Lost Property

by Isabella Muir

  The smile has fallen from her face, leaving a forlorn expression, her mouth turned down at the edges, accentuating her sallow complexion.

  ‘That’s quite a coincidence,’ I say. ‘Tell you what, I have an idea that might cheer Freda up. I mean, if you agree, if you think she’d be up to it?’

  Mrs Latimer appears to be lost in her thoughts for a while and doesn’t respond. Then, she shakes herself a little and turns to me. ‘What’s your idea?’

  ‘Well, it looks as though this was a photo of a happy time for Freda. I could call in, show her the article and chat to her about those days. Maybe bring back happy memories? Of course, she may not like a visit from a stranger, especially if she’s not feeling her best,’ I say, ‘but I’d love to meet her, she sounds like a lovely lady.’

  ‘That’s a kind thought. She doesn’t get to see many people now, just me and Edgar and Bobby. A couple of neighbours pop in to keep an eye on her, and she has the odd friend still alive, but it’s not the same as when she was young. She was involved in everything, helping out at the school, running WI meetings, there wasn’t a day went by when she wasn’t busy. Edgar often had to make his own tea after school. Mind you, I’m not complaining, at least it means he knows how to cook. Not like some men.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ I say, recalling the day, not so long ago, when I arrived home to find Greg toasting a frozen fish finger under the grill. ‘How about you chat to your husband and let me know? Any evening is fine with me, or a weekend, if that’s better. Maybe she’ll be less tired if I call in the daytime?’

  Two days later I am walking up the front path of 22 Wilmington Avenue, with the chess article tucked safely into my notebook. There’s not much I could prepare by way of questions, as I have no idea what Freda will remember about that day, if indeed she’ll remember anything. It’s a bitterly cold day and yet I have sweaty palms. Just as well I didn’t bother wearing gloves.

  Mrs Latimer answers the door and beckons me in. We walk down the hall into the kitchen. There is an air of quiet about the house and I am loath to disturb it. Once we’re in the kitchen I notice Bobby sitting at the kitchen table, with his head bent over a book.

  ‘Hello there, Bobby, how are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Juke,’ he says, immediately returning his gaze to his book.

  ‘His dad needs some time to himself. Bobby understands, he’s a good boy,’ his mum says, ruffling her son’s hair. ‘There’s a football match up at the Pilot Field today, so Edgar will wander up there. I’ve never understood it myself, standing around in the freezing cold, or the pouring rain, watching men kick a ball around.’

  ‘I’m with you, it’s nonsensical. But I guess we’re all different,’ I say and smile.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ She fills the kettle and puts it on the gas.

  ‘I’m fine, really, just a glass of water, if that’s okay? How is Freda today?’

  ‘She’s dozing at the moment, but she enjoys a hot drink around now, so when we take it through I’ll wake her and then you can have a chat.’

  ‘It’s a shame to wake her, if she’s resting?’

  ‘No, it’s best she doesn’t sleep too long in the day, otherwise she has bad nights. You sure you won’t have a cuppa? I don’t know where I’d be without tea, it’s my salvation. Everything looks better after a cup of tea, that’s what my mum used to say to us when we were growing up.’

  I smile and imagine a conversation I may have with Bean one day on the benefits of tea.

  Once the kettle boils she fills the teapot, takes two of the delicate china cups and saucers from the kitchen dresser, together with matching milk jug and sugar bowl and lays it all out on a tray.

  ‘This tea set has been in the Latimer family for generations, so Edgar told me. I’m terrified in case I drop a saucer or chip a cup when I do the washing up. But Freda loves to see it being used, it gives her pleasure. Happy memories, I suppose.’

  I follow Mrs Latimer out of the kitchen. She explains that since Freda’s health has declined Edgar decided to convert the sitting room into a bedroom for her. The door is pushed open and we walk into a room that is in darkness, with the curtains drawn. Setting the tea tray down on the sideboard, which is now doubling up as a dressing table, she moves over to the window and pulls back the heavy, damask curtains. Milky autumn sunlight floods the room.

