‘Please, Dot?’
‘Someone about the house, I suppose.’ She shrugs. ‘We had lots of visitors in those days, coming and going. I told you, she was a lovely-looking girl, couldn’t help but attract attention. And I’m sorry, but if you must know she had a bit of a reputation. Flirting, that sort of thing. After she went, people started to say she’d been having it off with all sorts.’
It can’t have been a visitor, because of my list.
‘But she was only fifteen.’
‘Doesn’t signify,’ Dot says darkly. ‘You’d be surprised.’
I don’t believe it. Oh, I know people change, and I know I didn’t really know my mother well. But if she’d been like that, wouldn’t she have had somebody in her life after she left Romsey? Several somebodies, even? She was still a beautiful woman, even on her deathbed. All those years in exile, she could have done what she liked, been with whoever she liked. And there was nothing, no one as far as I could tell. I had a more chequered history than she did.
‘I’m sorry, Dot.’ I stand up, put aside the orange wool. ‘Excuse me. I need to get some air. I’ll try not to be late.’
*
I wander a bit. Try to think, try not to think. After a while I find myself close to the Corn Market, not far from my uncle Tom Fox’s greengrocer’s. Tom is the eldest of my uncles; he’d always seemed remote, grown-up. As a child, I hardly knew him. And I’ve never met Sylvie, the Frenchwoman he met and married in the first war, but she’s the one who kept in touch with my mother all those years, in defiance of my grandfather. On an impulse, I think maybe Tom would know about my mother, my father. Maybe he’d tell me.
I know he lives in a flat above the shop, my mother had the address in her diary. It’s barely eight o’clock, it’s not too late to call.
But the door takes a bit of finding. The greengrocer’s is offset to the street, and this evening, with the shop shut up, the unmarked, matte-black painted door in the narrow snicket which gives access to the upper floor is not so much unobtrusive as positively hidden away. I’m relieved to see there’s a bell, and I press it before I can lose my nerve. There’s no answering sound audible from this side of the door, so I wait, unsure whether the thing’s functioning or not. Shall I ring again, or just thank my lucky stars no one’s home and leave?
I wait for what feels like an age, but no one comes. I’ve either got to try again or walk away. I’m about to take my cowardly retreat when the door opens cautiously.
Uncle Tom is standing on the doorstep, a newspaper in hand, his glasses pushed up on his forehead. The look on his face is pitched somewhere between I’m sorry, the shop’s closed and bugger off, but when he sees me, the look clears and he smiles such a welcome I have to believe it’s genuine.
‘Josy. We were hoping you’d call.’ He throws the door wide open. ‘Come on in.’
‘If you’re sure I’m not interrupting?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He pulls me inside, closes the door behind me. ‘Up you go, up you go. Sylvie’ll be delighted.’
I climb the steep stairway into a space glowing with light. Whatever I might have expected from the gloomy lower entrance, it wasn’t this. The upper hallway has five or six spotlights high in the arch of the roof space which shine down on white walls and a black-and-white chequer-tiled floor. In front of me, a scarlet door stands ajar, and as Tom reaches the landing, he calls out.
‘It’s OK, Syl, no need to hide. It’s Josy come to see us.’
He pushes the door open, and ushers me inside.
In daylight, the big windows must let in enough light to rival the hallway outside. Like the hallway, there’s no ceiling, only the timbered roof space, white painted, brilliantly lit. Black blinds are pulled down between white curtains with black geometric designs. The floor is highly polished parquet, the furniture angular, all creamy-white upholstery and black lacquered wood. No knick-knacks, nothing cluttered. Three cushions – scarlet, mustard yellow and peacock blue – provide the only splashes of colour. Everything is pared to the minimum, perfectly ordered, like something from a high fashion magazine of the 1920s.
I’m shocked. Anything further from the cottage where Tom and I were brought up is hard to imagine.
‘Wow!’ The gauche exclamation leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
‘Like it?’ Tom says.
‘I love it.’
‘Bet you didn’t expect this above a veg shop.’
