But I promised her. I’d play, but I’d never leave her. She’d always be my other self. All she wanted was Ramillies. Our childhood home. Possession was all she dreamed of. It grew on her, year by year. Obsessed her.
That’s why I married Olivia. My cousin, she wasn’t much to look at, but she was young. Naïve. Childish about her pets. It wasn’t such a hardship in the beginning, giving up my dirty girls. With her brothers dead on the Somme, Olivia held the key to Ramillies.
I had my career, my position. I had opportunities. The Hall was mine in all but name, and Edie was happy. My sister was happy even if my wife was not. It didn’t matter, because Olivia disgusted me anyway. And I had a child of my own, a daughter, with the pretty red hair of the Oxleys. I had my Adele . . .
[Here, Doctor Waverley collapsed. Despite medical intervention, he did not recover consciousness and was pronounced dead at 9.25 a.m., 25–4–1941]
25th April. Romsey Hospital, 10 p.m.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Nash says.
‘I wasn’t asleep.’
The room’s dim blue bulb bleaches out all the colours from the room. Like moonlight, it makes a pattern of bright and shadow he finds hard to decode. Jo’s face is smeared with new bruises, the harsh black hollows of her eyes obscuring every expression.
‘I’m not supposed to be here.’
‘I heard them trying to tell you that.’
She sounds . . . amused? They’re both speaking low. For him, it’s because of the lateness of the hour, the illicit nature of his visit. For her, he doesn’t know. Perhaps she feels the same.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Sore.’
The dark protects him. If he’s bleached to the same jigsaw pattern of moonshine and black that patches the room, he can say what he likes, anonymous, ambiguous. But it’s still harder to say what he wants than he thought it would be.
‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I wish I hadn’t let you walk out.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I should have done more.’
‘You were right. I shouldn’t have taken the law into my own hands. But I’m glad I did.’
‘Yes. Jo, you know you mustn’t say that to anyone but me.’
‘Speaking as my solicitor?’
‘As your friend, dammit.’
‘I’m in pretty big trouble, aren’t I?’ she says, sombre. ‘That policeman who interviewed me last night, Superintendent Bell. He’d have liked to throw the book at me. He would have done it, I think. If he hadn’t been afraid it would finish me off.’
‘Don’t worry. So long as you’re sensible, all he’s got to charge you with is having Frank’s gun.’
‘Sensible?’
‘Keep your mouth shut. Don’t admit anything.’
‘I already—’
‘The state you were in, what you said can’t be given in evidence. They’ll have to take another statement when you’ve recovered.’
‘They won’t charge me with what happened to Waverley?’
‘They can’t. You never touched the shotgun, they know that now. And neither he nor his sister said anything to incriminate you.’
‘I didn’t want him to die, you know. I wanted him to face it, Bram. To admit it. I wanted everyone to know what he’d done to those girls. To my mother.’
‘That’s why you tried to save him?’
‘I didn’t want him to get away with it. And I couldn’t just watch him bleed, could I? But if I’d had bullets for the gun . . . I don’t know what I might have done. I was so angry.’ Her voice breaks.
‘Hush, now. No need to say any more.’
‘Let me tell you. As a friend. Please? I can’t stop thinking about it.’
It’s so unlike her to admit weakness. For a moment he doesn’t know what to say. He’s touched, but now’s not the moment for sentiment. It won’t help her. Keep it brisk, professional.
‘All right.’
‘I hated him so much. My father, the idea of him. Even before I knew who he was, what he’d done. I hated him for abandoning me, for driving Nell away. And then when I knew, I started to realise it must have been him who’d killed Ruth.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t kill Ruth. He was the one who dumped her body, but it was Edith who killed her.’
He wonders if he should tell her anything more, the state she’s in. Will it make her feel better or worse? But before he can make up his mind, she starts to speak again.
‘She said . . . When she first came in, she said I was wrong. They started to argue about Adele, and then . . . She confessed?’
‘In a manner of speaking. She was defiant, almost proud of what she’d done, the deaths she’d caused. Ruth and her baby—’
‘That wasn’t him either?’
‘No. He knew, I think, and he covered it up. What she was, the things she’d done.’
‘He didn’t know about Adele.’
‘She drowned, didn’t she? The rumour was she’d killed herself.’
‘Miss Waverley said . . . When she was talking to him, she said she’d got rid of Adele so the girl wouldn’t give him away. He was . . . He didn’t know that, I’d swear it. He was . . . shocked. More than shocked. It was what made him . . . It’s horrible but . . . I think he must have really loved Adele.’
‘Love? Is that what you call it?’ Bile rises in his throat, the way it’s been doing all day. ‘Don’t make excuses for him. We found the rest of the photographs, you know. In his office.’ He doesn’t tell her – won’t ever tell her – how her grandfather tried to stop them going in, how he cursed and raved at the police, at his own, official, presence as coroner. ‘And there were more at his home. Hundreds and hundreds of them altogether. So many of them, so many little girls.’
‘I can’t stop thinking, how did he get away with it for so long? Why didn’t anybody stop him? Why didn’t his sister stop him? She doesn’t seem to have cared, so long as people didn’t find out.’
