by Nicola Upson
There was a pause, then Fallowfield put his hand on her arm, all traces of hostility gone. ‘Miss Tey, you obviously don’t understand. Bridget—Miss Foley—was killed this afternoon.’
‘Bridget?’ Josephine steadied herself against the wall as the ground seemed to shift beneath her. She looked at Fallowfield, trying in vain to make some sense of what he was telling her. ‘No, Bill, that can’t be right. Are you sure?’
‘I’m afraid so. She was supposed to be having supper with her daughter in between the matinee and the evening performance, but when she got here to meet her she walked in on the attack. The bastard just lashed out at her. There was nothing that anybody could do. She died before the ambulance got here.’
Josephine closed her eyes, but the images which played out in her mind were too horrific to contemplate. ‘What about the rapist? Did he get away again?’
‘Yes, he ran as soon as he realised what he’d done.’
‘And Phyllis? Did he . . .?’
‘Get what he came for? No. Miss Foley got there in time to save her.’
But at what cost, Josephine thought. ‘Could Phyllis tell you anything about him?’ she asked.
‘Only that his voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She didn’t see his face.’
‘And where’s Archie now? Can I go and see him?’
‘Yes, I’ll take you in. We’ll have to use the front entrance, though. The backstage area is still out of bounds.’
So that was where it had happened. Josephine imagined Phyllis alone there, carrying out the final checks for the evening performance, calmly making sure that everything was in place for the opening scene. She would have taken those precious, ordinary moments for granted, never thinking that they were the last she would ever have, oblivious to the fact that a stranger was about to cheat her of everything that mattered: her independence; a job she adored; her mother’s love—all tarnished or destroyed in the blink of an eye. ‘Did Archie see Bridget’s body?’ she asked.
Fallowfield nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. The local boys would have stopped him if they’d known, but they had no reason to think he was connected to the victim.’
‘No, of course not,’ Josephine said, trying to imagine the shock he must have suffered. ‘And did Phyllis see Archie?’
The sergeant looked at her curiously. ‘Yes, she did. Only for a moment, but it was very peculiar. Forgive the cliché, but she seemed completely bewildered, as if she’d seen a ghost.’ Bill Fallowfield had thirty years’ experience of talking to witnesses, and Josephine’s lack of surprise now didn’t go unnoticed: ‘Do you know something else, Miss Tey?’
‘Yes, Bill, I’m afraid I do, and I honestly can’t decide if it makes things better or worse—if worse is possible. I’ll have to tell him, though,’ she added, as much to herself as to the sergeant. ‘I’ll have to tell them both.’
He escorted her into the building, through the foyer and into the auditorium. The stage lights were full on, flooding the area beyond the proscenium arch with an artificial radiance which bled out into the stalls below, depriving the area of its customary, consoling darkness. Archie was sitting in the front row, staring straight ahead. Josephine hesitated when she saw him; a cliché it might have been, but Phyllis’s response to seeing her father was appropriate—it was like looking at a ghost. His face was gaunt and pale, a colour she had only ever seen in those who were seriously ill; he shrank into the seat as if trying to withdraw completely from the world. In the hour since they parted, it seemed to Josephine that Archie had lived at least another twenty years of his life.
The echo of her footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the empty theatre, but still he didn’t turn to her. ‘I’m so sorry, Archie,’ she said, sitting down next to him. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how you must feel.’
She took his hand but he withdrew it immediately. ‘He cut her throat—did you know that?’ he said, his voice tight and bitter. ‘The girl says Bridget was trying to pull him off her and he just turned round and lashed out.’ Knowing all she did, the impersonal way in which he referred to Phyllis jarred with Josephine’s conscience. ‘He had a lucky strike, you might say.’
‘Archie—’
‘She bled to death, Josephine. He cut through her windpipe so she wouldn’t even have been able to cry out or—’
‘Archie, please—don’t do this.’
