‘Fine with me.’
‘You’re not going to the pub, are you?’
‘I hadn’t planned to, no. Why? Do you want me out of the way, so you girls can natter?’
‘No, quite the reverse. She’s coming to do my nails. She reckons she can cure me of nailbiting by painting them for me. I’m not convinced, but it’s worth a go.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. I watch you sometimes and I’m sure you don’t even realise you’re doing it. When we’re relaxing in the evening, or at least when I’m relaxing, there you are chewing away. Is everything okay?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘With Bean, with your dad?’
‘Yes.’ I feel a flutter inside me that has nothing to do with Bean. ‘There is something though.’ I pause, acutely aware he is gazing at my face, trying to read my expression. ‘I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to be angry.’
He moves towards me and takes my hand.
‘Come on, let’s sit down. I’m guessing this has something to do with you being late home most days? Has Libby roped you into some hare-brained scheme?’
‘Libby is involved, yes,’ I hesitate, struggling to find the best way to explain. ‘The thing is, well, I’ve taken on a case.’
‘God, Janie, please don’t tell me you’re off on another one-woman mission to save some unfortunate stranger.’
‘No, it’s not one woman this time. I’ve enlisted help. Libby and Phyllis are helping me, well, Libby mostly,’ I pause, realising how pathetic my excuses sound. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t told you before. I know you worry, but you must realise I would never put Bean at risk. It’s just that…’
‘It’s just what?’ he interrupts. ‘I’m your husband, Janie. Have you forgotten that? I thought we were partners.’
‘We are partners, of course we are. I’ll try to explain, but to be honest I’m not even sure I understand it myself.’
‘Not a great start, then,’ he says, his voice heavy with despair.
‘I love being married to you and I’m incredibly excited about being a mum. My job at the library gives me a chance to chat to people and surround myself with books and, of course, I treasure my days with dad. But it’s not enough for me.’
‘You should be grateful for what you’ve got.’
‘I am. But you know how much I love the idea of investigating crime. Agatha Christie and Poirot have been in my blood since forever. It’s like trying to solve the best possible puzzle, one where you get to add pieces, move them around and then, if you’re lucky, eventually they all fit together and you have a solution.’
‘Buy a jigsaw then,’ he says.
‘It’s not only that I love doing it,’ I continue, ignoring his sarcasm, ‘it’s that I’m good at it. So good, in fact, that someone is prepared to pay me.’
I study his expression, which is a mixture of shock and admiration.
‘Is that legal? You taking money for services rendered? Is there some kind of written agreement?’
‘I don’t know if it’s legal,’ I say, waiting for him to assimilate the information.
‘I understand you’re ambitious and that’s great,’ he says. ‘I am too, in case you hadn’t noticed. But I choose to stay within the law.’
‘That’s why we make a good pair.’
‘Why? Because I’m law-abiding and you’re not?’
‘No, silly, because we’re both ambitious. I’m wrong not to have told you about this case, I know that now. I was scared you would try to stop me.’
‘I would have,’ he says, a softness returning to his voice.
‘Okay, so how about I bring you up to date. I’ll tell you about the case so far and then we should make a pact.’
‘What kind of pact?’
‘I promise to share everything with you from now on.’
‘And what do I have to do in return?’ he says, a smile starting to creep across his face.
‘Ironing or hoovering, take your pick,’ I say, standing and holding my arms out to him. ‘How about a hug to start though?’
He gets up, wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.
‘My wife, a private investigator. Blimey, not sure what the lads at work will make of that.’
‘Best not to tell anyone,’ I say a little too sharply, before realising he’s teasing me.
‘Mum’s the word,’ he says, planting a kiss firmly on my lips. ‘Have you thought any more about my dog idea?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Well I have. I reckon we should wait until Bean is here and all settled in and then decide how we feel about it. How does that sound?’
‘Perfect.’
By the time Libby arrives in the evening I have brought Greg up to date with my search for Dorothy.
‘Any thoughts gratefully received,’ I say, just before the doorbell rings announcing Libby’s arrival.
‘Your manicurist, at your disposal, madam,’ she says, handing me a cosmetic bag. ‘Five colours to choose from, from the most delicate pink, through to the most vampish red. Take your pick.’
‘Maybe I’ll try the lot,’ I say, grinning, ‘one on each finger, what do you think?’
‘Could be overkill, but you’re the boss.’
‘In more ways than one, I hear,’ Greg says, coming into the hallway.
Libby gives me a quizzical glance, before turning to greet Greg.
‘It’s okay, I’ve told him everything. In fact, I was about to ask him to join our investigating team, if that’s alright with you? In an advisory capacity only, of course.’
‘Er, no, you’re okay,’ Greg says. ‘I don’t mind being your sounding board, but I’m not really into racing around chasing people.’
‘Don’t tell me, you’d rather be in the pub,’ Libby says, winking at him.
On the first of December each year I go up into the loft at dad’s house and bring down three boxes of Christmas decorations. Each bauble and piece of tinsel is carefully unwrapped and laid out on the dining room table. I select each piece and work my way around the house, bringing festive cheer to every room, even the bathroom. The first year after dad lost his sight, I waited to see what might change. I was coming up for six years old and Christmas was my favourite time of the year. But even then, I realised how inappropriate it was to have a celebration when something so traumatic had happened to the person who was at the centre of my universe.
