He walks for hours, out onto the edge of the New Forest, open heath land that offers a great arc of uninterrupted sky above him, only a pony or two for company. By lunchtime, he’s ready for more than spring water to drink, and he finds himself a dour public house where the landlord serves him Strong’s bitter and a hunk of bread and cheese with taciturn courtesy. He’s not let his mind dwell on anything but the walking: sunshine and birdsong, the breeze through the grass. But now, refreshed, once more fully in command of his own body and its functions, he’s ready to reconsider the problem of the dead girl.
*
When I wake again, it’s almost a quarter to three. I can’t believe it. I’m out of bed on a reflex before I remember. It’s Saturday, and I was up half the night and most of the night before, and I’ve identified Ruth and had a row with Nash and one with Dot, but it’s OK with Dot now so I can relax. Except Dot’s in trouble with Miss Waverley because of me so maybe I can’t. And I still haven’t reported to Nash.
It’s afternoon, but my body feels like it’s midnight. I wash hastily, get dressed. Go downstairs almost at a run, though I’m not sure why I feel such a need to hurry. Granny would have laughed at me, all behind like a cow’s tail.
In the kitchen, Dot and the Land Army girls are getting ready to go out. The girls have their coats on, and Dot’s reaching for hers. There’s the big teapot in the middle of the table, and three used cups on the draining board, and I feel absurdly disappointed that I’ve missed the party.
‘Back in the land of the living, then?’ Dot says. ‘You’re just in time.’
‘I am? What for?’
‘The jumble,’ Joan tells me. ‘There’s a sale on at the Parish Rooms. Got to get there when the doors open or all the good stuff’ll be gone.’
‘Um . . .’
‘Come on if you’re coming.’ Joan’s practically dancing with impatience.
Dot hands me my coat. ‘Change of scene will do you good.’
Before I know it, I’m hustling down the road with Dot and the girls, listening to Joan’s excited chatter. Whatever Betty’s saying in return is inaudible, but I get the impression she’s not as eager as Joan. Dot tucks her arm through mine, as if to make sure I don’t duck out.
‘Might be the last chance,’ she says to me.
‘What?’
I’m still reeling from the after-effects of my daytime sleep and the haste of our departure. My brain doesn’t seem to be working at all.
‘There’s rumours they’ll be rationing clothes before long. People won’t want to chuck stuff out then. It’ll be coupons for everything.’
‘I suppose.’
It’s a long time since I was last at a jumble sale. That was in Romsey, too.
*
The Annual Garden Party Fete. Held the first Saturday in June at the Briars, the official residence of the senior doctor at the hospital next door. Gates open at two o’clock sharp, highlight of our summer social life. Hoarding pennies for weeks, anticipating the heady delights of candy floss and guess the name of the doll, sleeping in her cardboard box. She has golden hair, lace on her knickers, bright blue eyes that open when they stand the box up. A mauve dress this year, last year it was yellow, but it could just as easily be the same doll over and over again. I’ve never known any child win her.
Bowling for the pig – my uncles have a go at that. Sweet little piglet, pink as a doll, screaming in its run. Tom won it once. Fatten it up, don’t give it a name ’cos there’ll be screaming again come Christmas.
Manicured lawns, roses in serried ranks. Ladies in summer dresses and white gloves, kids tidy as Sunday school, hair plaited tight or slicked down, getting bored, money spent, getting loose, playing tag and goosie goosie behind the asparagus beds.
Over by the greenhouse, the jumble stalls. One for clothes, piled high, women with prams rummaging through. They pack up when there’s only a pair of grubby white jodhpurs (who’d ever wear those?) and a couple of odd socks left. The other stall’s bric-à-brac. One year my heart sets on a china dog with its ear knocked off, and I wait all afternoon, turning up my nose at Lucky Straws and the fortune-telling fish, hoping against hope that the dog won’t sell and being lucky for once, carrying it home to Granny in triumph, reduced to tuppence at the end of the day.
