Lost Property

by Isabella Muir

  In line with its name, either side of the front door stand two large stone pots, planted with English lavender. It’s late in the season now, but even in its autumnal state, as the flower stems are brushed by the wind they give off a delicate sweet scent.

  Pushing open the wooden gate, I step onto the footpath and spy a ball of ginger fluff, partly hidden by a hydrangea bush that sits under the bay window. For a moment it’s as though it is part of the bush itself, the heavy flowers tinged bronze with autumn. But then the tail appears and with a flash the cat crosses the path and disappears into the hedge.

  ‘A new member of the household?’ I say, when Phyllis appears. The last time Phyllis was in the library, I mentioned I might call in, so I’m not surprised when she opens the door before I have time to use the quaint brass pixie knocker.

  ‘No, she belongs next door, but appears to prefer my milk. I shouldn’t have started it I suppose, but there was one cold morning when she sat on my doorstep looking so forlorn. Ever since, she kicks up such a fuss if the saucer isn’t down and well filled.’

  ‘You’re too soft.’

  ‘Yes, I probably am. Come on in, kettle’s on and I’ve made flapjack. Bean okay with flapjack?’

  ‘Flapjack is perfect. Can I take a quick peek at your back garden? I haven’t seen it since you had the new patio laid.’

  ‘Feel free,’ she says, opening the back door. ‘I won’t come out, I’m in my slippers, but go and have a wander. If you walk to the end of the garden and look back at the cottage, you’ll get the best view.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I say, returning a few minutes later. ‘It’s got me thinking about our scruffy patch of lawn. Will you help me with some ideas to spruce it up? Greg and I are hopeless, we barely know the difference between a flower and a weed. It would be brilliant for Bean to have a proper garden to run around in, instead of the tip it is at the moment.’

  ‘If it’s ideas you want, no problem. I can’t promise to do much digging though. There was a time when I’d have a go at most things, but the best I can do now is supervise. Let’s go through to the sitting room, it’s cosier in there. Then you can tell me the real reason you’re here.’

  There’s not much I can get past Phyllis. She’s as intuitive as dad and knows me almost as well. The pretext for my visit was to get her opinion on the latest Agatha Christie, but I didn’t expect her to fall for that rather feeble excuse. The library van is where we talk about books.

  ‘How is Greg?’ she says.

  I smile.

  ‘Does he know you’re about to embark on another case?’

  Phyllis may be my stalwart supporter in many aspects of my life, but she disapproved of me getting so involved with the search for Zara. It’s unlikely she will be any more encouraging this time around, particularly as Bean’s arrival is creeping ever closer.

  ‘I have a plan,’ I say.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I’m going to enlist help. In fact, that’s why I’m here.’

  She stands up and goes to the window that looks out onto a large beech tree, which takes up one corner of the back garden. Its leaves have turned a deep caramel colour and a brisk wind is blowing through the branches, making them dip and sway.

  ‘How are the hiccups?’ she says.

  ‘Your lavender is very calming. Perhaps I should keep a handful in my bag, take it out as and when required.’

  Aside from my difficulties with tea and various foods, I have developed a propensity for hiccups whenever I am anxious or over-excited. The arrival of hiccups in the middle of an argument, or at the point of discovering a vital clue, is less than helpful. I put my hands on my midriff and stroke it a few times. I don’t want Bean to feel unloved.

  I sink down into a well-worn armchair, which is close enough to the cheery coal fire for me to hear the crackles and spits as the flames flicker. Phyllis sets the tray with drinks and flapjack on a low table between us.

  ‘Why do you think I can help you?’ she says.

  ‘It’s information I’m after at the moment. How well do you remember your pupils?’

  ‘All of them? We’re talking over forty years.’

  ‘I know. It’s a lot to ask, but if I tell you all I know about a particular family, then maybe…?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘A brother and sister. Dorothy is the girl’s name and her brother was Kenneth. He was a bit younger than her and their father suffered badly with asthma and bronchitis. The family moved down here because the doctor told him it would help with his chest complaint - the sea air and all that.’

