That We Shall Die: A Jane Madden genealogical mystery

by Peter Hey

  Ah well, the world’s changed and all for the better. I’ve been racking my brains and I don’t think there’s anything else I can add in terms of Cyn and Pat, but thank you for giving this old man the opportunity to reminisce.

  Regards

  Brian Pointer

  Kemble

  Jane walked out to her car just after 9:30 am. A couple of doors down, a Luton van had pulled onto the pavement, and two men were lifting a bed out of the back. The house had been for sale for a few months, but recently the sign had been changed to ‘Under offer’ and finally, ‘Sold’. They weren’t huge properties but Jane knew they could only be sparsely furnished with the contents of a medium-sized ‘man with a van’. Perhaps multiple trips would be involved. And then she remembered when she had moved in herself. She and Dave had split the contents of their old flat. That hadn’t been a big place, so everything she had owned had fit into a smaller vehicle than this. She thought about walking over and introducing herself to her new neighbour. Then she looked at her watch and decided against. She wasn’t really the cup of sugar type. Her inclination was more towards a smile, a brisk ‘Good morning’ and going on about your business. Of all the people in her street, the only one she knew by name was Mrs Metcalfe, and she had lived across the road since Jane was a girl.

  She was about to embark on a two-hour drive that might be a wasted journey, but Jane felt she had to go the extra mile, literally, after her client had expressed his disappointment at her earlier efforts. She was also slightly embarrassed that Tommy had found Cyn so quickly, though she told herself she shouldn’t be. Tommy was a genius and that’s all there was to it. If she was to be red-faced about anything, it was not getting him involved sooner. Her excuse was that Alan had downplayed the importance of finding his mother’s long-lost friend. Jane was now beginning to wonder if that was the only thing that had mattered to him, if his family background was an inconsequential, even deliberate, distraction. If so, it seemed more than a little weird. But then, it was hard to get inside someone’s mind, and perhaps it was foolish to think you could. Jane certainly felt foolish for ever thinking Alan was attractive. He was way too old for her and not altogether… right.

  Having got Cyn’s surname, Howard, Tommy had tracked her down with relative ease. The birth index for England and Wales included several Cynthia Howards who would be roughly the correct age, but only one shared a mother’s maiden name with a brother called Colin. She had the middle initial ‘V’ and Cynthia V Howard proved unique, later marrying a Thomas R Fairburn in the early 1970s. Cynthia V Fairburn appeared on recent electoral rolls living in the village of Kemble in Gloucestershire. On the latest she was alone, her husband having died in 2017. Her willingness to share information with the Internet extended to her phone number being in the online directory.

  Jane had rung several times but only got through to an answering machine. The message confirmed the number but gave nothing else away, except that the person who recorded it was female and probably not young.

  Jane thought about writing, but was impatient for an answer, especially as someone who didn’t, or couldn’t, reply to phone calls might not respond to a letter either. So Jane decided to get in her car and head for the Cotswolds.

  It was motorway as far as Gloucester, and about halfway she passed the turning to Solihull, off the M42. She thought about calling in on Alan on the way back, if it proved a successful trip. So far she hadn’t updated him on her, or rather Tommy’s, progress, other than to say they were following up on a couple of leads. She was reluctant to admit that Alan’s pressure had brought results quite so swiftly. But if she could say for certain that Cyn was alive and contactable, he could only be impressed.

  The sun came out as Jane left the M5 and headed cross country on fast A-roads that climbed up into the hills. She was enjoying the drive, though it was too cold to drop the hood. The traffic clogged as she skirted the old Roman town of Cirencester, but she was nearing her destination and found herself smiling with anticipation, even when an impatient delivery van cut in front of her at a roundabout. Jane had another reason for wanting to make the journey: a notion from her past that had lodged in her mind, something that had always seemed too frivolous to satisfy for its own sake.

