It’s suspicious, but not conclusive. None of it proves anything against anyone. The police could say I’d planted the evidence. I’d been alone with Ollie yesterday, and I’m alone again here this morning. And if they did believe someone had tried to harm her, I could easily find myself chief suspect. It’s a horrible thought, and it leaves me shivering. I know I did nothing wrong, but who’s going to believe me? Dr Waverley wouldn’t. After what he said about me and Mr Oxley, he’d be first in line to accuse me.
24
The same day
‘MISS WAVERLEY WANTS TO SEE you, sir. She hasn’t got an appointment.’
Miss Haward looks reproachful. Unexpected visitors are not in her line at all.
‘Really?’ Nash is surprised. Has she come to rant, like her brother? ‘Did she say what it was about?’
‘Something about a register.’
She sniffs with disapproval, a habit that’s beginning to drive him mad.
‘Right, well, show her in.’
Perhaps he could give her handkerchiefs at Christmas. That might drop her a hint.
‘Mr Hollis is due. His appointment’s at half past.’
‘That’ll be all right, Aggie. I don’t suppose Miss Waverley will be here long, and he’s always late.’
‘Very well.’
She huffs out of the office.
He knows she blames Jo for the commotion yesterday, and she hasn’t forgiven him for not doing as Waverley asked and giving Jo notice.
‘Good morning, Miss Waverley.’ He stands as the woman strides into the room. It’s been a long morning, and he could do without another fractious female on his case. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’
‘I brought you this,’ she says, ignoring the invitation. She bangs a large red ledger down in front of him. ‘To show you. There’s no record of any Ruth Taylor living in our district.’
‘I see.’ He sits, pulls the book towards him, opens it. He’s not going to let her intimidate him. ‘How is it arranged?’
‘By household,’ she huffs. ‘And I’ve checked it all the way through.’
‘And if someone has arrived or left the town since the register was drawn up?’
‘They’ve been added, of course. Or deleted.’
He flicks through the pages. It would take a long while to be sure a particular name wasn’t included.
‘Could you spare it for a few hours? I’d like to look through it myself.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘It’s not a matter of that,’ he says, although it is.
She’s been so unhelpful until now, he can’t imagine she would have carried out the task with the attention it deserves.
‘Have to have it back by nightfall,’ she snaps. ‘Sooner, if the sirens go.’
‘Of course.’
‘You won’t find anything.’
The way she says it makes him suspect that there is something to find. Or that there has been. The question is what, and why Edith Waverley should want to hide it. Her tone makes it a challenge, and as Jo said once, the code is never to refuse a dare.
‘I don’t suppose I will,’ he tells her, but he doesn’t mean it. If there’s something, he’ll find it.
*
I get myself under control eventually. Find things to do to keep busy, occupy my nerves. I sponge Nash’s coat clean, hang it in the sun to dry. Drag the dogs’ bodies out into the yard, cover them with sacks. Wipe the layer of oily soot from all the surfaces I can get to without interfering with Ollie’s arrangements, then set and light the range. When I’ve finished, the kitchen is clean and warm, and I’ve stopped shivering. But I’m not stupid. I made sure not to touch the Aladdin stove or the glasses without a cloth. I’ll talk to Nash about it later, see what he thinks. I tuck the stove in the corner, out of the way, hide the unwashed glasses on a high shelf in Ollie’s larder. It’s not much, but it’s the best I can do. If Nash thinks we should tell the police, there might be a chance of fingerprints, or finding out what the bitter white residue might be.
Upstairs, Ollie sleeps on, the white lurcher on guard at her side. I’m preparing myself for the last job – the one I least want to tackle – when I hear the distant hum of an engine. It comes closer, grows to a buzz then settles to a steady beat. There’s a tractor coming up the track to the cottage.
I go out to the front gate. At first, it seems the grey tractor and trailer must be something to do with the farm. Then I see it’s Alf who’s driving. He pulls up at the gate, jumps down. I’m pleased to see him, but puzzled. Even more so when he goes round to the back of the trailer and helps someone down. Dot.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say, but I’m sure she can hear the relief in my voice.