  ‘There are several families who meet that description,’ she says. ‘There was an influx at one point. They all wanted to move away from the industrial cities, the smog was dreadful. I’m assuming you are talking wartime?’

  ‘No, it would have been before the war. Dorothy was in her twenties in the war, so we’re talking a few years before that. I think the family came from East Anglia originally, maybe Peterborough.’

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘Elm.’

  She appears pensive and pours herself another cup of tea. ‘More drink for you? I’ve left the kettle on the gas and I’ve plenty of lemons.’

  ‘I’m okay, thanks. I don’t expect you to have the answer straightaway. Have a think, maybe something will come to you, a memory, a flashback.’

  ‘Nothing else you can tell me? What about the mother?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I can try and find out. Will it help?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  She puts her empty cup and saucer onto the tray and adds a few more coals to the fire. The mantelpiece displays a collection of delicate china thimbles and I wonder how long it must take her to dust them all.

  ‘You mustn’t worry about Greg and me,’ I say, ‘we’re fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Certain. We’re just finding our way, still learning about each other.’

  ‘Don’t block him out. You’ll need him when Bean arrives.’

  On the bus back from Phyllis’s I mull over her advice, what she said and what was left unsaid. Greg and I have reached a stage in our relationship where we are each jostling for a place, like horses at a starting gate. In the two years we’ve been married it’s like the ground beneath us is constantly shifting. Maybe that’s what married life is like. I don’t have much to compare it with.

  Mum walked out soon after dad’s accident, when it became clear that he would be leaning on her in more ways than one. Aside from her postal address somewhere up north, I know little about the life she has chosen. My in-laws, Nell and Jimmy Juke, appear to have a traditional relationship, in that she complains a lot, but he rarely listens. They rub along together, but there seems to be little joy. Maybe the joy and passion go out of a relationship when you’ve been together as long as they have, or maybe there wasn’t much there to start with.

  Nell and Jimmy met and married straight after the war, as did mum and dad. Life and attitudes have changed. The war years showed women they could have so much more, be so much more. Now we are approaching the end of a decade that has brought us a different range of freedoms. For the first time since the war young men don’t have to join up (I need to remind Greg how lucky he is) and married women can take charge when it comes to birth control (I don’t need any reminding on that front).

  The search for Dorothy Elm intrigues me. Not just the challenge of tracking down a missing person, if indeed she is missing. From what I’ve learned about her so far, she sounds like one of the new breed of women, women who broke the mould, who were prepared to try new challenges. Perhaps she and I have something in common.

  I agreed with Hugh that I’d let him know my decision about the case by the weekend. I also need to work out my fee. It’s not like I can ask around, I’m guessing there aren’t many private investigators in Tamarisk Bay, at least none I know of. Thinking laterally, my thoughts go to Libby Frobisher. Libby, Phyllis Frobisher’s favourite and only grand-daughter, has recently moved f
rom Cornwall to land a job as a journalist with the Tidehaven Observer. It was Libby’s article about my involvement in the search for Zara that led Hugh to come knocking, figuratively speaking.

  Using Libby’s wages as a benchmark for my own fees feels appropriate, after all, we are both investigating, in one way or another. It’s a bit of a liberty to ask Libby straight out, but I’ve browsed the Job vacancies pages in the Tidehaven Observer, and even checked through a copy of the Brighton Argus, and am none the wiser, so it looks as though it may be my only option.

  We arrange to meet in my favourite café at the bottom of London Road. Jefferson’s is a cross between a café and a club. Richie, the owner, loves music as much as making coffee, probably more so.

  ‘Got a scoop for me?’ Libby asks, as we nestle ourselves into a corner of the café, away from the jukebox. The music is great, but sometimes it’s difficult to hear anything else.

  ‘No,’ I hesitate to say anything more.

