The Gentleman on Pennyfield Street

by C. G Oster

  "Hello," Dory said as she walked in. The man with thinning hair looked up at her without smiling. "I need some assistance. This is the hospital records, I believe?"

  "Yes," the man confirmed. "How may I assist you?"

  "Well," she started with a smile, "I am trying to track a patient. At least I believe he was a patient here." It could have been another hospital in London, or even elsewhere, but if he was a resident of the East End, which is an assumption she was starting her search with, then she this was where he would receive any medical treatment. "An elderly man who had an appendectomy not so long ago.

  "Name?" the man asked.

  "I don't have a name."

  Now the man looked up. "How am I supposed to track him without a name?"

  To this Dory didn't answer. "I realize it's not ideal."

  "That's an understatement. Do you realize how many appendectomies are performed in this hospital every day?"

  "I was led to believe they are less common with elderly gentlemen."

  "Unfortunately, there is no way of searching for elderly men with appendectomies. Our records are not cataloged by age or even gender. They're cataloged by surname—which you don't have."

  Dory wiped her fingers across the mouth, trying to think what to do. There was a good chance that somewhere in these records was the name of the man she was looking for—a veritable needle in a haystack. There would be a record of almost every person living and dead who lived in the area—except for her, as she had never been a patient here.

  "Follow me," the man said and she did as he led her through a second set of doors, which led into complete darkness. The lever of a light sounded and hanging lights blinked on, revealing a warehouse-sized room with rows and rows of records.

  A deep sigh escaped her as she realized what an insurmountable task it was to find it.

  "There is some good news," the man continued. "Luckily, the information you seek is on the cards cataloging the system. Age, name and procedure, so you don't have to go through each file." He pointed over to a row of card drawers with small drawers labeled with gold letters. "There is a card for every person, probably close to a million—unless the person is deceased, for which the cards are taken out and placed in those sets of drawers over there, he said, pointing further down the side of the wall. "Is the person deceased?"

  "Yes, but only recently and unidentified."

  "I see. Then he should be in here somewhere. You can use the desk over there," he said and smiled tightly before leaving her.

  With heavy steps, Dory walked over and sat down, turning on the small desk lamp. This wasn't an impossible task, but she would have to look through about a million cards of the people living in this area. She had no idea how long it would take. It could take weeks.

  As she walked over to the first drawer with an 'A' stamped on it, she pulled out the long drawer. There were perhaps two or three thousand cards in this one drawer. Placing it down on the desk, she started rifling through it, looking for people born prior to 1880. The birthdate was written in the upper right corner, so it wasn't hard to see, flicking through each card. Anyone before, she then checked the name to see if they were male, thirdly if an appendectomy was listed in the procedures field within the last five years.

  Going through the entire drawer, she hadn't found a single one. It had taken fifteen minutes to go through the drawer. For a moment, she wondered if she could perhaps speak directly to the surgeons to see if they recalled a case, but recognized that they did so many operations, it was unlikely they would recall the specific gentleman. Chances were she would end up back here anyway.

  Returning the first set of drawers, she drew out another one and carried it back to the desk. It was too cold in here to take her jacket off, but her eyes grew adjusted to the poor lighting. At least the air wasn't full of smoke. It had that funny smell of paper that you sometimes got in bookshops or libraries, but much stronger.

  After about a dozen drawers, she still didn't have a single name. Apparently appendectomies in the elderly were quite rare. Then she finally found one. A Mr. Findley of Whitechapel.

  A serial number down the bottom referred to his full file and Dory went in search, but then wondered what she would gain by seeing his file. A noise disturbed her and she looked around the corner to see the records manager approaching. She'd forgotten his name, or hadn't gotten it at all.

  "I have been considering your undertaking," he started as he approached. "It would perhaps be possible to look at the operation room rosters. They are recorded day by day, so there would be less to go through in total. In most cases, they do list the age and name of the patient, but not always. Not as accurate, but there is a good chance you might find something."