  Freda looks so peaceful. She is completely still, turned to one side, with the blankets and bedspread tucked right up to her chin. Wisps of silver grey hair are stuck to the side of her face. A heavy scent of violets fills the air.

  Mrs Latimer moves over to the bed and lays a hand gently on Freda’s shoulder. ‘Wake up now, Freda, there’s a visitor to see you.’

  For a few moments there is no response or movement, then I notice the bedcovers move, as she stretches her legs out and wriggles a little.

  ‘I’m going to pour you a nice cup of tea, then we’ll get you sat up,’ Mrs Latimer says.

  ‘I can sit myself up, you know, Ethel. I’m not a complete invalid,’ Freda says, her voice still heavy with sleep.

  After a bit more wriggling and repositioning of pillows she is sitting upright, sipping her tea. Mrs Latimer pulls a chair over to the bedside and gestures for me to sit down.

  ‘Mum, this is Janie. Do you remember, we told you she’d be visiting? Janie runs the mobile library here in Tamarisk Bay.’

  Freda looks at me. ‘So sad about your father,’ she says.

  ‘Do you know my dad?’ I’m annoyed with myself for not realising. This is Tamarisk Bay, of course, she would know him. He’s lived in the town all his life, as has Freda, I’m guessing.

  ‘He’s doing incredibly well,’ I say. ‘He’s a brilliant physiotherapist, a real natural.’

  She smiles and nods her head. ‘He was a bright lad, could have done anything he put his mind to. If the blessed war hadn’t come along…’ She pauses and closes her eyes for a moment, as if lost in a private reverie.

  Freda’s daughter-in-law glances across at me, then points to my duffel bag.

  ‘Mum,’ she says, ‘Janie has something to show you. I bet you’ll be surprised when you see it.’

  Freda opens her eyes and watches me as I retrieve my notebook and remove the press article. Taking one of the books from the bedside table I lay the article on top, flatten it out and hand it to Freda.

  ‘What’s this?’ she says. ‘Ethel, get my spectacles, will you?’

  Putting the spectacles on, she peers at the sheet of paper. ‘We need more light. Why is it always so dull in here?’ she says, a touch of irritation in her voice.

  Ethel turns the bedside lamp on and angles it towards the bed. It casts a yellow light over the paper, making the photo appear more faded than ever.

  ‘Your daughter-in-law thought she recognised you in the photo,’ I say. ‘It was twenty-five years ago, so you might not remember it after all this time.’

  Freda looks up at me and then back down at the article. She shifts herself slightly so that she is sitting more upright. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘The photo. I’d forgotten the chess match.’

  ‘It must have been a big occasion.’

  ‘You were involved in all sorts of groups and committees back then, weren’t you mum?’ Ethel says. ‘I remember you telling me about a group who organised the twinning of Tidehaven with Dordrecht back in the fifties.’

  Ethel turns to me to explain, ‘Twinning of towns was a big thing, people saw it as a way to bring countries together after the war had divided so much of Europe.’

  Freda nods her head slowly, her eyes now much brighter, a pink glow coming into her cheeks to lighten the pallor of her skin.

  ‘You must have had the chance to meet some interesting people,’ I say, ‘I’m guessing there were foreign visitors, dignitaries? Everyone is dressed so smartly. You look so glamorous, I love that hat of yours.’

  Then she smiles. ‘Yes, my dear. Everyone was dressed smartly, but here’s a less
on for you, don’t always believe what you see.’

  She lays her head back against the pillow and closes her eyes. Ethel looks at me and I am wondering if that is all Freda plans to share with us. I throw a questioning glance at Ethel and turn towards the door, wondering if this is when I should leave, but then I hear Freda’s voice.

  ‘The chess match was overshadowed by the other event that took place that day,’ she says.

  ‘Another event?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ she says. ‘I remember it well. It was the one and only time I’ve ever been slapped.’

  Ethel and I glance at each other and then at Freda, who now has her eyes open and a mischievous smile on her face.

  ‘What do you mean, mum? Are you getting your words mixed up?’