  Think of the fizz that hovers over a glass of lemonade the moment you pour it from the bottle and that’s Libby. Perhaps I’m doing her an injustice. Fizz can be amusing, but ineffectual. Libby is usually the former, but never the latter. She has become a friend, but it’s the journalist in her that is on duty today, poised for that snippet of news that will lead to a front-page splash and another pat on the back from her editor.

  ‘I’m after information from you this time,’ I say, stirring sugar into my coffee. Bean is encouraging my sweet tooth, at least that’s my excuse.

  ‘Information about what? You get to hear more gossip than I do in that library of yours. Why do you think we’re friends?’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Only joking,’ she says.

  ‘It’s kind of personal.’

  ‘Are we talking love life? If so, forget it. No-one on the scene at present and no-one waiting in the wings, but I live in hope.’

  ‘Not love, work.’

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘It’s about money, so not completely boring. Do you mind telling me how much you earn?’

  ‘Cut to the chase, why don’t you? Not after my job, are you?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s just…’

  ‘You’ve been asked to take on a case, haven’t you? Go on, you can trust me.’

  I laugh and shake my head.

  ‘It’s a fair swap. I tell you my salary, you tell me who you’re working for? Go on, give me a little taster, to liven up my day. All I’ve got to look forward to is the annual general meeting of the Women’s Institute. You should take pity on a poor reporter.’

  As a junior reporter Libby is still on a junior’s wage. Nevertheless, the thought of those few extra pounds is enticing. I decide to ask Hugh for an hourly rate, based on half of Libby’s, as I figure I’m still learning. My next dilemma is how to calculate the number of hours I spend working on the case. Can I charge for the time I’m tending the library and mulling over clues? It’s clear that this private detective work is not straightforward.

  I needn’t have worried. Hugh clearly has more money than sense and offers me a lump sum, which far exceeds anything I could have hoped for. Half now and half at the end of my search.

  ‘And if I don’t find Dorothy?’ I ask him, during our next meeting in Tensing Gardens.

  ‘I’m confident you will find her, but I’ll pay you regardless, plus any out-of-pocket expenses.’

  ‘How long have I got? When will we call a halt?’

  He glances down at my midriff and smiles. ‘I think you’ll be the judge of that, or your baby will.’

  He holds out his hand. ‘Shake on it?’

  There’s a rush of exhilaration as we shake. I’m embarking on a new career. I stumbled into my search for Zara, but this one will be different and it’s not just because I’m being paid.

  Chapter 6

  As Bean grows, my regular visits to the ante-natal clinic provide me with reassurance that all is well. Several of the mums who go along to Briarsbank Maternity Home are now familiar faces, but only for the odd hello and a few words. But my friendship with Nikki Bright is more than that. Most weeks, after the ante-natal clinic, we walk for a while and shelter in a café if the weather is bad, or sit in the park, if there’s sunshine to be had.

  Today is the kind of October day that is trying to disguise itself as summer. Leaves have turned trees into kaleidoscopes of colour that would make any artist envious.

  ‘Can you feel them both kicking?’ I ask her. ‘I mean, do they move at the same time, or is it just a jumble of arms and legs?’

  She smiles and takes my hand, placing it gently on her midriff. I’m struggling with all that one little Bean is doing to my body, I have no idea how she is managing with twins.

  ‘They’re on the go all the time, if it’s not one it’s the other. Goodness knows what it’ll be like once they’re here. I won’t have a minute to breathe. How about Bean? Is it a fidget?’

  ‘Mostly after I’ve eaten.’

  ‘And the hiccups? Are they still a problem?’

  ‘When I’m anxious, or over-excited. I should have asked the midwife about it.’

  ‘Next time, maybe? Anyway, I wanted to run something past you,’ she says, pushing her empty cup away and relaxing back in the chair. ‘I’m thinking of having a dinner party. It’s a chance to meet a few new people. I haven’t made many friends since we arrived. Well, just you, really. Frank’s got all his work colleagues, of course, but there’s only so much police talk I can handle.’