  "Yes, please," Dory said. "I have only found one so far, and it's been three hours." She only had two more to look before she had to go to work for the evening.

  "I'll retrieve them for you. How long back are you looking?"

  "Five years."

  "Return to the desk you were using and I will retrieve them."

  Chapter 10

  AS PROMISED, ON HER day off, she was going up to Wallisford Hall to visit Lady Pettifer. It had been a while since they'd seen each other, and Dory knew her friend was curious about her new life.

  Anytime, she took the train up there, she seemed to get caught out for time and she'd found herself yet again running to catch her train.

  The station was full of soldiers carrying their canvas bags, clearly happy to be home for a reprieve. A few were injured, with bandage slings holding arms up. Still, these were the lucky ones. No one had failed to see the young boys who had been engaged to deliver the dreadful telegrams with the worse news. Also dreadful was the fact that for many, you would never find out. If something happened to Captain Ridley, she wouldn't find out. Her letters would simply go unanswered.

  Obviously, he had a mother somewhere, a family, but she didn't know enough about him in that regard. In reality, they knew very little about each other. She couldn't even remember if she'd even told him where she was from.

  There was a stirring of guilt inside her for going to see Lady Pettifer on this rare day off instead of going to Swanley to see her mother. It was just that she had promised Lady Pettifer, and the older woman was more forthright in extracting promises.

  Finding her train, Dory climbed onboard and took her seat. Lady Pettifer had sent her a first-class ticket, even though she didn't need Lady Pettifer to buy train tickets for her. It was perhaps a means of guaranteeing she would come.

  The sights going north wasn't as terrible as those around the East End. There were bombed houses, but not to the degree the eastern parts of the city had, where whole blocks had been decimated. The city gave way to the countryside and Dory could pretend everything was normal. She had been such a different girl the first time she'd headed up to Wallisford Hall at barely nineteen years old.

  On this visit, she would see her Aunt Gladys too, who still worked as a cook for Lord Wallisford. Because of that, though, her mother would soon find out about this visit, so Dory had better plan a trip home at the earliest opportunity.

  The name placards had all been removed from the train stations, even within the towns they passed by. There were shops with village names covered or painted over. For what reason, Dory wondered? When she finally reached Quainton, the name had been removed there too and she was lucky she had come this way a few times before.

  "Miss Sparks," said the vaguely familiar man who was the stationmaster.

  "Yes," Dory said with a smile, embarrassed that she couldn't recall his name.

  "I'm to run you up, just let me see this train off," he said. Moving down the platform to then lift his hand up and blow his whistle. The heavy train started chugging, gaining momentum with every turn of the wheels. Dory watched as the bellow of steam released along with the high-pitched whistle.

  "This way," the man said and guided her to the exit. "I have my motorcar around the side of the building
."

  It was an older model black vehicle with beige leather seats. The engine whined when it started down the road. "Thank you so much for agreeing to drive me."

  "Well, one doesn't agree so much as relent when it comes to Lady Pettifer," he said.

  "That's true," Dory said with a smile. "Not much around here has changed."

  "Not at first glance, perhaps, but all the young people are gone. It's just us older ones left."

  It hadn't occurred to her that the stationmaster was driving her because there was no one to pick her up. Larry, who had collected her last time, would have been conscripted. Probably George as well.

  Everything looked well, though. The stubble of the last harvest was still in the fields and everything looked perfectly normal as they turned into the long drive to Wallisford Hall. In truth, she hadn't believed she would ever come back here, but here she was.

  The grand house that was Wallisford Hall was exactly the same, except Dory could see the chicken coops that Lady Pettifer had told her about in the distance.

  "Thanks ever so much," she said to the stationmaster.

  "Tell Lady Pettifer if she needs anything, she only has to ask," he said, tipping his hat and he set off, the wheels crunching along the gravel.

