There’s a man in deep water, calling my name.
Blood runs down the face of a boy who has to be Abe. But beneath the heavy-framed spectacles, he doesn’t have eyes, just a pulpy crimson mass.
I wake up swearing. Switch on the light. The clock shows a quarter past five. It’s too early to risk waking the household, but there’s no hope of more sleep. I lie quiet, trying to shake off the pictures – imagined and remembered – only too glad when I hear someone begin to move around. Putting on my dressing gown and slippers, I creep downstairs.
Dot is dressed, ready for the day. The kettle’s humming on the stove.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’
‘Lovely. Can I do anything to help?’
‘Pass me that bowl on the sideboard if you like.’
‘This one?’
The yeasty smell of proving bread rises from beneath a folded tea towel.
‘That’s right.’ Dot flumps the dough onto the tabletop, begins kneading it. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘Alf said you wanted me to know your name from before. Josephine Fox.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Sylvie Fox is in my knitting group.’
‘Is she?’
Dot splits the dough into three, shapes each piece into a round loaf.
‘Close-mouthed, aren’t you? A proper little Fox.’
‘Not what my grandfather would say.’
‘I wondered if you might be Nell’s little bit of trouble.’
‘I suppose I am. Did you know her?’
‘Bit younger than me. Real beauty she was, that dark hair and blue eyes.’
It’s an evasion, but I don’t know her well enough yet to push it.
‘I must take after my father, then. Do you know any pasty redheads with ditchwater eyes?’
She takes a knife, slashes the shaped dough decisively.
‘I heard your mum died.’
‘Yes. Just after Christmas. She wouldn’t tell me anything either.’
‘This bloody war.’
‘It wasn’t the war. She had cancer.’
If I’d said Nell had died of syphilis, Dot couldn’t have looked more embarrassed.
‘That’s bad.’
‘All death’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘Sometimes folk welcome it.’
‘Nell didn’t. She wanted to come home. But she was frightened.’
‘Your grandfather’s a hard man.’
‘He’s all of that. But I don’t think it was him she was scared of.’
‘No?’ Dot turns away, sliding the loaves into the oven. ‘You’ll excuse me if I get on. You can take that kettle for your wash if you like. It’s nice and hot.’
I take the hint, go back upstairs. But it leaves me wondering, as I wash and dress, what it is Dot doesn’t want to tell me. And how I’m going to find out, make her change her mind.
The coroner may, at any time after he has decided to hold an inquest, request any legally qualified medical practitioner to make a post-mortem examination of the body of the deceased . . . with a view to ascertaining how the deceased came by his death (Jervis on Coroners, 1927:145).
Nash is early arriving at the hospital mortuary, half expecting Dr Waverley to be in an obstructive mood. He’s come prepared to argue his case with the senior man. A post mortem on the girl is a necessity; they need to prove she didn’t die in the air raid. But when he arrives, he’s surprised to find a young surgeon alone in the department, the post mortem almost complete. The body on the stainless steel table is open, Y-incision gaping. Half a dozen jars are lined up along the bench, filled with the internal organs that have been removed from the girl. Only the brain, a lump of pinky-brown matter like a doubled fist, lies exposed on the scales.
‘Mr Nash,’ the surgeon greets him cheerfully. ‘I was expecting you an hour ago. Job’s nearly done.’
‘I was told to come at eight thirty.’
‘Must be some mistake. The theatre list starts at nine, and I’m assisting.’
‘And Dr Waverley? I wanted him to do the PM.’
‘He said there was no need. Open and shut case.’ He grins, shamefaced. ‘Nothing complicated, I mean.’
‘I see. So what have you found? Cause of death?’
The surgeon prods a darkened patch on the side of the brain.
‘What you’d expect. Bang on the head, bleed in the brain. Lights out.’
His flippant manner sets Nash’s teeth on edge.
‘Anything else?’
‘Perimortem bumps and bruises, no signs of force, no significant injuries apart from the skull fracture. No sign of recent sexual activity. She wasn’t a virgin, though. She’d had a baby.’
‘A baby? She’s scarcely more than a child herself.’
‘Not at all. She was sixteen, maybe seventeen. Girls like her start breeding in ankle socks.’
Though he doesn’t spell it out, his tone says it all. Lower class, no better than she should be.
It sticks in Nash’s craw to have her so lightly dismissed, even if her work-worn hands and rough little feet, the cheap finery she was wearing when they pulled her out of the cellar, support the glib assessment.
‘Time of death?’ He’s more abrupt, perhaps, than he needs to be.
‘What time did the bomb drop?’
‘You think she was killed in the air raid?’
‘Seems pretty obvious, surely?’
‘Too obvious, perhaps. Have you seen the other bodies?’
‘Nothing to do with me.’ The surgeon laughs nervously. ‘More than my life’s worth. Between ourselves, Doc Waverley’s pretty fed up with you for insisting on having a PM done on this one.’
‘Between ourselves,’ Nash says, tightly, ‘I couldn’t care less.’ He pauses, holding on to his temper as best he can. ‘Tell me, how many post mortems have you done?’
‘Enough.’
‘And yet you’re not surprised at the state of the body? You haven’t mentioned any signs of blast.’
