The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox

by Claire Gradidge

  ‘I’m glad you made the place secure,’ he says as he pours more water into the bowl. It’s so icy cold it makes me wince. ‘Sensible of you. I discovered some things that made me concerned. I thought I’d better come and talk it over with you. See you were OK.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I think I know where Ruth must have been when she first came to Romsey. And I think I know who knew it.’

  ‘Ramillies,’ I say. ‘She was there, wasn’t she?’

  He can’t hide his surprise. ‘I think so, yes. How did you know?’

  ‘I’ve had plenty of time to puzzle over it today. I couldn’t believe a stranger to Romsey would have found the summer house by chance, so she had to have been at Ramillies. And then I remembered, when I asked old Mr Oxley who took care of him, he said something about having had a girl to look after him. He said she’d left, and I got the impression it hadn’t been long ago. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I should have pursued it. Asked Mr Oxley about the girl. I was so fixed on finding out about Nell, I didn’t think of it at the time.’

  He shrugs. ‘Can’t be helped.’

  ‘What made you think of Ramillies? I bet you’ve done better than me.’

  ‘Up to a point, perhaps. I finally got my hands on the ARP register. Miss Waverley wasn’t keen to let me see it, but I insisted she let me check it for myself. No sign of Ruth’s name, of course, but there are a few places where alterations have been made. Amongst others, there’s one on the record for Ramillies Hall. Someone’s written in the name Ruby Sugden as a correction.’ His voice turns musing. ‘Like you, I can’t believe someone who didn’t know the area would find the summer house. We know Ruth was there, so the only question is, was there another girl called Ruby, or was it Ruth in disguise all along?’

  ‘You think she might have given a false name?’

  ‘Not for a minute. The nuns knew her by her right name. I think it was her, and someone’s tried to cover it up. Which brings us to the matter of who could have made alterations to the register.’

  ‘Miss Waverley?’

  ‘She’s one. And there’s her brother, too. But the registers are kept at the ARP post, so anyone who had access there might have done it, I suppose.’

  I think of the unlocked cupboard I saw there.

  ‘That’s true. It’s so frustrating, Bram. I might have known for sure if I’d only asked Mr Oxley. Can I take my fingers out of the water now?’

  ‘Another minute.’

  Over my shoulder, I catch sight of him stooping to pick up the letter.

  ‘Oh, please don’t . . .’ but it’s too late.

  He looks up. ‘I’m sorry, Jo. Unforgivable of me.’ He puts the letter back on the table, comes towards me. ‘Couldn’t help but see what it says.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ But of course, it does. I take my hand out of the water, turn towards him. I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. But now the dam’s breached, it feels as if I have to explain. ‘I haven’t loved Richard for years. But you hear things . . . You wouldn’t wish them on your worst enemy.’

  He reaches out, touches my face so gently that if I’d had my eyes closed, I’d hardly have known he’d done it.

  ‘So sorry, Jo.’

  Somehow the touch, the soft words, threaten my composure in a way that my brutal imaginings of the last few hours have not.

  ‘Don’t.’ But when he would take his hand away, I don’t let him. I grab it in icy wet fingers, crush it against my face. ‘I don’t want gentle,’ I say. ‘Bram, I can’t bear it.’

  It happens so fast. I’m clawing at him, dragging his face to mine for a savage kiss. I want to feel . . . something, anything. Even pain, so long as I’m not alone any more, not left in the dark with my thoughts. The dream, the empty plain, the iron door. I can’t go back to that. I don’t want to be shut out, helpless. Dimly, I’m aware he’s not trying to fight me off, just to slow me down. His voice travels blurred through the coursing blood in my head.

  ‘Steady, steady.’

  But I can’t be steady. I want everything I can take from him. I want it now, I can’t wait.

  There’s a moment of impossible striving. When I’m afraid he will refuse. Then I feel how my urgency lights his and he’s not trying to slow me any more, he’s not trying to stop me and the fire eats us both.

