Clare turned the photograph over. There were only three words on the back: ‘you and me’. No names, no dates. The bottom edge of the picture had a crinkle on it, just where her thumb was, as if another hand had often held it as she was doing now.
Who were they? Clare felt a glimmer of curiosity, a spark of interest that she hadn’t experienced for some time. She dug out the poetry book from her bag and checked inside the cover, but there was no name or inscription giving a clue to the owner. But as she flicked through the rest of the book, she found a folded piece of paper wedged between the pages at the back. She eased it out carefully, undid the fragile folds, and read the words that covered the page in bold, cursive script.
‘My darling girl, this has to be the end. I cannot leave her now, and you are too good to take me if I did. The game is lost – but what a fine time we had playing! You have my heart, always. Until the next life. Yours, R. x’
Clare wiped the tears from her cheek. Imagine receiving a letter like that! The next thought scuttled in quickly after. Imagine losing a letter like that… but she didn’t need to imagine. She knew. When Ed had been diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumour and given only weeks to live, he had written a farewell note to her, which she had treasured until it, too, had been lost in the floods. She knew the words off by heart, but she would give anything to have the note again, touched by his fingers, written in his hand…
And she knew, without needing to give it any thought, that she was going to do everything she could to find out who this note belonged to and return it to them – if it wasn’t too late.
*
It was the weekend before Clare had the chance to visit Miss Moonshine’s shop again, and she found it surprisingly busy. She waited until Miss Moonshine was free and showed her the poetry book.
‘You probably won’t remember me, but I found this in one of your Lucky Dip boxes,’ she began.
‘Of course I remember you, my dear. You’re the girl who knows books.’
It was better than being the girl who didn’t win, Clare supposed.
‘Is there something wrong with the book?’ Miss Moonshine asked. ‘No returns on Lucky Dips. You take the box as you find it.’
‘No, the book’s fine. Only I found a couple of things tucked inside it, and I’d like to return them to the owner if I can. Do you have any record of where it came from?’
‘There have been so many things over the years…’ Miss Moonshine shook her head. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help. Was it something important?’
‘Maybe. Only to the owner.’ Something held Clare back from saying more. The note seemed too intense, too private to discuss in a busy shop. She reached in her bag and brought out the photograph. ‘I don’t suppose this rings any bells?’
Miss Moonshine peered at the photograph.
‘That man…’ she began, and Clare’s hopes rose. ‘But no,’ Miss Moonshine said, shaking her head. ‘I thought he favoured someone, but I can’t place who it is at the moment.’
Clare held out her hand for the photo, but Miss Moonshine started tapping at it. ‘I can tell you where this tree is, if that helps.’
‘Really?’ Clare moved closer and inspected the tree in the background of the photograph. She hadn’t noticed before that the trunk was split in two, and only one half was bearing leaves. ‘Is it local?’
‘I believe so. It looks very much like the Lightning Tree on the moors to the west of town, on the way to the ruined chapel. It was struck by lightning back in 1922… or was it 23? I can’t be sure. I’m so sorry I can’t be of more help.’
‘No, you have been. If the photo was taken locally, it suggests that the people in it might have been local too, which could make them easier to find.’
Clare reached for the photo again, and the charm bracelet glinted on her wrist. She still wore it every day. It hadn’t brought her any luck, but she found a curious comfort in feeling the chain against her skin.
‘That’s a pretty bracelet,’ Miss Moonshine said. ‘Is it a clover for luck?’
‘Yes.’ Clare hesitated, but her conscience had been pricked. The truth rushed out. ‘It was in the Lucky Dip box, under the books. Didn’t you know? I wondered if it might have been a mistake, because it must be far more valuable than the cost of the box. You should have it back…’
Clare started to remove the bracelet, but Miss Moonshine covered her hand and stopped her.
‘No returns on Lucky Dips,’ she repeated, smiling. ‘The bracelet is yours now. Maybe it once belonged to the same person as the book and the photograph?’
Clare hadn’t thought about that and determined to go through the contents of the box again, to see if there might be other clues about the owner. She had taken a few steps towards the door when Miss Moonshine called after her.
‘Have you thought of contacting the local newspaper?’ she asked. ‘I would guess the photograph dates back to the early 1950s from the hair and dress. It would be worth checking the archives. Perhaps there might be a record of the couple marrying? You never know your luck.’
*
Clare did her best to ignore Miss Moonshine’s suggestion, but after a weekend of fruitless searching on her own, she had to face the obvious. The newspaper was an excellent place to look, and Clare already had a contact at the West Yorkshire Times. Could she really ask a favour of him, when she had been so rude before? She had to. Returning the note to its owner had already become personal, as if restoring this final message could somehow make up for the loss of her own. So on Monday morning she rang the newspaper office and asked to speak to Ben Murphy.
She had almost lost her nerve, and was about to cut the call, when Ben’s warm voice stole into her ear.
‘Hello, it’s Clare,’ she mumbled. There was no reply. ‘Clare Sampson. From school. From the newsagent’s. The girl who didn’t win,’ she added in desperation, mortified to have been forgotten again.
