by Iona Grey
He couldn’t stop thinking about Jess; wondering where she was and whether she was all right, torn between the certainty that she had simply moved on with her life and the nagging belief that maybe, wherever she was, she might just be thinking of him too and not know how to reach him. That was the thing that tormented him most. Not knowing.
Small things. Small things mattered. One of his therapists had described a set of scales inside his mind on which everything came to rest, and explained that even the tiniest events made a difference to the balance. The image had stayed with him, and as March slipped by and spring didn’t come; as the wedding got closer, Ansell’s jibes got crueller and he relinquished all hope of seeing Jess Moran again, he knew that if he couldn’t take control, he had to take care. To do small, positive things to counterbalance the negative.
And so, in the absence of anything else to focus on, he applied himself to the task of finding out what had happened to Stella Thorne.
*
The pills lay in the palm of her hand like tiny bombs.
Two of them. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and then looked again. Definitely two – that was right, and she hadn’t taken them already this morning. Had she? Tuesday. She said the day out loud to fix it in her head, then put the pills into her mouth and gulped down water. It would be an hour until they began to work their magic fully, but she felt calmer already, just knowing that soon the sharp edges of the day would begin to blur again and questions that chased themselves round and round in her head would lose their urgency.
She didn’t know what she would do without the pills. After the day of the fete (the ill-feted day, as she sometimes thought of it, when the pills gave her thoughts that warm fluidity) things had been very bad, but Dr Walsh had turned out to be an unexpected ally. ‘Difficult times, my dear, difficult times. These will help,’ he’d said smoothly, the nib of his fountain pen scratching on the paper. After the coldness meted out to her by Ada and Marjorie and the rest of the parish ladies, she was astonished and relieved and grateful.
If it wasn’t for Daisy she would have simply given up. Often, during the hot sleepless nights she would find herself wondering which would be the quickest, the least painful, the cleanest way to end it. Those were some of the questions that circulated ceaselessly around the passageways in her brain, like a clockwork train. But then she would remember that she had given up her future with Dan to stay with Daisy and a new series of questions would begin: how was she to get through each day of the rest of her life without him?
Before, she had had the comfort of fantasy to keep her going. Even while fearing he was dead, she had been able to sustain herself with hope and wishes and what-ifs. If only he would come back safely, everything would be all right. But he had come back; fate or God or his own courage and determination had brought him home, and it had been she who had sounded the death-knell on their future together. Each time she remembered that, panic pulsed through her, making her blood fizz. Was it too late to change her mind?
She knocked on the door of Charles’s study. He didn’t look round when she went in, but even the back of his head seemed to radiate cold disapproval.
‘I’m taking Daisy to the shops.’ Her voice sounded odd – muffled and echoey, as if she were underwater. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘No thank you.’ He turned round and regarded her coolly over his spectacles. ‘Do you have to take Daisy? Isn’t it time for her nap? Dr Walsh has said numerous times how important it is for her to have a routine. She’ll never settle properly if you constantly fuss with her like some . . . doll.’
‘She’ll fall asleep in the pram. She’s almost dropping off already. Dr Walsh also said it was important for her to get fresh air, and it’s such a lovely day . . .’
She trailed off, exhausted by the effort of putting the sentence together. Charles made a little grunt of impatience, or possibly disgust. ‘Very well then. It’s very hot; make sure she’s shaded by the pram hood.’
It was obvious he wanted her out of his room. She went, closing the door carefully behind her. Since the fete Charles had lost enthusiasm for playing the part of loving husband. He had stopped asking her to help with the little things he couldn’t manage and relied instead on Ada and Dr Walsh. A new curate had arrived; an earnest young man called Owen or Ewan, and he had quickly become, almost literally, Charles’s right-hand man.
The August sun was hard and white, and its heat pressed down on Stella’s head as she walked along the baked pavement. Beneath the fringed hood of the pram Daisy wailed fitfully. Stella watched her little mouth stretch in her screwed-up face, but the pills had started to work and the sound that came from it was disconnected. Reaching the row of shops at the bottom of the hill she parked the pram outside Fairacre’s and joined the queue inside. Ada was there, talking to Ethel Collins. She glanced at Stella as she came in and pointedly turned her back.
Since she’d been revealed as an adulteress it had been the same story, of conversations ended abruptly, pursed lips and hostile stares. Stella leaned against the doorframe. It was just as well, she thought vaguely; she’d rather be spared the effort of dredging up words from the soup in her head and arranging them into a conversation. Flies circled drunkenly in the thick air and one of them blundered into her face. The hot, meaty smell of blood coming from the counter very suddenly reminded her of Blossom and an inexplicable rush of tears stung her eyes.
She stumbled out of the shop, dizzy and stricken. The fly seemed to follow her. Its buzzing filled her head, so that she thought it was caught in her hair and shook it wildly to get rid of it. The noise got louder, deeper, until the sky boomed with it. She put her hands over her ears and started to walk quickly, keeping her eyes pinned to the pavement and the flicker of her own feet. Running now. Running. Running, running, running—
The explosion made her stop. The ground jerked and the hot air seemed to suck itself in before expanding again in a hot rush. Everything shimmered and became liquid and insubstantial for a moment, as if the world itself was dissolving.
