Despite the creeping stupor of the hot water, I can’t help thinking about Nash.
Why hadn’t he told me he’d been at the pub?
I slide down into the water, slowly submerging. It doesn’t make sense. He said he wanted me to find out everything about the girl. My heart thumps as pressure builds in my chest. I should surface and breathe, but I stay where I am, eyes open to the fish-eye view, the bright bulging rim of water above me.
Because he’d been there, looking for sex? I think about London. How it was between us. The urgency and passion.
I surface, gasping, lungs aching. There’s a pulse deep in my groin. I’m hot with adrenaline and steam, the thought of Nash and sex. I simply can’t believe he’s hiding guilty knowledge. He wouldn’t have set me to investigate if he’d been involved.
But he hadn’t told me the truth. And a one-night stand is no guarantee of character.
Shadows leap as my candle gutters. I’m cold, all at once, skin prickling with goose pimples. I step out of the water, dry myself in the flickering dark. I’m as angry as I’ve ever been, and not just with him.
8
17th April
Possession should not be taken of property . . . unless there is no trustworthy person in whose charge it can be left, but if no such person is available, it is a convenient course for the coroner’s officer to take possession of the property, though this is not strictly any part of his duty (Jervis on Coroners, 1927:268).
ANOTHER EARLY MORNING AT ROMSEY station. Not arriving or departing this time, but waiting. I watch as the down train to Portsmouth Harbour comes and goes, followed a few minutes later by the up line train to Salisbury. A couple of women emerge from the wicket gate and trudge away into town. Should be . . . just about now.
The time between the early trains and school had always given the gang the best chance to hang around the station. Regular as clockwork, Mr Burnage would go across to the stationmaster’s house for his breakfast. We had all sorts of opportunities then. Grab a few knobs of coal that had fallen on the ground when a train was refuelling – never take it from the bunker, that’s stealing – pick up a shovelful of horse manure for Grandfather’s roses from where Marsh’s carts turn round – Bunny’ll have it otherwise, best display of geraniums on the Southern line.
I’m hoping the stationmaster still takes the same half-hour break. If the war hasn’t altered his schedule, it’s my best chance to try and redeem the left luggage ticket I pinched out of the ARP box. It won’t work if he doesn’t leave his post, because he’ll remember what I left with him, know it’s already been collected. I look at the ticket in my hand again. Number thirty. The one I got for my suitcase was thirty-two. Whatever it is that’s been left – whoever left it – it must have been done in the last day or so, and by someone who was at the pub. I have to find out. Footsteps, ponderous, sound from the platform. In sudden panic I dive into the telephone kiosk beside the ticket office. Pretend to be making a call.
Right on cue, Bunny Burnage goes past. He doesn’t look my way as he crosses the station yard and disappears inside the green front door. I put down the receiver, press button B without thinking. As children we always used to do it, hoping for a payout that hardly ever came, but today I’m shocked silly when two pennies rattle into the brass cup.
I hesitate before scooping them up. Taking the left luggage ticket was fair game, like gleaning coal from the shunt yard. The pennies are different, more like theft. An impulse from the past. The girl I’d been then wouldn’t have thought twice. Josy would’ve had them in a flash. We all would – any of us, except Abe. He’d never have done it. He’d never needed the money.
He’d been master of the art of lying by omission, though. We wouldn’t dream of picking apples from your trees, Mr Barr, sir. Just a few fallers . . . You don’t mind? Looking clean, and eager, and decent in a way none of the rest of us could manage. And then, when we got round the corner, collapsing in laughter, all of us crowing at his cleverness. Because of course we’d shaken the apples onto the ground by the bucket load.
Maybe he hasn’t changed so much after all.
A boy with a railway uniform two sizes too big and the vacant expression of the not-quite-all-there takes the ticket from me. I’m nervous he won’t be able to help me, but he seems capable enough in his own domain. He matches up the ticket, hands over a small leather suitcase. I thank him, offload the guilty pennies as a tip. He looks around shiftily, gives me a grin as he pockets the coins. I feel pretty shifty myself as I walk away.