  We don’t make it upstairs. We don’t even get our clothes off. Only what is urgent. What is necessary. It’s over so soon and I’m sated, sore, gasping for breath.

  He turns half away, straightening the disarray of his clothes. There’s blood on his lip where I’ve bitten him. He wipes it away, stares at the smear of red on his hand. There’s a look of – I don’t know – shame? on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I start to say.

  He shakes his head. ‘No, Jo.’

  Another dab at his lip. He moves away, wary. To the door. His hand on the door. He reaches to draw the bolt.

  He’s leaving.

  ‘Bram.’

  ‘Lock up after me,’ he says, his voice rough. ‘Keep safe.’

  ‘Bram!’

  But he’s gone. He’s left in such a hurry there’s his hat on the floor where it rolled in the frenzy of that first kiss I forced on him. I pick it up gently, as gently as he began, lay it down on the table. My knees fail, and I sink into the bentwood chair. Touch the hat, a fingertip stroke of the brim. I want to crush it, to tear it to shreds. I want to hug it to my breast as tender as a newborn babe. I lay my head on the table, the cool surface against my cheek. Simply look, breathe in the scent of him. I can’t bring myself to move. To get up, to lock myself in as he suggested. Who cares what happens now? One more fingertip touch and it’s over. That’s all there is.

  *

  In the stables at Basswood House, a light burns all night. Under blackout regulations, it is carefully shielded so no one sees it, no one knows. Fan Stewart and her son sleep undisturbed in their neat quarters at the top of the house; the ARP warden fails to catch even a glimmer as he passes. Nash, in the throes of his white night, rages unseen. He has had plenty of nights without sleep before now, but none like this. There’s an energy in him that burns as fierce as his forge-fire, prohibiting rest. In the morning, he knows he will be as grey as ash, but the fury that drives him is relentless. There is nothing in him that remembers how to sleep. He can’t bring his mind to bear on anything. He needs to think about what he’s discovered, but all he can think of is Jo.

  He fingers the little silver fox he made. Was it only last week? He made it as he planned it, eager, alert. He knows it’s one of the best things he’s ever done, but he’s tempted to hammer it flat, to break it to shreds, to put it to the fire and melt it down.

  It’s on his workbench, the hammer’s in his hands. The fire’s ready, hot. He has so little metal left, the fabric of this would give him enough to make something new.

  What a fool he’s been.

  So determined not to get entangled.

  After London, he told himself nothing significant had happened. No more than if he’d paid for his pleasure. One gaudy night would soon be forgotten.

  But he was wrong.

  This is payment. One night has bred its own repeat, a cobweb thread hauling him in. Not the sex, it’s not so much that. It’s need, that destroyer of distance and perspective, that maker of fetters of steel.

  The scraps run soft in the crucible. He pours molten metal into a makeshift mould. He’s never done this before, he doesn’t have the tools. It’s all put and take.

  Wait for the blank to be cool enough to work. It takes patience for that, no more burned fingers. Then, the painstaking shaping. But the time it takes has the virtue of making him calmer. When he arrives at the moment for chisel and point, his hands are steady enough to work the fine detail.

  It’s morning by the time he finishes. In his cloistered space he feels the dawn as if he could see it. He stretches, eases his back fro
m the work. The fire has burned down; he can put out the light and open the blinds, let in the day.

  In daylight, he can see the thing he has made is clumsier than he would have wished. It’s not his best piece. The metal is not perfectly circular, but he’s pleased with the chased design of brambles. The silver is red with firescale, but it seems right like that. He won’t pickle this piece to clean it. He turns it once more in his fingers, drops it over the little fox’s head. In the end, he couldn’t destroy it.

  The ring slips down, rests on the animal’s toes. Encircles it.

  Contained, he thinks, in that dazed state that lack of sleep brings. Safely held in check.