  Her relationship with Dave had moved from the professional to the personal on a work outing to Cheltenham Races. Jane had no interest in horses and couldn’t understand the buzz people got from gambling, but wanted to fit in with her new team and agreed to go along. She also fancied the tall detective sergeant who was organising the day. She just about broke even placing minimum bets on horses selected solely on their colours, and afterwards the incognito police officers walked into town in search of a suitable hostelry. Cheltenham’s genteel Regency charm was shattered by the crowds of racegoers cramming its bars, and Jane and her colleagues found themselves in a small backstreet pub that was only slightly less packed. A few too many beers and wines had broken barriers, and Jane and Dave had been an item from that moment on. Jane had always remembered where they were. It was called the Kemble Inn, and she was finally going to visit its namesake and inspiration.

  As usual, Jane had been reluctant to listen to robot woman in her phone’s satnav and had gone online to plan the journey in advance. She was intrigued to find that such a small village had retained its railway station. Much larger towns had been cut off from the rail network during Beeching’s 1960s cuts, but presumably Kemble benefited from being on the way between more important places. The large station car park suggested it was used by commuters from nearby Cirencester and Tetbury, themselves long deprived of their own branch lines.

  At first glance, the satellite images made it appear as if Kemble might also have an international airport. A long tarmac runway ran east-west a mile outside the village. Parked on the apron were various aircraft, two of which looked large enough to be Jumbos. A quick Google search provided clarification. The ex-RAF and USAF base had become home to a company that specialised in recycling old airliners.

  Cynthia Fairburn’s address was in a narrow lane close to the church. Jane pulled up outside a pair of pretty-looking cottages, built, like the rest of the village, in softly golden Cotswold stone. The roof was of weathered slates that decreased in size as they neared the ridge, and was mossy around the central chimney stack. There were gables above the doorways and first-floor windows, and their wooden fascias were all painted in a matching shade of pale apple white. It looked like the cottages had been built as semi-detached rather than being converted from an earlier configuration, but Jane could only guess at their age. They were certainly much older than some of the houses nearer the station. The rail link had attracted development, but it had obviously been controlled and Kemble retained the character of a country village. Hopefully, the peace was now only rarely shattered by the roar of jet engines thundering above.

  Jane opened a wooden slatted gate set in a thick drystone wall that ran across the front of both properties. The garden was small and neat and had a small cherry tree growing in one corner. Jane stood in front of the modern front door – again a mirror of its neighbour – and pressed the bell. She heard it ring out but otherwise the house was silent. There were frosted-glass lights set into the upper half of the door, but everything within appeared blurrily motionless. She stood patiently for a couple of minutes and was thinking of peering through one of the ground-floor windows when she noticed a twitching curtain at the adjoining house. Should she get no answer, it had always been her intention to talk to the neighbours. Now seemed an appropriate time.

  Jane walked out onto the lane and in through the next gate. She rang the bell, and after a brief delay the door cracked open to reveal a thin lady, somewhere in her early seventies. She had short, straight hair, naturally grey, and round tortoiseshell glasses. She was no more than five feet tall but held her back straight and her head high. She looked somehow scholarly, like a retired librarian or school teacher. On no real evidence, Jane decided she was most likely the latt
er.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

  ‘Hi. My name’s Jane Madden. I’ve been trying to get in touch with, erm, Mrs Fairburn next door.’

  ‘She’s not in. May I ask what it’s concerning?’

  Jane smiled. She at least had confirmation that Cynthia Fairburn still lived at this address. Her neighbour was being cagey, but that was simply an indictment of modern Britain. Everyone had learnt to be wary of scams: shysters on the phone, in emails and standing on your doorstep.

  ‘I’m a genealogist,’ explained Jane. ‘You know, tracing family history. I’m doing some work on behalf of a client, and his late mother knew Mrs Fairburn – she was called Cynthia Howard back then – in London. They worked together as secretaries.’

  The supposed school teacher nodded, clearly trying to calculate if the story rang true.

