‘Hard cheese, it’s the rules. Hide your eyes. Count to a hundred, no cheating.’
I start the count, gabbling through the numbers as fast as I can. I’m grown up enough to play with the boys, I am, but all I can think about is goblins in their pine cone hats and spiky shoes, with their strong twiggy fingers and sharp pointed teeth.
By the time I’ve counted to thirty, I’m shaking. There’s a rustle in the leaves, the crack of a stick. I freeze, lose count. I know brittle fingers are reaching for me. A long moment passes. I dare to take a peep through screwed-up eyelids, but there’s nothing.
‘Can’t hear you counting, Josy.’ A faraway voice. I think it’s Mike this time, and I feel a bit braver. I don’t shut my eyes, but I start counting again, this time in chunks. Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-six, sixty. Gulping the numbers out, calling them into a silence that isn’t quite silence. There are noises all around me now, spiky little footsteps. By the time I get to ninety-nine, a hundred, I can almost feel the teeth.
A crash of sound as I call the last number. Hoots and howls. I turn and turn, this way and that. Blundering like a bug in a jam jar, helpless. No escape from the sting of teasing.
A giggle, running feet. ‘Can’t catch us.’
A flash of red behind me.
‘Bert?’
‘Scaredy cat.’
‘Jem?’
I fall, graze my knees. There’s tree sap sticky on my hands, and mud on the hem of my dress.
‘This way.’ Cap’n Abe.
‘Over here.’ Mike again.
‘Follow me.’
The voices fade as they run, the sound of their feet deadened by the thick litter of brash beneath the trees.
*
‘Where are we going?’ I try not to sound peevish, but I’ve trailed along behind him all the way to the Cut, and I’m still none the wiser. The towpath’s deserted, there’s no one about. There’s no reason for him not to tell me what’s going on. ‘Can’t you slow down a bit?’
‘Sorry.’
He lets me catch up, but he doesn’t answer my question.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘Hang on a minute and I’ll tell you.’
I bite back an ill-tempered response. While I was curious and a bit irritated before, now I’m really fed up. A minute, I think. That’s all I’ll give him.
We reach the humpbacked bridge where the towpath crosses, and he stops. I recognise the place. I hadn’t thought about it since we were kids. It was one of our regular places for a pow-wow, out of the way of adults and eavesdroppers. Mischief was safely hatched here, exploits were planned and boasted about and spoils shared. Nash hoists himself up on the parapet, the way he always used to, sits with his back to the water. I, a scaredy cat even then about heights, prefer to lean against the rough stone, watch the sluggish flow of the canal beneath in safety.
He seems more at ease in this secluded spot than I’ve seen him since I came back to Romsey, and I let myself relax too. Not a good move.
‘I had a visit from Alf Smith last night,’ he says. ‘He came with a friend of yours. Pete, he said his name was.’
‘I was going to tell you about that on Monday.’
He raises his eyebrow. ‘You show me yours . . .’ he starts to say.
I stare at him, incredulous.
‘Sorry, not a good idea.’
You show me yours and I’ll show you mine was playground barter back in the day. Jem was the worst, always pestering me to let him see what a girl was made of. I never would, not because of any particular virtue on my part, but because he was a sneak who’d just as likely peek and tell as keep his bargain. In any case, I knew pretty much all there was to know about the difference between the sexes from living in a two-bedroom cottage with four teenage uncles and two young aunts. My breath takes a hitch. I’m closer to Nash than I’ve been at any time since that night in the Blitz and the unintended image that his words conjure up unsettles me. What is it he wants?
‘What’s this about?’
‘Pete gave you some information about the girl.’
‘Yes.’
I sketch out what Pete said, how I went to visit Sister Gervase and what she told me. How she’d identified the body. I can tell he’s shocked, though whether it’s by the sheer volume of what I’ve learned, or the fact I didn’t come to tell him about it at once, I don’t know.
I finish by saying, ‘So what did Pete tell you? I thought he was hiding something from me.’
‘Yes.’ Nash reaches into his inside jacket pocket, takes out a piece of card. He hands it to me. ‘It was this. He said he didn’t want to shock you.’