‘Mr Nash told us what happened. He thought you might need some help.’ She starts to pull a series of bags and baskets out of the trailer. ‘I brought a few things along.’
Between us, we manage to get the assorted baggage into the cottage. Amongst other things, there’s a marketing basket like Ollie’s that looks as if it’s full of hay, and a straw shopper that seems to have some of my clothes in it.
‘What’s all this?’
‘Ah, well, now,’ she says. ‘First things first. How’s Miss Olivia doing?’
‘She’s been sleeping most of the morning. I think she’s all right, but I wish she’d let us call a doctor.’
‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll take care of her. I’ll pop upstairs and see how she’s getting on. You show Alf where to bury the dogs. We don’t want her seeing that.’
I’m so glad I don’t have to explain. It’s not a job I wanted to tackle on my own. Right on cue, Alf appears in the doorway with a spade.
‘Brought me own,’ he says. ‘Best be about it.’
Outside, I don’t know where we can bury them. There’s not an inch of wasted space in the garden. In the plot beyond the yard there are rows of cabbages and overwintering onions, fruit trees and a cold frame full of seedlings, the burgeoning clump of rhubarb. And what isn’t already in full cultivation has been dug over ready for planting. We can’t put them here.
I look at Alf. ‘I don’t know what to suggest.’
‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘We’ll borrow a corner of the field. Just beyond the hedge there. Cows aren’t going to mind.’
He hops over the stile and starts to mark an oblong in the greensward.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Reckon you can bring the bodies?’
I find it heartbreaking. They weren’t my dogs, but the pathetic little corpses, stiff already, the half-open eyes and mouths, the cold fur, wiry or coarse or soft as velvet, were dear to Ollie, survivors of war she’d done her best to protect. It’ll be such a shock for her. I just hope she won’t ask about them till she’s well enough to hear the answer.
As I bring out the last body, Alf looks into my face. I’m not sure what he sees, but he gives me a half-hearted grin.
‘Tell you what. Why don’t you go and make us a cuppa now? This is thirsty work, and I bet you could do with one yourself.’
‘All right.’
Part of me is ashamed to leave a boy to do work I can’t face myself. But for the rest, I’m just glad of the excuse.
I make the tea, not hurrying. Take cups up to Dot and Ollie, who seems to be stirring from her sleep at last. Finally, I pour a mug each for Alf and myself, take them outside. He’s almost done, only the turf to put back.
‘What d’you reckon then?’ he says, blowing on his tea to cool it. ‘How did it happen?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Think it was an accident?’
‘I don’t know.’ What else can I say?
‘’S all right. If you think she did it herself, I won’t peach on her to the coppers.’
‘Never.’ It comes out fiercer than I meant. ‘She wouldn’t, Alf. She’d never have done anything to hurt the dogs. And she wouldn’t have abandoned them either.’
‘Makes sense.�
�� He drinks his tea in two mighty swallows. ‘You make a nice cuppa.’
He hands the empty mug back to me. Starts to replace the turf.
‘Alf . . .’
‘Yep?’
He’s absorbed in his task, doesn’t look at me. It makes it easier for me to say what’s on my mind. Too easy, perhaps.
‘What if someone did it to her?’
He looks sideways at me. ‘That’s what I was thinking.’
‘You were?’
‘Mmm.’ He’s putting the pieces of turf back as carefully as if they’re pieces of a jigsaw. ‘What if she knows too much?’
‘About Ruth, you mean?’
‘That an’ all.’ He stamps down a stray tussock of grass. Looks at me straight. ‘Stuff that happens round here, it’s not right. People think if you’re a kid, you don’t notice. Or else they think it don’t matter if you do see. That photograph. I could tell you things—’
‘Go on.’
‘I bet I know who took it.’
It feels as if everything has come to a halt around me. As if the wind has stopped blowing, the sunshine has lost its heat. Even my heartbeat seems like hard work.
‘You do?’ It comes out a croak.
‘Yep. That couch thing. Reckon I recognise it.’
If he can tell me who took the picture . . .
