by Kiley Dunbar
‘We don’t even know if they’re related. You’re the one who told me not to push it…’ Mirren cautioned.
‘I know but… maybe if you did a little digging?’
‘I tried, but Wagstaff’s pretty tight-lipped, said he didn’t have any family. That’s all I got from him.’
Jonathan was rolling the window down which silenced them, and the exhaust fumes made it impossible to stand by the car any longer.
‘Go on, get in. Give your mum a hug from me, OK?’ Mirren told her.
Soon they were pulling away, Kelsey waving frantically and Jonathan tooting the car horn, leaving Mirren waving from the pavement. Kelsey’s shoulders slumped and she mentally weighed up her feelings; mainly relief that drama had been avoided, mixed with some regret that a reunion hadn’t been possible.
‘Are you all right, Kelsey? You were kinda jumpy back there?’
‘What? I’m great!’ she replied, a little too quickly. ‘Mirren doesn’t like to be disturbed at work, that’s all.’
‘So are you going to tell me?’ He glanced at her, suddenly serious, as he navigated the narrow riverside streets heading for the main road out of town.
Kelsey started in fright, fixing round eyes on him. Had he overheard everything? She gulped. ‘Tell you what?’
‘What exactly a kiltie is?’ Jonathan grinned.
* * *
Back at the Yorick, Adrian was hanging up his phone with a glower and looking for Mirren who was now standing by the bar pouring herself another glass of bubbly before downing it in three big glugs. Wagstaff had lumbered away unnoticed in all the excitement and his barstool sat empty.
Seeing Adrian approach she felt strangely comforted by his presence. ‘Mr Ferdinand? What did he want?’ she asked, nodding towards the hand that held his phone.
‘Who knows, mad old stick insect! He kept asking what I was doing today, whether or not I’d be in the office. I told him I was busy. He’d probably forgotten some job or other he wanted me to do before the break. Well, it’s too late. I’m on holiday now.’
Mirren eyed him, considering something for a long time. Adrian let her look, his head tipping.
‘Penny for them?’ he said.
‘I was just thinking… old Wagstaff. Do you know much about him?’
Adrian tightened his lips just as he always did when Wagstaff was mentioned, but it gave Mirren the impression he’d hoped she’d been thinking about something quite different. In fact she’d been weighing him up, wondering whether she really could ask him for help. They were friends now weren’t they? Friends can ask a favour.
‘I know a bit, why?’ he said.
‘Those people you saw me with?’
‘Jonathan Hathaway, the actor?’
‘That’s right! I’d forgotten he was a bit of a celeb. Well, he’s dating my friend and, look, it’s a bit delicate, I shouldn’t really say…’ She thought of the tiny hint of crushed hope in Kelsey’s eyes and how it felt utterly wrong for Jonathan to be standing five feet away from the man who might have given him life and neither of them even knowing it… and then there was poor Wagstaff heading home for a solitary Christmas Eve. Surely, she had a duty to discover the truth? Kelsey had practically instructed her, hadn’t she? The champagne in Mirren’s empty stomach was helping to convince her too. ‘I think Wagstaff might be Jonathan’s dad and he abandoned Jonathan’s mum when he discovered she was pregnant. She was a young actress in town you see…’
A dark brooding look transformed Adrian’s face. ‘That old rogue. I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ She thought of Adrian’s strong sense of responsibility. It was sort of noble, and she liked him all the more for it.
He shook his head. ‘So what are you asking me?’
‘For proof? You must know someone who knows someone… this town is legendary for its theatre gossip. You can’t blow your nose backstage at The Other Place without someone at The Swan knowing about it.’
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hathaway?’ he said to himself. ‘His mum was Olivia Hathaway? Hah!’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘I’ve heard a little about her from Ferdinand. She was a real star for a while.’
Mirren watched his thoughts consume him.
‘I can do better than uncover some old gossip,’ Adrian said, rising from the bar leaving his Coke untouched. ‘When do you clock off?’
‘Six.’
He grabbed his bouquet of roses once more. ‘Then I’ll be back at six.’