‘No, she didn’t. And that’s why Ruth had to die. So she wouldn’t tell.’
‘So what will happen? Will they hang her?’
‘No.’ He’s suddenly weighted down with weariness. ‘They’ll never be able to bring charges. She’s mad, Jo. They had to certify her.’
‘Mad?’
‘Yes. She’s been committed to the County Asylum. But before she finally broke down and they had to take her away, she admitted all the killings. Including Paul Oxley’s death. She said she smothered him, hoping you’d be blamed.’
A croak of sound that might be laughter, might be a sob. Might be anything, really. The dark does its work too well for him to be able to see her face. He feels an overwhelming desire to hold her, but he knows she won’t welcome it.
‘Jo?’
*
I hear his voice as if from a distance. Hear him speak my name. He sounds anxious, concerned, and I wonder what my face must be doing.
‘I didn’t kill him?’ The relief is overwhelming. ‘God . . . I thought it was me. Because I’d given him a shock.’ Though this hospital room is steam heated, far too hot, I’m shivering with release. What I want now, more than anything, is the touch of a hand, a body to hold me close. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘You won’t leave, will you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘If you’re thinking of offering me your resignation, I won’t accept it.’
It’s a touch of a kind, and I cling to it.
‘Not even if they prosecute me?’
‘They won’t. You’re home and dry, Jo, I promise. Home and dry.’
Epilogue
28th April
THREE DAYS LATER, SYLVIE COMES to fetch me out of hospital. I know immediately who it is from the pattering of high-heeled shoes on the linoleum floor, the waft of perfume she brings with her.
‘Chérie.’
Her greeting is cheerful, pitched at nor
mal volume; refreshing after the hushed churchy tones the nurses use when they speak to me. Her hug is constrained by the awkwardness of my bandages and sling, but it’s comfortingly warm and real.
I’ve been dreading this moment, the thought of being whisked away to Tom and Sylvie’s perfect black-and-white flat. Kind as it is of them, since I can’t go back to Dot’s because Ollie is going to stay on, I don’t see myself fitting in. Everything there’s so clear-cut and brightly lit. It’ll be salt in the wound after the mess I’ve made of everything. But Sylvie’s hug reminds me of the knitting hidden behind the cushions, her kindness to my mother, and I begin to think things might turn out right after all.
If it was up to me, I’d slip out the back way, but Sylvie’s having none of it. She leads me to the main entrance and as we emerge into daylight, I see she’s parked Tom’s Morris van bang in front of the notice which says Ambulances only. It practically screams for attention with its glossy black paintwork embellished with bright pictures of fruit and veg, its scarlet lettering: T. FOX, GREENGROCER.
‘Sylvie,’ I say, ‘you shouldn’t have. Grandfather . . . He’ll take it out on you and Tom if he knows you’re looking after me.’
She waves away the protest. ‘What can he do, silly old fool? High time he knew we don’t dance to his tune. Now, let me help you.’
Before I know it, I’m installed on the long bench seat. She tucks a cushion against my injured arm before slamming the door, taps her way round to the driver’s side. The van fires up at the first push of the starter, but our progress is sedate in the extreme. Either Sylvie’s cautious or the van’s done for, because we chug out of the hospital grounds at what hardly seems like walking pace. The curtains in the porters’ lodge twitch as we turn onto the main road. The old man in his lair, taking it all in? I look away, pretend not to notice. No need to gloat. For Grandfather, the social order’s been turned on its head. Waverley, one of the town’s elite, a man he’d respected for his birth, his position in life, is dead. Disgraced. Brought down by his bastard granddaughter.
We pass the turn that would take us to Ramillies. They say Ollie’s told everyone she’ll never set foot in the place, that some out-of-town war office is going to take it over.
On down the hill, under the bridge. It’s busier here, people standing about, waiting. Black armbands on some of the men’s coats. There’s a procession, even slower than us, coming up from the town centre. A funeral. Sylvie pulls to a halt.
I’m filled with sudden horror. ‘It isn’t . . . Not Dr Waverley?’
Sylvie shakes her head. ‘No, chérie. The old man. Mr Oxley.’
The cars draw closer. The men in the street doff their hats. As the vehicles turn, I catch a glimpse of Nash. He’s there to support Ollie. I can’t see Dot, but she’ll be somewhere in the background, sensible and fierce, looking after her chick.
Once the procession is past, we move off. I jolt in my seat as Sylvie grinds the gears. Pain punches my shoulder, but I’ll be back at work tomorrow, bandages or no. Not sure what I’ll do. What Nash will let me do.
He won’t let me go . . .
On the pavement, the men put their hats back on. Women gather in groups, gossiping. A couple look our way and I guess I’m part of what they’re talking about. What I did, what I found out about Waverley and his sister. Some of them will never forgive me for it. Like my grandfather, or the doctor who took his time getting the pellets out of my shoulder, telling me the hospital would be lost without its chief physician. Or the ward sister who wept because he’d always been a gentleman to her. For them, I’m more to blame than the Waverleys. I’ve put the town to shame. While the secrets were tucked away in the dark they could pretend everything was all right. Now it’s out in the open.
