Beyond a Misty Shore

by Lyn Andrews

  ‘You never said there was anyone else,’ he said, the pain evident in his voice.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t think you were so serious, Ben.’

  ‘Who is he? Where is he?’ he demanded, feeling increasingly upset and humiliated.

  ‘Someone I met on the island. He went back . . . back to where he came from. It’s a long way away and I . . . I haven’t heard from him since. It’s been a year now.’

  ‘Then you might never hear from him again, Maria.’

  ‘No, I might not.’ It hurt her to say it; it hurt her to even think it.

  ‘Then . . . then . . . why . . . ?’ He didn’t understand why she was turning him down. Couldn’t she see she might be wasting her life waiting for this bloke, whoever he was, to come back from wherever it was he’d gone to? He might even now be married to someone else.

  She just shook her head. She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘because I love him and will never love anyone else, no matter what’.

  He took her hand. ‘It doesn’t change the way I feel about you, Maria. I love you and I’d still like to marry you. We could make a go of it, I know we could.’

  She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. She knew she should put a stop to this now, it wasn’t being at all fair to him, but she just couldn’t. The words she knew she should say were just too hard and cold, they would cause him too much pain. ‘I can’t promise anything, please don’t push me to say things I’ll regret. I don’t want to hurt you, Ben, you must believe that. I never wanted to hurt you . . .’

  He seized on her words. ‘I won’t push you, Maria, I promise. I’ll wait, wait until you feel . . . until you’re ready.’

  She didn’t reply but as they walked the rest of the way in silence she had the feeling that he really hadn’t understood how she felt. But was she being foolish? Was Sophie right? Was she wrong to turn Ben down, waiting for some word from a man who had gone out of her life all those months ago and who might never return?

  Chapter Eighteen

  AUGUST THAT YEAR WAS very hot and even though Sophie had opened all the windows, the stifling heat seemed trapped in the very fabric of the house. She had been kept busy all summer as people wanted summer dresses and light jackets made and her list of clients kept increasing as her work was highly recommended. She had also made two special outfits for customers whose daughters were getting married but who had not been able to afford the prices charged by the high-class establishments in Liverpool and had despaired of finding anything ‘special’ enough with their coupons in the less expensive shops. Both women had been delighted and had promised to recommend her to friends with weddings in the offing.

  Frank had returned home in July and on a visit to Lizzie’s Sophie had bumped into him as she’d turned the corner into Harebell Street. Her heart had turned over; he’d looked so handsome in his uniform, his skin tanned by days spent in the sun and by the warm salt breezes.

  ‘Sophie!’ he’d cried and before she could say a word he’d hugged her and kissed her.

  She’d pulled quickly away from him although the feelings that embrace had evoked had made it so very hard. ‘You look well, Frank. I’m glad to see you,’ she’d stammered, trying to compose herself.

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Of course I do. Your mam must be glad to have you back home too, is that where you are going?’

  ‘For a bit of supper, although I wish I could move back there,’ he’d said, falling into step beside her.

  ‘I’m going to Lizzie’s,’ she’d informed him. She’d tried to keep the conversation light and brief but she could see he wanted to linger and in truth so did she. But then Nora had emerged from Nellie’s house in a gaudy, flowered cotton dress, which made her quickly hasten towards her aunt’s house where the front door stood open and brought the fleeting meeting to an abrupt end.

  True to his word, Arthur had taken Hetty out. They’d taken the train to Southport and the ferry across to New Brighton, and they’d gone to concerts in the Tower Ballroom. They’d even ventured as far as Hoylake on the other side of the Wirral peninsula. Hetty really did seem to enjoy these outings, Sophie thought, although they tired her; but she had colour now in her cheeks, which hadn’t been there before.

  Today they’d gone down early to the Liverpool Landing Stage where the St Tudno was tied up, taking aboard passengers for a day trip to Llandudno. It was so warm that the sail up the Mersey and around the coast of North Wales would be a pleasant relief, Arthur had stated. They intended to have lunch at the Imperial Hotel followed by a gentle stroll along the sea front before returning to the little steamer for the return trip. Nothing too strenuous, he’d promised Sophie.

