Letters to the Lost

by Iona Grey

  As briefly as possible, Dan outlined the reason for his visit and opened his cheque book. The solicitor steepled his plump fingers and gave a patronizing smile.

  ‘I’m afraid, Lieutenant Rosinski, it’s not that simple. I don’t know about Chicago, but over here these things take time.’

  ‘And I’m afraid, Mr Furnivall, I don’t have time.’

  He kept his voice even, pleasant, but his patience – frayed by another impatient, sleepless night in the Greek Street hotel – was down to its last thin threads.

  Mr Furnivall sighed and began rearranging the papers on his desk. ‘As I hope my secretary made clear, I too am very busy. However, I will endeavour to get a letter sent off to Mrs Nichols by the end of the day. She’s the current owner of the house, now residing at Blackstone Hall in Dorset.’ Dan wondered if this detail was intended to intimidate him. ‘Then, when I have had her reply I will contact you and arrange—’

  ‘How about you telephone her?’ Dan interrupted. ‘Now. Save yourself the job of writing the letter.’ He managed to stop himself from prefixing the word ‘letter’ with ‘fucking’, but only just.

  ‘Telephone her?’

  ‘Sure. You said she was living in some big house – Black-something Hall – so she must be on the telephone there, right? Tell her I’m sitting right here with the money and I’d like to buy her house. I guess she wants to sell it, so it really is quite simple.’

  ‘If I may just point out that you don’t exactly have the money, Lieutenant Rosinski. You have a cheque, from the –’ he leaned forward, sliding his spectacles down his nose to peer at the cheque with elaborate disdain, ‘Illinois National Bank; a cheque which I have no proof will be worth any more than the paper on which it is written – which, although a valuable commodity in these troubled times, doesn’t quite cover the price of a house.’

  That was J. B. Furnivall’s attempt at a joke, Dan realized. He could tell from the way his lips stretched into his attempt at a smile.

  ‘Does the name JMR mean anything to you, sir?’

  ‘The motor manufacturing company?’

  ‘Got it in one – the motor manufacturing company that produced most of the tanks that ground Rommel into the dirt in Africa earlier this year. Perhaps you don’t know that those initials stand for Josef Marek Rosinski; my father, who founded the company. I have no worries that the Illinois National Bank will honour this cheque, or that my lawyers in Chicago will be able to handle the paperwork arising from the purchase of one small, vacant London property. Now please, if you would put a call through to Mrs Nichols I can buy her house before I go back to my base to get shot up over Germany again.’

  Furnivall glared at him coldly but reached for the telephone. In a tone of quivering superiority he asked the operator for Blackstone Hall, Upper Compton, switching to oily ingratiation as Mrs Nichols answered.

  For a man who claimed to be busy he sure didn’t seem to be in a hurry as he enquired after first her health, and then that of Mr Nichols. When he finally got round to raising the subject of the house, he made it sound almost like an irrelevant detail. An American gentleman, he said regretfully, looking past Dan towards the portrait of a pinched-looking man in a wig and gown above the fireplace. ‘Lieutenant Rosinski, an airman in the US Air Force. He’s keen to conclude matters as quickly as possible, though of course I have pointed out to him that that’s not necessarily in your best interests, Mrs Nichols.’

  He said this like he expected it to conclude the matter. Dan felt the last glow of hope begin to fade and clenched his fists in impotent rage. In that moment it struck him how much hope he’d invested in this plan: the only hope he had left.

  He’d asked about the house yesterday, in the pub where he’d bought cigarettes. The landlady had given him directions that led eventually to a little row of four cottages tucked away like overlooked children between the shops along the main street and the backs of tall Victorian houses. Workers’ cottages of absolute architectural simplicity; unadorned London brick, small square windows beneath a low slate roof. There was something honest about them. Something clean and straightforward that appealed to him.

  An ordinary house in an ordinary street.