  27

  23rd April

  I SLEEP SURPRISINGLY WELL. IT’S SOME kind of fugue, I suppose. A short-term escape from thought. The dreams don’t come back, but when I wake, the memory is waiting. More than memory, it’s so vivid. It’s etched in my brain, stamped on my body. I’m no prude about sex. If we’d both wanted it, why not? But last night, I’d practically forced him. Even seeing his hat on the table makes me want to squirm. And under the embarrassment, the shame, there’s something even more disturbing. The attraction. I thought I’d buried my feelings for Bram Nash but they’re there, strong as ever, waiting to pounce. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to face him again. But I’ll have to. I’ve got so much I should have told him. If nothing else, I have to let him know what Grandfather said. I meant to do it last night, but the right moment for business never came.

  The range is out and it’s chilly in the kitchen, but once I’ve got the blackout down and the door open, the sunshine leaching in makes me feel less dismal. There’s only cold water to wash in, and nothing but water to drink, but that seems pretty much all I deserve. I make my ablutions, tidy the armchair where I slept. It hadn’t seemed right to use Ollie’s bed.

  It’s still early, and I can’t face the prospect of a day wasted here, doing nothing, seeing no one. I’ve started to feel angry now, and not just with myself. What makes them so sure I’ll do as I’m told? I’m cold, and I’m hungry. I’ve been left on the sidelines when there’s work still to do. Hang Dr Waverley and his hysterics. Why should I give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s driven me out? And hang Bram Nash and his scruples, too.

  There’s no key for the back door, so all I can do is shoot the bolt, go out through the front. The key’s a monster, and I have to wrestle it out of the keyhole. I’ll take it to Dot’s, for Ollie, and she can do what she likes about explaining that her unwilling guest has flown. I don’t know where I’ll sleep tonight, but I really don’t care. I sling the basket of my belongings over my shoulder, and set off for town.

  At Dot’s, I find breakfast is over. She’s busy washing up, but she takes one look at my face and abandons the sink.

  ‘Blimey, girl, what’s wrong with you?’

  I’m not cold any more, the walk’s seen to that, but I’m hungrier and crosser than when I set out.

  ‘I’ve had nothing to eat, and I let the range go out at the cottage. I couldn’t even have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Easily remedied,’ she says, pulling the kettle over the range. ‘Sit down a minute.’

  It’s a relief being here. I hadn’t realised how anxious the isolation of the cottage had made me feel. Dot’s kitchen is warm and friendly, and in what seems like moments there’s a cup of tea in front of me, and she’s reheating a pan of porridge.

  ‘Just needs a bit of milk,’ she says. ‘That’ll loosen it up.’

  ‘How’s Ollie?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s doing all right. She’s in the parlour with Pa. Fine pair they make, dozing in front of the fire with that dratted dog.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I don’t want you to disturb her. And so long as you don’t go through, she won’t know you’re here. We still haven’t told her—’

  ‘It’s all right, I won’t go and upset her. Has she said anything about what happened?’

  Dot shakes her head. ‘Says she can’t remember.’ She passes me a bowl. ‘You’ll feel better with that inside you.’

  I already feel better, but it’s good to eat.

  ‘Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ she says. ‘I leave that to you and Mr Nash. I just get on with picking up the pieces.’

  Chastened, I eat my porridge in silence while she finishes the washing up. When I’m done, I take the bowl across to her.

  ‘Dot, look, I’m . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.’

  She turns towards me. Smiles, though it’s a bit forced.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Lester. Not your fault. Just, well, Miss Olivia’s special to me. First job I had was looking after her. Never had a child of my own, so it’s hard to see her like she was yesterday.’

  There’s the unexpected prick of tears behind my eyelids. What’s happening to me? It’s ridiculous to feel so sentimental.

  ‘Never mind.’ Dot pats my arm. ‘Don’t you worry. Give it a couple of days and you can come back to us. If I know her, she’ll want to go back to her cottage as soon as she’s feeling up to the mark. You get on and I’ll put a few things ready for you. Alf can drop them over later, light the range for you and that.’

  ‘There’s no need. I can manage. But I’d like a word with Alf if he’s around.’