I’m halfway down Station Road when I hear voices, and two women emerge onto the pavement opposite. One of them’s the girl from the ARP post. The other, an older woman, has a vaguely familiar air, though I can’t quite place her. Miss Margaret waves across at me, and I smile, but I’m glad they don’t cross to my side of the road. I’m conscious of the way I tricked the girl yesterday. I don’t think I’m up to making polite conversation with the suitcase so conspicuous in my hand.
We’re walking in the same direction, but they’re ahead, so after that first moment I’m out of their view. The street’s very quiet and I don’t think they realise how their voices carry. Or perhaps they don’t care. Not that I’m listening, until I hear my own name. And then, like all eavesdroppers, I don’t hear anything good.
‘Josephine Fox.’ The older woman’s voice is strident. ‘Scullery maid’s by-blow. Keep well clear, my dear.’
‘But, Miss Waverley . . .’
That’s who she is. The girl’s voice is less distinct and I have to hurry to stay in earshot.
‘. . . working for Mr Nash?’
‘Cuts no ice with me. Bad blood there too. Mother was an East End Jew.’
The girl casts an agonised look over her shoulder. The older woman’s voice drones on.
‘As for Fox—’
‘. . . Lester?’
‘Never mind about that. Send her to me if she comes sniffing around again. I’ll soon see her off.’
I come to a halt, feeling winded. So much for the wartime spirit, all pulling together.
Obviously not in Romsey.
*
The abbey’s north garth, with its ancient cemetery, had always been one of my places to hide. Between the jumbled gravestones and tabletop tombs of long-gone Romsey townsfolk the grass grows lush and flower-studded, and any sense of the dead is a faint, benign presence.
I’d been inconspicuous there as a child, but now I stick out, a curiosity. Visiting the long dead. One Jeremiah Hunton, grandly entombed in 1789, has to accommodate my impatience as I set down the suitcase on his mossy slab. I’m not going to risk taking the case into the office without knowing what’s in it, making sure I’m on the right track. I feel sweaty, thinking about it. What will I do if it turns out to be a commercial traveller’s samples or someone’s leftover sandwiches?
There’s nothing to be learned from the outside. No helpful labels, just a few odd scratches and worn places, a bit of nondescript string whipping the handle. It’s not very big, scarcely enough to hold a change of clothes. I take a breath, try the clasps. I’m not expecting them to work, but they flip up easily and the lid opens, releases a faint, musty smell.
Clothes. A girl’s clothes. For a moment I’m relieved, thinking I made the right guess. But as I take them out, pile them up, I start to doubt. It’s a meagre collection, quite unlike the clothes the unknown girl was wearing. Everything here is shabby, thin with washing and wear. There’s a pair of Aertex knickers, a vest with a darn on the shoulder. A faded nightdress of pink sprigged cotton. The outerwear looks as if it was once school uniform: a blue cotton blouse and grey pleated skirt, a hand-knitted navy cardigan with a moth hole in the sleeve.
My heart sinks, but I press on. The sponge bag holds flannel and soap, a sample size of Soir de Paris. The tiny blue bottle distracts me for a moment, makes me grin. I had one just like it, pinched from Woolworth’s when I was twelve. But the memory’s short-lived, and I shiver a
s I put everything back. It feels shameful to be pawing these poor childish scraps. It’s not even as if I can be sure they belonged to the girl. And if they don’t, I’ve no idea how I’m going to get them back where they came from.
One last chance. The lid has a ruched satin pocket with an elasticated top that holds it flat. It doesn’t look as if there’s anything inside, but I slide my hand in anyway. My fingers find something loose, a papery edge. I pull gently, bring whatever it is out into the light. And find I’ve struck gold. A double fold of flimsy paper encloses two postcard-sized photographs: a young man in sailor’s uniform, and a snapshot of a girl, hugging a black-and-white sheepdog. For a moment, it feels as if my heart will stop, because it’s our girl in the picture. Our dead girl. She’s looking up at whoever’s behind the camera, laughing. It’s a bit blurred, and I’ve only seen her in a chilly, mortuary sleep, but there’s no mistake. I turn the snapshot over. Read the pencilled, laborious lettering.