I shake my head. ‘It is surprising.’
‘Sit down,’ he says. ‘Go on, the chairs don’t bite. You’ll find they’re quite comfortable.’
I do as he tells me, discover he’s right. Despite its sharp angles, the chair I’ve chosen is pleasant to sit in, even if it does make me feel as if I’ve been built to the wrong scale.
He laughs at my confusion. ‘Get you a drink? Tea, something stronger?’
I can’t imagine drinking tea in this amazing room. It’s a space designed for cocktails. And like magic, another voice breaks in, echoing my thoughts.
‘I can recommend the martinis.’
Even before I turn round, I know it must be Sylvie, because there’s the lilt of her native tongue in her speech. I scramble to my feet, all elbows and angles. The woman who’s come into the room is as bright and birdlike as Little Trotty Wagtail in her black skirt and white blouse, her precipitous high-heeled shoes pattering on the polished floor.
‘Aunt Sylvie,’ I say, holding out my hand to her.
‘Just Sylvie,’ she answers, drawing me into the Frenchwoman’s two-kiss salute. ‘I beg of you, don’t make me feel any older than I do already.’
I like her straight away. I like her for her sharp, clever eyes and her immaculate coiffure. I like her for the knitting she pulls out from under the peacock blue cushion – coarse, khaki wool for servicemen’s socks – and for the way the flash and chatter of her needles punctuates our talk for the rest of the evening.
But most of all I like her for the imagination that conceived of – and the steadiness of purpose which carried out – the gesture of sending the local paper to my mother in her long exile, a woman she’d never met, yet for whom she had compassion. And for good or ill, it’s the consequences of that long good deed which have brought me home. Without that paper, I’d never have come back.
I can’t imagine what Grandfather must make of her, or she of him. That she’s not cowed by him is obvious. She’d never have made the effort to be in touch with Nell if she was. And if Grandfather could see her now, could see them both, welcoming me into their home, he’d be apoplectic.
Tom settles us all with martinis. As Sylvie said, they are excellent, but strong. The alcohol goes straight into my blood and despite the spiky decor of this avant-garde room, I feel more relaxed than I have in ages.
‘You got my message then,’ Tom says. ‘I’m glad Captain Nash remembered to pass it on. He’s a good bloke.’
Before I can reply, Sylvie says, ‘You could have come to stay with us, you know. No need to turn to strangers.’
That’s two difficult responses I owe them. Bram Nash hasn’t said anything to me that might be construed as a message from Tom, so I don’t know what I can reply to that. And after all this time, both of them, family as they may be, are strangers to me every bit as much as Dot is. Rather than say anything, I smile and hold out my glass for a top-up from the cocktail shaker Tom offers.
‘What we are curious about,’ Sylvie says, eagerly transparent, ‘is why you have come back after so long. It was some last request from Nell, perhaps?’
‘Quite the reverse, really. She’d have hated to know I was coming back. But it is because of her all the same.’
I tell them how it was that Nell let slip my father was still alive and living in Romsey. I gloss over her distress when she found his name in the paper, because it wouldn’t be fair to upset Sylvie when she’d only meant well. I tell them that until that moment I’d believed my father had died before I was born. I’d always thought that was w
hy he’d never married my mother.
Tom grins uneasily. ‘That was Mum. My mum, I mean. Your gran. Dad was a right bugger about it, but Mum, she never wanted you to think bad of your mum. Poor little Nell—’ He breaks off. ‘We were all too frightened of Dad in them days.’
‘And you still are,’ Sylvie says quietly. ‘He has cast a blight on you all.’
Tom shrugs. ‘He doesn’t have a lot to do with us any more. Doesn’t trouble you and me much.’
‘That is because I will not stand for his nonsense. If your brother and sisters—’
It seems like the beginning of a well-worn discussion, and I don’t feel too guilty for interrupting them. I take a deep breath, ask the question that brought me here.
‘Did you ever . . . ? Do you know about my father, Tom? Did you ever hear who he was?’