Mum had already left and Jessica had moved in. I never found out whose idea it was, but I recall being asked to hold the ladder while Jessica went up into the loft to bring down the decorations. It was a Sunday and the three of us had enjoyed a cooked breakfast. As soon as the table was cleared and the washing up was done, dad sat in the only armchair we had in the dining room and Jessica and I emptied the boxes of decorations onto the table. We took it in turns to describe each item in great detail and then it was up to dad to suggest where it would look best. It was as though we were the pupils and dad was our teacher, guiding us to create the most perfect Christmas wonderland, when all he could see was in his mind’s eye.
Every year since then I have followed the same routine. Most of the decorations are the same ones I’ve handled for nearly twenty years, but I still describe them to dad and he still listens attentively. From time to time I have added to our Christmas collection, replacing a broken bauble, or a tattered piece of tinsel. But the fairy that sits on top of the tree has worn well, her dress a little yellowed with age, but her wings still strong and resilient.
With the house looking its Christmas best, dad and I chat for a while about Jessica’s forthcoming arrival. There are so many preparations to make I write out three separate lists: Menus; Food shopping; Presents. Dad makes suggestions, interspersed with the occasional reminder, such as ‘don’t forget Charlie,’ or ‘we’ll need to air the bedding’. The time flies by and suddenly it’s time for me to leave.
‘If you think of anything else, tell me next time,’ I say, grabbing my j
acket and donning my woolly hat. Among the Christmas goodies retrieved from the loft, I came across a red woollen hat, with a huge pom-pom sewn into its crown. I must have dropped it into one of the boxes when I put the decorations away last January, but I have no memory of it. It’s like finding a forgotten friend.
Before I am able to see Phyllis again, Rosetta Summer calls into the library with a note from Hugh.
‘Don’t forget I will cook, for you and your husband,’ she says, handing me an envelope.
‘Thank you, yes, that would be something special to look forward to. I’ll chat to Greg and we’ll come up with some dates.’
‘Mr Furness, he gives me this to give to you. He writes, all day he writes. I give him the notepaper my husband left in his desk. My husband too, he loves to write.’
Loved, I think to myself, looking at her forlorn face.
‘Does it need a reply? Should I read it straightaway?’ I ask her.
‘No, it is long, I think. Many pages.’ She shakes my hand and goes to embrace me. ‘Your baby, when will it arrive?’
‘Oh, not for a few months yet. You wouldn’t think so to see the size of me, though,’ I say, rubbing my hand over my midriff and chuckling.
‘A boy, perhaps?’
‘Well, it will be one or the other,’ I say, realising immediately that Rosetta is unlikely to understand my sense of humour.
‘I go now. Shopping to do, for Mr Furness,’ she says, looking pleased at the thought of having someone to look after.
‘Thank you, it’s kind of you to come all this way. Tell Hugh I’ll read his letter and I’ll be in touch again soon.’
I have the van to myself, so I settle down with a glass of hot water to sip and open the envelope. Rosetta is right, there are several sheets of paper with Hugh’s neat writing filling both sides of each sheet. I turn to the first sheet and read…
Dear Janie,
Your intuition is sharp. You have sensed all along that I have not been completely honest with you. It is time now for me to tell you the truth.
At last, I think to myself, before continuing.
I let you believe that Dorothy and I were good friends and I suppose we were at first. I was a skilful pilot, prepared to risk my life for my country, but in many ways I was naive. I had grown up surrounded by family who encouraged me to trust. What I hadn’t realised is that people have to earn that trust. You are young and yet I have the sense you have already learned that people are not always what they appear to be. You question everything; I can see it on your face, even when you are silent. It is one of the qualities that convinced me to ask for your help.
I will share my story with you now and leave it to you to make of it what you will. I hope that you will still want to pursue this case for me, despite the clandestine way I have approached our dealings until now. My experience working with the SOE has made me cautious. It’s not something you can shake off, that thought that careless words can cost lives.
I know you will have more questions for me once you have read through the rest of this letter and I assure you that this time I will be happy to answer them.
I turn to the next page and let Hugh’s words take me back to 1944…
Chapter 20
1944
The sirens seem louder this time. The noise pierces the air, blocking out all the incidental sounds of life. Traffic stops, conversations end. People start running, but their footsteps are silent. All that fills the ears is the sirens.
It had been a week of bombing. The targets appeared random, the casualties too many. The word was that the bombs were being dropped merely to save the pilots having to carry them back across the Channel. It was as though the Germans had over-shopped and now it was time to discard the surplus.
They haven’t had a chance to meet at all this week. He had several sorties and when he wasn’t flying, he was on call on the base. Dancing had to be forgotten for now. But he missed seeing her and she’d written a note.
Can you get away, for an hour? If you can, then meet me at the junction of Watermill Lane and Cross Street at 3pm. I’ll wait for you.