Mirren watched him leave, hoping that by some Christmas miracle, for once she’d done the right thing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘There is a world elsewhere’
(Coriolanus)
Brake lights and headlights shone all along the dark December motorway. Chris Rea’s gravelly voice was celebrating the joys of driving home for Christmas on the car radio, while Jonathan clutched two red takeaway cups of gingerbread spiced latte and surreptitiously side-eyed Kelsey as she drove.
‘Stop watching me,’ she said, her jaw tense but still amused, as she ground between gears. ‘I’ll be fine once I get used to it.’
‘When did you last drive?’
‘About six years ago when I passed my test.’
‘Six years? We’re gonna die,’ he mugged.
‘Hey, I’m not the one who’d never used a gear stick before, OK? Anybody can claim they’re a good driver if all they have do is push a lever and steer! You were pretty bumpy when we first set off from Stratford, you know?’
‘OK, I know, I know,’ he laughed.
Kelsey pretended to sulk, adding in a low voice. ‘I only stalled it twice back at the services, and you won’t catch me going over seventy, unlike some people.’
‘Hey, that was a momentary lapse in concentration when you were feeding me that gingerbread heart.’
‘Tell that to the motorway police.’
She laughed, surprised they had slipped into this new, easy way of talking. When had that happened? It must be a good thing, a sign that they were relaxed with each other, she thought. She could feel Jonathan tensing beside her again as she accelerated to overtake a lorry.
‘Careful,’ he cried, as his foot automatically stretched into the footwell, looking for a non-existent brake to pump.
‘You’re doing it again. Just relax and listen to Chris; he loves driving on dark, icy, overcrowded roads. I’d never have guessed you were a nervous passenger.’
‘I’m not nervous, I’m having a great time.’ Jonathan sipped his coffee and set his eyes on the cars’ lights snaking in a chain on the road ahead. ‘How much longer?’
‘Hmm, couple of hours. It’s nice just puttering along with you.’
‘I liked the bit at the services best,’ grimaced Jonathan.
‘You’re going to have to distract yourself… tell me a story or something.’
‘OK, t’was the night before Christmas…’
‘Tell me about your mum,’ Kelsey urged.
‘Oh, well, OK. Let’s see. She’s real dainty, like my sisters. I guess I don’t get my height from her. She works one job these days but when I was a kid and it was just us two she worked all the time. I’m not kidding. I’d be looked after by all these aunties on my street – none of them were my real aunts – while mom worked the cash register at the 7-Eleven, or taught her art and acting classes, and she was a cleaner in this old lady’s house for a while. Yeah, she’s amazing. You’re gonna love her.’
‘I know I will.’
‘Once she met Art things got easier. He’s an English professor. Now Mom teaches her drama classes and that’s it. She’s thinking about retiring soon though. Yeah, you’re gonna love her. Do you, uh, think your mom’s gonna like me?’
‘Hah! Well, be prepared for the loudest scream you’ve ever heard when she sees us. If that doesn’t frighten you off, you’re definitely going to get along. All she ever wanted was for me to be happy like she was with Dad.’
She th
rew a quick glance at Jonathan listening starry-eyed beside her. He reached for her hand on the gear stick and squeezed it gently, and they fell silent for a while.
‘Look, there it is!’ Kelsey called out, pointing to the roadside.
They both stared at the sign, a huge saltire cross in blue and white with the Gaelic words, ‘Fàilte gu Alba’ in bold letters.
‘Failty goo alba?’ He squinted as they passed.
‘Welcome to Scotland,’ she said, and the words caught a little in her throat as she was hit by the same sudden wave of sentimental pride every Scot making their homecoming journey ever felt, the feeling made all the stronger because this time she was bringing Jonathan with her. ‘Welcome to Scotland!’ she said again, pressing the pedal a little harder, carrying them off into the night, so close to home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud,
Feed on her damask cheek.’
(Twelfth Night)
As Mirren left the Yorick the last of the Christmas Eve audiences were swarming into the theatres on the riverside buzzing with excitement for the last performances before the break.