‘I know which Clare,’ Ben replied, and she could hear amusement in his voice. ‘I’m just surprised to hear from you. You made it pretty clear when we met that you didn’t want to talk to me.’
‘Sorry about that. It was a shock, that’s all…’ She stopped. She didn’t want him to think she’d changed her mind about the scratch card story. ‘Is there any chance we could meet? I wondered if you could help with something.’
‘Sure. Do you work in Haven Bridge? I’ll be there this afternoon actually. Why don’t we meet on the packhorse bridge at one?’
Today? She hadn’t expected him to agree so easily, or to be free so soon. She glanced in the mirror. She wasn’t looking her best; it was hard to find the motivation to make an effort nowadays. Still, what did it matter? It wasn’t a date. There had been no dates since Ed. There would be no more dates, because she had already loved and lost the man who was meant for her. Nevertheless, when she left the pharmacy to walk to the packhorse bridge just before one, she had acquired a slick of lipstick and mascara from the samples on the pharmacy shelves.
Ben was already waiting on the peak of the old stone bridge that straddled the river in the centre of town, leaning over the side to watch the ducks as they paddled around the small island that divided the water below. He lifted a hand in greeting as Clare approached.
‘This was one of my favourite spots as a child,’ he said. ‘I used to pester whoever was looking after me to come here and feed the ducks.’
A shadow crossed his face, and Clare wondered about his turn of phrase. Who had looked after him? His parents had been alive when they were at school: it had been impossible to miss their arrival at every concert or Parents’ Evening in the biggest, most expensive car. Before she could ask – if she dared – he smiled.
‘Lunch?’ He gestured towards the café beside the bridge, and without consciously agreeing, Clare found herself ushered through the door and to the one free table in the window.
‘Spot of luck, wasn’t it?’ Ben said. Clare nodded, and without thinking she touched the charm bracelet on her wrist.
They ordered lunch and spent a while reminiscing about their schooldays, although they had been part of such different groups within their year that they shared few common memories. Clare had thought it might be awkward – she would never have dared to speak to Ben at school – but it was easier than she had expected. In fact, it was good. He was funny, told a story well, and listened as if he was genuinely interested. She sat back in her chair, realisation striking her. Was he just acting as a journalist? Was he still fishing for information about the girl who didn’t win? She stared at him suspiciously.
‘How long have you been a journalist?’ she asked, interrupting his tale about the Sixth Form prom.
His laughter abruptly died.
‘About twelve months.’ It was the shortest sentence he’d spoken for some time. He looked away, through the window. Clare was intrigued.
‘Why journalism? I thought you were heading for great things in the family business?’
‘I was. I did.’
‘Didn’t it work out?’
Ben looked back at her, frowning.
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘The business went bust. Two years ago. We lost everything.’
The previous warmth in his voice had gone, replaced by a flat, unemotional tone that was achingly familiar to Clare.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the trite words inadequate, as she well knew. ‘I wasn’t living here then. I hadn’t heard.’
He shrugged and pushed his plate away, abandoning half his sandwich.
‘It’s old news now. Just another business lost to the recession.’
But it wasn’t – it was his family business, the one that was supposed to provide his future. She wanted to reach out, explain that she understood, but the words wouldn’t come; she wasn’t ready to share her story.
‘How did your parents take it?’
He grimaced.
‘Badly. Forty years of work disappeared overnight when the bank pulled the plug. It destroyed them.’
‘And you turned to journalism?’
He sighed and rubbed the side of his face.
‘It was what I’d always wanted to do, given the choice. But it’s not easy starting at the bottom at my age. The pressure’s on to make it work, so my parents can stop feeling they’ve let me down.’
He sat back as the waitress approached and filled their coffee cups. By the time she left, he had found a smile, but with her new knowledge Clare could see the edges to it, note the lack of spontaneity behind it.
‘So why do you need my help?’ he asked. ‘Please tell me you have a fantastic story that I can sell to the nationals and get my name out there…’
Clare took the photograph from her handbag, feeling awkward now that she only wanted to take his help, not give any.
‘Remember this photo?’ she asked, passing it across the table. ‘I’m trying to find out who these people are, if I can.’
Ben studied the picture.
‘Like I said, the man looks familiar, but I still can’t think why. I don’t know the woman. Should I?’
‘No. But I think the photo was taken locally, and I wondered if there was an archive at the newspaper and an easy way to check it…’ Clare trailed off, having second thoughts about asking him now. She hadn’t minded using him when she dismissed him as a mere journalist. Now she had been reminded that there was a man behind the job, a man who hadn’t had the easy life she’d assumed. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, plucking the photo from his hand. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. You must be far too busy for this.’
‘I am busy. I’m interviewing a dog who can ride a scooter in half an hour.’ He laughed. ‘The junior reporter gets all the best stories.’ He looked at her across the table. ‘Is it important that you find out who this is?’
‘Maybe. I have something that belongs to them that they might like to have back.’
‘That sounds mysterious. Aren’t you sure?’
‘I’d want it back if it were mine.’