He shakes his head. ‘Our Nell was close as an oyster. Didn’t matter how much Dad blustered, she wouldn’t say.’
‘But he knows,’ I say in surprise. ‘I’m sure he does. The other day—’
‘You’ve seen him?’ Tom asks. ‘What happened?
‘I ran into him up at the hospital. I didn’t know he worked there.’
Another thing good old Captain Nash hadn’t told me.
‘And yet you see, she survived.’ That’s Sylvie, making her point to Tom. ‘He’s not so fearsome after all.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. He was . . . horrible.’ Inadequate as it is, I can’t think of a better word.
‘You are mad,’ Sylvie says. ‘All of you. One old man—’
‘Leave it, Syl.’ Tom pours the last of the martini into her glass.
‘I know, chéri. It does no good. But it relieves my feelings. And so, Josy, what do you do next? If your grandfather will not help?’
‘I won’t ask him to.’ If I never speak to him again, it’ll be too soon. ‘I’ll just have to do it the hard way. Eliminate the impossible.’
‘And what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Sylvie caps my quotation with glee. ‘Tom will tell you, I adore detective stories. I shall follow with great interest as you look for the clues. And of course it is not just the one mystery you have to solve.’
‘Pardon?’
For a moment, I can’t think what she means.
‘The murdered girl,’ she says. ‘You are searching for information about her, too, no?’
‘Ye-es.’ I’m not sure how much I’m supposed to say about that.
Tom laughs at my expression. ‘It’s all right, gal. Captain Nash told me all about it. Asked me and Syl to keep our ears open for any gossip going about. Syl here is the one for that. If there’s anything to know, she knows it. Nothing gets past her.’
‘Now who is horrible? I am not a gossip.’
‘But you do get to hear an awful lot.’
His look for her is so affectionate it makes me envious. How tranquil it must be, how comfortable, to be married twenty years, and find yourself still in love.
‘And – have you heard anything?’ I venture.
This is not a mood that is as easy to break into as their earlier banter.
She shakes her head. ‘Unfortunately for me, I have heard nothing but speculation. Who is she, they all ask. But no one knows. Or no one will admit it if they do. They all say, that place, that time, she must be a whore. A blow-in, looking for trade.’
If Sylvie is looking for information from me, I can’t oblige. I feel mean, when she has been so generous, but it wouldn’t be right to tell her things I haven’t yet told Nash. Even if he isn’t quite so scrupulous in return.
‘No. I can’t be explicit, but she wasn’t a stranger. Not entirely, anyway.’
Sylvie looks intrigued. ‘Ah, you have been the good detective, then. Finding things out. I would love to know more, but I understand you cannot. But I hope you will tell me, when you can.’
It’s no hardship to assure her I will. Though I’ve learned nothing I didn’t already know in my search for my father, the idea that I have an invitation to come back to this room and this company is very appealing. But it’s getting late, and the martinis are catching up with me. If I don’t go now, I shall fall asleep where I sit. Reluctantly, I make my excuses, take my leave. Tom offers to walk me home, but I refuse, despite Sylvie’s urging. I need time on my own to make the transition between their glittering showcase and Dot’s homely back bedroom.
17
The same evening
BRAM NASH SITS IN HIS study at Basswood House, trying to read. The fire’s lit and there’s a glass of whisky to hand. He needs it after Fan’s fussing. She may have a heart of gold, but he can’t stand her mothering when he’s ill. It’s why he chooses not to go home when the headaches hit. He has to be by himself, safe from pity, tucked away in his office where no one can hear.
Except last night there was Jo. She can’t have known he was there. He’s no idea what she was doing, but he’ll have to find out. He yawns, takes a sip of whisky. The burn wakes him up, but he can’t concentrate on the paperwork he’s brought home. His thoughts keep wandering.
The girl. The dead girl. The murdered girl.
Could he be wrong? Could she have come there after he left, died in the blast? There have been cases where a victim of a bombing has appeared untouched, with no outward signs of damage.
But he knows it can’t be. The PM report shows the girl’s lungs were healthy. It was the blow to the head which killed her, not the explosion. It was a person who put her there, and whatever Waverley says, he will find out.