‘Why not?’ he demanded angrily, looking at her for the first time. ‘This is what I do, isn’t it? I’m a policeman. I waste my life trying to understand how and why people die—and they’re strangers, all of them. Who are Tom Webster and Robert Moorcroft to me? Or even Ellen Cleever, for that matter? And yet I put them first. I was asleep in your house when Bridget died, and I should have been with her.’ Josephine felt the sting of his words, and knew that the sorrow of Bridget’s death would, for Archie, be amplified beyond measure by the doubts and half-decisions of the weeks preceding it. She wished with all her heart that he and Bridget had been able to come to some sort of resolution before the tragedy, to some sort of peace; there was no way now that Archie would ever be able to grieve without guilt, if such a thing was even possible for anyone who loved. ‘I let Bridget drift away and become a stranger, too,’ he continued quietly. ‘I’m mourning her now but I have no idea who she was.’
‘Bridget wasn’t a stranger.’
‘How do you know? Why are you even arguing with me, Josephine? She was a mother and she never told me. Why would she keep something like that a secret? And that girl obviously didn’t know anything about Bridget and me. Clearly whatever we had wasn’t even important enough to mention.’
It was the moment that Josephine had been dreading, and the growing silence between them only made the choice she was faced with more momentous: she could say nothing and protect their friendship, telling herself that it was Archie she was shielding, safe now in the knowledge that her complicity with Bridget’s secret needn’t be revealed; or she could be honest with him and risk all that they meant to each other. ‘You were too important, Archie,’ she said, before the first option became too tempting. ‘That’s why Bridget didn’t tell you.’ He stared at her and she watched the implication of her words sink in, but she was too committed now to change her mind. ‘That’s right. I found out about Phyllis a few weeks ago, and I talked to Bridget about it as soon as she got back from Devon. I tried to—’
‘How?’
Josephine hesitated, reluctant to admit that Marta had known Bridget’s secret for months. ‘Does it really matter now?’ she asked.
‘Of course it matters. How did you find out?’
‘By accident. Marta bumped into them together at the station.’
‘But Bridget hasn’t been in Cambridge since August. You must have known this for a damned sight longer than a few weeks.’ Loyalty to Marta prevented her from denying it; there was no point in trying to appease Archie’s anger by pretending she was as much a victim as he was. ‘So that’s why Marta was so odd when I met her in Hampstead,’ he said, getting up and walking over to the stage. ‘She knew what I’d find if I came to Cambridge. My God, Josephine—you women really are beyond belief. Who do you think you are, sticking together like that and keeping me in the dark? What has a man ever done to any of you that you can have so little faith in his understanding?’
She saw in the remark all the long-held resentment of her love for Marta, all the feelings of exclusion from something with which he could never compete, and while she tried to tell herself that it was his grief talking, she felt another piece of the trust between them shatter with every word he said. ‘Please, Archie, come and sit down,’ she begged. ‘There are other things I need to tell you. At least let me try and explain.’
He turned to face her, but stayed where he was. ‘Go on. I want to hear you justify Bridget’s secret. Why didn’t she tell me she had a daughter? Why was that something she felt she had to hide?’ Josephine waited, hoping that his own reasoning might lead him to the answer which s
he found so difficult to speak aloud, but he simply stared at her, daring her to rise to the challenge. ‘Well?’
‘Phyllis isn’t just Bridget’s daughter. She’s yours, too.’ She watched the astonishment turn to disbelief, and hurried to fill the silence before Archie could argue. ‘After you’d gone back to the Front, Bridget found out she was pregnant. By then, you’d both agreed that the relationship was over and she thought she’d never see you again, so she decided to bring Phyllis up on her own.’
‘Without even trying to contact me?’
Josephine stood and walked over to him. ‘Believe me, Archie, I don’t agree with what Bridget did all those years ago, but I do understand it. She didn’t want either of you to be forced into a marriage that you wouldn’t have chosen, and you’d made no effort to pick up where you left off when the war was over, so she did what she thought was best.’