It had been an exhausting shift but the sight that greeted her as the crowds thinned made up for every empty pint pot she’d hauled out of the steamy glasswash trying to keep up with demand at the bar.
Kenneth had helped her serve all afternoon, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and she’d barely had a chance to stop, even missing the free turkey and trimmings Christmas Eve lunch she’d been so looking forward to.
There had been the added distraction of thinking of Kelsey driving north with her boyfriend and she thought about them often as she worked; no doubt they were holding hands on the gearstick and grinning soppily at each other like two gigantic nerds in love.
The single life was hitting her hard just as much as it was fuelling her pride at keeping her promise to herself. There would be no cosy boyfriend-for-Christmas moments and no visit home for her this festive season.
It’s always nice to have someone to kiss at Christmas, she’d pined as she served the happy couples in town on seasonal mini breaks – all sexed up and gorging on Shakespeare and champagne – and her heart cracked a little when she told herself it might actually have been quite nice to see her mum who was all alone in her little house with the telly blaring and the temptation of the off licence just around the corner. Maybe she should have tried to get home for Christmas after all?
She’d sighed so much during her shift even Kenneth had been worried. Putting a fatherly arm around her shoulder, he’d told her she could knock off early if she needed to, but – partly thinking of the quiet, lonely barge waiting for her and partly spurred on by her loyalty to the Yorick – she’d persevered and time had passed as it always does.
But now, like a reward for her efforts, Adrian Armadale was waiting there in the shadows of the high wall that contained the pub’s front garden, his black hair shining metallic blue in the coloured festive bulbs strung high above them. It was cold and dark but the people walking home with last-minute shopping ready to settle in for Christmas meant the town was alive with laughter and chatter. The whole scene lifted Mirren’s spirits.
‘You made it back. I didn’t know if you would,’ she said to Adrian. That was when she noticed his preoccupied, slightly deflated look.
‘I spoke to my contact. I thought they’d have a lead but they said what everyone else around here knows; Wagstaff was a playboy all through the sixties and seventies, always had a beautiful woman on his arm, but that doesn’t confirm anything about him knowing Jonathan’s mum or having a relationship with her in the eighties.’
Mirren could see he really had a bee in his bonnet. ‘You’ve been chasing it up all afternoon? Didn’t you have family to see?’
‘Oh I saw them,’ he said distractedly. ‘I’m not giving up yet. I know where we can find concrete information about Olivia and Wagstaff. Are you free now? Want to come?’
Mirren thought about the evening she’d had planned, having been too proud to accept Kelsey’s invitation to eat takeaway food at the bedsit with her and Jonathan – irrelevant now they’d made a dash for Scotland. There was It’s A Wonderful Life primed to watch on her laptop and a big, tartan tin of shortbread – Mirren’s favourite – her mum had sent post restante to the local post office. Mirren and Kelsey had been surprised to learn the postie didn’t deliver to riverside moorings and had hastily set up the barge’s mailbox. The shortbread had been Mirren’s first and only mail since moving-in day.
‘I’ve got nothing planned,’ she told him.
‘Great. Are you hungry? You should probably eat first.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she lied, too impatient to find out where they were going.
‘Not even for these?’ He produced a box of beautifully beribboned chocolates from behind his back, the fancy kind from the little chocolatier in the arcade.
‘OK, maybe I’m a little peckish.’ Why am I grinning so much? And what’s with that rush of adrenaline? She scanned his face, wondering if he was feeling it too and trying to fight the excitement bubbling up within her, but it was too late because he was smiling at her and wishing her a happy Christmas under the streetlights and every pound of her flesh wanted to betray her vow and kiss him.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, forcing herself to be sensible. ‘Here, I have something for you too.’ From her pocket she produced the John Wagstaff autobiography, which he took with a wry laugh.
‘Our mark?’
‘That’s right… and there’s this as well.’ Her other hand grasped a bottle of champagne from the bar fridge. It had cost her week’s tips but it was Christmas Eve after all and she’d wanted to give him something nice. Because that’s what friends do. Platonic, chummy friends who don’t fancy each other.
