by Iona Grey
‘You got an OBE,’ Will said gravely. ‘I couldn’t find any information on the internet about Stella Thorne, but there was plenty about Stella Daniels, including some great pictures of you at the Palace.’
Stella laughed, touched by his admiration. ‘I changed my name after Charles died. I didn’t feel like that same timid, powerless girl any more. I felt a terrible fraud accepting the OBE, though. I did what I did for such selfish reasons. For Daisy, to make up for being such a poor mother to her for all that time, and to fill the huge hole left by Dan.’
‘You’re amazing,’ Jess said quietly, getting up to put her arms around Stella. ‘Honestly. Amazing.’
Stella returned the hug, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. ‘No. I started off being ordinary and in the end I was lucky. I found my daughter, and I discovered my voice.’ As Jess released her she brushed her cheeks quickly and laughed. ‘Now, let me make you some more tea. A hot cup this time . . .’
She gathered her strength to get up, but Will was too quick for her. ‘Let me do it. We’ve tired you out enough already.’
The lamplight reflected on the glass, sealing them into a golden bubble, holding the darkness beyond at bay. Over freshly brewed tea they moved on to other subjects, and Jess told Stella about the mother who, like Nancy, had opted out of her daughter’s life, the boyfriend who, like Charles, had abused her. So many similarities, and a world and two generations of difference, but Stella was grateful that she shared her story. When the teapot was empty Will and Jess carried the cups across to the sink. She washed while he picked up a tea towel and dried.
‘Dan told me that he wrote to you often, after the war,’ Jess said above the noise of running water. ‘He wanted you to know that he was waiting for you and he still loved you, but Nancy must have thrown the letters away. Why would she do that?’
Stella was tired now. She had been talking for a long time; her voice had worn thin with use and there was a faint throbbing at her temples. ‘Nancy was a survivor. She could be ruthless, and she always did what was necessary to protect herself. I imagine she was worried that if I heard from Dan I’d leave Charles to go to him, and Vivien would be sent back to her. Or that Dan would come over here to be with me and we’d want the house back . . .’
Or maybe she was thinking of me. The idea came out of nowhere, like the pale moth that emerged suddenly from the darkness to batter delicately at the windowpane, then settle there in the lampglow. Nancy had seen her in the hospital and witnessed her painful journey back into the outside world. In her brisk, no-nonsense way she’d encouraged it – partly for her own sake, perhaps, but there was little doubt that she’d saved Stella’s life. Maybe she’d believed that letters from Dan would undo all those months of laborious progress and drag her back to the cliff edge?
She would never know now. Nancy was gone, like so many of the other people whose names she’d spoken tonight for the first time in half a lifetime.
The glass in front of her reflected the bright kitchen behind, where the shapes of Will and Jess moved around each other, speaking in soft murmurs. Beyond the windows layers of dusk deepened into night. Stella felt herself suspended between the present and the past, the lit-up room and the dark garden.
Talking had exhausted her, but she was glad she had done it. She felt calm; lighter somehow, as if she’d shrugged off a heavy overcoat on a hot day. Speaking those things out loud had given her a different perspective on them: she could see them now simply as a series of events, like beads in a necklace, distinct from each other but joined together in an unchangeable sequence. Bad ones, but good ones too. In locking the past away she’d forgotten about the good things.
The cat was warm on her lap and her eyelids were heavy. She let them drop. In the comforting blackout she began to take out memories and examine them one by one. It was like unwrapping precious tissue-swathed treasures. There was Nancy, with her fierce, grudging kindness and her raucous laugh; hitching up her blue satin bridesmaid’s dress to get a cigarette from her garter, eating tinned peaches at the church fete, showing off her smart new trench coat. The colours of each image were fresh and unfaded. She saw Ada wearing her flowered pinny, and recalled her miraculous ability to defy rationing and produce a hat, a bread pudding, a pretty dress. Ernest Stokes came next, with his insatiable appetite, and Fred Collins with his Box Brownie. Marjorie and her scones. Hilda Goodall dispensing milky advice in the maternity ward. Dan.