  It was a blessing they were out for the day, she thought, for Billy was coming after lunch, mainly to give his long-suffering mother a bit of peace and quiet. The houses in Harebell Street were like ovens, Lizzie had declared, even though all the windows were open and she kept both front and back doors wide open all day and most of the evening. It was the range; it had to be kept in for cooking and hot water – Sophie should be very thankful that they had a gas cooker – and as it was the school holidays Billy was driving her to distraction with his antics. So Sophie had insisted that he come and spend Sunday afternoon in Laurel Road.

  ‘You must be mad, Sophie, having to put up with those two in this weather,’ Maria had declared as she got ready to go out too. She was taking a trip on the ferry with one of her friends from work; it was just too hot to go anywhere else and at least on the river there was a bit of a breeze. These days Katie was too involved with Matt to be much company and the last thing she wanted was for her cousin to suggest that they take the trip with Matt and Ben. She still saw Ben but far less frequently for she didn’t want to raise his hopes, it just wasn’t fair. In fact she regretted now that she hadn’t been totally honest with him and told him she could never marry him, but she just hated hurting anyone.

  Sophie had debated taking Bella and Billy to the seaside but, as Maria had pointed out, everywhere would be absolutely packed and knowing Billy, he’d probably go and get lost, so she’d decided against it. Besides, she wanted to have a meal ready for when Hetty and Arthur returned for they’d both be tired and hungry.

  She had some hemming to do so she’d sent the two children upstairs to play with the promise that they could have some ice cream later on, providing they behaved. She had the beginnings of a headache but put it down to the oppressive heat.

  At three o’clock she gave them the promised ice cream, having grown tired of Bella’s trips up- and downstairs to beg for the treat. Her headache hadn’t lifted and she’d had to lay aside her work so it was with some relief that she heard the first dull rumble of thunder. Thank heaven for that, a good storm might just clear the air, she thought before remembering that Maria and Arthur and Hetty were out. As she closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair she hoped they would all be able to find shelter of some kind. Perhaps Hetty and Arthur might even miss it being in Llandudno until five o’clock.

  Billy and Bella were bored. They had finished the ice cream and were tired of playing games and now it was raining heavily so there was no possibility of going out.

  ‘There’s not much to do around here, Bella, is there? I mean at home we used to play out in the street or on the bombsite,’ Billy complained, gazing morosely out of the attic window at the rooftops down which a deluge was pouring.

  ‘No one plays in the street here, Billy,’ Bella stated.

  ‘That’s just what I mean – it’s dead boring.’

  Bella pursed her lips, thinking her cousin used to be more fun when they lived in Harebell Street; all he did now was complain.

  Billy suddenly had an idea and brightened up. ‘I know, Bella, we’ll explore. I bet there’s rooms in this house you’ve never been in; we might even find some treasure.’

  Bella was doubtful. ‘What kind of treasure, Billy?’

  ‘I don’t know, secret papers, cod
e books – stuff like that.’ Billy ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in tufts. ‘Come on, there’s nothing else to do.’

  They decided to start in the cellar after first having ascertained that Sophie was busy in her workroom, although to their surprise they found her dozing in her chair and quietly tiptoed away. The cellar proved to be a big disappointment for all they found were boxes of dishes and ornaments that Hetty and Sophie had packed away.

  ‘Where shall we try next?’ Bella asked as they came back upstairs, their hands liberally coated with dust, some of which had also transmitted itself to Billy’s face. ‘There’s just sewing stuff in Mam’s room and I know there’s no treasure in the living room or dining room and only pans and stuff in the kitchen. Aunty Maria and Aunty Hetty wouldn’t have any code books or stuff and neither has Mam.’

  ‘What about Mr Chatsworth’s room? I bet he’s got loads of secret papers. Mam said he would never say what he did for a job or even where he came from, I bet he was a secret agent or something during the war.’ Billy was quite taken by the idea of the mysterious Arthur Chatsworth being some kind of spy.

  Bella wasn’t too sure. ‘I don’t think we should go looking in Uncle Arthur’s room, it’s private. Mam wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Don’t be a scaredy cat! Anyway, she won’t know, she’s asleep and we’ll be very quiet,’ Billy urged.