  Jane continued. ‘When my client’s mother died, she wanted to leave something to her old friend. They’d lost touch, so I’ve been trying to trace her.’ Jane was suddenly wary that the suggestion of an inheritance was prime hoax territory. ‘It’s only a token. A small piece of jewellery. It’s not that valuable. Well, it might be. A bit. But I’m not suggesting there’s a vast sum of money involved. It was just something to remember a friendship. You know how it is.’

  ‘I see,’ said the neighbour. ‘Forgive me for sounding cautious, dear, but do you have any ID.’ Her expression changed to one of mild embarrassment. ‘Sorry, is that a stupid question? Do genealogists carry ID?’

  ‘I was meaning to get some cards printed, but never got round to it. Mind you, anyone can get cards printed. I could show you an old photo of Cyn… Mrs Fairburn, taken with my client’s mother?’

  ‘That might be interesting.’

  Jane pulled her phone out of her bag. She tapped the screen for a few seconds before turning it towards the older lady, who tilted her head back to look through the magnifying section of her bifocal glasses.

  After a tangible pause, she spoke. ‘Cynthia’s the one on the right, isn’t she? It took me a while. Wasn’t she utterly, utterly beautiful? She still is, of course, but… Well, the years take their toll on all of us. Make the most of your looks while you can, my dear. That’s my advice.’

  Jane sensed the neighbour’s guard had dropped. An enterprising trickster might be able to dig out an old photograph, but it was unlikely. And it was hard work maintaining a stern front without resorting to rudeness.

  ‘I’ve never been much in the beauty stakes, so it’s less of a problem for me,’ joked Jane.

  ‘Nonsense, dear. Absolute nonsense.’

  Jane took the words as more polite than sincere but smiled her thanks. ‘Do you mind if I ask your name?’ she said.

  ‘Sue. Please call me Sue. You were Jane, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks, Sue. You said Cynthia was out?’

  ‘Actually, she’s on holiday. A cruise in the Indian Ocean. She loves the sun, does Cynthia. And she and Tom were always going on cruises.’

  ‘Tom was her husband. He died in 2017, I think.’

  ‘That sounds about right. His death hit her hard. They’d retired to the cottage and had a lovely life. He’d been something important in one of the privatised railway companies. They wanted to be in the countryside, but he wouldn’t countenance being far from a station. Hence Kemble. They had enough money to make the most of their time together. And then… Widowhood comes to us all in the end.’

  ‘If you’re lucky,’ said Jane.

  Sue looked offended and Jane quickly backtracked.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I meant, if you’re lucky enough to have a long and happy marriage, then the penalty is that one of you is going to be left on your own in the end. Some of us cut out the good bit in the middle.’

  ‘There’s someone for everyone, dear,’ answered Sue. ‘You just need to look for someone who’s roughly as attractive as you are and, most importantly, nice. Then, job done. Without being maudlin, just hope you’re the one who pops their clogs first.’

  A response came into Jane’s mind. ‘What if you’re not nice yourself? It has to work both ways.’ She dismissed the thought and asked a more practical question.

  ’When are you expecting Cyn... Cynthia back?’

  ‘In about another three weeks or so. On the 29th.’

  ‘Is it possible to contact her? I suppose cruise ships have Internet access these days? It must be possible to email at least.’

  Sue appeared hesitant again. ‘Forgive me, Jane. I’ve no doubt you’re who you say, but I’m not sure I should be giving out someone’s contact details. You have to be so careful these days. And nothing’s going to happen until she gets home, is it? She specifically asked only to be notified in an emergency. Perhaps the best thing is to write a letter explaining everything, and it’ll be waiting for her when she comes back. I can say we’ve met and had a chat, and that you seem nice and very genuine. Would that be okay?’

  Jane considered pressing but decided it would be counterproductive. Sue was right, nothing would happen while Cyn was away. She had been found and her identity confirmed. Alan would surely be happy. He would be able to satisfy his mother’s dying request, and a few weeks’ delay was just the way it was.