  When he’d said he’d find somewhere for them to be together he’d meant a room in one of the better hotels – better than Greek Street anyway. But then he’d thought of the bruise on her cheek and he knew that he had to offer her something more solid than that. More permanent. Somewhere that would be hers, and would keep her safe and give her the chance to get out of her god-awful travesty of a marriage if he didn’t survive.

  And now some bastard of a solicitor was about to close off that escape route. Slumped in the chair he felt a blast of utter desolation. Sure, there must be other houses, but he didn’t have the time to go looking for them. He didn’t have the time to hang around waiting while Furnivall shuffled paper and sent laborious letters and took two hours for lunch. With nineteen missions behind him, the odds shortening, luck running out and the targets getting more ambitious he had a feeling he didn’t have the time for anything much any more.

  He was just about to get to his feet and stop wasting whatever time was left to him when he saw Furnivall’s expression change. The smugness was abruptly wiped away and replaced with alarm.

  ‘Now? Yes, I have him here, but—’ A pause. ‘Of course.’ Alarm hardened into flinty dislike as he held out the receiver to Dan. ‘Mrs Nichols would like to speak to you.’

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  ‘Dan! I’ll fall over!’

  ‘You won’t. I’ve got you. I’m holding you. I’m not going to let you fall.’

  In the darkness all her senses were sharpened. She was aware of the rank green smell of shrubbery in late-summer gardens, the dusty street, Dan’s clean, warm scent. His arm was around her waist, guiding her forwards and holding her firm. An involuntary smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, like a kite catching the breeze. All this secrecy reminded her of the Whispering Gallery in St Paul’s and the moment she first knew she was falling in love with him. She wondered what special surprising thing he was going to show her now.

  They stopped. She felt him bend to put her suitcase down; he’d taken it from her the moment she stepped out of the cab. In it were the mysterious items – two sheets and a blanket – he’d asked her to bring when he’d telephoned the Vicarage after Charles had left. She’d joked that he was taking her to spend the night in some musty army bell tent, but he’d simply said she’d have to wait and see.

  There was grass beneath her feet, long grass that tickled her bare ankles, making the tent idea seem more plausible than ever. But where could you put up a tent in London? Curiosity almost got the better of her but he stood behind her and covered her eyes with his hands – gently, so as not to hurt her bruised cheek, even though the swelling was mostly gone.

  ‘Dan! Where are we?’

  He kissed her neck and dropped his hands. ‘Home.’

  23

  2011

  Somehow it was Thursday again.

  This week the Bona Vacantia list was full of the kind of names that were a probate researcher’s nightmare – Evans, Thompson, Collins, Jones, Taylor. The sky in the gaps between the blind’s vertical slats was still dark when Ansell had his first epic meltdown of the day, and after that it just got worse. By nine o’clock Will had been given his first sacking threat and by eleven the list of insults that had been thrown his way included not only several instances of the standard ‘posh boy’ and ‘twerp’, but one ‘fucking fairy’ and one ‘inbred ponce’, which only came out on special occasions. And all before he’d finished his second cup of coffee.

  The afternoon brought respite in the form of a trip to Harrow on the Hill to collect a birth certificate, but the release of pressure was brief. The certificate proved that the information upon which they’d spent all morning constructing a family tree was wrong and the case collapsed like a house of cards.

  Finally, after the painfu
l start, things began to come together towards the end of the afternoon. At five o’clock Will parked outside the address of the only definite potential heir they had, and rang the doorbell. Long minutes passed, during which he could hear the blood-curdling screams of small children and a woman’s voice shouting. He rang again. This time the door was answered almost immediately, by a blonde woman wearing a floral apron and a murderous expression.

  ‘Hi – Mrs Maynard? I’m Will Holt from a firm called Ansell Blake. We’re probate researchers, and it’s about an inheritance—’

  He wasn’t quick – or maybe convincing – enough. Her face darkened, and in the bright light of the modern chandelier above her head her eyes had the sinister glitter of a woman on the edge. He took a step back.