Dan . . .
And there the flickering film reel behind her eyes stuttered and ended.
She didn’t want to relive the old moments with Dan. She wanted more than memories, no matter how precious and perfect they were.
She wanted more.
She picked up his letter and held it to her cheek. Even after all these years she wasn’t on good enough terms with God to ask Him anything, so she squeezed her eyes shut again and sent a whispered message straight to Dan.
I’m here, hold on . . . Forever isn’t over yet.
The Spitfire’s headlamps gilded the pale froth of cow parsley in the hedgerows and made the cats’ eyes gleam. The night’s breath was cool.
‘What if we’re too late?’
Jess spoke in a low voice, through clenched teeth, as if she was cold and trying to stop them from chattering. Will switched on the ineffectual heater and turned it up to high.
‘Remember what he said in the letter. He hadn’t given up hope, and neither should we.’
He stopped at a junction. Turning to check for cars coming from the left he could see her face in profile, palely silhouetted against the dark blue beyond. The headlights of a passing car showed up the glitter of tears on her cheeks.
‘Oh Jess, sweetheart . . .’
She scrubbed quickly at her face with the sleeve of her shirt. His shirt, the one he’d given her from his wardrobe at home. ‘We tried to help, but I’m scared we’ve only made things worse. Isn’t hope a bad thing when it comes to nothing? Isn’t it better to accept less and not be disappointed?’
He turned out of the junction, out of the village. Only darkness lay ahead of them. ‘We’ve done our best. We’ve done everything we can.’
As he spoke he felt the inadequacy of the words, their smallness. The smallness of themselves, too. The car was a tiny boat, afloat on a black sea beneath the vast dome of night.
‘But what if it’s not enough?’ she said. ‘What if he dies without knowing that we found her?’
A gateway loomed ahead in the beam of the lights. He pulled into it and turned off the engine. The silence was sudden and complete.
‘Then he’ll still have known that you tried,’ Will said quietly, angling his body towards her awkwardly in the tiny space. ‘He’ll still have known that over in England a wonderful girl cared enough to listen to his story and take up his search. And Stella will know that he never forgot her.’ He reached out and stroked the backs of his fingers down her cheek. ‘All these years, through all she’s suffered, she’s been loved. Isn’t that the most important thing, in the end? To know that you’re loved?’
41
‘But the stain is still there.’ The woman jabbed at the fabric with a finger that was barnacled with diamonds, and gave an exasperated little laugh. ‘Look, perhaps you don’t understand, but this is a four-hundred-pound dress. I brought it to be cleaned, and you’re returning it in exactly the same state and expecting me to pay?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Jess said, completely untruthfully. ‘ We did explain when you dropped it off that removing red wine from raw silk was unlikely. The solvents we use are the most effective available, but even so—’
The woman hitched her handbag onto her shoulder. It was the size of a tennis bag and hung about with gold padlocks and chains that no doubt signified its exclusive brand heritage to those in the know. ‘Yes, of course,’ she snapped. ‘I understand that. But I didn’t think I’d be expected to pay when it’s no better than when I brought it in.’
‘Well, it’s because we s
till had to do the work on it, you see.’ Jess’s patience was pretty much at an end. Anyone, she reckoned, who parked their gleaming black-windowed Chelsea tractor on the double yellow lines outside and came in lugging a handbag like that, wearing sunglasses with a designer logo big enough to see from space and bragging about how much their dress had cost could probably afford the £6.95 for dry cleaning. ‘It’s the cost of materials, and the labour involved—’
The shop door opened, letting in a blast of traffic noise and a tall man in a suit. Samia came through from the back and went to serve him, and Jess watched out of the corner of her eye as they both looked in her direction.