‘Come on, we can pop that cork where we’re going,’ he said, taking the bottle and jamming his free hand into his long coat, his black cashmere scarf flapping in the cold breeze. ‘Follow me.’
There were no signs of life at the Examiner officers as they crept up the dark, creaking staircase past Adrian’s office, neat and tidy with his Christmas cards displayed on the wall.
‘Is this breaking and entering?’ Mirren hissed quietly.
‘Why are you whispering?’ Adrian whispered back, breaking into a laugh and flicking the lights on as they climbed up to the top floor. ‘It’s not breaking in if you work here and you have a key.’
‘Fair enough. So what are we looking for?’
Adrian led the way into the room next to Mr Ferdinand’s dark office. The whole building was silent and surprisingly warm. The heating system worked even if the Editor in Chief didn’t. Mirren couldn’t control her feelings of defeat as she glanced around the shabby, haphazard offices on the upper floors, comparing them to the sleek and modern Broadsheet building. If she couldn’t even get a writing job here, she really had hit rock bottom.
The lights flared on revealing what looked like a cross between a store room and a library, but the cabinets that lined the walls held little white boxes instead of books and there, taking up a quarter of the room and up against the far wall, stood a great grey machine with a chair in front of it.
Adrian walked over to it. ‘So this is the…’
‘Microfilm reader,’ Mirren cut in. ‘For looking through old newspapers archived onto reels. I know exactly what it is and how to use it. I did my journalism degree in the days before newspaper archives were digitised, remember?’ She was already crouching by the plug and switching it on at the mains, leaving Adrian raking a hand through his hair, smiling at her enthusiasm. ‘Where did you study?’ she asked as the machine whirred into life and the bulb behind its screen glowed dimly. Mirren had used these contraptions, once the height of data storage technology, time and again searching old newspaper archives and she loved its clunking simplicity.
‘I didn’t study anywhere,’ Adrian r
eplied. ‘I joined the staff here as the Saturday tea and photocopying boy when I was fifteen, then I moved up to being a junior reporter straight out of school with my A-levels in English, Art and Fashion.’ He looked a little sheepish at the admission. ‘Nothing like a fancy journalism degree for me, I’m afraid.’ His look suggested he expected Mirren to be disappointed somehow, but it didn’t dim her view of him in the slightest.
‘I knew you were a bit of a fashionista,’ she grinned, trying not to run her eyes over his smart outfit – or more specifically, she was avoiding thinking about how his clothes spoke of the perfectly defined model-like frame beneath. Dammit, if he wasn’t smiling shyly now with a hint of red in the apples of his cheeks beneath those specs. She snapped her eyes back to the screen. ‘Umm, so Mr Ferdinand was your mentor, then?’
‘He taught me everything he knows about the industry, shame half of it was fifty years out of date.’ Adrian looked around at the dusty clutter of the archive room. ‘We’re losing advertising revenue every year. I’m not supposed to know this, but our parent company, Eagle Media, are sniffing around again. I’d be surprised if we were still open next Christmas.’
‘What would you do then?’
He shrugged. ‘All I ever wanted to do was work at this paper. Well, I used to want that, and I was proud of it too. Back when we were famous for our theatre coverage. That was fifteen years ago now, can you believe it? I still review every play that comes to town; sometimes I interview the directors or actors, but I get the feeling nobody reads my columns anymore. We’re the paper you pick up if you’ve got kittens to sell… or you’re looking to line your budgie cage.’ There it was again, that dark, brooding look she’d seen him fight so many times now. ‘Maybe the big bosses will move me to the Honeybourne Gazetteer or the Alcester Bugler when this place closes.’
He was looking up now at the ornate yellowing cornicing and the stained glass and leading on the skylights. There was still the shell of a fine building to admire and, if you looked past the mess, it hinted at the glamour of a lost age of reporting. The sheen over Adrian’s eyes told Mirren he was picturing it now, back when he was a teenager at the end of the Examiner’s long heyday, before the rot set in.