But I’m not sorry. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
‘Home,’ Sylvie says, as she pulls the van to a halt outside the greengrocer’s shop.
I surface at the sound of her voice. It’s not home, but it’s close enough.
Acknowledgements
There are so many people who have supported and encouraged me as I wrote The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox that I hardly know where to start. I think the first thank you should go to the judges of the Richard and Judy Search for a Bestseller Competition – I’m still blown away by knowing that you picked my book! Thank you to Rowan Lawton, my agent, who has been such a patient guide through the business aspects of getting published. Thank you to the team at Zaffre for being so welcoming to me from the very first, and for your help and advice as you steered me through all the stages of editing and preparing the novel for publication. And, of course, for coming up with a brilliant new title for the novel! I met so many of you that first day, and I can’t remember everyone’s name, but I thank every one of you. Special mention must go to Katherine Armstrong, my editor, whose comments and suggestions have made such a positive difference to the novel; Jennie Rothwell, Francesca Russell, Claire Johnson-Creek, Sarah Bauer, Martin Fletcher and Steve O’Gorman.
The novel has had a long gestation – it began as the creative part of my PhD study at the University of Winchester – and I should like to thank all my colleagues there for their help and support. In particular, Professors Neil McCaw and Inga Bryden, who as my supervisory team were stuck with me; and Professor Andrew Melrose who gave me encouragement and a friendly ear even though he didn’t have to!
Writing can be a lonely occupation, and I don’t know how I would have survived the process without the support, encouragement and practical suggestions which came from past and present members of Chandlers Ford Writers. Thanks to John Barfield, Jo Barker, Jan Moring, Adelaide Morris and Corinne Pebody. Particular mention and special thanks to Nigel Spriggs, without whose early intervention the novel would never have got off the ground, and Anne Summerfield for reading the first finished draft of the novel and giving me such good feedback!
Finally, I want to thank all my family and friends who have given me love and laughter over the years. I can’t name you all but you know who you are. I couldn’t have done it without every one of you. But especially my husband, Nick, my sons Will and Phil, my daughter-in-law Kat and Danny, my grandson.
Remembering my mother and father, who I hope would forgive me for introducing murder to Romsey, and Virginia, who I wish I could tell!
About the Author
Claire Gradidge was born and brought up in Romsey. After a career as, among other things, a nurse and a school librarian, she went to the University of Winchester, where she graduated in 2009 with a first class honours BA in Creative Writing. In January 2018, she was awarded a PhD in Creative Writing and The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox was written as the creative element of her PhD study. An early version of the opening 3,000 words was highly commended in the Good Housekeeping magazine competition in 2012.
She has taught at the University of Winchester as an Associate Lecturer for six years and has also had some short fictions and poems published in South, Orbis and Vortex. She has been married for 40 years and has two adult sons.
Questions for your reading group
• On page 22 Jo remembers:
Smelling the clean scent of Wright’s Coal Tar Soap on his skin; aware of my own stink, ashamed of it, one bath a week in water everyone’s used, the must and dust of the cottage clinging.
How important is Jo’s family background, and her sense of being ‘other’, to this narrative? Does she feel shame for her origins or does she rise above it? What difference does this make to the way she behaves and thinks?
• On page 29 Jo says:
‘You know what it’s like when you don’t belong.’
How important is the sense of belonging or not belonging to Jo’s identity, and how does it affect her behaviour throughout?
• Remembering the past and one’s relationship to it is a vital element of this book. As readers, how reliable do you think Jo’s recollections are of years gone by and how does this affect her thinking in the present?
• Early in the novel Jo thinks:
In times like these, even strangers do it . . . Life asserts itself, as physical, as unstoppable as a sneeze.
Why do you think this book has been set during the Second World War? Is there a sense that things happen in wartime that wouldn’t otherwise? How different might the story have been if set in another time?
• Nash describes him and Jo as ‘ships that pass in the night’ and says:
‘I’m sorry, Jo, but I don’t do tomorrow.’
By the end of the book, do you think this is still the case? How has their relationship developed and where will it go in the future?
• On page 32 Jo thinks:
Stranger? Heave half a brick at ’im has always been the town’s attitude.
Discuss the insularity of Romsey and its inhabitants and whether things might have turned out differently in a larger place.
• Is Nash’s estimation of Jo’s character right? How tough is she really?
He’s sure. He knows she’s not cold, but he’s banking on her hardihood. That she’ll do what she has to – that she won’t go soft or sentimental on him. Let Aggie think what she likes, he needs Jo to be tough. It’s precisely what he wants her for.
• Why does everyone think Jo’s unmarried?
Why is everyone determined to make me into a spinster?
How might their attitudes to her have differed if they’d known she was married and why? Are these attitudes confined to the 1940s?
• Keeping secrets is an important theme throughout the novel. While many are uncovered, Bram Nash’s feeling for Jo, and hers for him, remain hidden. Why do you think this is?
• Jo takes the law into her own hands on several occasions as she searches for the truth about her birth and Ruth’s death. Do you sympathise with her actions, or do you think she was wrong to act in the way she does?
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 26