Letters to the Lost

by Iona Grey

  Clothes.

  Jess must have some. He’d seen her twice, and she’d been wearing different things each time, so there must be some of her things back at the house that he hadn’t noticed. He’d been meaning to pay Albert Greaves a visit anyway. He’d go tonight and have a look.

  It was a quiet day in the offices of Ansell Blake. Grimwood was all but wound up, and no other relatives had been traced for Bryony Maynard’s long-lost great aunt. With no new cases, and none expected until Thursday’s Bona Vacantia list, Ansell was at his most trying. Pressure made him volatile while lack of it made him bored and belligerent, and prone to casual bullying. Thankfully he left the office at 2 p.m. ‘for a client meeting’, giving them all a chance to relax and regroup. Barry, who’d watched Ansell drive out of the car park, remarked that he didn’t know what kind of client meeting required golf clubs, and Bex confided that she’d overheard a phone conversation and knew for a fact that he was trying to join the Freemasonry.

  ‘He thinks it’ll be a good way of finding out about cases before the competition,’ she giggled.

  Will snorted. ‘I thought the basic entry requirement for the Freemasons was being of good moral character?’

  Following Ansell’s departure, the afternoon passed peacefully and Will switched off his computer at 5 p.m. exactly. He arrived at Albert Greaves’s just as the carer was leaving. It was a different one from the lady who’d answered the door to him the first time. This one was young and blonde and pretty, with a neat figure that was showcased by her tailored blue tunic. Mr Greaves was eating the supper she’d just served him from a table designed to fit over his armchair. His eyes sparkled as she let herself out of the front door.

  ‘She’s a little smasher, that one. Do nicely for you, she would. Mind you, she can’t cook for toffee. None of them can.’ He prodded the pale slop on his plate disgustedly with his fork. ‘Supposed to be fish pie, but I wouldn’t mind betting there’s nothing in here that’s ever been within a mile of the sea.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think she’s a nurse, not a cook,’ Will said with a smile. ‘And that’s a microwave ready-meal. It’s not her fault if it’s not good.’

  ‘My Dorothy was a marvellous cook. What she couldn’t do with a scrap of meat and a bit of pastry wasn’t worth doing. I’m not bad in the kitchen myself, neither. Well, until I had this stroke. No use now. No use for nothing now.’ Albert sniffed morosely. ‘Come to have another look around Nancy’s, have you?’

  Perhaps after his own extreme tidy-up Will was seeing the room through the eyes of the newly converted, but it seemed smaller tonight, the clutter more oppressive. He thought of the long hours of the day when he’d been at the office, driving across the city, talking, having a laugh with Barry and Bex, and Albert Greaves had been here. Alone. Hemmed in by photographs and china ornaments and horse brasses and memories, listening to the clock ticking.

  ‘Not today. I thought I ought to pick up the things that Jess – the girl who was sleeping there – left. But mostly I came to see you.’

  Mr Greaves looked pleased. ‘Ought to be out with a young lady, that’s what you ought to be doing of an evening. Getting spruced up and taking her to the pictures or up town. Got a girl, have you?’

  In his mind Will saw a pair of grey eyes; dark-lashed and troubled. He smiled crookedly. ‘I wish.’

  The old man dropped his fork and pushed his plate away with an air of recklessness. ‘Here, if you go and get us a plate of fish and chips for tea I’ll put a word in for you with that young nurse.’

  Will grinned. ‘What’s the point? I’m no competition for a man like you. But I’ll go and pick up these things from Nancy’s and then go on to the chip shop.’

  The first thing he noticed when he opened the door of number four was the letter lying on the floor right in front of him. The envelope was pale, creamy and expensive and for a crazy second he wondered if Nancy Price had been invited to Simon and Marina’s wedding. He stooped to pick it up, and saw the name on the front.

  Miss Jess Moran.

