12
Five days earlier, Easter Sunday, 13th April, Romsey
RUTH’S BORED. THE EVENING SERVICE has been going on forever. The Latin washes over her, incomprehensible. She’s had to go to church more times since she came here than ever in her life before. And she’s damn sure she won’t be going again, once she leaves.
Right at the beginning, it’d seemed like she’d been on to a good thing, coming to Romsey. She’d escaped Southampton and the threat of the bombs, and even when they discovered she was too old to be evacuated, they hadn’t sent her back. They’d found her a cushy little job out in the sticks. Not much fun, but at least it was safe.
She’d had the old devil wrapped round her little finger. He’d promised all sorts when the war was over: a flat in town, nice clothes. She’d maybe even get a fur coat like the ones she’d seen in Mr Glass’s shop, and all for the price of a few photographs. She hadn’t minded that – it was nothing to her if he liked odd stuff – but it all changed, turned into a nightmare once he realised she was up the spout. She’d never thought it was possible, an old bloke like him, but there she was, expecting, and it was too late to get rid of it even if she wanted to. Course, he couldn’t marry her, she wouldn’t have wanted that in any case, but he promised to find the kid a home, give her enough money to get away. It’d been all right where she’d been, they didn’t notice anything even when she got quite big. It was only when the labour started, she had to call for help. And they’d come, him and the other one, and they’d dealt with everything and it hadn’t been too bad, but there’d been a moment after they took the baby away when she caught a look she hadn’t been meant to see, and she was scared. She knew she’d better get out of there, and quick.
Since then she’s been biding her time. Getting strong. Getting the things she needs together. Just waiting for the right opportunity. When Frank’s letter had come it had seemed perfect. They’d be able to help each other escape.
She dabs at her headscarf, making sure it’s still in place. Her hair has come out just the way she wanted, a bright white blond that makes her look like Jean Harlow. No more Miss Mouse for her. She’ll show them. She thinks of the red dress she’s stashed away, the scarlet shoes. It’s going to be a kick, walking out of this town all dressed up, looking like a proper woman.
The priest’s tone changes as he begins to speak in English. It catches her attention. Perhaps the service is coming to an end. She shifts in her seat, sits up straighter, ready to go. But he’s off again, praying for the souls of the dead. She sighs, listens to a list of names she doesn’t know, and couldn’t care less about.
And then, like a blow, it comes.
‘February the twenty-fourth,’ the priest intones. ‘A boy child, hours old, found abandoned. Known only to God.’
Her heart thumps in her chest, and everything goes black around her. It can’t be . . . But she remembers that look, and knows it is. Those promises, they must all have been lies. They’d left him somewhere to die . . . She feels like screaming. What choice had she had? She might not have wanted him, but she hadn’t wanted him dead.
The night plays out so slowly. She can’t sleep, she can’t cry. Her thoughts keep going back to the one brief glimpse she’d had of the baby: pale skin and a tuft of reddish hair, a streak of her blood on his face.
When morning comes, she goes to the chapel, lights a candle. It’s the last time she’ll be there, she needs to do it.
It’s time to go. Frank will be waiting. The only difference is what she’s going to do before she leaves. She’s not going to let the old devil get away with it. She’s got the evidence. He’ll have to pay.
13
18th April, evening and night
IT’S NO SURPRISE THAT WHEN I get to the office Miss Haward is coming out, keys in hand, ready to lock up.
‘I don’t know what you’re thinking of, turning up at this time of day,’ she says, before I have a chance to say anything. ‘I’m closing the office up now. I’m already half an hour late.’
‘I’m looking for Mr Nash,’ I tell her.
‘I gather you had a row with him this morning,’ she snaps.
‘It wasn’t a row. If it’s any of your business, he tore me off a strip.’
‘Whatever you call it. It won’t do, Mrs Lester. I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen. Nothing but trouble ever since you came. He didn’t even bother to let me know when he left the office. I expect he went home with one of his heads.’
It’s probably only because I’m so tired that I get a picture of Nash taking his pick from a cupboard full of heads. It isn’t funny, but I can’t help smiling. If he had a choice, I know he wouldn’t wear the one he does.