Nothing much had happened all morning. He’d walked Scottie around the airfield so many times. Now, if he jangled the lead he was certain the terrier wouldn’t even lift his head. He played cards for a while, just for matchsticks. He lost badly, luck wasn’t on his side today. He read the note again. Just an hour, it should be possible. He’d tell Christopher of his plan, he could be trusted to keep a secret and at least someone would know where he was, just in case.
By the time he reached Watermill Lane it was a little after 3.15. She’d waited, as she said she would. They embraced, he complimented her on her dress. The bright red, polka dot material matched her rosy complexion. On their walks, even their time together in the little fishing boat, she wore trousers. He was proud of her, a woman doing a man’s work. But now she looked so feminine, the dress hugging her figure, nipped in tightly around her waist. She clutched a white cardigan around her shoulders. She was in a gay mood, laughing and teasing him.
‘You’ve come without Scottie. It was him I really wanted to see, not you.’ Then she kissed him. They walked for a while along Cross Street. She told him how busy she had been with the planting. Some of the early crops were ready to pick, everything was vibrant, it was her favourite time of the year. Neither of them mentioned the week of bombing. That was the darkness and, for now at least, they wanted to stay in the light.
As they turned the corner into East Street the sirens sounded.
‘No, not again,’ he said, grabbing her arm. People were running in all directions; the air raid warden was ushering them into the shelter. They followed a group, grateful that soon they would be somewhere quieter, safer.
The shelter was in the basement of one of the village school buildings, and once inside, people relaxed a little. They would have to deal with devastation soon enough, but for now they could chat, make a joke. Around the walls were several wooden benches, all taken up by the first arrivals in the shelter. Several of the men had taken their coats off and laid them on the dusty ground so that the women could sit. He didn’t have a coat, just his uniform. He worried that her pretty polka-dot dress would be spoilt.
Another woman beckoned to her and edged over, leaving space on her coat so that there was room for two to sit. She nodded in gratitude. Her hand touched the lining of the coat, it felt elegant, expensive. She could only dream of such a coat. She wondered who it belonged to. The woman sitting next to her didn’t look wealthy, but then you could never be sure. These were strange times.
The ground shook a little. The bomb had been dropped. The chatter ceased. Some people bent their heads as though in silent prayer. Others looked startled, wide-eyed, fearful. He reached his hand out to hold hers, squeezing her delicate fingers, trying to transmit confidence. They were alive, all would be well.
After a while the air raid warden indicated it was safe for them to leave the shelter. He helped her up, she picked up the coat and wrapped it around her. Although the shelter was dimly lit, he could tell that the coat was a shade of rose. The fabric was soft, maybe even cashmere.
‘What are you doing?’ he said to her. ‘The coat’s not yours.’
‘I wanted to know the feel of it around me. What do you think?’ she did a twirl around. He blushed, he was embarrassed by her behaviour. She was modelling a coat when outside people may have lost everything, their homes, even their lives.
‘Don’t look so glum,’ she said. ‘Here, take it.’ She removed the coat and thrust it at him. At that moment another woman approached him.
‘I think that’s mine,’ she said, looking expectantly at him.
‘Sorry, yes, of course,’ he said, brushing the dust from the coat before handing it to her. She smiled in gratitude and nodded.
‘Alright for some,’ Dorothy said, while the other woman was still in earshot.
Once again, he was embarrassed.
‘I need to get back to the
base,’ he said, a brusqueness had entered his voice.
‘What’s the rush?’ Dorothy said, linking her arm in his. ‘At least you could buy me a drink. A little nip of something, after the scare we’ve had?’
As they filed out of the shelter he saw the woman with the rose-coloured coat ahead of them. She walked slowly, checking from side to side at the buildings that were now nothing but rubble and debris.
‘I need to get back to the base,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll see you back to the farm first though, to make sure you’re safe?’
‘Don’t bother,’ Dorothy said, an edge to her voice. ‘I intend to have some fun first. I’m sure I can find someone to buy me a drink once the pubs open, if you’re too miserly.’ She let go of his arm and turned to face him. ‘Be seeing you,’ she said, and winked.
Back at the base he hadn’t been missed. He picked Scottie up out of his basket and held him. The terrier wriggled, wanting to be free of his doting master. But Hugh needed to hold on to something to ground his emotions. He was angry with Dorothy, angry with himself. He’d been duped. She wasn’t who he thought, perhaps he had imposed an ideal on her that was all in his imagination. Then there was the woman in the rose-coloured coat. Their eyes had met for a moment and yet he felt a connection.
Chapter 21
I drop the van off and head straight round to Hugh’s lodgings. Rosetta shows me through to the sitting room, where Hugh is dozing in the fireside armchair. She moves quietly, putting her finger to her lips and then, with hand actions, enquires whether I want a drink. I shake my head and she leaves the room. I sit on the sofa, as noiselessly as possible, remove Hugh’s letter from my bag and read through it once more. As I reach the last page, I sense a movement beside me and glance up to see that Hugh has woken. He gazes across at me and smiles.
‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ I say.
‘I’m sleeping too much nowadays.’
‘Can I get you anything? A drink maybe?’
‘No, nothing, thank you. You’ve read it?’ he nods at the letter.
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