But it didn’t. The boom died away and the vacuum of silence in its wake was filled again, by the distant sounds of ringing bells and shouted voices. Smoke billowed like a black parachute unfurling above the rooftops, but the houses around her resumed their solid outlines. Stella looked around, blinking as she tried to get her bearings. She didn’t recognize the street in which she stood, but the smoke rose like a shadowy skyscraper in the direction from which she’d just come. From the shops.
Where she’d left Daisy.
34
2011
Morning Dan. Just checking in quickly to fill you in on how it went yesterday in King’s Oak. Not exactly brilliant, I’m sorry to say. Got the bus over there and found the church, no problem. It’s exactly how you described it – a great big ugly dark red building, so nothing’s changed there. It was all locked up and so I went to the Vicarage across the road. It felt pretty weird – good weird – to walk up the path of Stella’s old home, but when I knocked the woman who answered looked at me like I was a plague carrier or something and said that it wasn’t anything to do with the church any more and she pointed to a sign by the front door that said THE OLD VICARAGE. The new one is a bit further down, next to the community hall. It looks like a shoebox with windows.
The vicar wasn’t much help, to be honest. I don’t think he liked me and he didn’t make much effort to hide it, which I thought was pretty bad since he’s supposed to be a Christian. Anyway, he did go away and dig out this massive book of parish records and showed me the bit about Charles Thorne. It just said that he was there from June 1937, and the next guy took over in September 1945. If old grumpy trousers had any idea where Charles went after that, or how I could find out, he wasn’t going to tell me, that was for certain.
One thing was interesting, though. The list of all the vicars was pretty formal, with middle names and everything. Our guy was listed as Maurice Charles Thorne. I can see why he preferred to
be called Charles, but I guess if Maurice was his proper first name that might be why you haven’t been able to find him in documents and stuff?
Have you made any progress on the house? And how are you feeling? I hope the new drug they gave you is working well, and with no nasty side effects.
I’m off to the lunch club today. I’m massively nervous because last time one of the ladies – Vera, who I told you about, the one who knew Nancy Price pretty well and called her a ‘fast piece’ or whatever it was – managed to get out of me that I wanted to be a singer. Or used to, before I realized what a hopeless ambition it was. Well, she made a big fuss about it and announced it to everyone, and it seems like they’ve got a piano in the room where they have their tea and coffee after lunch, and one of the old girls plays it, so you can guess what’s coming, can’t you? I’ll try to get out of it, but those ladies are a pretty determined bunch, I can tell you.
And then after that I have an interview! It’s for a job my case worker at the hostel found out about, in a dry cleaner’s of all places. I can’t say the prospect thrills me much but I haven’t heard anything about all the other jobs I’ve applied for, so I guess I can’t be too fussy.
Wish me luck!
Jess x
The library had become a sort of home from home. She had got into a routine of going there every morning, partly to get out of the hostel, but also to exchange emails with Dan and continue their quest to find Stella. In the long computer room she had a favourite machine; the one at the end, which was beside a radiator and had a view over the little park and the bench where she’d eaten her sausage roll all those weeks ago.
It was weird to reflect how far she’d come since then. It had got worse before it got better, but finally she felt cautiously optimistic that her life was heading in the right direction. She had somewhere to live; choices, independence, purpose. All good. But without Will Holt she would have had none of those things, and she would have liked the chance to say thank you. And for him to see her when her hair wasn’t plastered to her head with grease and she wasn’t wearing a paper sack.
She gazed out over the stretch of grass. Beneath a tree there were daffodils, and an image of the cards they made at school for Mother’s Day flashed into her head; three-dimensional ones, with bits cut from egg boxes for the daffodil’s trumpet. Of course, she used to make hers for Gran, without thinking twice about it, but she suddenly recalled with startling clarity a girl called Jacey Reed asking her why she didn’t have a mum. Jess remembered the yellow paint, thick as egg yolk, the satisfaction of stroking it onto the cardboard trumpet. ‘She buggered off, didn’t she?’ she’d replied, and subsequently spent her playtime sitting outside the head’s office for swearing. Fifteen years later her indignation at the injustice was as vivid as on that long ago March day. She’d only been repeating what she’d heard Gran say.
Feelings, she thought, gazing out into the sharp-edged morning. They’re all stored up inside us, like in some kind of freezer that keeps them fresh for years. Like Dan, at ninety, still loving Stella.
Hey Jess – great to get your message. Today’s a big day! I’ll be thinking of you.
That’s great that you went to King’s Oak – I really appreciate you taking the time and the trouble. Your discovery about Charles Thorne’s name is pretty significant, I’d say. That explains why I’ve had no luck finding him online.
My lawyers are still working on the house. It seems like the place where the paperwork was stored was damaged by fire from an incendiary bomb in 1945, which is why no one over your side of the Atlantic knew who owned it. Right now it seems that the council have taken charge. My lawyer has sent over copies of the paperwork from the initial sale – not much by today’s standards, but hopefully enough to prove ownership. I transferred the property into Stella’s name in September ’44. I was back home then, and still writing to her pretty much every week. I never got a reply, but I remember telling her in one of the letters that while she kept the house I’d keep hoping. If she sold it, I’d know it was the end of the line. My lawyer thinks that if she can’t be found it’s pretty straightforward to get the property deeds reverted to me. But like everything, it takes time. And of course, we ARE going to find her, right?!