What I feel when I see what he’s given me goes beyond shock. It’s like a blow to the solar plexus, and I barely have time to turn away before I’m vomiting. All I can do is thrust the picture back at Nash and wait for the spasm to pass.
‘God, Jo, I’m sorry. I should have warned you.’
Warned me about what? I think. Because I’m pretty sure he can’t know the picture’s real significance for me.
But the minute I saw it, I knew.
It’s my mother.
It wasn’t her face I recognised, how could it be? No one’s ever shown me a photograph of her as a girl. But when she was ill, I often helped her wash. And the patch on the girl’s inner thigh that might almost be dirt, a shape like a dog’s head, is unmistakably the same as the birthmark on my mother’s leg.
My thoughts go round and round. Dot’s voice saying she had a bit of a reputation . . . flirting . . . having it off with all sorts.
What am I going to do?
I can’t tell Nash.
I’m shaking as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
‘Here.’ He hands me that gentleman’s standby, a clean white handkerchief.
‘Thanks.’ Though I feel better when I’ve mopped up, the vile taste in my mouth remains. ‘Sorry to make a fool of myself.’
‘Not at all.’
I look at his handkerchief, cringe inwardly.
‘I’ll wash it before I give it back,’ I say, folding the soiled part over before stuffing into my pocket.
‘Just as you like.’
‘Did you drag me all the way out here just to show me this?’ I say, and I can hear the accusation in my tone. It’s not his fault, but somebody’s got to take the flak.
‘Of course not. I brought you here because of where Pete got the picture. He didn’t like to tell you yesterday, but he knew where Ruth was going when she came up here. He tracked her to her hideout one day. He found this there. He told me there was a tin full of them. I thought we’d better take a look.’
‘More like this?’ I’m horrified.
‘He said they were similar.’
What would Ruth be doing with pictures like this? And how could she have come by this humiliating image of my mother? I think about the photographs we found in her case. Frank talking about their sort of uncle, ‘Snappy’ Legge. Was he the one who’d taken them?
‘Can I see it again?’ I say.
He hands it over. It’s not a standard size, and there’s no marking on the back to suggest that it’s been produced commercially. No photographer’s stamp, nothing so obvious or helpful. I force myself to look closely at the picture. Even with her face averted, I can see what Dot meant. Nell had been a lovely-looking girl.
Had she exploited it? Revelled in the wanton posing? Another thought hits me. Whoever took this picture might be my father, but I can’t see any kind of flirtation in her pose. Perhaps I’m fooling myself, but it looks more like resignation.
I don’t want to see any more like this, but I have to know. If there are more, I have to know the worst. Bile rises in my throat and I spit to one side. I slide the photograph into my pocket, hope Nash won’t think to ask for it back.
‘We’d better get on.’ My voice is hoarse with vomiting and tears I won’t shed. That I can’t, not in front of him.
19
The
same day, Ramillies estate, Romsey
IT’S MANY YEARS SINCE THERE were ladies at Ramillies who might take a fancy to visit the once-elegant summer house in its artful woodland setting. The days of sketchbooks and chatter, of lapdogs and tiny cakes and silver tea services died with the old Queen. After them, only the young men came with their shotguns and hip flasks, stopping by on cold October mornings, taking a break between drives to count their epic bags of game. Then they too were gone, vanishing into the mud of Flanders.
These days, the old summer house is half lost in brambles. The raised dais it rests on, that once concealed the mechanism which let it turn to follow the sun, has collapsed, and the only movement the place sees now is as it crumbles and falls, piece by piece, into the ground. In its heyday it was painted pale green, with fancy white gingerbread mouldings. These days it blends with the woods that surround it, the mouldings grey with mildew, the walls invaded by lichen and fungi. Almost all the windows have lost their glass, replaced by generations of spiders’ webs which veil the openings.
For so many years no one came. A wanderer might pass by now and then: a badger, looking for hedgehogs. A hedgehog, looking for slugs, somewhere safe to hibernate. And there were owls by night, a persistent blackbird by day.