  Of course. She’d written to Dan Rosinski, and this was his reply. There was something rather exciting about a letter; an envelope with a handwritten address and an overseas postmark, and who knew what secrets and answers inside it. A feeling that he’d probably last experienced on Christmas morning when he was about five years old fluttered in the pit of his stomach and for a second he regretted the whole fish and chips plan, which had blown out of the water any chance he had of making visiting time tonight. He sternly squashed the thought. Albert Greaves had precious little enjoyment in life; the least Will could do was treat him to a fish-and-chip supper.

  And tomorrow he would visit Jess.

  She wasn’t going to look at the door. She wasn’t going to spend the next hour as she’d spent the last one, looking up every time another visitor came in, her heart giving a little skip in case it was him. She wasn’t going to allow herself to feel that dip of disappointment every time it wasn’t, because that meant that she’d expected him; that she’d actually thought he wouldn’t have anything better to do than visit a girl he barely knew in hospital. A drop-out, who he’d found sleeping rough and been kind enough to help because he was that sort of nice person. So nice that he must have loads of friends – people like him, with posh accents and cool cars and great clothes. She imagined him now, in some fancy wine bar, surrounded by girls with swishy blonde hair and skiing tans. And neat eyebrows.

  Crossly she turned over so that her back was towards the door. At least she could move more easily now that the drip had been taken out. A woman called Claire Trent had come to see her this afternoon, from Housing Services. She’d sat on the chair beside Jess’s bed, asking questions, filling in forms and smelling of perfume. Jess had stared at her arty, interesting silver earrings and her well-cut blonde hair and felt childish and resentful, which was completely stupid since Claire Trent was trying to help her.

  Grudgingly, imparting the minimum of information, Jess told her about Dodge, and about the men she’d seen smoking outside the hostel in Church End. ‘I’m not being funny, but I can’t go somewhere like that. He knows people everywhere. He’d find out. He’d find me.’

  Claire Trent had listened earnestly. She was pretty old, Jess decided, definitely over forty, but she had really good skin. She pictured a row of expensive bottles and jars in a bathroom that looked like something from a magazine, all white tiles and gleaming glass, and the resentment melted into envy. Would she ever have a home that was all her own?

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you’re completely safe. There are women’s hostels, where security is taken very seriously.’

  Jess’s heart had sunk at the word. Hostel. It sounded pretty dire; too much like hostage and nothing like home. But of course it was a start. An address. The bottom rung of a ladder. She felt like she’d fallen into a deep, dark hole and now she had to climb out of it, slowly, one step at a time. On her own.

  She picked up a magazine that had been circulating the ward and began flicking through it, hurrying over the features on ‘Cosy colour schemes for winter decorating’ and ‘Vintage style for bedrooms’. A late visitor came in. Without thinking she looked up, unable to stop the hope that flared. Or the disappointment that followed a moment later when it was extinguished.

  One of the few things that Will actually liked about his job was that no two days were the same. This was one of the factors that had prevented him from handing in his notice long ago.

  Just when it looked like Tuesday was going to continue in the same ad hoc way as Monday afternoon (although with the unpleasant addition of Ansell, whose mood suggested that he hadn’t stepped right onto the welcome mat at the Masonic lodge and been greeted with a secret handshake) the post arrived, bringing a letter from a client with a case to research. Jobs like these were usually initiated by someone with inside information who knew there was a worthwhile sum of money to be gained, and without the race-against-time-and-competitors
element of Bona Vacantia cases they were heir hunting gold.

  After two hours of research a family tree had taken root and grown, its branches extending across several pages. Walter Cooke was one of eight children; born in Crewe, he’d worked all his life on the railways. At the time of his death he was living in a modest property in Watford which, it emerged, was stuffed to the gills with rare railway memorabilia and a valuable collection of vintage model train sets. These were expected to make the estate a substantial one.