The new drug is great. I mean, not a miracle cure or anything, but I feel like my grip on life has grown stronger. That could just as easily be talking to you though. Hope is better than any drug.
Good luck with the singing and the interview – knock ’em dead kid!
Dan x
Jess typed a quick reply.
I’ll do my best – will tell you later how everything went! I’m coming back this evening to look through the marriage records again. It was pretty hopeless before without Stella’s maiden name, but how many Maurice Charles Thornes can there be?
J x
She logged out and picked up her bag. Over the past weeks she’d grown close to Dan Rosinski; amazingly close, considering they’d never even met. The man she talked to by email was the same gentle, unassuming, courageous person whose voice had haunted her in the letters. His story had given her something to focus on while her own life was in a mess. She felt privileged that he had shared it with her.
She also, from time to time, felt very anxious.
Supposing she let him down? Supposing she just couldn’t find Stella Thorne, or discover what had happened to her before Dan’s illness got the better of him? It was leukaemia, he’d told her. He could fight it for a little while longer, but it would beat him in the end. The thought of saying goodbye to him was bad enough, but saying goodbye without having helped him close the circle was unbearable.
She was frowning as she made her way through the library’s reading room, so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the chair that had been left sticking out slightly from beneath a table, just enough for her to stub her toe on its leg as she passed. She gasped and dropped her bag, gritting her teeth against the pain. And the embarrassment; around her, people at other tables raised their heads and stared. Feeling foolish she sank down onto the chair to gather up her scattered belongings.
There was a newspaper on the table and she glanced at it, trying to look nonchalant as she waited for her blush to evaporate. But it didn’t. It intensified as she read the front page, until it felt like her whole head was alight.
DAWN RAID BUSTS DRUGS GANG. Five appear in court.
Below the headline there were a series of photographs of the accused.
RINGLEADER: Darren Michael Hodgson, 26, of Elephant and Castle is charged with fifteen counts of supplying Class A drugs and four counts of possession with intent to supply.
Dodge’s face glared straight at her, wearing an expression that suggested his arrest was her fault and he’d make sure she paid for it.
Except he couldn’t, she thought dazedly, stumbling to her feet. Not now he was in police custody with no bail and looking at a very long prison sentence. If he was found guilty, of course, but he would be, she had no doubt about that. Dodge had screwed too many people over to inspire much loyalty. There would be people queuing up to get into the witness box and see him sent down.
It was almost too much to take in, but as she left the library she smiled with disproportionate warmth at the man who held the door open for her, and walked to work without once looking over her shoulder.
The phone was ringing.
On and on and on and on, the bell seeming to get shriller and louder and more insistent with every ring. Will buried his head under the pillows and wrapped them tightly over his ears to block out the sound.
It would be Ansell again, no doubt. He’d rung yesterday too, approximately a minute and a half after Will had put down the phone from explaining to Bex that the doctor had signed him off work for two weeks. ‘Stress?’ Ansell had bellowed down the phone. ‘Fucking tell me about it! Paying members of staff to arse about in bed all day while the rest of us have to do their share of the work – that’s fucking stressful.’ Will had hung u
p without listening to any more, but it had taken him two hours to stop shaking.
The doctor had prescribed antidepressants. ‘Just a mild one, to get you feeling more like yourself again.’ If there had been pills to make him feel like someone else – Simon for example – he’d have downed them like sweeties, but since he wasn’t sure that feeling like himself was a good thing he hadn’t taken one yet. It seemed like a final admission of defeat.
The phone stopped ringing. Cautiously he sat up, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes as the brightness of the day made them sting and smart. The red digits of his clock radio showed that it was 10.26 a.m. Last night he’d lain awake in the small hours, staring through the gloom at the stain on the ceiling while the contents of his brain churned frantically, like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle. Eventually he’d got up and sat in the dark sitting room with his laptop, staring at the screen with unblinking eyes and filling the vortex in his head with the search for Stella.
It was pathetic really. He’d scoured every record he could access and scribbled down dates and snippets of information, filling sheets of paper with illegible scrawl and scattering Post-it notes around him like showers of confetti. He’d made a list of Charles Thorne’s incumbencies, and trawled the internet for his name in the appropriate local newspaper archives. He had discovered that he’d awarded the prizes in the Stoke Green dog show in 1949 and held a special Coronation service of thanksgiving in St John’s church, Bristol in 1953. He’d even turned up a picture of him – a lean man with hollow cheeks and pale hair – shaking hands with the Bishop of Bath and Wells in 1956. But of Stella and Daisy there was nothing. Like ghosts, they remained just out of sight, beyond his reach. It had been getting light by the time he’d finally given up and stumbled back to bed, exhausted and numb with failure. But waking up now to the glare of another day he saw clearly that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. It wasn’t really Stella Thorne he wanted to find. It was Jess.