*
Dr Waverley’s come to pay his Sunday morning visit to his uncle. It’s a duty call, though anything that brings him to Ramillies is shot through with pleasure, a feeling of homecoming. He and Edith were brought up here, and one day, not too far distant, he hopes he’ll live here again.
As he gets out of his car, he sees the gamekeeper approaching. Menzies seems uneasy.
‘Good morning, sir. Hope you don’t mind but there’s something I mebbe should report. But I didn’t like to worry the master with it, not when he’s so poorly.’
‘Quite right. My uncle’s not to be troubled. What’s the problem? Poachers?’
‘I don’t think so. Wasn’t the right time of day for that. But there was this young lad in the woods yesterday. No snares or anything of that on him, but he wasn’t just lost like he said. I wouldn’t trouble you with it in the general run of things, but the little devil was up to something.’
‘And you’ve no idea what?’
‘Well, sir, he was near the old summer house. I had a peep inside after he’d run off. By the look of it, someone’s been using it regular like.’
‘Using it? Not bloody gyppos, I hope? We can do without their sort.’
‘It’s not gypsies, sir, I’ll take my oath on that. Looked like it was kids, mebbe just the lad. I gave him a good fright, I don’t think he’ll be coming back.’
‘I should hope not. Perhaps I’d better see for myself.’
‘The quickest way is across the park, but the grass is awful long. Spoil the polish on those shoes, sir.’
‘Never mind about that. Just get on with it, man. I haven’t got all day.’
Despite the warning, it’s rougher going than Waverley expected. The polish has gone from his shoes, and his trouser legs are damp by the time they arrive.
‘This? What would anyone want with a wreck of a place like this?’ he says irritably. ‘Should have been torn down years ago.’
‘I agree with you, sir, it’s a danger to life and limb, but the master won’t hear of it. Go careful, now, that floor’s rotten. It might give way any minute.’
‘Nonsense.’ But the boards groan ominously beneath his feet. ‘You’d better stay outside. It might not take your weight. Now, let’s see. What’s been going on here? You’re right. It must be kids, it’s not mucky enough for gyppos.’ He kicks some stuff on the floor, connects with something solid. ‘What’s this? Can’t see in here. Have to come out.’
‘Looks like an old tin of cigarettes, sir.’
‘I can see that.’ He pulls off the lid. Shock ripples through him. ‘Good God!’
‘What is it, sir? Oh – dirty pictures. That’s lads for you.’
‘Get out of the way, man. Didn’t ask you to poke your nose in. Have you got a match?’
‘Yes, sir. You don’t think we should—?’
‘Destroy them, it’s the only course. If this should come to my uncle’s ears—’
‘He wouldn’t like it, sir.’
‘Good God, man, it would kill him. There. That’s got . . . Ow, damn, that’s my fingers. Stamp it out now, make sure there’s nothing left.’
Every unlawful entry onto another’s property is trespass, even if no harm is done to the property. (English Tort Law)
Nash and I skirt the darker parts of the wood, and I’m glad. I don’t know where the boundaries of Ramillies land run, but it’s obvious that it’s a very long time since anyone’s done anything to maintain the woodland here. There are fallen branches underfoot and scrubby undergrowth everywhere, all hazards to quiet progress.
‘Do you think there’ll be anything to find?’ I keep my voice low, though there’s no sign of anyone about.
‘I suppose there should be, if Pete’s telling the truth. He said he’d been back to look at the other pictures, but he only took one. And then yesterday, after you’d spoken to him and he knew the girl wouldn’t be coming back, he thought he’d take a chance to get hold of the rest. He didn’t make it, because he was spotted going through the woods. A man called Menzies, the gamekeeper, chased him off. Threatened him with a gun.’
‘That’s a bit heavy-handed, surely?’
‘Not if he thought he was poaching. But Alf said he was a nasty type.’
‘I expect Alf would know.’
‘There have been rumours to that effect.’ It sounds as if he’s smiling.
‘He calls it foraging. For personal use only, Dot won’t stand for black market. But it’s why she didn’t want you to see inside the kitchen. It was only pigeons, today, but it could easily have been pheasants or a trout. I haven’t eaten so well since the beginning of the war.’