  ‘I’m not getting anything mixed up,’ her voice is strong now, almost indignant. ‘I might have forgotten the chess match, but my memory of everything that happened afterwards is as sharp as though it was yesterday. Not surprising, is it?’

  ‘But you’ve never mentioned it before, mum. Edgar’s never said.’

  ‘That’s because he doesn’t know. No-one knew, except my Arthur. I told him as soon as I got home that day and he went straight round to the house. There was a terrible row, by all accounts. The neighbours came out onto the street to see what was going on.’

  ‘Was there a fight? Did Arthur end up getting hurt?’ Ethel asks.

  ‘No, not a bit of it. All Arthur could do was shout. After all, he would never have lifted his hand to a woman.’

  ‘A woman?’ Ethel’s voice is raised in disbelief.

  ‘That’s right. The woman who hit me, she’s standing there right next to me in the photo. Her name is Dorothy. Dorothy Elm.’

  Chapter 17

  At last I have positive news of sorts to report to Libby when we meet at Jefferson’s, as arranged. With coffees ordered we sit at our favourite table, away from the juke box. Before I can open my mouth, she waves her hand at me.

  ‘No, me first,’ she says. ‘I’ve been busy. I’ve interviewed five people and not a single one of them remembers the chess event. So, that’s all quite hopeless. But…’ she pauses for effect.

  ‘But what?’ I say, impatiently.

  ‘One of the chaps I interviewed knows Kenneth Elm. Went to school with him, in fact.’

  ‘Oh right. So how did that crop up? The Kenneth Elm connection?’

  She wriggles in her seat. ‘Well,’ she says, biting her bottom lip, ‘I happened to mention that we were trying to pin down the names of the people in the photo and we thought one of them might have been called Dorothy Elm. And that’s when he told me about Kenneth.’

  ‘I think that’s what they call ‘leading the witness’.

  She smiles and continues. ‘It’s fascinating because this chap said that when they were at school together Kenneth regularly came to school with holes in his shoes, or worse. He wore wellingtons in summer. Basically, the family were really poor.’

  ‘Well, we know that from what Phyllis told us. The father lost his job and the mother was cleaning and taking in laundry. It must have been so hard for them all. But how is that relevant?’

  ‘It’s what happened after that is relevant, or could be. The chap told me that Dorothy left Tamarisk Bay during the war and Kenneth stayed behind.

  ‘Yes, we know that too. Kenneth would have been too young to fight and Dorothy became a land girl. That’s when she met Hugh.’

  ‘Yes, but when she came back, everything changed.’

  ‘Changed? In what way? Did he say?’

  ‘He just said there were rumours. I pushed him as hard as I could, but he wouldn’t say another word. He completely clammed up on me.’

  ‘So, not exactly a help,’ I say, failing to disguise my irritability.

  ‘Don’t get mad at me. I’ve done you a favour. At least I’ve found out something.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not mad at you. It’s great, really it is. It’s just that we get close to a useful clue and then come up against a blank wall again.’

  ‘What about you?’ she says. ‘Did you find out anything from your customers?’

  ‘Let’s have another coffee and I’ll tell you.’

  By the time we have finished our drinks I have told her about Freda and her memorable encounter with Dorothy Elm.

  ‘Did she explain why Dorothy slapped her?’

  ‘It was difficult. She’s such a sweet lady, I felt bad asking her about it. She started to get quite distressed.’

  ‘I bet she did. Being reminded that someone hit you would be incredibly upsetting.’

  ‘She wasn’t teary or anything like that, just the opposite. She was indignant, saying the thought of “that woman” made her want to jump out of bed and track her down. In fact, it was inspiring to see her so full of attitude. That’s how I want to be when I’m old.’

  ‘Poor Greg if he’s got that to look forward to,’ Libby says, grinning.

  ‘Ah, yes, well maybe we’ll have attitude together.’

  ‘Then poor Bean. Maybe he or she will take a ten-pound passage to Australia to get away from you both. But let’s not drift off the subject, what else did Freda say?’