She willed him not to ask any more questions. She didn’t want to mention the note, not here, against the backdrop of shouting toddlers and with expectant customers hovering near their table, eager for them to leave. She didn’t want to risk him asking why it meant so much to her. He studied her in silence, then nodded.
‘I don’t have time today, but I’ll have a look as soon as I can. Have you done a reverse image search?’ Clare shook her head and Ben smiled. ‘I’ll try that first. With a bit of luck, the answer will only be a couple of clicks away.’
*
It was three days before she heard from Ben, and when he eventually rang Clare could tell from his voice that he’d found something. Infuriatingly, he wouldn’t tell her what it was.
‘Meet me by the canal bridge next to the locks on Sunday morning,’ he said, laughing off her questions. ‘All will be revealed.’
He was already waiting when Clare arrived, a steaming takeaway coffee cup in each hand.
‘Hello,’ he said, holding out one of the coffees. ‘Black, no sugar, right?’
‘Right,’ she replied, smiling back, and feeling an unexpected nugget of warmth that had nothing to do with the drink now heating her hands. ‘Well remembered.’
‘Observation skills,’ he said, laughing. ‘First thing they teach at journalist school. Shall we head to the park?’
They strolled along the towpath by the canal, past the colourful narrowboats and on through the gate into the park. Ben led the way to a bench that was catching the morning sun.
‘So what have you found?’ Clare asked, the moment they sat down. ‘Do you know who the people in the photograph are?’
‘I know who the man is.’ Ben took out his phone and pulled up a photograph. ‘What do you think? The same man?’
‘Definitely.’ Clare smiled, but peering at the photograph again, began to frown. ‘But he looks different in this one. More… groomed,’ she concluded, struggling to find the right word. The picture on Ben’s phone was a head and shoulders shot, and the man was wearing a jacket and tie. He was leaning to one side, smiling straight into the camera, and it almost looked as if he were wearing make-up.
‘Who is he?’ she asked. Something else about the picture niggled her. He looked familiar, and not because of the original photo. She felt as if she should know his name, but that couldn’t be right, could it?
‘You’re not going to believe this.’ Ben paused. ‘It’s Randall Hunt.’
‘Randall Hunt?’ Clare repeated. ‘Wasn’t he an actor?’
‘Not just any actor.’ Ben tapped at his phone. ‘He was part of the Golden Age of Hollywood. At one point he was tipped to rival Cary Grant as a leading man.’
‘He was?’ Clare’s heart sank at the use of the past tense. ‘You mean he’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so. He died about 15 years ago. But his career ended well before that, back in the fifties. Probably not long after your picture was taken.’
‘Oh! Why was that?’
‘No one knows. It’s a mystery.’ Ben leaned closer to Clare, and she could see the curiosity lighting his eyes. ‘Look, it’s all on Wikipedia. He just vanished from the public eye.’
Clare scrolled through the Wikipedia entry. It was exactly as Ben had said. Randall Hunt had been set for super-stardom, after his first two films had made his name, and he was widely feted as the new darling of Hollywood. But then he had abruptly retired from the movies, and very little more was known about him until his death was announced. There weren’t even any details about whether he had ever married or had children.
Clare handed back the phone.
‘Did anything come up for the woman in the photo?’
‘No. I’ve not found a match for her yet, and no other photos of them together.’
Clare sipped her coffee, watching a pair of dogs chasing across the grass.
‘So it’s a dead end, isn’t it?’ she said eventually, disappointment stretching
from her scalp to her toes. ‘She could be any woman, from anywhere in the world. I was told it might have been taken beside the Lightning Tree up on the moors, but that can’t be right, can it? Why would a Hollywood actor have been in Yorkshire?’
‘Actually, he was.’ Ben showed Clare a different page on his phone. ‘His last movie was filmed on location around Hardcastle Crags. He was in the area for several months. There are quite a few articles about it in the archives. But I suppose that doesn’t mean she was a local woman. You don’t even know what the relationship was between them. She could be someone who worked on set, or even his sister.’
‘Definitely not his sister, not if he wrote the letter to her,’ Clare said, then stopped as Ben turned those curious eyes on her. She hesitated, and then put down her cup and fished the letter out of her handbag. ‘Here. I think this belongs with the photo.’
She watched as Ben read the words, saw the rueful smile soften his lips as he reached the end.
‘So that’s what you wanted to return,’ he said, passing the paper back. ‘A love letter. You’re a secret romantic, aren’t you?’
‘No, it’s not that.’ Clare turned towards Ben, drawing back when their knees brushed. ‘It isn’t just any love letter. It’s a last love letter – the final memento of a love affair.’
‘And you really think it’s so important that someone would want it back? Over sixty years later?’
‘Yes! This might have been it, their one chance of happiness, and for some reason it was snatched away. You don’t get over something like that. Even a goodbye is precious when you know there can’t be anything more. It must have been devastating to lose this,’ she added, looking down, feeling the weight of her own loss crushing her all over again. Only it wasn’t all she felt; briefly, Ben’s knees pressed against her own again.
Miss Moonshine's Emporium of Happy Endings: A feel-good collection of heartwarming stories Page 24