‘Don’t know what you’re laughing at,’ she says tartly. ‘All this upset. I knew it wouldn’t work, having a woman for his assistant.’
She turns the key viciously in the lock, clatters down the steps towards me. Just as she reaches pavement level, a lorry backfires in the street beyond, and she startles, stumbles, almost falls. I put out my hand to steady her but she shakes me off, flounces off down the street without a backward glance. She hasn’t noticed she’s dropped the fob with the office key in her haste. I pick it up, call out to her, but she doesn’t hear, or doesn’t choose to. My better self thinks I should go after her, but I’m so sick of her supercilious attitude I can’t be bothered. And as for tracking Nash down at home, I really can’t face it. What I know will have to keep a few hours more.
But the key in my hand is a temptation, despite my tiredness. It gives me a golden opportunity to start looking for clues about my father. Just beyond the door is an office full of records, all impeccably indexed. I’ve got my list in my bag, and there’s no one around to ask me what the hell I’m doing.
I wait a minute, to be sure she’s not coming back. But there’s no sign of her, no sign of anyone, so I make my way up the steps and open the door unchallenged. Inside, the office is unlit, dusky and warm. The building is silent around me. There’s a delicious feeling of trespass as I turn the key in the door to lock myself in.
Habit takes me first to the back corridor and my desk. There are no windows, so there’s no blackout to worry about. It’s safe to put the light on down here. I flip the switch and the dim bulb glimmers to life overhead. It’s so feeble it scarcely counts as light. I put down my bag, loosen my coat, flop down in the rickety chair. No need to rush, for the first time today I’ve plenty of time. So nice, not to be moving, talking, trying to work things out. I don’t have to deal with Nash or Miss Haward. I don’t have to make conversation with Dot and the girls, or worry about what I’m going to say to Alf, though there are definitely things I need to ask him. I’ll put my head down for a minute, rest my eyes.
*
Bram Nash knows if he sits very still, in the dark, in silence, eventually he’ll feel better. He’ll start to believe he can survive this time. But while it lasts, death would be a blessed relief. The nausea, the dizzy spinning of every sense, the tearing pain is as bad as the shrapnel that sheared away half his face.
*
Lying in no-man’s-land, listening to the groans and screams around him, listening to the whistle of shells overhead, sprayed with earth and blood. Growing dark, vision fading, growing cold. Listening to the sound of his own breathing, the bubble of it, feeling the numbness creep, blessed and fearful, so he curses the brave chaps when they come to fetch what’s left of him. He screams at them, ‘Take my pal over there.’ It’s not courage, it’s cowardice. He wants to die. But it’s too late. The silence tells him. His pals have gone already.
*
He’s empty now, but the retching goes on. Pain blinds him, but he doesn’t call out. All he wants is to be left alone.
*
When I wake, I’m so stiff I’m almost paralysed. My face is smooshed sideways against the desk, and there’s dribble on my cheek. As I creak upright, unsure what has woken me, my neck and back protest. I know where I am, but for a moment I c
an’t remember why or how I got here. And then it floods back. The key, the records. How much time have I wasted?
My feet and hands buzz with pins and needles as I move. A glance at my watch shows I’ve slept a long time. It’s after midnight.
I make use of the facilities, splash my face with cold water, begin to revive. I’d no intention of staying so late, but if I go back to Dot’s now, I’ll miss my chance. Another hour or two can’t matter to anyone but me. I begin to prowl, pent-up with a savage kind of energy which seems to seep into me from the fabric of the place. There’s a feeling, visceral, not butterflies, something more crude in my guts from being here, in a place I shouldn’t be, a place where no one comes outside the working day. It shivers through me, the potential of it, fuels the conspirator in me, the spy.
Time to consult my list.
The list of men I made after Nell died. The ones in the paper. My potential fathers, my mother’s seducer. The search for Ruth’s identity hasn’t made me forget my original search. It’s just put it off, and for far too long. Now I need to make good.