‘Because I didn’t see any.’ The young surgeon picks up the brain, slides it into the remaining empty jar. ‘The lungs are clear, and there’s no blown debris in the wound.’
‘Precisely. Then she can hardly be a bomb casualty, can she?’
‘Maybe not.’ He shrugs. ‘Perhaps she was a looter, wandering about in the ruins in the dark. She could have fallen in by accident.’
‘Your findings don’t seem to support that thesis either. No other significant injuries, you said. Isn’t it more likely she was killed elsewhere and brought to the site, dumped there to be found?’ For some fool to make easy assumptions, he thinks. For some killer to get off scot-free. He takes a breath, presses down the anger. ‘You must see why I’m asking for an approximate time of death. Or don’t you feel competent to assess it?’
‘There was full rigor at midday when you got her out.’ The surgeon’s resentful, on his dignity now. ‘That’s eight hours, minimum. Up to sixteen, maximum. No one thought to take a temperature for comparison, so I can’t be more precise.’
‘That would mean she died sometime between eight on Monday night and four yesterday morning?’
‘If you insist.’
‘What I insist on is doing my duty. Finding out who she was, and how she came by her death.’
‘I wish you joy of it.’ The surgeon turns his back, pulls off his gloves. ‘I suppose you want me to tell Doc Waverley the body has to be kept?’
‘I do. When will I get your report?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Make it today. Tell Waverley I’ll sign the other certificates. Those deaths are straightforward enough. But this one . . .’ He touches the stiff, icy hand. ‘I won’t sweep her under the table for anyone’s convenience.’
*
This morning it feels as if Romsey is claiming me back. Not the people, because this is no prodigal’s return. I’m not likely to be taken into the bosom of my family, I’m more of a viper in its breast. But
the place knows me, or I know it, and my feet still find the way without conscious direction. Even the scatter of new houses along roads that didn’t exist when I was a child doesn’t put me off. I follow my nose to the fields, find my way across the stream on stepping stones that have been there since the Saxons came.
No one sees me. At the railway line I avoid the farm gate, duck under the wire, listening for the clack of the signal before I cross the track. A few yards more and the cottage where I was born comes into view. The place looks shabbier than I remember, and there’s no sign of anyone around. The door’s firmly closed, the curtains drawn, but I go warily, breathe more easily once I’m safely past. The new hospital buildings, raw red brick, loom from the hillside where I remember picking blackberries and making daisy chains. I feel a stranger for the first time today.
I’m early for my meeting with Nash. There’s no sign of him, but the porter’s lodge has a hatch in the door and a notice which says VISITING 2–3 P.M. WEDNESDAYS AND SUNDAYS, NO CHILDREN, FATHERS ONLY FOR MATERNITY. And in smaller lettering underneath: RING FOR ASSISTANCE.
I ring. The hatch snaps open, and my grandfather is standing on the other side. I’m stunned to see him. Despite the war, it never occurred to me he might be back in his old job at his age. But I have to concede that at almost eighty, he doesn’t look it. He’s hardly changed from how I remember him. Stretched a bit thinner, perhaps; a little man as tough as old boot leather with a face like an axe, and an expression to match. For a moment I want to run.
‘Josephine.’ My grandfather finds his voice quicker than I do. His tone is not so much surprised as outraged.
‘How are you, Grandfather?’
‘Much the worse for seeing you. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m working for Mr Nash. I’m his new assistant.’
‘Tsss. What’s your game?’
‘My game? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You always were sweet on that Jew-boy.’
‘It’s a job, Grandfather.’
‘Lost your man, or so I heard.’
Aunt Sylvie must have told him about Richard. But he’s not the only one who can play dumb.
‘And then my mother died.’
No response.
‘Your daughter.’
Still nothing.
‘Nell.’
‘I lost my daughter, Ellen, let me see. How old are you?’
‘Surely you remember?’ I pretend surprise. ‘I’ll be forty in July.’
‘Forty years ago, then. You think a man can grieve for ever?’
‘I think he might have regrets.’
He sneers. ‘About you?’
‘I was talking about my mother.’
‘You should never have been born. Spawned.’
‘Who are you calling a frog?’
The blood – and it sickens me to think it’s his blood too – runs chilly in my veins.
‘You, you bastard get of—’
‘Go on. Whose get? You know, don’t you?’
‘And if I do?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘I’ll never tell you.’ He’s full of scorn, of disgust.
The old injustice sweeps over me.
‘You threw me out, but I hadn’t done anything wrong.’
‘You’d been born.’
‘You and Granny brought me up.’
‘If it had been left to me I’d have got rid of you at birth.’
‘You hated me that much?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care a fig for you either way. But thanks to you I lost my daughter. Thanks to you, your grandmother died before she should have. You were born in sin, you brought shame on our family name.’
‘What about my father? What about his sin?’
He shrugs. ‘A man does what a man must.’
‘And Nell?’
‘I taught her right from wrong. She knew what she’d done.’
‘And you don’t blame him? Couldn’t he have married her?’
‘None of your business. Get out.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. I told you, I’m here to meet Mr Nash. Where will I find him?’