*
It’s a scrimmage in the Parish Rooms. There’s the smell of fresh disinfectant and old clothes. Loaded trestles are arranged in a hollow square around the room. Jumpers on one table, shoes on another. Skirts and trousers and hats and bags, a table of washed-out, yellow-grey undies. Joan dives into a billowy heap of cotton that might be summer blouses or frocks. Dot’s deep into the woollies, looking for things to unravel and knit up again, while Betty goes fossicking through the shoes and bags. I wander past an array of battered china – cups without saucers, odd plates – to a table where there are boxes of books, scruffy for the most part, but irresistible to someone whose books are all in store. I pick out a thin, leather bound volume of poetry, and a nearly new Allingham, and I’m just paying my sixpence to the woman behind the boxes when a rumpus breaks out over by the shoes.
There’s Betty with one red shoe in her hand, while another girl has its obvious pair in hers. I’ve never heard Betty talk loudly before, but she’s hissing like a kettle, sibilant with fury.
‘Saw it first,’ she says. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Liar,’ the other girl says, almost as red in the face as the shoes. ‘I got mine first. Just couldn’t find the other one.’
‘’Cos it’s mine,’ Betty semi-whispers.
I look around, but though the girls are drawing a crowd, Dot and Joan are nowhere to be seen. It’s nothing to do with me, but somebody’s going to have to intervene sharpish or it’ll turn into a real fight.
Reluctantly, I go across to them.
‘Mrs Lester,’ Betty practically shrieks, if it’s possible to shriek in a whisper. ‘Tell this cow . . .’
‘Cow yourself,’ the other girl says. ‘I’m not the one standing out in the fields all day.’
‘All right, that’s enough.’
Their childishness makes me feel older than Methuselah’s granny.
‘I saw them first,’ Betty insists. ‘They’re mine.’
‘Not unless you’ve paid for them,’ I say. ‘Have you?’
‘No.’ She pouts. ‘Nor’s she, though. You ask her.’
I turn to her rival, who’s clinging like death to the other shoe. I can see the attraction, they’re everything the growing drabness of war and uniforms isn’t. Red suede, with a high heel and peep toes.
‘Have you?’ I ask her.
She shakes her head. ‘Not had a chance.’
‘Do they fit you?’ It seems like a reasonable question.
‘Dunno.’ The girl shrugs.
Betty looks triumphant. She reaches out to grab at the other shoe again, but I stop her.
‘Do they fit you?’
‘Course they will.’ But she doesn’t look sure.
‘Try it on,’ I say. ‘Both of you, try on the one you’ve got. Whoever it fits gets them. That’s fair, surely?’
I don’t allow myself to consider the possibility that the shoes will fit them both. To my eyes, they look pretty small, and neither girl is petite. It seems unlikely either of them will turn out to be Cinderella today.
The minute Betty’s rival tries to put her shoe on, it’s obvious it’s too narrow. For all her efforts, her toes won’t fit in. But she’s not going to give up without a fight.
‘I could cut it along the top. Put a bow on, I’ve got some red ribbon. It wouldn’t show.’
‘You’re not cutting my shoes.’ Betty snatches the shoe away from her and slides it on. ‘There, you see. Perfect.’
‘’Cept your clodhopper’s hanging an inch off the back,’ the other girl says. ‘No good to you neither.’
And she’s right. Betty’s toes go into the shoe, but her foot’s too long and she can’t cram in her heel. She kicks the s
hoe off, looking mutinous. I gather it up quickly, before the other girl can grab it. Hold out my hand.
‘Give me the other one. It’s no good.’
‘You just want ’em for yourself,’ she mutters, but she hands it over.
‘Not me. What is it, a two?’ I look inside. ‘Two and a half. I take a five.’
Betty makes a face at me. ‘If you put them back, she’ll have them. Cow.’
‘Mare.’ The other girl tosses her head. ‘Keep the rotten shoes. Wouldn’t have them for a gift after they’ve been on your dirty hooves.’