Miss Haward’s indexing is so thorough I have to forgive all the flounces and snottiness she’s treated me to, and send up a silent vote of thanks to her efficiency. Beginning with the names that I can’t put a face to, I track down three candidates straight away. Eliminate them just as quickly. A deed of conveyance shows Harry Wilks didn’t come to Romsey till after the last war, a blow-in from South Africa in 1926. A partnership agreement reveals Antony Bond, the vet, is no older than I am. And Robert Lisle has had a trust fund since a riding accident put him in a wheelchair, aged twelve.
I start again.
Bing, senior partner here. No papers in the general filing for him, but I’d hardly expect it. Maitland, the dentist. Nothing in the records. He must do business with some other firm. I’ll need to make enquiries elsewhere if I want to chase up either of them.
Waverley. A drawer full of stuff, though nothing recent. Oxley of Ramillies Hall, a drawer and a half, but most of that looks ages old. I’ll have to move on, come back to it later. I can’t wade through that lot now.
George Redfern, water bailiff. He’s got a thickish file, but there’s nothing that seems helpful in my search until a letter grey with age catches my eye. ‘. . . the unfortunate circumstance of a childhood infection with mumps . . . apply to adopt . . .’ Not George, then.
Ted Hudson. Newsagent. Like Redfern, a thick folder. I stop, paper in hand. A paternity order, dated 1923. My heart beats quick in my chest, but it’s too late for me. Some other poor bastard.
Joseph Fox. Grandfather. I can’t bring myself to look in these records for him. Not that I’d exclude him from shameful behaviour, despite his holier-than-thou attitudes, but I’m pretty sure incest’s beyond his scope. Besides, he’s far too mean to pay for a lawyer.
Alec Humphries. Lay preacher. A single sheet in his file. Papers in deed box EAH/Bing/QS05. I make a note to find out what the annotation means.
Outside, the abbey clock strikes two. It’s taken me longer than I thought. I’m shivering, sick with tiredness and cold. I can’t do any more tonight. I feel like I’m moving through molasses, some substance much darker, more viscous than air, weighing down movement and thought. I look around, make sure I’ve left everything tidy. I don’t want anyone knowing I’ve been here.
No sound from outside, Romsey’s at peace. I unlock the front door, slip through, lock up again. Hesitate. What to do with the key? Drop it for someone to find, let them assume it’s been there all along? Not very responsible, if the someone doesn’t happen to be an employee of Nash, Simmons & Bing. I could post it through the door, anonymous. I could use it as an excuse to beard Nash in his den at a respectable hour later today, or give it to Miss Haward on Monday.
I could keep it.
Lucky chances aren’t really a matter of chance, and there’s plenty I still need to find out. There’s that deed box to explore, those drawers of filing. It’s no choice, really. I put the key safely away in my bag with the list. I’ll decide what to do with it later.
*
Soft-footed, clear-headed now, Nash comes downstairs. The little cubbyhole is empty, but the dust betrays her. In the dim bulb’s light, motes dance as thick as a fall of leaves. There’s a shine on drawers that haven’t been opened in years, that haven’t seen polish since God knows when. There’s a fragment of colour, a wisp of frayed red tape on the floor. He opens a drawer and a crumpled slip of paper is dislodged. Rex v Humphries. It’s nothing to do with the case in hand.
There’s only one possible conclusion.
She’s been snooping.
The question is, what has she been looking for?
14
19th April
IT ISN’T THE SUN POURING through the window because I’ve forgotten to draw the blackouts that wakes me. It isn’t because I’ve slept long enough, or I’ve got to get up and pee. It’s because someone’s knocking, not particularly loudly, but very persistently, on my bedroom door.
I come reluctantly out of sleep, a sick taste in my mouth.
‘What is it?’
‘Mrs Lester?’ Dot’s voice. ‘I want a word with you.’
I sit up, struggle to get my thoughts in order.
‘Come in.’
As soon as she comes through the door I can see she’s offended. A glance at my watch shows it’s late, almost ten, but it’s Saturday. Surely she can’t mind? I don’t have to work. I try a smile.
‘Good morning, Dot.’
‘That’s as maybe.’