He spits at my feet. I can’t help it, I step back. It puts the ghost of a smile on his face.
‘Nash don’t run this hospital, whatever he thinks. I take my orders from Dr Waverley.’
‘I’ll wait here, then, shall I? Where anyone passing will see me. The red hair’s quite distinctive, I’m told. Who knows who might recognise me?’
‘Mortuary,’ he says, sour. ‘Big black door round the back. Sooner you get in there, the better.’
I make myself smile, though there’s no mistaking what he means.
‘Thank you, Grandfather. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’
The hatch slams shut in my face. I’m shaking as I walk away. It’s not only the shock of finding him there, the intensity of his reaction. It’s knowing he could have told me about my father any time he chose.
What is this secret? How bad can it be?
And there’s something else clawing away in my mind. Nash made sure I knew the hospital had moved. So why didn’t he tell me my grandfather would be there?
6
The same day, late morning
NASH HAS BEEN WRONG-FOOTED all morning. It began with arriving at the post mortem too late. And then, as soon as he’d dealt with the self-important young doctor, he’d run straight into Jo.
You bastard, she’d launched at him, eyes glittering. Why didn’t you warn me about my grandfather?
If he’d had a reply for her, he didn’t get a chance to offer it before Waverley had come striding down the hall, confrontational as ever.
Still fussing about that girl? Nothing but a little tramp.
Even if that’s true, Waverley, she deserves the truth. Her death should be investigated.
Waste of time. This talk about murder, it’s a mare’s nest, man. You’re imagining things.
But Nash hadn’t imagined the haughty way Waverley had inspected Jo when he’d introduced her as his assistant, nor the hostile way she’d reacted. And he hadn’t imagined the open challenge to his authority from Waverley’s parting shot.
I’ll have a word with Superintendent Bell. We’re in the same lodge.
So it’s a matter now of setting an investigation in motion before the old boy network can block it. When Nash arrives at the police station to make his case it seems as if things are going his way at last. He’s shown straight into Sergeant Tilling’s office.
‘Take a seat, Mr Nash. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve come from the post mortem on that girl in the pub.’
The policeman shakes his head. ‘Bad business, a kid like that.’
‘We still don’t know who she is?’
‘No one’s come forward to identify her. I reckon she must have been a trekker come up from Southampton, trying to get away from the bombs. Would have been safer if she’d stayed at home.’
‘It wasn’t the air raid that killed her, Sergeant.’
‘Is that what the doctor says?’
‘The doctor, bone-headed idiot that he is, assumed she died in the blast. I soon disabused him of that idea.’
‘Pardon me, sir, but wouldn’t he be the expert?’
‘Have you seen the bodies of the seven we know were in the pub?’ Nash takes the sergeant’s wince as confirmation. ‘Well, then. You understand. The condition her body was in, she can’t have been anywhere near that explosion.’
‘You hear stories,’ Tilling says. ‘People being found dead after a raid with not a scratch on them.’
‘You do, but then you find their lungs are blown to smithereens when you look inside. And hers weren’t. There would have been debris in her windpipe if she’d been there, if she’d been breathing as the bomb hit.’
‘You can’t be sure of that, Mr Nash. It’s not as if we’ve seen anything like it before.’
‘Oh, but I have, Sergeant. Don’t forg
et, I was two years on the Western Front.’
‘You’ve got the advantage of me there, sir. But surely . . . the shells, that was all part of what you might call the military machine. The trenches must have been poles apart from a village pub.’
The advantage . . . It’s not how Nash has ever thought of it before.
As patiently as he can, he says, ‘High explosive doesn’t differentiate, Sergeant. Civilian or soldier, you get too close to an explosion and you’re dead meat. Ask Ma Bryall and the rest.’
‘No need to be coarse, sir. It’s bad enough.’
‘I apologise, Tilling, but it’s true. I’ll stake my reputation that the girl died unlawfully, and it wasn’t because of a stray bomb. You need to investigate.’
‘It’s not as easy as that. My boss seems to think—’
‘Your boss?’
‘Superintendent Bell. He was on the blower to me just before you came in.’
It’s only taken Nash a few minutes to get from the hospital, and it seems he’s already too late.
‘What did he say?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Nash. He told me it wouldn’t be an effective use of police time to mount an investigation.’
‘No investigation?’
‘No, sir.’ Tilling shifts uneasily in his seat, blunders on. ‘He says your judgement may be affected by the circumstances.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You said you were there, Mr Nash. Earlier in the evening. And Sally, everyone knows what she . . . Why a bloke like you might be in a place like that.’
He stands. ‘I see. Well, you can tell everyone that I won’t be deterred by what they think. And I won’t give a certificate for that girl’s death until I’m satisfied I know what happened to her.’
Before he goes back to the office, Nash takes time to calm down. It won’t do to let his secretary see he’s annoyed, and there’s Jo still to face.
He’d known her grandfather might be on duty at the hospital. Joseph Fox had wormed his way on to the staff there the minute war was declared. Freeing the fit and able for service, he’d said, when Nash had questioned it. The words you poor cripple had hung in the air, as plain on the old man’s face as if he’d shouted them.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 4