‘I don’t care,’ the woman was saying coldly. ‘The fact is that you expect me to pay for a service that has not been carried out to a sufficiently high standard. I’ll pay, but I’ll be taking it further, I can tell you—’
‘Do excuse me, madam,’ Samia interrupted, flawlessly courteous as always. ‘This gentleman would like a word with my young colleague here. Perhaps I can help?’
Jess’s immediate relief became a lurch of foreboding as she looked properly at the man for the first time and recognized him.
‘Mr Ramsay?’
‘Forgive me for bothering you at work, but I was passing and I thought I might as well drop this off. The council’s Empty Homes Officer delivered it yesterday.’
He placed a key on the counter. Jess picked it up and held it in her hand. It felt very small, considering everything it represented. She made an attempt to look happy. ‘Thanks. It’s good of you to bring it. Does that mean I can go into the house now?’
‘It does indeed. The electricity and gas have both been reconnected and the council have done an initial tidy up, but I don’t need to tell you that there’s still a lot to be done.’
At the other end of the counter the woman with the hideous handbag was speaking very slowly and loudly to Samia. ‘It’s the Supply of Goods and Services Act,’ she was saying, as if Samia was deaf, or stupid, or both.
Jess pressed the key into the palm of her hand, feeling the metal warm up against her skin. ‘I don’t suppose . . . You haven’t heard how Dan is, have you?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have.’ Mr Ramsay’s smile made hope fizz in the pit of her stomach. ‘There was a message on my machine this morning, from Mr Goldberg. He phoned before he left the office yesterday evening, which would have been about ten o’clock our time, to say that Mr Rosinski was awake and talking.’
At Jess’s squeal of excitement Ms Hideous-Handbag stopped talking and stared, outrage turning to disgust as Jess clambered onto the counter to throw her arms around Mr Ramsay’s neck. ‘Talking? So he knows? He knows about Stella?’
‘Oh yes, he knows,’ Mr Ramsay said dryly, straightening his glasses as Jess released him. ‘Apparently he’s been trying to pull strings and call in favours to get a flight to London.’ His smile slipped a little. ‘But he’s not well enough for that. He’s asked to come home, and they’re arranging that as soon as possible, probably tomorrow or Friday. But don’t get your hopes up, Jess. It might seem like he’s getting better, but Mr Goldberg says it could be quite the opposite. It’s not uncommon for people to . . . rally a little, near the end.’
‘I get that.’ She bit her lip, eyes stinging. ‘But it’s like . . . I don’t know, like a gift. A gift of time. We mustn’t waste it. Thanks, Mr Ramsay. Thanks for letting me know.’
‘You’re welcome. Don’t hesitate to get in touch if there’s anything else I can help you with.’ As he turned to leave he gave the handbag woman a frosty glance over the top of his glasses. ‘Excuse me, madam, I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m a solicitor, and I’d advise you that, since the work on your garment has been carried out with reasonable care and skill, you have no redress from the law for your accident with the red wine. I’d hate you to waste your money on a claim you couldn’t win.’ Turning, he gave Jess the ghost of a wink, and was gone.
My Dear Jess
Sorry for the radio silence. I wasn’t feeling so good last week and they took me into the hospital. I guess everyone thought it was the end – me included. And then they told me that you’d found Stella and although I was pretty far out of it and I don’t remember hearing anything, I must have. Because here I am. The docs said it was quite a dramatic comeback.
Jess, I know I don’t have long; miracles, like lightning, don’t strike twice in the same place. I wanted to say thank you, though those words sure are inadequate to express my gratitude towards you. These last few months you’ve given me hope and friendship and something to look forward to. Your emails brightened my days, and – even if we’d never got close to finding Stella – I knew that the search had turned up someone pretty darn special in her place. I’m glad I was able to get the transfer of the house organized in time. I hope that it, or the money that it raises, will give you the things you deserve in life. Security. Independence. A place to be happy.
It seems like I have been old for a long, long time; so long that I forgot what it was like to feel young. You made me remember, and allowed me to relive those days. I can’t think of a more precious gift.
Thank you.
Take care of yourself for me.