‘I’ll have to make an excuse to come round at supper time. Fan’s an excellent housekeeper, but her cooking’s awful. Even without the excuse of rationing. Now—’ He stops short, waits till I come level with him. ‘We need to go quiet from here on. Just in case Mr Menzies is out with his gun this bright Sunday morning. Follow me, and try and remember what I taught you.’
‘What—?’
But he’s away, a middle-aged man in an overcoat and hat who ought to be out of place in the wild wood. Yet somehow, the ease of his silent progress through the trees reminds me irresistibly of the boy who was leader of the gang. Time was, he’d have made a good poacher himself.
We arrive at the edge of the wood, where glimpses of parkland show to the left. It’s harder to stay under cover now, but if Pete hasn’t sent us on a wild goose chase, we should be getting close. A few paces ahead of me, Nash suddenly gestures stop, ducks behind the trunk of an ancient oak. I catch a glimpse of movement through the trees. There are voices ahead, and the faint whiff of smoke carries on the breeze towards us. Mindful of the gamekeeper’s gun, I crouch into a tall clump of nettles, wishing I’d chosen a better hiding place. My heart is beating so loud, I’m afraid someone will hear it.
‘Not a word to my uncle, now.’ A posh, public school voice.
‘Sir.’
They must be moving away, because I only catch part of the next sentence.
‘. . . rely on you. Keep a good eye . . .’
The men make quite a lot of noise as they move off. Even after the sound of their passage has died away, neither Nash nor I move. At last, I raise myself from my cramped position and sidle towards Nash.
‘Who were they?’ I whisper.
‘Gamekeeper and Waverley.’
‘Dr Waverley? What’s he doing here?’
‘Tell you later.’
‘Do you think they’d been in the summer house?’
‘Where else?’ He points. ‘It’s just there.’
Then I see that a dense tangle of brambles barely ten yards ahead has a wooden structure at its heart. We�
�ve had a closer encounter than I realised.
‘Catching Pete yesterday must have alerted Menzies,’ Nash says. ‘Wait here.’
He moves cautiously out of cover. I lose sight of him as he circles behind the structure. After a moment I hear him call. A low voice, but not a whisper.
‘Jo.’
In front of the summer house, the grass is lank, trampled. Nash is stooping over something. He pushes at it with a cautious finger, turns it over so I can see the bright yellow labelling of a Gold Flake cigarette tin.
‘Too late,’ he says.
Next to the tin there’s a black greasy mark where someone has ground his foot into the grass, stamped out the ashes of something made of paper. One tiny unburned scrap confirms it.
‘The photographs.’
‘Afraid so,’ Nash says, getting to his feet. ‘Now we’ll never know.’
I don’t have anything to say to that. Part of me – not the part that is supposed to be solving this mystery about Ruth – is glad.
I step into the summer house. The floorboards creak, and in places they’ve collapsed completely. Inside, the light is blocked by the overgrowth of brambles and filth, and I have to feel my way with care. As my eyes accustom, I can see the place has been used recently, despite its condition. There’s an empty ginger beer bottle in the corner, where a scuffed heap of dry bracken suggests someone might have made a bed. An old fish paste jar holds a few stems of dried-out wild flowers on the windowsill, and a standing metal cupboard which might once have held shotguns leans drunkenly against one wall. I open it, and the faint smell of Soir de Paris wafts out at me. An empty coat hanger’s hitched on a hook behind the door, but there’s nothing else inside. I crouch down, examine the cupboard floor. I make out some shapes in the dust. A pair of small ovals, side by side, and a larger, scuffed oblong. I stand up.
‘She was here,’ I say. ‘Ruth. The scent . . . This is where she must have kept her clothes, her case.’
‘It fits with what Pete said,’ Nash agrees.
I push the door to, turn away. The girl feels so close, as if I could reach out and touch her, save her, but it’s too late. I sweep away a festoon of cobwebs from the one window that still has glass, peer out through the opening. The first shock is how close across the parkland Ramillies Hall is. The second, that I’m in view of two men standing by the portico. I freeze.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 15