  ‘He’s out in the shed.’ There’s a knock at the front door. ‘Now, who’s that?’ She hesitates. ‘You’ll see yourself out?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for the breakfast, Dot.’

  ‘No trouble.’ She waves my thanks away as the knock comes again. ‘Excuse me.’ She bustles off.

  I suppose it’s curiosity that keeps me in the empty kitchen. Or perhaps I know who it will be, coming to Dot’s front door. I need to see him, but I don’t want to talk to him here, in front of Dot.

  A murmur of voices. I can’t hear the words, but I know it’s Nash. Dot’s not likely to bring him into the kitchen, but I’m not going to take the risk. I go to the outside door, stand with it ajar, ready to leave.

  Dot seems to be arguing with him, but she won’t get far if he’s made up his mind. No, that’s the parlour door opening and closing. He’s come for that appointment with Ollie. Let him sort it out. I’ve got other things to do. I slip out into the garden before Dot comes back to the kitchen. Now to tackle Alf.

  *

  Nash takes no notice of Dot’s black look. He’s come to see Ollie, and see her he will. Dammit, she’s his client, and she asked for him.

  When he’s made it clear he’s not budging, Dot shows him grudgingly into the parlour.

  ‘Miss Olivia.’ Dot speaks gently. ‘Wake up. Mr Nash is here to see you.’

  Ollie opens her eyes. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Can’t think what’s wrong with me. I keep dropping off.’

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ Nash says. ‘I’m here, if you feel up to it.’

  ‘Of course.’ She looks at Dot and the old man. ‘I’m afraid it’s rather confidential.’

  ‘I’ll go, Miss Olivia. No need to worry about Pa, he won’t wake up till lunchtime. Besides, he can’t hear what you’re saying.’

  Nash cocks his eyebrow at Ollie.

  She nods. ‘Thank you, Dot. If you wouldn’t mind?’

  He thinks it’s poor grace that takes the older woman out of the room, but she does go.

  ‘What can I do for you, Ollie? How can I help?’

  ‘It’s hazy,’ she says, ‘after yesterday. I can’t really remember anything. And Dot’s being so protective. But I seem to think you must have saved my life.’

  What can he say to that? ‘The Aladdin stove. It’s not wise to have it burning in a closed-up room.’

  ‘I know.’ Her face is troubled. ‘I thought . . . I was sure . . . Oh, I can’t remember. Never mind. I wanted to see you, I told Jo.’

  ‘That’s right. She asked me to call. That’s why I turned up yesterday morning.’

  ‘Lucky for me tha
t you did. I wanted to talk to you . . . She told me my father died?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. It must have been a shock.’

  ‘She didn’t know he was my father.’

  ‘No. Not till you told her.’

  ‘My father’s will, what does it say about Ramillies?’

  ‘You’re worried you won’t inherit?’

  ‘I’m afraid I will. That he will have . . .’

  She seems to shrink in on herself, and Nash wonders if she really is well enough to deal with this.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He was so old-fashioned, he hated it when I stopped living with my husband. I’m so afraid . . . he’ll have used the entail to bind me to Eddie. I don’t want it, Mr Nash. I don’t want Ramillies. But if . . . If Eddie thinks the only way he can get it is for me to go back to him, he’ll . . . He’ll make my life a misery. Worse than a misery. Please, won’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ollie, I can’t. I don’t know. Whatever testamentary provisions your father made, they weren’t made with Nash, Simmons and Bing.’

  ‘You haven’t got his will?

  ‘I’m afraid not. After my father died, your father took his business elsewhere. Your . . . Dr Waverley changed his solicitor around the same time, I believe. I heard the name Struther mentioned. It’s a London firm.’

  ‘But you could act for me? Help me?’

  ‘Of course. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from your father’s solicitors already. I would have thought Dr Waverley would have informed them.’

  ‘He may have done.’ She shivers, despite the warmth of the room and her blanket. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. I told you, if it hadn’t been for Jo I wouldn’t have known.’