I feel vulnerable, in my night things, not properly awake, while she’s fully armed and waiting to explode.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Don’t play the innocent with me. What do you think this house is, coming home with the milk twice in a row? I don’t think so.’
‘Look, Dot—’
‘Don’t you look Dot me. This is a decent household.’
It’s too much. This again: this, always. As if I can’t be decent because of who I am. All the stresses of the past few days rise up in me, pitch me into a mood as black as Dot’s.
‘Oh, I see. Too good for the likes of me, I suppose.’ I throw the covers back, swing my legs out of bed. ‘I’ll get out, shall I? Give me half an hour.’
I stand up. The room cavorts around me like the Waltzer at a fair.
‘Whoa.’
I have to sit down again. Not even pride can keep me on my feet.
Dot comes further into the room, stands over me.
‘Looks like drink,’ she says, almost conversationally, but I’m not sure it’s me she’s talking to. ‘Doesn’t smell like it though.’
‘Not drink.’ After Richard, the way he was, it’s the last thing I want. ‘Just not enough sleep.’ Sitting down, the room steadies and I rally a bit. ‘But there, you know all about that.’
‘No call to be rude,’ Dot says. Her attitude seems to have softened a little. ‘You look bloomin’ rough.’
‘I feel it.’
‘What’s wrong with you? What’ve you been doing?’
‘Didn’t think you wanted to hear.’
She frowns. ‘Never mind about that. Get on.’
So I tell her. All I can tell her, anyway. And some things I probably shouldn’t. By the time I’m finished, she’s sitting on the bed, tutting sympathetically.
‘Sounds like you’d better get back to sleep then,’ she says at last. ‘I’m a silly old fool and I never should have believed—’ She breaks off, looking embarrassed.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘Who shouldn’t you have believed?’
‘Never you mind.’ But there’s no conviction in it.
‘Dot?’ I say, but she shakes her head. I try again. ‘Please?’
She shrugs. Pretends not to care, but it doesn’t work.
‘Miss Waverley came round. She’s not happy about me taking you in.’
A flood of questions rise up in my mind. But the one that comes out of my m
outh is, ‘What’s it got to do with her?’
‘Nothing really,’ Dot says. ‘But you know what it’s like. She’s got her finger in every pie. President of the WI, Knitting Circle, flower rota at church. Evacuee welfare, Land Girl billeting, the lot. Places I go, stuff I do. She can’t actually stop me, but she can make life bloomin’ awkward if she doesn’t like you.’
‘And she doesn’t like me?’
‘You could say that. Whatever did you do to her?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know. Other than being born in the first place. You know what it’s like. People like her don’t approve of people like me.’
‘She certainly doesn’t approve of you working for Mr Nash. She wanted to know how you got the job. I never let on about you not coming home but . . . she said maybe you were, well . . .’
‘Sleeping with him?’
That night in London has nothing to do with guilt, nothing to do with anyone but ourselves and the war, but I’m painfully conscious of how it would look if anyone in this small-minded town ever found out.
‘I shouldn’t have taken any notice,’ Dot goes on. ‘But she said she might have to reconsider about letting Betty and Joan come here for their meals.’
‘She could do that?’
‘I don’t know. Those girls – I get a consideration for feeding them. And there’s the extra rations.’
‘If it’s going to make it difficult for you, I will go.’ Not that I’ve any idea where.
‘Never you mind for now,’ she says. ‘Sleep on it.’
And because I can’t keep awake any longer, I do.
*
It’s a beautiful spring morning. After the headaches, Nash always feels purged, threadbare, in urgent need of solitude. He’s ferociously thirsty, still. Even his skin seems to drink as he washes. He hurries through his ablutions, eager to get out into the fresh air. He can’t bear to frowst indoors another moment.
He needs to be able to think.
No. That’s not it. First, he needs not to think. He wants to be where the sunlight can burn off the memory of weakness, out in the fresh air where the breeze can carry away the taint of sickness. Somewhere that’s quiet, and death is a simple matter of killing to eat. Foxes versus rabbits, no malice intended. No secrets and dust, no shut doors. In his present mood, he’d be happy if he never had to see a human face again. Never had to think about the things people do, why they do them.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 11