‘You’re saying this is my fault?’
‘No, of course not, but it certainly isn’t Phyllis’s. She’s the one who’s suffered most here, and she’s the one who needs help now. Don’t let whatever you feel about Bridget blind you to that.’ She put a hand to his cheek, forcing him to look at her, and this time he didn’t move away. ‘Bridget loved you, Archie. When you found each other again by chance and she realised how much she still cared for you, she was in an impossible situation.’ The memory of that meeting on Armistice Day came back to her, the single-minded determination in Bridget’s eyes, but Josephine put it from her mind: there was no need to hurt Archie now with the harshness of those decisions; better to salvage comfort wherever she could. ‘She was frightened of losing you—that’s why she waited. She didn’t think you’d ever be able to forgive her, and the longer she put it off, the harder it got.’
‘But what about the child?’ Archie said, and Josephine noticed that he still could not bring himself to use her name. ‘She must have thought that I didn’t want her. What sort of father would go twenty years without even picking up the telephone or trying to make contact? She’ll never forgive me for that. I wouldn’t, in her position.’
‘But in her eyes, there was nothing to forgive,’ Josephine said, wishing that there was some way of avoiding the confession which was still to come. ‘Bridget told Phyllis that her father had been killed in the war. Phyllis had no reason to doubt that, and certainly no reason to think that you’d abandoned her.’
‘My daughter thinks I’m dead, and you say it as if it’s a blessing.’
‘That isn’t what I meant.’ She looked intently at him, willing him to realise that she wasn’t his enemy in this, but so much damage had already been done. He turned away from her and she realised that she had never seen him cry before—not even during the darkest days of the war, when he had been so badly injured. ‘But she knows you’re alive now, Archie—at least I think she does. She knew as soon as you walked in here today.’
‘How?’
‘Bridget’s portrait of you—the one in uniform. Phyllis knows that the man in that picture is her father, and you haven’t really changed.’
She was crying herself now, and he walked over to hold her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Josephine?’ he asked softly, and there was something defeated in his voice that made her fearful. ‘I thought we were better than that.’
Sadly, Josephine pulled away from him, knowing in her heart that there could be no way back from this, no matter what she said now. ‘Bridget wanted time to tell Phyllis,’ she explained. ‘I promised her I wouldn’t say anything before she’d had a chance to do that.’
‘So was that why she came here today? To break the news to Phyllis?’
Josephine shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose we can ever know that for certain. Come back to the house with me,’ she offered tentatively. ‘You can’t stay here, and we need to talk.’
He shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t see what more there is to say, and anyway I’ve got to go to the station. I can’t forgive Bridget, she was right about that, but I can get justice for her.’
‘Surely you’re in no fit state to work.’
‘What else do you suggest I do? What else is left?’
‘Phyllis, of course. Don’t you even want to talk to her?’
Archie hesitated, and for a moment she dared to hope that he might change his mind. ‘It’s too late, Josephine,’ he said, ‘and I think Phyllis will tell you the same thing if you ask her. I can’t deal with this now. Everything I thought I was sure of is a lie.’
It was meant as a parting shot, but Josephine grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t you dare include me in that,’ she said, her guilt finally giving way to anger. ‘You and I have been telling each other lies for twenty-five years, but every single time has been because we love each other and this is no different. Yes, it’s a mess, but life is—and this was never some conspiracy dreamt up by harpies to hurt you.’ He opened his mouth to argue, but she was too incensed to give him the chance. ‘You can’t stand there and decide what’s too late for Phyllis just because you’re feeling guilty—and if you really want to know what guilt is, think about her. Bridget died because of her. She didn’t ask to be saved, but that’s what a mother does and now Phyllis has to live with that for the rest of her life. I think that rather trumps anything you and I are feeling, don’t you?’ She stopped, unable to trust herself not to go even further and suspecting that she had already said more than she would ever be forgiven for. ‘We all do what we think is best at the time, Archie, but we can never see the consequences. How was Bridget to know that you’d meet again and have something more than a wartime affair? And how was I to know that she’d die before she had a chance to put things right?’ He turned away, but she tried one last time. ‘Please, Archie—go and see Phyllis. Let her decide if it’s too late.’