  ‘You ever been to Crewe, Posh?’ Ansell drawled in his comedy Bertie Wooster voice. ‘Frightful imposition I know, but can you bear the thought of venturing beyond the Home Counties? Are your refined lungs capable of breathing the air beyond Birmingham, because I’d really rather like you to get up the motorway smartish and start signing up Walter Cooke’s nearest and dearest. Best go home and get your butler to pack a case – this might be an overnight job.’

  Will could have wept with frustration as his plans for the evening dissolved before his eyes. Back at the flat he put a clean shirt, boxers and a toothbrush in an overnight bag and collected his laptop. The carrier bag he’d discovered in the bedroom of the house in Greenfields Lane was standing beside the door, with the letter from Dan Rosinski on top. He picked it up. Sod Ansell: it might not be the most direct route, but he was going to Crewe via the Royal Free Hospital.

  It wasn’t strictly visiting time, so he got a parking space relatively quickly. He found he was walking ridiculously fast up the corridor to the ward, and knew that it had nothing to do with being in a hurry to get to the M1 and everything to do with the fact that in a minute he would see Jess. He’d spent so much time thinking about her since Saturday, reliving the things they’d said, remembering the sweet way she pronounced her vowels. He pictured the delicate bumps of her spine beneath the hospital gown and was almost winded by a great surge of protectiveness. He hadn’t wanted to look through the carrier bag of clothes, but he hoped there were some pyjamas in there.

  The door to the ward was shut. His hand was shaking as he pressed the buzzer. A crackly voice came over an intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve – er – I’m dropping off some things for Jess Moran. Clothes and—’

  The door swished open before he could finish. His pulse suddenly rocketed as if he was doing a hundred-metre sprint instead of walking perfectly normally towards the nurses’ station. One of the women sitting behind it got up as he approached and came round to take the bag from him.

  ‘Thanks very much. I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  ‘Oh – great, thank you. Er – look, I know it’s not visiting time, but I don’t suppose I could see her? Just for a moment?’

  He was blushing like a schoolgirl. The nurse smiled at him kindly, obviously feeling sorry for him and his great big tragic crush.

  ‘Sorry love, you’ve just missed her. She’s gone down for a chest X-ray. Want me to give her a message when she gets back?’

  ‘Oh. No.’ He backed away, trying hard to appear casual and indifferent, almost tripping over a floor cleaning machine. ‘No, don’t worry, it’s fine. Thanks anyway.’

  From then on things got worse. As he drove North the weather got colder, and by Northampton it had begun to snow, in slushy great splodges that the Spitfire’s windscreen wipers smeared into a sheet of ice. Walter Cooke’s family proved to be large, complicated and very chatty, and at each house he called at, memories of the late Walter were taken out and dusted off along with the best china; aired in great detail before papers were signed. It was after ten o’clock when he had finished his final call. Getting into the car, he’d planned to give the cheap motel Bex had booked for him a miss and drive back to London while the roads were quiet, only to find that the Spitfire refused to start.

  It had eventually been towed off Walter Cooke’s sister’s drive by a tattooed mechanic called Warren, who had given Will a lift to his hotel in the cab of his truck and promised, with frustrating nonchalance, to get the car mended ‘as soon as possible, mate’.

  And so he was stuck, in Crewe, on a sleety Wednesday morning, with nothing to do but wait. He found a coffee shop advertising free wifi facing onto the empty square and went in. The woman who took his coffee order asked for his name to write on the cup, though there was no one else waiting at the counter and only a handful of other customers scattered around. Will took his drink over to a table by the window and got out his laptop.

  While it connected to the network he sat back on the faux-leather sofa and looked out into the grey morning. He felt disorientated and uprooted, like he’d woken up in the wrong life. Opening up his email, the name Evelyn Holt instantly jumped out at him.

