk walk helps to while away the time between shouts. Although I’ll admit that Scottie and brisk are not words I would often use together.’

  The conversation was easy and light. She told him what she had learned about the seasons and the weather, how much she enjoyed being part of a team. ‘The timing is critical, whether you are planting or harvesting, a heavy downpour at the wrong time can destroy months of work. Look at these hands,’ she said, holding them out in front of her, ‘not likely to pass for a lady with these, eh?’ They laughed together. When they reached the end of the farm track she wished they could do it all again.

  ‘There’s a dance tomorrow night. In the village hall. Are you going?’ he asked.

  She could feel the heat in her face, she hoped he wouldn’t notice.

  ‘Yes, a bunch of us land girls are going.’

  ‘We’re going too, I mean some of the squadron. So, perhaps I’ll see you there?’

  She smiled as he held out his hand.

  She chose the same dress she had worn the last time she went to the village hall dance, but it didn’t matter because he wasn’t there last time. She would have noticed if he had been.

  The red and white striped material was smart, not showy. It was nipped in around the middle, accentuating her trim waist. She wore a navy cardigan around her shoulders and was relieved her only pair of elegant shoes were navy too.

  He had only ever seen her hair up, braided and wound around her head. It was easier to have it out of the way when she was working in the fields. But for the dance she would wear it long and loose, kept in place with a white scarf tied like a band, keeping her fringe from falling into her eyes. One of the girls had shown the rest of them how to use beetroot to redden their lips. There was little or no chance of laying your hands on lipstick, or mascara come to that. No hope for stockings either. Some of the girls coloured their legs with cold tea, or gravy browning, but all she ever bothered with was a line drawn up the back to look like a stocking seam.

  The night of the dance there was a chill in the air, so there was no need to pinch her cheeks to bring the colour to them. As she walked into the village hall she felt flushed, perhaps with the warmth generated by the crowd of chaps and girls who were already taking a turn on the dance floor, or perhaps by the anticipation of taking a turn herself, with him.

  He strode over to her as soon as he spotted her arrive. Taking her hand he led her into the centre of the dancing crowd, nudging past other couples, creating space for the two of them. He had great rhythm and was light on his feet. All around the walls of the hall someone had hung brightly coloured bunting, which flapped around as the dancers moved, churning up the air with their lively steps. They tried the Jitterbug and the Lindy Hop.

  The chairs and tables were pushed against the walls, leaving the floor area free. A raised platform created a stage for the band. Two men in air force uniform provided the music, one on the piano, the other with a trombone. Beside them stood a young girl with a confident voice, lilting and clear.

  They both hummed along to the tunes. ‘Do you know the words?’ she asked him. He shook his head and laughed. At the end of the evening she was ready to collapse.

  ‘Not harder than ploughing, surely?’ he said, pouring them both a glass of lemonade.

  ‘Faster though, definitely,’ she said.

  During the evening neither of them had spoken much to the other chaps and girls in their group. It was only when Maud came over to remind her it was time to leave that she even remembered they were there.

  ‘I have to go now,’ she said, ‘we get into trouble if we’re in later than 10pm.’

  ‘Curfew?’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, but my friend has a boat. It’s a small fishing boat, moored in the harbour. We could meet on it, tomorrow if you like. Are you free tomorrow?’

  ‘We have every Sunday free, there’s church first, but afterwards…’

  He put a hand up to her face and brushed a loose hair away from her cheek.

  ‘After church then,’ he said.

  She cycled to the harbour and wondered how she would recognise the boat. There were several tied up along the quay. But he was there before her, waiting on the beach, with Scottie sitting beside him. They were both gazing out to sea. Seagulls were circling overhead, cawing loudly.

  ‘Are they waiting for you to catch them a fish?’ she said. Scottie gave a little bark and ran to her. She picked him up and hugged him close to her. As soon as she set him down again he started running in circles, with his tail wagging vigorously.

  ‘You see, he loves you,’ he said.

  She couldn’t stop herself blushing and hoped he hadn’t noticed, or that he would put it down to the brisk onshore wind, bringing the blood to her cheeks.

  ‘What will you catch?’ she asked him.

  ‘We’ll be lucky to catch anything, I’m not much good. What about you?’

  ‘Never fished before in my life.’


  ‘Poor seagulls.’

  He helped her to step into the boat, then lifted Scottie in. Using the wooden oars, he pushed the boat away from the quay, having untied the rope that was holding it in place. The tide was high and the wind churned up the water. They bobbed along and she laughed each time a wave crashed against the side of the boat, splashing them both. When they were far enough out, he prepared the rod and line, added bait to the hook, then cast it out into the water.

  ‘Now what?’ she said.

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Until we get a bite, or until we get bored.’

  ‘Or until curfew,’ she said and laughed.

  ‘My friend tells me there’s bass to be had, if we’re lucky.’

  He cast the line out again and again, but they weren’t to be lucky with fish that day.

  ‘Next Sunday?’ he asked, as she stepped out of the boat on their return to the harbour. ‘If I’m not on a mission, of course.’

  This time when they parted he kissed her on the cheek. His lips were warm against her chilled face.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said.

  Throughout that spring they met several times on the little fishing boat. To pass the time, while they waited for the fish to bite, she read poetry to him. Some days, when the wind was brisk, she had to raise her voice to be heard above the crash and splash of the water. At first she selected snippets from Emily Dickinson and Keats. Then, as she grew in confidence, she shared some of her own. She had played around with words since she was a child. By putting a pencil to a sheet of paper she could create an imaginary world, several in fact. Her poems chimed with the swell of the sea.

  He struggled to reconcile the different sides of this woman, who on their walks breathed fun and frivolity. Then, when they were in the little boat, he would listen to her soft voice reciting lyrical rhythms and rhymes, close his eyes, and sense another person entirely.

  They had spoken briefly about their past, the lives they had left behind to join in the fight for freedom. Both of them had lost close friends in the bombings. She lived in fear that one day she would receive news that the house she was born in had been crushed, and her brother along with it. But thankfully, so far the news had not arrived.