Nash knows he’s not entirely rational on the subject of Waverley. The man gets under his skin with his prejudices and his certainty that when he speaks, everyone will jump to his command.
But it’s not about being awkward, this time, of resisting for the sake of not doing what the senior man wants. It’s a matter of principle, of conscience, of human decency. Nash won’t let the dead girl down. He takes another sip of whisky, closes his eyes. Her face is there, behind his eyelids. So young. Unmarked. Ready for a life that’s been denied her. He can’t, he won’t, brush her aside.
Ruth. He must call her by her name. There’s no room for doubt that’s who she is. Not any girl, this girl, unique and singular. It makes him sad to think how lonely in death she is. It seems no one cares enough to miss her. Even her brother couldn’t be bothered.
He can’t understand why Jo was so keen to let Frank get away. He must have been able to tell them something more.
Such a pity.
And pity brings him full circle. To Ruth. Death of the young is a fact of war. He’s been there, seen it. But this is different. Not war, a private killing. And it’s his job to bring justice to the murdered. It’s not about taking the easy way out. He won’t look the other way.
It’s personal, as if Death is laughing at him.
The bombs, falling minutes after he left.
The girl, practically dropped on his doorstep.
And the baby. He doesn’t want to think about that, but he must. What Jo said opened his eyes to the possibility – the probability – that Ruth was the mother of the abandoned baby. They’ve never found anyone else they could link to him.
She couldn’t have known what would happen. She’s not the first unsupported girl to take the route of leaving her baby on a doorstep. She wouldn’t have meant him to die. With that sign still identifying the redundant building as a hospital, she might have thought it was the best place, the safest. Believed he would be found, and cared for. Except . . . If she had been here since evacuation, she wasn’t a stranger. Surely she would have known . . . He drifts. The room’s warm and he’s tired after his night in the office armchair, his long walk this morning.
*
He’s asleep by the fire when his housekeeper knocks at the study door. The papers he’s been trying to read have spilled onto the floor, and it takes him a moment to compose himself. Night looks in through the windows, and apart from the glimmer of the coals, it’s dark i
n the room.
‘Come in,’ he calls.
Fan Stewart bustles in, tutting at the uncurtained windows. She moves to draw the blackouts, speaks to him over her shoulder.
‘You can put that light on, now. It’s all shut up tight.’
He turns on the lamp beside his chair.
‘Thank you, Fan. What time is it?’
‘Nine o’clock, sir. I was on my way upstairs.’
‘Fine by me. I shan’t want anything more.’
‘No, sir, I didn’t expect you would. But there’s someone wanting to see you.’ Her tone expresses deep disapproval.
‘Really?’ He can’t think of anyone who might call at this time of night. ‘Who is it?’
‘Couple of nippers. That Alf Smith from over the nursery and a messenger boy from the post office. But it’s Alf with the mouth and gotta see him urgent and can’t wait till morning.’
‘He didn’t say—’
‘He did not.’ She sniffs. ‘Says it’s highly confidential. Would you credit it? The likes of him. Came to the front door, just like anyone.’
‘Show them up, Fan.’ He catches the look on her face. ‘No, better still, I’ll come down. I’ll see them in the morning room, and you can get off to bed.’
‘I don’t mind if you want me to wait till they go.’
‘No need.’ He ushers her out of the room, shuts the door behind him. ‘You get on, I’ll lock up when they go.’
The boys are waiting in the hallway, obviously ill at ease. Alf’s shamefaced but determined, while the other lad won’t look up as Nash comes down, but stands scuffing his boot against the doormat.
‘What can I do for you, lads?’
‘There’s something I’ve got to show you, sir,’ Alf says. ‘It’s not very nice.’ He eyes Fan as she crosses the hall to the kitchen door. ‘Not for the ladies.’
Nash is amused at the boy’s cloak-and-dagger manner. But he keeps a straight face as he opens the morning room door.
‘Come in,’ he says. ‘Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.’
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 13