  It had taken a while for his mother to trust modern methods of communication, and even now she used email rather like the telegram service of yesteryear; while her messages didn’t quite contain the word ‘stop’ at the end of every sentence, they might as well have done. ‘Don’t forget wedding present for S and M ,’ she wrote. Will sniggered. ‘Best items going from list fast. Also, they want to know whether you’re bringing a +1 for seating plan. Said I very much doubted.’

  His smile stiffened and splintered.

  His mother had never quite forgiven him for letting Camilla slip through his fingers at university. Milla, like Marina, had had all the qualities Evelyn Holt considered desirable in a daughter-in-law: namely, the right accent, the right parents, and a thorough grounding in the rules of polo, bridge and what cutlery to use at a formal dinner. Although she’d never said as much, Will knew his mother blamed him for not doing enough to keep Milla interested. Not being enough. For selfishly having a mental breakdown. For not being like Simon.

  He’d always suspected that the benevolent fairies who’d blessed the infant Simon with brains and looks and sporting prowess had all had a previous engagement on the day of his own christening. The achievements that came so effortlessly to his brother eluded Will, no matter how hard he strived for them. He might have made the teams at rugby and rowing, but he’d never been captain, like Simon had; he’d got good grades in his exams, but never gone up on Speech Day to collect the prize for Outstanding Achievement. The greater his efforts, the more significant his failure, in his parents’ eyes. Realizing that was what had tipped him over the edge five years ago.

  He closed the email and took a steadying sip of coffee. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to have no family, like Nancy Price: no parents to assign you a role as constricting and uncomfortable as someone else’s too-small, cast-off clothes, no siblings to keep you in their shadow . . . Pretty good, he thought, staring out of the window onto the deserted square. And then an image of Jess Moran superimposed itself on the misted glass, hugging her knees on her hospital bed, completely alone.

  He sighed shakily, running a hand through his hair. No, not good. No one should be alone, not like that. A wave of longing crashed over him, winding him for a moment and making him feel more disorientated than ever in its wake. Blindly, he turned back to the screen in front of him, sweeping his fingers over the mousepad. Nancy Price’s file jumped out at him and he clicked on it, desperate for the distraction it offered.

  The Woodhill School roll of pupils was the first document that appeared. It was a screenshot of the archive record he’d been going through that day when Bex had interrupted him; the names and dates of birth of all the children who’d been registered at the school in 1932, listed in exquisite copperplate handwriting.

  And suddenly it struck him – maybe Nancy Price did have brothers and sisters? Albert had said she was a Poor School girl and had grown up without a family, but that didn’t necessarily mean her parents hadn’t had other children. Sitting more upright on the leather sofa Will began to scroll through, looking for other Prices. And then something caught his eye and made him stop. He scrolled back.

  Stella Holland.

  Stella. It wasn’t the most unusual of names, but still . . . The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Ste
lla Thorne was Nancy Price’s friend – that much was obvious from the fact that she’d entrusted her precious love letters into her keeping. It was likely that their friendship would have started at school . . . Hastily he looked through the list to see if there’d been another Stella at Woodhill Community School in 1932.

  There hadn’t.

  It took less than five minutes to log onto the genealogy website, enter this new information into its search facility and get the results. Stella Elizabeth Holland married Reverend Maurice Charles Thorne, August 1942, Middlesex. The two women behind the counter broke off their conversation and looked at him in alarm as he gave a muted Yessss of triumph.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said with an apologetic grin, barely tearing his eyes away from the screen. His fingers were tingling, clumsy: it took two attempts to type Stella’s details into a new search. He submitted the information, and sat back, waiting for the next part of her story to be revealed.

  And there it was.

  In April 1944 Stella Thorne had had a baby. And the father was registered not as Dan Rosinski, but as Charles Thorne.

  30

  1944

  At first the pain was good. She’d been labouring in the oppressive air for so long that she could barely breathe, and at last the storm had broken. She was scared, but she was ready, braced to meet its fury and open her throat to give voice to the grief and frustration and rage that she had carried inside her like a second, invisible child.