  Dory walked around to the side of the house to find the kitchen entrance. "Woohoo," she said as she opened the door. "Gladys."

  "Is that you, Dory?" she heard her aunt say as she hung her coat and hat up on the rack by the door. It looked disturbingly empty compared to how it had been before.

  "I just got here. The stationmaster drove me."

  "Nice man that Harry."

  Glady's round form appeared with her arms outstretched. "Good to see you, pet," she said and embraced Dory. "Wasn't sure you'd ever come back when Lady Pettifer dragged you off to France."

  "If it wasn't for this war, I'd probably still be there. Lovely place."

  "I saw the postcards you sent."

  "Where is everyone?"

  "Ack. It's only me. Mrs. Parsons and Mr. Holmes now. Everyone else was called away. Three staff to manage this whole house; can you imagine? The garden is an absolute mayhem."

  "Mavis and Clara too?"

  "Clara is working on a farm up north, and Mavis in some factory somewhere. Building planes, I think. Not sure I would dare fly in a plane she'd built, mind you. Are you hungry?"

  "I had a sandwich on the train."

  "Come have some lemon drizzle cake."

  "You have cake?" Dory said with astonishment.

  "Only for special guests."

  Dory blushed with delight. "I can't tell you how long it's been since I've had a slice of cake."

  "I'll make you some tea. We'll have some before Lady Pettifer knows you're here."

  "She might already know," Dory said, thinking of the stationmaster's motorcar.

  "Well, family comes before others," Gladys said and put the kettle on the stove. As always, the kitchen was delightfully warm and Dory closed her eyes for a moment. She wasn't used to being out and about all day. "Lady Pettifer had Mrs. Parsons prepare a room for you upstairs."

  Dory smiled tightly. The division between downstairs and upstairs, and where Dory belonged, had been a bone of contention in her relationship with the staff here. Technically she was here as Lady Pettifer's guest, even if she used to be a maid working here. The staff really didn't like ambiguity in station and tended to blame her for it. "That's lovely," Dory said.

  "How are things in London?" Gladys said, her eyes large. "We hear such things."

  "It is difficult, I won't lie," Dory said. "Downright hardship for many, but we pull through."

  "I wish you could leave."

  "It's where I'm needed."

  "This horrid war simply stretches on and on. They tell us precious little of how things are going. Are we winning or not?"

  Dory couldn't say. She knew little more than was reported on the wireless and that was so heavily censored it told them very little. "I understand the estate has been turned over to chicken-rearing."

  "They'll sow the fields come spring, but we have thousands of them. A few have ended up in my pot on occasion, I must admit. They stay in the stables, those girls. Lovely most of them. I'm not supposed to cook for them, but I end up doing it quite often. They're given hardly anything to eat through their ration books. Not that it's easy to come by provisions, but the Lordship does have a tendency to get his hands on anything he wants.

  A wedge of lemon drizzle cake was placed down in front of her and it was a sight to behold. With the small fork, she placed a bit in her mouth and flavor drowned her senses. Tartness and sweetness, and moist cake. "Oh, that's heavenly," Dory said wistfully. It reminded her of summer and innocent times.

  Custard powder was part of their rations, which gave them a decent fruit crumble every once in a while, but none of them were particularly gifted in the kitchen. Their rations only provided one egg per week, so baking was a rare event. They spent quite a bit on their wages buying extra eggs on the black market.

  "We have to be quite sparing with the sugar as the price is obscene."

  "We haven't had an allocation in months," Dory stated. "Luckily, I haven't the worst sweet tooth, but Vera, a girl I live with, misses licorice something shocking. Not even the black marketeers can find her any these days."

  Gladys smiled, but it faltered. "I do so worry for you. I worry for everyone these days. It's all I seem to do. Even the boys upstairs. Cedric is alright, but we rarely hear from Vivian. He's over in France somewhere."

  "So I’ve heard. There hasn't been any news from him?"