  ‘An “inheritance” you say? Hurrah! That’s marvellous, but unless I’m going to inherit two slightly less dysfunctional children, a husband who – just for once before they reach the age of eighteen – might get home from the office in time to put them to bed, oh – and a very large bottle of gin, I have to say at this point that I really couldn’t give a toss. Nice to have met you, Will.’

  The door shut.

  There was an off-licence on the corner, although the term didn’t quite do justice to the array of products Will discovered inside. Weaving his way around displays of artisan olives, high-end patisserie and a mini designer florist counter he found his way to the booze aisle, where at least fifteen exclusive brands of gin jostled for shelf space beside the champagne. He almost had a panic attack as he handed over his credit card, but he calmed his private hysteria with the knowledge that thirty-eight pounds spent on posh gin today might just save him from losing his job tomorrow, and convince Bryony Maynard he wasn’t a cheap conman.

  He rang the doorbell again. The screaming had died down now, and given way to a tired and miserable sobbing which increased in volume as the door opened. Before it could be shut in his face again he thrust the bottle into the gap.

  ‘I can’t make any firm promises about the children or the husband, but I can at least offer you the gin.’

  An hour and a half later he had read two Thomas the Tank Engine stories, played one game of Connect Four and explained the family link between Louisa Evans and Bryony Maynard, which meant the latter was in line to inherit the bulk of the former’s estate. The house was quiet now, the children in bed, and Bryony was a good three-quarters of the way down her second large gin and tonic.

  ‘Great Aunt Louisa – gosh, I haven’t thought about her for years. She was a bit of a joke in our family. She wore a lot of tweed and couldn’t pronounce her Rs properly. Bwyony, she used to call me, which I thought was too hilarious. She had a friend who lived with her called Millicent. Oh gosh—’ Her eyes widened and she almost choked on her gin. ‘It never occurred to me until now that they were more than friends, but of course they must have been! Good old Aunt Louisa. She was always asking me what I wanted to do with my life and saying I must get out and see the world. I just wanted to paint my nails and listen to Spandau Ballet in my bedroom.’

  Discreetly Will’s eyes slid back to the clock above the Aga. He’d followed the journey of the minute-hand pretty much every step of the way for the last hour, hiding his impatience with heroic effort. ‘Well, you’ll be able to get out and see the world now, with the money she’s left you. We’re not sure how much it’ll be yet, but now you’ve signed the paperwork we can get the claim moving.’ He began collecting his things together. ‘Talking of which, I should—’

  He stood up. Bryony Maynard stayed where she was. Taking another swig of gin she stared at the wall, but in a dreamy way that suggested she wasn’t seeing the daubed finger paintings or messy collages. ‘A friend of mine went on a yoga retreat. To Ibiza. I’d like to do something like that . . . but maybe without the yoga.’

  He let himself out, promising to be in touch. It was half past seven. Visiting hours at the Royal Free were six until eight. If he hurried he might just make it.

  There was nowhere to park. At ten to eight he abandoned the Spitfire on a kerb by some kind of loading bay and ran. In his hands he cradled the bunch of flowers he’d bought at the last minute from the posh shop at the end of Bryony Maynard’s road.

  They were snowdrops. He’d noticed them when he paid for the gin, and all the time he’d been reading Thomas the Tank Engine and playing Connect Four and explaining to Bryony about her potential inheritance he’d thought of them. They were small and delicate. Fragile. And with their little white faces and their bowed heads they’d reminded him of her. Jess.

  That was the only name he had for her; no surname, so it had taken him a full ten minutes of frustration, diplomacy and a little bit of creativity with the truth to find out which ward she was on. He’d rung the hospital from his mobile in his snatched lunch break, which had at least distracted him from the urge to buy chips, which was his default coping strategy on crap days in the office. At the end of the call he’d secured the information he needed. Ladies’ Medical.

