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 jacket 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 coa
t'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.
'Yes, several times. What happened to Dorothy?'
'I never saw her again, after that afternoon in the air raid shelter.' He pauses.
'But the SOE flight into France? The Joe who turned up. You saw her then?'
'That Joe wasn't Dorothy. Much of what I told you about that time was true. I met Dorothy. I think I was in love with her for a short while. She was vivacious, impetuous, fun to be with; a spark of light in a time of darkness. She was a land girl, that part is true, but she never worked for the SOE, at least not that I know of.'
'You did though, didn't you?'
'Yes, I flew some of the operatives into France, like I told you. The bombing raid happened, just like I said. But then, I didn't hear from her. I was worried about her, so I visited the farm where she worked. They said she'd up and left. Hadn't told anyone where she was going. I waited for a letter. I was sure she'd get in touch, but when she didn't write, well, life is too short. I got chatting to Winifred at one of the village dances, I recognised her from that night of the bombing raid. We started seeing each other and I fell for her. I realised then that what I'd felt for Dorothy wasn't true love.'
'Winifred? She was the owner of the rose-coloured coat?'
He is gazing across the room now, unaware of his surroundings, as though he is reliving each precious moment of that early passion.
'A few months after Winifred and I met I had to prepare to fly a Joe over to France.'
'Yes, you told me about that.'
'Well, it was Winifred who turned up that night.'
'You let me believe it was Dorothy.'
'I think you chose to believe that. I never said as much. It was a dark day for me. I had to leave the woman I loved in enemy territory and fly back to base, not knowing her fate. It nearly killed me, if I'm honest. It made me realise the strength of my feelings for Winnie and I promised myself there and then that if I ever saw her again I'd ask her to marry me.'
'She returned safely from her mission?'
'I didn't hear from her for several months, I'd given her up for dead, but I thought about her every day. Then one day, there she was. Once she was back from France she came to the base to see me, to let me know she was safe. I knew enough about the importance of secrecy not to ask her where she'd been, or if her mission was successful.'
'Did you ever speak about that time, later, once the war was over?'
'In all our years of marriage we never once spoke about it.'
'When did you marry?'
'Straight after the war ended.'
'Did you have any children?'
'No, it was a dreadful sadness for Winnie, but it wasn't to be.'
'So now, after all these years, did you decide that you cared for Dorothy after all? Is that the real reason you're here in Tamarisk Bay? To rekindle a lost love?'
'Far from it. Dorothy took something that wasn't hers.' His face darkens and his fists clench.
'Don't upset yourself, Hugh, remember you need to stay calm. Rosetta will never forgive me if her favourite lodger has to return to hospital.'
'That afternoon, in the air raid shelter. Dorothy stole something precious.'
'Not the coat? You said she handed the coat back.'
'Not the coat, no. But when she tried the coat on and twirled around in it, she must have put her hand in one of the pockets.'
'What did she find? A purse? A wallet?'
'A brooch.'
'She stole a brooch? What makes you so sure?'
'When I got to know Winifred she told me about a brooch she had been given by her grandmother. It was a family heirloom. She said how sad she was that she'd lost it. She felt she'd let her grandmother down. But I didn't know then how or when she had lost it.'
'And now you think Dorothy took it, that day of the air raid? But it could have been anyone in the air raid shelter. You said people put coats on the floor. It could have fallen out, or someone else could have taken it.'
'Do you have the press cutting?'
'Pardon?'
'The press cutting from the left luggage depot?'
I take my notebook from my duffel bag and remove the photocopy of the article. 'I've copied it, I thought it best to keep the original safe in my bedroom drawer at home.'
He smooths the sheet of paper out and points to one of the women in the crowd. 'Dorothy,' he says.
'Yes, Freda Latimer pointed her out. That's Freda there, right next to Dorothy.'
'Do you see what she is wearing?'
'Dorothy?'
'Yes.' Her coat looks shabby, although she is partly hidden by the rest of the group standing in front of her.
'Look closely. What is on the collar?'
'A brooch. Yes, I can see it quite plainly now you point it out.'
'Winifred's brooch. That's how I know that Dorothy stole it. The shape is so distinctive, it's unmistakeable. It was Victorian, very rare and very valuable.'
He is quiet, his eyes fixed on the photo.
'The day of the air raid Winifred must have put it in her coat pocket. She said she lost it when she was on the way to the bank to put it in a safety deposit box. With all the bombings we were experiencing, she was afraid to leave it in her house. Homes were being flattened every week, people's possessions destroye
d.'
'But wouldn't she have had it in her handbag, wouldn't that have been safer than putting it in a pocket?'
'A handbag could be easily stolen, during air raids there was a fair amount of pilfering. She would have believed that having it in her pocket was the safest place.'
'But this press cutting is twenty-four years old. If you have known about it all this time, why wait so long? Surely, once you realised you could have gone to the police.'
'No, that's just it. I didn't know. I didn't see this press cutting until my Winnie died. I was going through her papers. She kept diaries, one for every year we were together. I read a few, it was like listening to her voice again. Bittersweet.'
He pauses and I can see he is struggling with his memories.
'Let's take a break, Hugh, I'm worried that all this talking will start your coughing off again. Shall I ask Rosetta to make us a drink?'
'I'm alright. I need to carry on now, now that I have started.'
'Well, take it slowly. I'm not in a rush; besides, I don't do shorthand, you know,' I say and smile.
'The cutting fell out of Winnie's diary for 1946. She had known all that time and yet she never told me.'
'Do you know why she kept quiet about it?'
'Winnie was so gentle. Yes, she was courageous, prepared to risk her life for her country, but she was the kindest person I know. She knew it would hurt me to learn that Dorothy had stolen the brooch. I had trusted Dorothy, I thought we were friends.'
'So now what? Do you think Dorothy still has the brooch? Is that what you're hoping?'
'No, I'm certain she won't still have it. Once she found out what it was worth, she would have sold it. That kind of money would have changed her life.'
Some of the pieces of the jigsaw now neatly fit into place. Dorothy must have sold the brooch, transforming not just her life, but that of her brother too. No wonder Kenneth is so keen to keep Hugh and me at arm's length.
Lost Property: A shocking tale of wartime secrets and romance (A Janie Juke mystery Book 2) Page 14