There was no answer and Josephine watched him go, feeling the emptiness and desolation close in around her, a tangible presence which she knew would be with her long after she left the theatre.
25
My dear Phyllis,
Please forgive a letter from a stranger, particularly one which must open with another deception. When we met at the Festival Theatre in the week of Night Must Fall, I wasn’t, as I told you, looking for tickets—I was looking for you. I had, by chance, discovered that my oldest friend is your father, and—call it curiosity or meddling or concern—I wanted to meet you. It wasn’t my place then to say anything to you or to him; that was for your mother to do, and you may find some comfort in knowing that she had every intention of doing so. But the opportunity of telling you everything, of trying to make you understand why she did what she did, has been stolen from her. This letter—if and when you feel ready to read it—is no substitute for the conversation you were never allowed to have, but it does at least contain some of the information that I know she would have given you.
Your father’s name is Archie Penrose, and he and Bridget met during the war—in the autumn of 1915, to be precise. Archie had been badly wounded at the Front, and they sent him to a makeshift hospital here in Cambridge, set up in one of the college courts. He told me once that his earliest recollection of your mother was like a dream: he awoke to find her sitting on the end of his bed, sketching him as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, and they grew to love each other while he was convalescing. She gave him that first drawing and he’s kept it ever since; it was, he says, the reminder of peace and sanity that got him through the horror of returning to war. In time, it became the portrait painting which you know so well; one day, I hope he’ll show it to you.
Your parents both loved this town. The weeks they spent together here were among the most precious of Archie’s life—although of course he had no idea until now quite how precious they had been.
Archie never knew that he had a daughter; if he had, he would have loved and cherished you every single day of your life. He went back to war before Bridget discovered she was pregnant, and they lost touch, like thousands of our generation. You were born into a world of chaos, a world whic
h had lost sight of every human value and instinct to love, and yet your parents did love each other—one of those small, ordinary miracles that save us from ourselves. Their time together back then might have been brief, but it was no less important for that. A love that begins in darkness has a habit of lasting.
You may already know something of your parents’ history. What you won’t be aware of is the man your father has become in the intervening years, the man that he is today. He trained as a doctor, but gave up medicine after the war and joined the police force instead. Now he is a detective chief inspector at Scotland Yard, and—like your mother—he is devoted to his work, perhaps at the expense of other things in his life. A policeman and an artist might seem an odd combination, but, in very different ways, both your parents set out to improve on the messy, muddle of a world that we make for ourselves, or at least to shine a light on all that is good about it. I’ve often thought that this is what bonded them so strongly. Archie is a fine man—compassionate and brave, warm and intelligent, with an unflinching sense of right and wrong that can sometimes prove his downfall. He has a genuine interest in others, and a talent for finding common ground with people from all walks of life; until I met you, I assumed that this was a necessity of his job, but in hindsight it seems to be a natural gift, and one that he has passed on. It’s hard to know how much to tell you, and, in any case, the things that are important to me about Archie won’t necessarily be the things that speak to you. He loves theatre, though, which will please you. And you have his smile.
There is nothing I can say that will numb the pain of your mother’s death, or change the fact that she left you with so many questions unanswered. I don’t presume to know how you must feel, except to guess that your grief for her is blurred by a sense of betrayal because she kept something from you which it was always your right to know, and for twenty years you have loved and mourned a father whom you believed to be lost to you. Make no mistake, Phyllis—she regretted that decision bitterly, for your sake and for Archie’s, and she was about to put it right—but war has much to answer for. She had no reason to believe that she would ever see him again, and you were always her priority. When I saw her a few days before she died, she told me that you were the best thing about her, that you were strong enough to forgive each other anything. In time, I hope you’ll realise that she was right.