‘Mrs Lester?’ Dot’s standing in the doorway, calling. ‘Can you come?’
‘Alf . . .’
‘You better go,’ he says. ‘Tell you later.’
‘Mrs Lester.’ Dot’s calling again, beckoning me over. I go to her.
*
Nash scans the register. Page after page. Names he knows. Names he doesn’t. A snapshot of the town. It’s like walking down the street at dusk when the lights have been lit, before the curtains are drawn. Here’s Basswood House. Abraham Nash, Frances Stewart, William Stewart. The evacuee family that came to them in September 1939 is there too. Freda Collyer, Alice Collyer, Stanley Collyer, Maisie Collyer. The names carefully crossed through, annotated. Returned to London January 1940.
It doesn’t say what he knows, though. What he’d gone to London last autumn to find out, the day he met Jo. He’d wanted to persuade the Collyers to come back to Romsey. Never mind that the children drove Billy Stewart mad and fuelled Fan’s grumbles about bed-wetting and lice. But he’d been too late. Freda, pregnant with her fourth child, had been killed in the Blitz. Maisie, the two-year-old, with her. Stanley and Alice had survived, but no one seemed to know where they’d gone. Miss Waverley didn’t have that marked down in her careful accounting.
He pushes on. Page after page. Household after household. Name after name. No Ruth Taylor.
*
‘It’s about Miss Olivia. Sit down.’
‘Is she worse?’
A pang of anxiety overlays my irritation at being interrupted.
‘No, it’s not that. We need to talk, deary.’
Talk . . . ? With relief comes impatience. If it’s just talk, surely it could have waited? But I do as she asks and sit down.
‘What’s it about, Dot?’
‘Got a sort of a favour to ask you. And, well, it might do you a bit of good, too.’
‘Go on.’
‘I want to take Miss Olivia back to our place for a day or two. Take care of her. Don’t think she should be all on her own out here.’
‘Seems fair enough.’
And it does, though I’m not sure what it has to do with me.
‘Thing is . . .’ She seems uncomfortable.
‘Yes?’
‘Only place we’ve got is your room.’
‘Oh.’
‘I talked about it to Mr Nash.’
You what . . . ?
Dot talks through my silence. ‘He thought it was a good idea.’
Did he indeed?
‘He said maybe it would be good for you to keep your head down for a day or two. Out of Dr Waverley’s way. We thought you could stay here at the cottage.’
‘What if Dr Waverley comes here?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not a chance. Him and Miss Olivia, they’ve been estranged for years.’
‘I know, but . . . What if he comes to tell her about her father? Or if he hears she’s ill?’
‘Who’s he going to hear it from? It won’t be Alf or me, nor yet Mr Nash. And I don’t suppose you’ll go running off to tell him either.’
‘But—’
‘We thought,’ she goes on, ‘if we could let Miss Olivia know you’ll be here, we wouldn’t have to say anything about the dogs till she’s a bit stronger. We can tell her you’ll look after things till she’s better.’
Great. What if she thinks it’s my fault they died?
‘Course, we’ll tell her the truth in the end but . . . See, she’s . . . Well, she’s never been exactly strong.’
‘Oh, come on, Dot. She’s got to be strong as a horse to keep the garden the way she does.’
‘I don’t mean . . . Look, promise you won’t tell anyone.’
‘OK.’
I don’t know what I’m promising, but I agree. Anything to stop hedging around and find out what’s on her mind. Anything, so I can get back to Alf.
‘It’s not the first time,’ she says. ‘Something like this. It’s in the family. She’s tried . . . Well, she’s tried to do away with herself before.’
I open my mouth to repeat the things I said to Nash and Alf. She wouldn’t, she was all right last night, she wouldn’t hurt the dogs. I close it again, remembering what Ollie had said yesterday when she was talking about her marriage breaking up. After what happened . . . I hadn’t pursued it then, but perhaps I should have.
‘Years ago,’ Dot continues. ‘She had a breakdown. Shhh.’
The creak of a floorboard. Dot holds up a warning hand, but I’ve no intention of speaking. We both sit listening, but there are no more sounds from upstairs.