She stomps off into the crowd.
I have every intention of putting them back, but as the light turns on the inner curve of the leather, something catches my eye. It brings me up short. Though I might not be able to wear them, I’m not about to let them go. I shake my head at Betty, turn to the woman behind the stall who’s watched the whole business without saying a word.
‘How much?’ I ask.
‘Shoes like that? Everybody wants them.’ She smirks at me. ‘Five bob.’
It’s daylight robbery, and we both know it, but I stump up the cash, make her give me a paper bag so I can put the shoes away out of sight. If we go on like this, Nash will have to pay me expenses. Because though it’s far too late for any kind of evidence a policeman might be able to find, fingerprints or bloodstains, there’s a mark inside the shoes that tells me who they might have belonged to. Someone’s written in them, like a schoolchild, identifying precious property. Untidy capitals that have been rubbed out, though the indention still shows on the soft inner leather. I make out an R and a T.
The transaction’s made, but I hang on. The crowd moves off, finding better things to do now the fun’s over.
‘Do you know who donated the shoes?’ I ask the stall keeper when we’re alone.
She shakes her head. ‘Couldn’t tell you. They’ve been collecting stuff all over the place for weeks. Suppose you could try Miss Waverley, the organiser. She might know.’
I’ll have to think what to do about that. After what Dot said, I don’t think I’ll have much luck asking. The stall keeper’s watching me, curious. I’m aware I’ve been standing here too long. Drawing attention to myself.
‘Fair enough. Thanks.’
I let myself drift away, as if I’m not that interested. Dot’s turned up again, and she comes over with a string bag bulging with old cardigans and jumpers.
‘Better be off,’ she says.
We round up the girls. Joan’s empty-handed, but Betty’s consoled herself with a bright blue headsquare printed with horseshoes and riding crops. They’re whispering together again as we walk back to Dot’s, and from the sideways looks they treat me to, the story’s growing fresh embellishments with every step. I don’t think I’m very popular with Betty today.
15
Five days earlier, the day of the air raid, Romsey
RUTH’S FIZZING WITH EXCITEMENT as she walks down the street, loving the idea that inside the nuns’ hand-me-downs, she’s scarlet and bold. She’s got a vision of herself revealed in new glory, pulling off her shabby blue mac, emerging like a butterfly from its dirty old shell. He’ll be sorry when he sees what he’s losing.
She had a bit of a cry when she got to the hidey-hole, where no one could hear. The baby was never a part of her plans, but they’ll pay for letting him die. She’s ready for them, she’s got what she needs to confront them.
The tap of her heels on the pavement makes her feel confident, brave. She’s almost hoping someone will notice the girl in the red shoes, but no one looks round as she passes. No one seems to see that she’s there. But she’ll show them, she will.
She hasn’t brought all of the pictures, she’s not stupid. She’s kept some for insurance, for later. They’re safe enough where they are.
When she knocks on the door, he’s not the one who answers. But she pushes past the figure in the doorway, throws off her mac just the way she meant.
‘What are you doing here? I thought you were long gone.’
She won’t answer that. ‘Where is he?’
‘How dare you? Get out.’
The door to the room where he’s brought her so often is closed. She pushes it open, but there’s no one inside. Only the smell of him.
‘Where is he?’ she says again.
‘Out. Get out.’
‘No.’ She stands firm. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Threatening hands reach towards her.
‘Don’t touch me. I know what you did with my baby.’
‘You think anyone will care? You didn’t.’
‘That’s not true. You promised.’
‘You promised . . .’
It’s such a savage mimicry, it shakes her. Makes her feel helpless, like a child. It’s all going wrong.
‘I’ve got pictures,’ she says, trying to sound hard, uncaring. ‘You know. The ones he took. What about that?’
‘How much do you want?’ The voice is full of contempt.
‘It’s not about money.’ But it is. She does need the money.
‘Pull the other one. How much?’
Tears come to her eyes and she turns away. She won’t let them show. What can she ask for? Fifty pounds? A hundred?