  When Frank Bright got the job as Detective Sergeant at Tidehaven Police Station it meant uprooting and moving house, leaving Nikki’s parents and in-laws back up north, and her in need of a new support network.

  ‘I know what you mean about shop talk, I’m having to hear about the intricacies of building projects now and it’s starting to get on my nerves.’ We arrive at an empty bench covered with fallen oak leaves. I sweep them away before we both sit. ‘Nikki, can I just say, I’m pleased we have stayed friends after all that business with Zara. I realise it must have been difficult for you being caught in the middle.’

  ‘I’ll admit I struggled for a while. Frank will always be my first priority, but friends are important too. So, what do you think about the dinner party idea? I’d like you and Greg to come too.’

  ‘Sounds like fun, but it’ll be a lot of work for you, won’t it? Are you sure it won’t be too much?’

  Greg is none too keen. I remind him of the occasions when I’ve sat on the sidelines while he’s been planning strategy with the darts team, or describing the latest Brighton football match to dad, kick by kick.

  ‘Won’t the detective think it’s strange, you turning up at his house?’

  ‘He knows Nikki and I are friends. At least I’m pretty sure he does. If not, he’ll have a pleasant surprise. They live on the Goldhill Estate, in one of the new houses. You can consider it research, for when you build ours.’

  Since Greg took on the building apprenticeship at Mowbray and Son, I’ve been teasing him that one day he can build us our own home. It may be a while off, but I’m prepared to wait.

  When the evening of the dinner party arrives, I take extra care with my make-up and wear my favourite purple smock dress. The long, lean line of current fashion is clearly not for me at present and will have to wait until after Bean’s arrival. But I can still have fun with my hair. I take three scarves from my wardrobe, one purple, one white and the third one a mix of the two. I weave them into a tight plait and wind the result around my head, tucking my unruly waves behind my ears, leaving my fringe loose.

  ‘You’re a bit of a dish,’ I tell Greg, as he checks his hair in the hall mirror. ‘Good job I married you.’

  ‘Ditto,’ he says.

  ‘The dish, or the marriage?’

  ‘Both. And stylish headband, by the way. Do we need to take anything?’

  ‘I bought a box of Milk Tray. Everyone loves chocolate.’

  ‘Didn’t yo
u say the only thing Nikki can stomach is chips with loads of salt and vinegar?’

  ‘Well, you’ll be happy then, won’t you?’ I say, poking him in the ribs.

  ‘Watch it, or I’ll tickle you and Bean will be performing somersaults. Kiss for your husband before we go?’

  ‘Of course.’ I lean into him and press my cheek against his.

  ‘Let’s get a dog,’ he says. My hair has fallen down in front of his face, making his voice muffled.

  ‘Did you just say what I think you said? A dog? Where did that idea come from?’

  ‘I’m serious. I can take him to work with me on the days you’re in the library. A couple of the lads have dogs, he’d have company. You could take him to your dad’s on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Charlie could teach him manners. It’ll be brilliant.’

  He has it all worked out.

  ‘Don’t you think we should wait until Bean arrives? So we get used to being a threesome before we add a puppy into the mix?’

  ‘We don’t need to get a puppy, we could get an older dog, rehome one. Think about it at least.’

  Frank and Nikki’s semi-detached house is modern and stylish, with matching furnishings. The curtains match the wallpaper and the cushions match the sofa. Perfect for a magazine photo, but soulless. Give me my quirky little terraced house any day.

  They both meet us at the door and we follow them through the entrance hall, which leads into a long, narrow living room, set out with a lounge at one end and a dining room at the other. Nikki must have spent hours preparing the table, which is set for eight people. Cutlery shines and starched napkins are folded into a fan shape and tucked into gleaming crystal glasses.

  Frank takes our coats and organises drinks. It is strange to see him in his off-duty setting. I half expect him to take me to one side and quiz me about Zara. The case has yet to reach the courts and I am uncomfortably aware that at some point I will be seeing him in very different circumstances - the inside of a court room, to be precise.