Paddy and me.
*
At eight o’clock, a depressed-looking man answers my ring on the office doorbell.
‘You’ll have to come back later. No one here but me till half past.’
I explain who I am. Seeming almost more depressed, he lets me in, shows me to a billet at the back of the building.
‘It’s yours,’ he says. ‘It isn’t much.’
He’s right. It isn’t. Someone has crammed a table and chair into what is obviously a storage area, a dog-leg corridor that seems to go nowhere in particular. A space has been made between two battered filing cabinets, forming a kind of cubbyhole to work in. Every other square inch is packed with stuff: shelves heaped with ancient-looking manila files; stacks of boxes piled on the floor.
‘Got a duster?’ I ask.
The wall behind the table is grey with cobwebs. A film of dust covers the table, where a battered old Remington typewriter has been given pride of place.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I was finishing moving the furniture when you rang the bell.’ He fishes in the pocket of his brown overall, brings out a grubby rag. ‘This do you?’
‘I suppose it’ll move the dirt.’
He watches me rub over the table and chair, clean down the ghost shapes on the wall.
‘Dry work,’ he says. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
‘I could murder one.’ I turn the duster to find a cleaner section. ‘Surely Mr Nash’s last assistant didn’t work here?’
‘He were a copper, worked over the police station. Just used to come in for orders.’
‘I must be a bit of a shock, then?’
‘That you are.’ He sighs. ‘I’ll get that tea on.’
‘Lovely.’ I hand back the rag. My hands are filthy. ‘I’ll need a wash.’
‘Cloakroom’s next door. You’ll find me downstairs.’
After he’s gone, I look around, wondering what to do with the little suitcase. I don’t want to leave it on show, but I don’t want to carry it around either. There’s no kind of security in this cramped space, not even a door to shut.
A stack of tin deed boxes pokes out from under the table. Just right to catch my stockings every time I move, but they might make a hiding place. I stoop, work the case into a narrow gap. When I stand up, I’m dustier than ever. But it will do till Nash arrives.
The thought of him, of what I’ve got to say to him, makes me queasy. I hope the tea’s good and strong.
*
‘Your hours are 8.30 until 5.30,’ Miss Haward says. ‘Half an hour for lunch. Tea is provided at 10 a.m. and 3.30 p.m., one shilling a week for the kitty.’ She stares hard at me. ‘In advance.’
‘OK.’ But I’m not offering yet.
‘Saccharin only, unless you bring your own sugar. You’ll be working under Mr Nash’s instruction, but I expect you to maintain office standards. Confidentiality is the watchword. And I won’t have Cissie and June distracted with unpleasant details about your work.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. When does Mr Nash come in?’
‘That’s really none of your business.’
‘It’s exactly my business.’ She’s driving me mad already, with her petty rules and power struggle. ‘Since I’ll be working directly for him. I can’t imagine you’ll want to be bothered every time I need to speak to him.’
I watch her work it out.
‘He’s usually here by 9.00 a.m. if he doesn’t have an appointment on his way in.’
‘And has he got one today?’
‘I don’t know.’ It’s reluctant, resentful, but at least I’ve won the first round.
‘OK. Have you got a Kelly’s Directory tucked away somewhere?’
*
The abbey clock strikes nine, and then half past, and there’s still no sign of Nash, though I’ve been sized up by almost all the rest of the office staff. Miss Haward obviously hasn’t told them not to distract me. I know about the caretaker’s bad back, Cissie’s invalid husband, June’s hopes that her boyfriend will propose. Even Mr Simmons, who turns out to be the elderly lawyer type I saw at the hotel, has dropped by to welcome me to the firm.
Such a poppet, June told me. Should have retired ages ago, but for this beastly war. Mr Nash keeps himself to himself, but you want to watch our Mr Bing. Hands everywhere, and him married with three young kiddies.