Dan xx
She’d picked up the email on Will’s laptop. It was Friday evening and they were at the house, the doors and windows thrown open to allow the green-scented air to flow through and dry the walls and surfaces and paintwork she’d scrubbed. Will had been there all day, and all of yesterday too, clearing out rubbish, sweeping away cobwebs and hacking into the overgrown garden, getting ready for tomorrow when Stella came.
She read Dan’s email again, swiping at tears with the hem of Will’s rowing club t-shirt. Before this week how long had it been since she’d cried? Years; when Gran died, probably, but it was like she’d inadvertently drilled into some kind of spring, hidden deep inside herself. All her emotions kept gushing out.
Leaving the laptop open, she got up from the lumpy sofa and went through to the back of the house. Through the open door she could hear Will’s voice, the staccato rhythm of his words spoken in time with the swing of his axe. Or Albert Greaves’s axe, to be precise, and Albert himself was sitting on a kitchen chair by the back door, one elbow propped on his walking frame, a can of beer in his hand, supervising.
They both looked up as she went out. Will straightened up, letting the axe fall to his side. The evening sun made a halo around his head and gilded the hairs on his forearms. After two days outside they were already turning brown.
‘Everything all right?’ he said, watching her face.
She nodded. ‘The connection’s working fine.’
He looked relieved. ‘That’s good.’
Albert took a sip from his can. ‘You get it up and running, then, your inter-whathaveyou?’
Jess went to perch on the windowsill beside his chair. The rose clambering up the wall would soon be in flower, she noticed. Creamy yellow petals were just visible where the green buds were splitting open. A drop of pure happiness expanded inside her at the prospect of what lay ahead; the summer, and a garden of her own, Dan’s priceless gifts of security and independence. And Will.
‘The internet. Yes. Karina next door has very kindly let us use her wireless connection, just until we get our own. We’ll need it tomorrow, you see.’
Albert shook his head, puzzled but content. ‘I don’t know. In my day, the wireless was something you listened to. Tommy Handley, now he was a funny man. Vera Lynn – The Forces’ Sweetheart. What was that song she used to sing ? Let me think . . .’
Will and Jess looked at each other. Smiled. An aeroplane droned distantly, a white trail fluffing up in its wake across the lavender sky. Albert started to sing creakily, like a gate opening on rusty hinges.
‘It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow . . .’
‘Yes,’ Will said, still looking at Jess, holding her in the sunlit warmth of his gaze, ‘I think it probably will be.’
Of course, it would ha
ve changed. It was silly to expect it to be the same after seventy years. New houses might have been built around it, a mini-estate, perhaps. The forget-me-not blue front door would probably have been replaced by one of those low-maintenance UPVC ones. Nancy might have taken out the fireplaces and installed radiators, and put in a modern bath of moulded plastic in place of the cast-iron one in which Dan had soaked on that long-ago summer evening. The violet wallpaper would be gone, for certain.
‘Nearly there,’ Will said gently beside her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes . . . thank you.’ The shops along the main street were all different. Unrecognizable. In fact, most of them weren’t shops at all but restaurants and cafés and takeaways. There was a bowling alley in the old picture house, a burger bar where the fried fish shop used to be. The pub was still there, and the corner shop where Dan had seen the card advertising a house for sale, though its old wooden front had been stripped away and replaced with glass and garish hoardings.
And then the car was slowing and turning into Greenfields Lane and she couldn’t look any more. How silly Will must think her, sitting there with her eyes closed, though he was far too sweet to say anything. She felt the car stop, heard the engine stutter into silence and Will open his door to get out. Inside her head she relived the moment when Dan had first brought her here, and she had stood with his hands covering her eyes and his breath warm on her neck.
Dan, where are we?
Home.
She opened her eyes, and saw that it was all just exactly the same.
Jess and Will stayed in the front room as she made her slow pilgrimage through the ground-floor rooms, gathering memories, greeting ghosts, touching the places where Dan’s hand had rested, all those years ago.