  He had to fight against the tide. Visiting time was almost over and people were beginning to flow out of the hospital. He found himself wasting valuable time holding a door open for streams of people who didn’t even acknowledge him. It went against the grain to push through himself, but eventually he did it. A large clock, of the kind you saw in stations and Bryony Maynard’s kitchen, hung over the corridor and as he passed beneath it he saw the minute-hand flicker to the vertical position. He started to run.

  He was breathless and sweating when he arrived at the ward. There was no need to ring the buzzer; the door was open for people to leave. He slipped through them and went straight to the nurses’ station.

  ‘I’ve come to see Jess—’

  ‘Visiting time’s just finished, I’m afraid.’

  She must have seen his face fall. She must have taken in his heaving chest and red face and his handful of snowdrops and felt sorry for him because her expression softened and she put a hand on his arm. ‘Not to worry, she’s asleep – has been on and off all day since she came up from ICU. You wouldn’t have got much out of her this evening anyway.’

  ‘ICU.?’

  ‘Intensive care. She’s much better now, responding nicely to the antibiotics. Come back tomorrow and I’m sure she’ll be much brighter. What pretty flowers – I’ll find something to put them in and take them for her, shall I? She’ll be sorry she missed you. She’s been asking for you, even though she’s not even properly awake. You are Dan, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Will stepped back, caught between acute embarrassment and utter, wretched foolishness. ‘No, actually, I’m . . .’ He shook his head, suddenly defeated. ‘It doesn’t matter. Thanks anyway.’

  He walked away, leaving the nurse holding the snowdrops. Their stems were crushed where he’d held them too tightly and their silken petals were starting to wilt.

  The invitation arrived on Saturday morning, while Will was having breakfast.

  Mr and Mrs Hugo Ogilvie

  Request the pleasure of your company

  at the marriage of their daughter

  Marina Rosamunde

  To

  Simon Richard Alexander Holt

  On Saturday 17th April 2011 at 11.30 a.m.

  At St Mary’s Church, Deeping Marsh,

  and afterwards at Deeping Hall

  RSVP

  It was plain white card, stiff and smooth, edged in gold. No embossed doves or gilded horseshoes for Marina and Simon; everything was impeccably correct and aggressively tasteful. Opening it, Will’s fried egg sandwich had turned to ashes in his mouth.

  April 17th. Shit. The Save the Date card had arrived months ago – long enough for the wedding itself to seem remote and unreal. He’d binned it immediately, preferring to remain in a state of happy denial about the entire event, but there was no avoiding it now. Still in the t-shirt and boxer shorts he’d slept in, he abandoned the half-eaten fried egg sandwich and stood in front of the mirrored door of the wardrobe.<
br />
  Throughout school and university he’d rowed and played cricket and rugby, which had kept him effortlessly in shape. Now, without the daily training, the twice weekly matches, once-rigid muscle had softened and his lean silhouette had filled out. In some rational part of his brain he knew that he was still a normal, healthy weight, but the trouble was in his family, normal wasn’t the benchmark. Simon was. Simon, who played squash and ran marathons and spent his holidays skiing and scuba diving; who ordered in sushi instead of Indian takeaways and would never scoff a whole packet of M&Ms without even noticing. Will sighed. If he gave up carbs and refused Bex’s well-intentioned lattes would that stop people choking on their canapés when they discovered he was Simon’s brother?

  But the physical comparisons were only part of the problem. He rehearsed a conversation with his reflection in the mirror. Me? Oh no, I’m not a barrister. Or a historian. No, I’m a sort of failed-historian turned third-rate probate researcher. Well, it’s like a door-to-door insurance salesman. No, I’m not married myself, and unlikely to be since the last girlfriend I had was in the second year at university and she dumped me while I was in the psychiatric unit. I know, I can’t think why either! I’m such a catch!

  The pasted-on smile slipped and he turned away from the mirror.