  Bella had never been in Mr Chatsworth’s bedroom before and looked around curiously as Billy quietly closed the door behind them. There was a bed, two wardrobes, a tall chest of drawers and an easy chair. There was a big plant in a pot on a stand, a small bookcase on top of which were some ornaments and in the bay window there was a desk, which she thought was an odd thing to have in a bedroom.

  Billy too had noticed it. ‘Why’s he got a desk in his bedroom, Bella?’ he whispered.

  She shrugged, not really interested and feeling uneasy at being in here. ‘I don’t know, maybe he writes a lot of letters.’

  ‘Who to? I bet he really is a secret agent.’ Billy was convinced now and crossed to the desk. He began to open the drawers. ‘I bet he’s got a special box somewhere where he keeps his code books. He might even have a gun,’ he said, rifling through the contents, which seemed to comprise mainly of notepads, envelopes and dictionaries.

  Bella was losing interest; she didn’t honestly believe that Uncle Arthur was any kind of agent, secret or otherwise.

  Billy was still engrossed in his search for the elusive ‘treasure’ and had piled a sheaf of papers from one of the drawers on to the top of the desk. Also on the top of the desk was a heavy, old-fashioned brass stand that contained two inkpots and a sort of blotting pad with a handle. There were two pens as well, one shaped like a quill. It was pretty and as Bella reached to pick it up her arm caught a large coloured glass paperweight. It fell off the desk, crashing on to the wooden boards of the bay where the carpet didn’t reach.

  They both stiffened and Billy stared at his cousin in horror. ‘What did you go and do that for?’

  Bella’s face crumpled. ‘I told you we shouldn’t come in here and go rooting through Uncle Arthur’s things. Mam will kill us!’

  Billy made a grab at the papers and was frantically trying to stuff them back into the drawer when Sophie appeared, looking very annoyed.

  ‘What on earth are you two doing in here? Get down those stairs this instant and the pair of you can apologise to Uncle Arthur when he gets back. This is his room where he is entitled to keep all his private things. Bella Teare, I’m shocked and surprised at you, you know better than to do something like this. I am very cross with you both and so will Uncle Arthur be. Now go down at once!’

  The two miscreants fled, leaving Sophie shaking her head in disbelief and wondering just how she was going to explain this escapade to Arthur, for he valued his privacy greatly.

  She bent and picked up the paperweight and then started to retrieve some of the documents that had fallen on the floor when Billy had tried to stuff them back into the drawer. The black lettering of the heading on one caught her eye and despite herself she began to read it. As she read, the colour slowly drained from her cheeks, her hands began to shake and she collapsed to the floor, leaning back against the desk. It couldn’t be true! It just couldn’t! But it was, this document proved it. Arthur Chatsworth had been in prison for fifteen years. That was the sentence he’d served for the crime he’d been found guilty of: manslaughter. She sat staring at the words, which now seemed to blur together. It all fell into place now: why he valued his privacy; his reluctance to talk about his past life; the reason he’d not been in the forces, the Home Guard or Civil Defence during the war; the reason he’d been forced to lodge with Lizzie.

  She let the document fall as she tried to remember the odd things he had told them about himself. He had no family, just a cousin in Vermont whom he only wrote to at Christmas. He had been a widower for many years, his wife having died young. He’d lived with Lizzie for four years and now lived here with herself, Maria, Bella and Hetty – and they’d not known that he’d killed someone.

  She fought down the panic and tried to think more rationally. He was an educated man, hadn’t he said he’d worked for a chartered accountant? As long as she’d known him he’d always been quiet, well mannered, generous and thoughtful. He’d even lent her the money to start her business. She gathered up the papers and put them back and closed the drawer. She realised that she would have to confront him; there was nothing else she could do. She had to find out what had happened and then . . . then what?

  Chapter Nineteen

  SOPHIE HAD TAKEN BILLY home later that afternoon, accompanied by a penitent and subdued Bella, and to Billy’s profound relief nothing was said about the matter to Lizzie. If it had been Billy knew there would have followed a severe telling-off from his mam and possibly chastisement by his da. He’d never seen Sophie so annoyed, although when she’d come downstairs she was very quiet.

  By the time Arthur and Hetty returned Sophie had sent Bella up to bed and had laid out corned beef, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumber and bread and butter in the dining room for, despite the storm, it was still sultry and the last thing she’d felt like doing was cooking.