  Jane reached into her bag again and pulled out an envelope. ‘I was going to post it through her door if she wasn’t in. Should I do that or give it to you?’

  Sue took the letter. ‘I’ve got a key and I’m checking her mail anyway. Why don’t you leave it with me.’

  Home

  ‘Hello, Alan Shaw speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Alan. It’s Jane, Jane Madden.’

  ‘Jane. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thanks. I’ve got some good news.’

  ‘Excellent. Fire away.’

  ‘We’ve managed to track down Cyn.’

  ‘Oh, Jane! That’s brilliant news! How is she? I mean, where is she? How did you find her?’

  ‘It was largely down to my colleague. I told you he was, well, really inspired sometimes. You know the photograph of your mother and Cyn taken outside that building?’

  ‘I’m looking at it right now,’ said Alan, turning his eyes towards the picture frame on the bookcase.

  ‘There’s that brass plaque mostly obscured by Cyn’s shoulder.’

  ‘I’ve often thought that was such a pity. If only she’d stood a little to the side.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jane, enjoying the feeling of vindication, ‘Tommy reckoned it probably said Union House—'

  ‘How on earth did he work that out?’

  ‘He’s just... very clever. Anyway, that turned out to be the offices of what was then the National Railwaymen’s Union—'

  ‘So my mother worked for a railway union, not the railways themselves?’

  ‘Exactly. Having established that, Tommy found someone on Facebook who was also there in the late sixties. And he remembered Cyn. And your mother. His memories of Cyn were particularly vivid – she was nearer his age, and we can all see how pretty she was.'

  ‘Wasn’t she just? Wasn’t she?’

  ‘She left a big enough impression that he remembered her name. She was Cynthia Howard at the time. After that, Tommy switched to fairly standard family history records, electoral registers and so on. Her middle initial is V – I’m not sure if that’s for Veronica or Vera or whatever – but she married a man called Fairburn—'

  ‘She’s married?’

  ‘She’s widowed now. But we traced Cynthia V Fairburn to a Gloucestershire village called Kemble. Do you know it?’

  ‘Kemble? No. Wait a second, Jane. I’ve got my laptop here. Do you mind if I google it and find it on the map?’

  Jane waited quietly until Alan’s voice came back on the phone.

  ‘Got it. It’s not that far away, is it? I could go down there tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s where I’ve just been, Alan. I tried to ring her – helpfully she’s in the directory – but I kept getting an answering ma
chine. I spoke to her next-door neighbour and showed her the photograph. She recognised Cyn and confirmed she does still live there. At the moment, she’s away on a cruise, back in a few weeks—'

  ‘She must be contactable, surely?’

  Jane sensed Alan’s impatience and felt she had to rein it in. ‘The neighbour does have an email address, but was asked only to use it in case of emergency. Not unreasonably, she isn’t going to give it out to a stranger who’s just turned up on her doorstep. And, as she said, nothing’s going to happen until Cyn comes back. So I wrote a letter. Gave it to the neighbour. I’ve asked Cyn to ring me or email me when she’s home.’

  ‘To contact you, not me?’

  ‘Yes. And obviously I’ll let you know as soon as she does. I know her return date. I’ll give it a day or two and chase up.’

  ‘I see,’ said Alan.

  ‘But… the good news is, we’ve found Cyn. We’ve got a positive ID. We know her address. We know when she’s coming home. I get that you want to act on your mother’s request as soon as possible, but it’s all good, Alan.’

  ‘Yes, it is, Jane. Sorry, I just got over-excited. You’ve been amazing! You’ve cracked it. I knew you would. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. And… it’s also been quite a challenge. I don’t think many people would have been able to find Cyn after all these years with just a first name and a couple of pictures. I’m no mug, but I’d hit a brick wall. I’m fortunate to be working with someone like Tommy. To be honest, I don’t know if anyone else would have solved this particular riddle.’