  "Not for a few months. I understand some aren't allowed to write for fear of giving something away."

  Dory hoped that was the case and Vivian wasn't simply being thoughtless or self-absorbed. It wasn't something she could put past him, though. He had the propensity to be completely self-concerned.

  Chapter 11

  "HELLO, MY DEAR," Lady Pettifer said with a broad smile as Dory found her in the morning room. A tea service was steaming on the table between the white cane chairs. "I'm so glad you made it. I think the weather is about to take a turn. We do get some harsh winds here in winter."

  "Lady Pettifer," Dory said and leaned down and kissed the woman where she sat. Her knees were probably bothering her in this weather, which was why she normally spent the winters at her house in the south of France.

  Her loyal dog, Beauty, lay at her feet, getting up to greet the guest with a wagging tail. Dory put her fingers down for a quick lick as she sat down. "Hello, little one. I bet you miss Bellevieu as well."

  "All these chickens are driving him to distraction," Lady Pettifer said, looking out the window at the endless coups outside. "But we must all do our bit, even if it stinks to high heaven."

  Now that she mentioned it, there was a bit of a whiff in their air.

  "When the wind changes," the lady said, "it can be quite unbearable."

  "How is Livinia?" Dory asked.

  "Well, besides the war, I think she is having the time of her life. They have been quite spared from the bombing where she is, except a few nights when those awful Germans are purposefully trying to hit Parliament or Buckingham Palace. The nasty buggers."

  Dory smiled. That was the extent of Lady Pettifer's colorful language, but it still sounded so wrong coming from her lips. "Now tell me of this matter you are looking into."

  "Well," Dory started. "As I mentioned, there was something very wrong about this body, this elderly gentleman."

  "At sixty, he is hardly elderly," Lady Pettifer said and Dory felt admonished. Perhaps what really bothered her was referring to him as a gentleman. It was not a term used too liberally in her circles as it was elsewhere.

  "This man, somewhere in his sixties, appeared to have been dumped on the site after the bombing, and all the experts I've spoken to seem to agree that there are odd circumstances around how he was found. But there was no identification and no one seemed to know him. Howev
er, the medical examiner said he had a recent appendectomy scar, which was apparently uncommon with a… a man his age.

  "So I searched through the archives at the nearby hospital and eventually compiled a list of names of men around that age who'd had an appendectomy."

  "Clever girl."

  "It took some time, let me tell you, and I have no assurance he's even from the area."

  "If I were to hide a body, I would hardly carry it across the whole city, though," Lady Pettifer said. "It would be too much of a risk with all the checkpoints and suspicious eyes. I would wager he's not from far away, carried there during the night, perhaps when everyone was hiding in the air shelters."

  Dory stroked her fingers across her lips. It would be hard to drive an automobile at night in the sheer darkness. Because the streets were largely deserted except for the wardens, a motorcar had a chance of being noticed. Perhaps someone, a warden, had noticed a car that night on Pennyfield Street.

  The other alternative would be that the man was carried on foot. Either way, if Lady Pettifer's assumption was correct, then he was probably delivered from somewhere nearby, and he was on the list of men she had in her pocket. In truth, she wasn't sure why she had brought it with her. It was of no use to her there, but then it was such a hard-won thing that she didn't want to risk it to the bombs that dropped every night.

  "Is it truly awful down in London?" Lady Pettifer asked. "Livinia doesn't tell us anything."

  "I am sure being in the War Office, her correspondence is heavily supervised. But yes, it is awful. Beautiful too, like the darkest and grisliest symphony you could imagine." Dory smiled tightly, a smile of sadness. "If only it would end. I don't know how long we can keep going like this."

  "I hope this is not a risk to your sanity, my dear. I can write to Mr. Churchill and have him excuse you."

  Dory chuckled. "I will manage like everyone else." They were silent for a moment. "I do appreciate the money you send every once in a while. Mostly it goes on buying eggs."