  Hetty, however, noticed that she was preoccupied and looked rather pale and enquired if anything was wrong.

  ‘No, it’s just that it has been a rather trying afternoon, so hot and then with the storm,’ Sophie replied.

  ‘Thank goodness we missed it; we were quite astonished when we got back to Liverpool to hear about it. We had fine weather all the way,’ Hetty informed her.

  Thankfully the old lady retired early, worn out by the exertions of the day. Maria only dashed in and – after hastily changing out of her wet clothes, having not been as fortunate as Hetty – went out again with her friend Mavis.

  Summoning up her courage Sophie sat down in the chair opposite Arthur, who had stated he was going to read the newspaper for half an hour before retiring as he hadn’t had chance so far today to catch up on current events.

  ‘Arthur, there is something I . . . I have to speak to you about,’ she began hesitantly, dreading these few next minutes.

  He folded the paper and laid it on a side table. ‘It must be important Sophie, you look rather troubled. What’s wrong?’

  She nodded. ‘The children got rather bored this afternoon and . . . and I’m afraid they went into your room and when I found them . . .’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘. . . they’d taken some documents from one of the desk drawers and I couldn’t help but . . .’ She began to twist her hands together nervously, afraid to look at him.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath and bit her lip, wondering if he would become angry and start shouting or . . . worse. The seconds seemed to stretch into eternity before he at last spoke.

  ‘So, you found out, Sophie.’

  She looked up, surprised by his quiet, regretful tone, which was devoid of any anger. ‘I . . . I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t
.’

  He nodded sadly. ‘I’m afraid it’s true. Did . . . did the children . . . ?’

  ‘No. No, they don’t know. But what happened, Arthur?’

  ‘I’d better tell you the whole sorry story, Sophie. I should have told you long before this but . . . but I was afraid to and I was so ashamed.’

  She sat in total silence as he told her how as a young man he’d worked hard and had secured a good position with a reputable firm of accountants in Manchester, and of how he’d met and married Marjorie, his wife. She’d come from quite a well-off family and they’d had a lovely home in one of the quiet suburbs but Marjorie had liked a good time. She was what had been called in those days a ‘bright young thing’ and she hadn’t seen any reason why marriage should alter that way of life; she hadn’t been prepared to sit at home just being a housewife. She wore all the latest fashions, was very attractive and enjoyed going out to the theatre, supper parties and then on to fashionable nightclubs. She always insisted on staying out late and eventually both his work and his bank balance had started to suffer. Consequently there had even been some doubt about his continued employment with Asquith and Mason.

  He’d tried to reason with her, pointing out that if he lost his job their lifestyle would suffer drastically, but she’d refused to listen and then heated arguments had followed. Finally she had insisted on going out alone, saying she had plenty of friends who enjoyed her company and who would see her safely home. And indeed she did have a wide circle of friends and so she’d got her own way. His life had suddenly been turned upside down and had become more and more intolerable, but he’d been at a loss as to how to repair their increasingly deteriorating relationship.

  Then he’d come home unexpectedly early one evening suffering from the sudden onset of a digestive upset. He’d told her that morning that he would be working late and he had found her with someone else: a man who had instantly fled and whom she had sworn that she barely knew; he was little more than an acquaintance. He had just called on her, there had been no assignation and in fact he’d forced himself on her, which was why he’d left so quickly. Arthur hadn’t believed her. It was so obviously a pack of lies. There had been a terrible row. She had called him a dull, pen-pushing bore who didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘enjoyment’ and had accused him of ruining her life. Then when he forbade her to go out to nightclubs alone in future she had just laughed at him and he’d lost his temper. He’d lashed out at her, something he had never thought himself capable of doing. She had recoiled, tripped over a footstool and fallen, fallen awkwardly, and hit her head on the corner of the fireplace. He’d been horrified, unable to believe that she wasn’t breathing. He’d never meant to strike her; let alone kill her. It was a terrible, terrible accident but he’d struck her. He himself had gone for the police when he’d realised she was dead. It had been in all the newspapers and there had been an outcry for things like that just didn’t happen in that quiet, respectable suburb, and then . . . well, she knew the rest.