‘Two hundred quid for starters.’
Behind her, she hears a door open. There’s a rush of air. She begins to turn, but it’s too late. There’s a blinding moment of pain, and the taste of iron floods her mouth as she falls into blackness.
16
19th April, early evening
DOT’S NOT ONE TO LET the grass grow under her feet. Or to let wool go to waste either. By six o’ clock she’s got me pressed into service, helping her skein wool from the knitteds she bought at the jumble. She’s unravelled a green pullover and made a start on a fluffy shawl while I’m still struggling with a huge cardigan in lurid orange.
‘It’s very bright,’ I venture as I wind my aching hands to and fro across the interminable knit.
‘Lovely for ducks,’ she says. ‘Or teddy bears.’
‘You could just cut out the shapes as if was cloth. That’d save time.’
‘That’s the lazy way. Wastes too much wool.’ She looks across at me. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘You’ll need a hand in a minute. That sleeve’s got the moth, it’ll be all little ends.’
Working together like this feels comfortable. Almost as if we’re friends. I take a chance.
‘Dot?’
‘What?’
‘Won’t you tell me about Nell?’
The ball of fluffy pink wool jumps out of her hand, unwinds itself onto the hearth.
‘Dratted thing.’
‘You did know her, didn’t you?’
She avoided the question so carefully last time that I’m sure I must be right.
‘I can’t tell you anything you don’t know already.’
It’s another evasion, but this time I won’t let it go.
‘Don’t you believe it. Pretty much anything you can tell me is going to be news to me. I didn’t know her when I was growing up. First time I remember meeting her was when I was fourteen.’
She stops what she’s doing, looks over the top of her glasses at me.
‘You’re having me on.’
‘I’m not. It was Granny and my grandfather who brought me up. Nell was banished. We weren’t even supposed to talk about her.’ I do that thing, a huff of sound that comes out almost as a laugh, but it’s exasperation and sadness, a good bit of anger. ‘Oh, my grandfather made sure I knew my birth had brought shame to the family. But as for details, I wasn’t told anything.’
‘We heard you’d gone to live with her when you left Romsey. That was the story.’
‘That’s all it was. A story. When my grandfather kicked me out, Nell couldn’t look after me. She had a living-in place in London, more than her job was worth to tell them about me. I never spent any time with
her until the last few months of her life.’
‘Blimey, that’s rough. How did you manage up in the Smoke all on your own?’
It’s supposed to be her, telling me things. I weigh it up. Perhaps it’ll help if I tell her.
‘It wasn’t hard. Like now, with the war, there were plenty of jobs. I got a place in a munitions factory. Bed and board, and the pay was all right. And after, when the men came home, and they didn’t want us any more I had enough savings so I could train as a shorthand typist. Got a job, worked my way up.’
She smiles. ‘Married the boss?’
‘How did you know?
‘Romsey rumour. Said you’d done well for yourself.’
I shrug. ‘It wasn’t a success.’
‘Divorced?’
‘Not so far. He’s been missing since Dunkirk.’
She’s silent for a minute, seemingly intent on unravelling a stubborn tangle in the wool.
‘Nell and me,’ she says at last, ‘we worked together. In the same spot, anyway. Like I said, she was younger than me and we never did get to know each other all that well. She was a scullery maid, and I’m sorry to say that in those days I thought I was a cut above. Head nursery maid, I was. Used to give myself such airs. Then when she got caught with you . . .’
‘You knew about that?’
‘Not to say knew. But it was the usual reason a girl had to leave without notice. It was all hushed up, you were supposed to pretend she’d never even been there.’
I can hardly bring myself to ask. ‘Did you know . . . ? Were there rumours about who my father was?’
‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
Disappointment is like a weight on my chest.
‘But you do know.’
She shakes her head. ‘No.’
‘Guess?’
‘Look, deary, there’s always rumours. If you believed them, it could have been anyone from the stable lad to the Prince of Wales. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t either of them.’
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 12