  ‘Not a lot more. Her daughter-in-law, Ethel, was concerned we’d disturbed her. It’s not good for her to get upset. Ever since Freda had a stroke, well, you can imagine.’

  ‘Ah, so not a good plan then.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Did you find out anything else?’

  ‘I asked her if Dorothy still lived in Tidehaven, which is where she was when Freda had her run in with her.’

  ‘Tidehaven is a big place and 1946 was a long time ago.’

  ‘It’s all we have to go on right now. We know Kenneth is still in touch with Dorothy and he is our only lead. He’s bound to visit her at some point. How about we follow him?’

  ‘You make it sound so simple. You’ve forgotten two small things. First up we both have jobs, which means we can’t go off at a moment’s notice. Secondly, you have been warned to stay away from Kenneth by the police.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I say, nodding.

  ‘That’s quite serious, Janie. You don’t want to have your baby in prison.’

  I smile as I think back to a similar conversation I had with Greg during my search for Zara. ‘We will be really careful. We don’t need to get too close. We only need to see the house he goes into from a distance. I might finally get to use my camera.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then we wait until he leaves and knock on the door.’

  ‘So, you plan to sit outside the vets every evening, in the hope he decides to visit his sister? I’m sure Greg would love that. I have a feeling you would run out of excuses pretty soon.’

  I take my notebook out of my duffel bag, for the want of something to do, while I mull over the problem.

  ‘Here’s a thing,’ I say, as I flick through my most recent pages of notes. ‘Let’s consider Hugh and Dorothy. Hugh was a war hero of sorts, a pilot, prepared to undertake dangerous missions. But Kenneth says he’s a liar. Dorothy must have been courageous too, taking on tough farm work and then risking her life trying to help the French resistance. And yet, from what Freda says, Dorothy is not a` very nice person. You don’t go around hitting people if you’re a nice person, do you?’

  The images that poor Freda has conjured up in my mind remind me of Owen’s revelations during my search for Zara. The more I learn about people, the more complex they appear. I guess some people manage to keep their anger in check and others have no compunction about letting loose. Then there are others who appear not to have an angry bone in their body, like my dad, for example. But who knows what deep thoughts may lie festering, until one day the cap of the volcano bursts open and they all come tumbling out.

  ‘We also have the chap I spoke to,’ Libby says, bringing me back to the present. ‘Mr Task his name is. He suggested there were rumours about the Elm family.’

  ‘T
he crux of the problem is that both the people we are dealing with - Hugh and Dorothy - have things to hide. Plus, if they both worked with the SOE they will be experts at keeping secrets.’

  Libby fidgets on her seat, taking the sugar bowl from the centre of the table and moving it from side to side.

  ‘Playing chess?’ I say.

  ‘It is a bit like chess, isn’t it? Trying to second guess the other person’s next move. Freda says Dorothy was there in Tidehaven for the chess match, but we still don’t know if Dorothy stayed in Tidehaven. She could have moved away by now. I hate to say this, Janie, but I think we’re wasting our time. I suggest you tell Hugh what you’ve found out so far and let him do what he will with it.’

  ‘You keep telling me to drop it, but like I said before, Hugh is too ill to do anything.’

  ‘Well, that’s not really your problem, is it?’

  Libby is right, there are too many questions left unanswered in my notebook. Hugh hasn’t told me the whole truth about Dorothy, I’m sure of it.

  On my next day with dad I talk it through with him.

  ‘You like to make life difficult for yourself, don’t you?’ he says.

  ‘Any ideas about what I could do next? Other than abandoning the whole thing?’

  We are in the kitchen, Charlie is sitting beside dad, with his head on dad’s knee.

  ‘It’s a shame you’re not a sniffer dog, Charlie,’ I say, rubbing his head.

  ‘What would you want him to sniff?’

  ‘The truth of the situation. Right now, it feels as though I’m trying to knit a complicated Arran sweater without a pattern, using the wrong sized needles.’

  ‘You’ve never knitted in your life,’ dad says and smiles. ‘Do what you did with Zara, go back to basics.’