Though it isn’t hands when Mr Bing comes in, but sitting on the table, leaning over me; asking if I’m not fed up to be stuck in a dead-and-alive hole like Romsey, and would I like to go for a drink one evening? A proper shark. I didn’t need June’s warning to refuse him.
By quarter to ten, I’ve tracked down the address I wanted in Kelly’s Directory, paid over my shilling, talked a notebook out of Miss Haward’s stationery stash, typed a report for Nash, and still he hasn’t arrived. Bloody man. Why can’t he get to work on time? I’ve got places to go, things to do. A conversation to have. And a sailor to find.
But it’s past ten o’clock before I stand in the bright north light of Nash’s office, lift the suitcase on to his desk.
‘I found this.’
I’m expecting him to ask where I got it from straight away, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything at first, simply stands, hands laid quietly on either side of the scratched leather case. I can’t help noticing how many scars and scrapes he has on his hands. Tiny red marks, like fresh burns. I think about what the dog woman said, can’t help wondering how he got them.
It startles me when he suddenly slips the catches with a snap and opens the case. He empties it, stacking each item methodically on the desk. I can’t read his face as he examines the sad cache, lingering longest over the photographs.
‘It’s her,’ I say. ‘The girl.’
‘Yes.’ He sighs. ‘Disappointing there aren’t any documents.’
I avoid his eyes. I’ve a card to play, but I’m not ready yet.
‘I expect they would have been in her handbag.’
‘No sign of it?’
‘There was nothing I could see at the Cricketers’. And I checked with the ARP. I suppose it could be with the police.’
He shakes his head. ‘Sergeant Tilling would have told me. You’d better tell me, Jo. How did you get hold of this?’
‘The case was in left luggage at the station. I found the ticket in a box they had at the ARP post.’
‘They let you take it?’
‘Don’t ask. Then you can claim ignorance if it comes back to bite me.’
‘You think so? Anything else?’
I pretend not to understand.
‘Her shoes,’ I say. ‘She didn’t have any. There’s nothing logged for her at the hospital, and none lying about at the site, nor in the ARP box. She can’t have got to the Cricketers’ barefoot.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it, but . . . It’s just as I said from the beginning. Someone must have brought her there, dumped her like so much rubbish.’
I flinch, hope he doesn’t notice. ‘So all we’ve got to do is find the shoes. Or the bag.’
/>
‘He’ll have destroyed them the first chance he got.’
‘There’s the sailor’s picture. It was taken at a place in Southampton. I’ve looked it up. I thought I’d go and see if they’ve got any records to show who he is.’
‘It’s a bit of a long shot. Even if they’ve got something, he’ll be at sea.’
‘It’s worth a try.’
‘Where’s the studio?’
‘College Place.’
‘By the Ordnance Survey offices? You’ll be lucky. They’ve had a lot of bombs round there.’
I can’t hold back any longer. ‘Don’t be so bloody defeatist.’
‘What?’
‘You heard what I said. I’m beginning to think you don’t want me to find out about her after all.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘It doesn’t feel ridiculous. Not now I know you were at the pub that night.’
‘Ah.’ A silence. ‘You must have run into Ollie.’
‘If Ollie’s a woman with a dog called Tizzy, then yes, I did. She said you were lucky not to get caught in the air raid.’
‘Did she.’ It’s not a question. But it’s not an answer either.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
More silence.
‘She said you’d gone to meet someone.’
‘I didn’t know she was my keeper. Or that you are.’ His tone is light, but the words are pitched to sting.
‘Don’t get all poncy about it. It’s not what I meant and you know it. The more you weasel away, the more I wonder what the big secret is.’
‘I went to see Sally. The local tart. You know how it is. But she’d got a client already. Though I’m afraid poor Stan probably died a virgin all the same.’
‘And the girl?’ I try to match his coldness. ‘Was she a prostitute too?’
‘For all I know. Never saw her before they got her out of that cellar.’
‘That’s the truth?’
‘What is this, some kind of third degree?’
The bright morning light is as cruel as a spotlight. I’ve got him cornered, on the ropes. Another round to me, but it doesn’t feel good.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 7