‘She had a little girl,’ Dot goes on at last, almost in a whisper. ‘Adele. Sweet little thing, pretty, but not altogether . . . Well, a bit young for her age, always. You know. They said it was because Miss Olivia and Dr Waverley were cousins. But they doted on her, the pair of them. Reckon she was the only thing kept them together. Then when they lost her . . .’
‘Lost?’ I can’t help myself. ‘Do you mean . . . ?’
Dot sighs. ‘Adele was ten when she died. She drowned. Hushed up, see, because . . . she’d done it herself, hadn’t she? No doubt about it. She’d put great stones in her pockets, gone into the pond up at Ramillies. When she heard, Miss Olivia tried to do the same. Dr Waverley wanted to have her put away, but her father wouldn’t let him. But she and the doctor, well, that was the end of them. She moved out of Ramillies, came here. Dr Waverley went back to that sister of his in town. Left poor old Mr Oxley up there on his own. Terrible bad luck the old man had. All his sons gone in the war, and then his granddaughter.’
Poor Ollie. To lose a child like that. A girl of ten. What could have driven her to it? Unless Dot’s not altogether means something more than just being a bit simple. For the first time I doubt my own judgement about what happened to Ollie last night. Maybe the welfare of the dogs wouldn’t have weighed more heavily on her mind than the death of her father.
‘That’s terrible, Dot. Of course I understand. If you think it’ll help, I’ll stay here.’
Not that I’ve got much choice. If Dot gives Ollie my room, I’m homeless.
‘Good girl. I knew you’d see sense. I brought along some of your things.’ She stands up, starts to bustle about with the various bags and bundles she brought with her. ‘Think you’ll find everything you need. There’s a pan of stew in the hay. I’ll pop it in the range, it should do you all right for your tea.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘You keep the range in, now. Keep warm. Alf can fetch in some more wood.’
‘No. It’s fine. But how will you get Ollie bac
k with you?’
‘Same way I got here,’ she says. ‘In the trailer. It’s a soft ride, we can wrap her up nice and warm. There’s plenty of blankets, there’ll still be enough for your bed. You won’t mind making it up yourself?’
Before I know it, there’s a stack of my things piled on the chair, and Dot’s set me to pack a similar selection of Ollie’s belongings into the emptied bag. I’ve hardly got my breath back, it seems, before she’s hustled Alf into helping Ollie downstairs, half leaning, half carrying her on his shoulder. She protests all the way, ‘I can do it, I can manage,’ gives me half a smile as she passes. I don’t know how she feels, but it makes me much happier to see her up and conscious.
And then they’re gone, and I’m left staring at a diminishing view of the trailer, Dot waving as they pass out of sight. It’s barely three o’clock in the afternoon and I’m stranded here, nothing to do. Nowhere to go, if I have to keep out of sight. Not even the dog for company: Tizzy wouldn’t leave Ollie’s side for a moment. And there’s a part of me, a paranoid voice in the back of my brain, that wonders if I’ve been played for a fool. Perhaps it isn’t just Dr Waverley who wants me out of the way. Most frustrating of all, Alf’s gone off and I still don’t know who he thinks took that picture of my mother.
*
It’s the violets in the lane that make me think of Granny. Purple or white, scented or unscented, she loved them all. We used to compete to bring her the first of the season each year. It’s long past the first violets of spring this year, but I don’t care. I’ll take some to her grave. It’s time I paid my respects.
I pick a bunch, purple and white together, surround them with dark, heart-shaped leaves. I remember to wrap the stems in wet moss so they won’t wilt too soon, tie the bunch round with a twisted grass stem.
It’s a bit of a hike back to town, but I’ve nothing better to do. And the walking helps me order my thoughts. It’s good to get a bit of calm after the shocks of the morning. I’m hot when I reach the top gate of Botley Road cemetery, and I’m glad of the shade of the yews which line the path. I know where to go, but I’m not really paying attention to where I am. I’m not thinking about the last time I was here, just remembering Granny. How she was, the loving care she took of us all. The good times we had, the laughter when my grandfather wasn’t around.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 20