by Fay Keenan
Sam leaned forward and put a consoling hand on his sister’s shoulder. ‘Just be there,’ he said softly. ‘That’s all you can do.’
Kate shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, with a slight tremble in her voice. ‘I’m just so tired, what with Mum, Phil and the kids. I miss you both.’
‘I miss you too,’ Sam was slightly surprised to hear himself saying it out loud. He and Kate had never really been that close, but perhaps there was still time, after all. He vowed to make the most of this limited time they had together before he had to return to Somerset. ‘Look, why don’t you bring the boys to stay with us in the new year? I’d love to show you Willowbury.’
Kate smiled shakily. ‘I’d like that. And maybe I can meet this Florence of yours, too.’
Sam shook his head. ‘One step at a time, Katie, remember? I’m always telling Aidan that – sounds like you need to take that advice, too!’
Kate swatted him playfully with the copy of the Radio Times magazine that her mother still insisted on buying every Christmas, despite the fact that no one ever really looked at it any more. ‘One step at a time sounds like heaven, when you’re the mother of three boys. Someday you might find that out!’
As Sam ducked away from a second onslaught from the listings mag, he thought of Florence, and how nice it might be to settle down with her; the children they’d have, and the places they’d live.
One step at a time, he reminded himself yet again, stopping those thoughts directly in their tracks.
30
Christmas Day for Florence was everything she’d hoped it would be. Rising when she felt like it, she had a leisurely breakfast of hot buttered toast laden with strawberry jam Josie had given her as a welcome-to-school gift in September, followed by a Skype call with her parents and her brother, who, twelve hours ahead in Australia, had spent a wonderfully relaxing day on the beach and were now polishing off turkey sandwiches, and then she settled in with the Christmas television and enough food and drink to sate a small army.
It was the first Christmas she’d ever spent alone, and she revelled in it. After six or so hours of solid Christmas movies and munching, though, she was getting rather restless. She thought about texting Sam again, but he’d sent her a lovely message a few hours ago, which she’d replied to, and not heard anything back, and she didn’t want to appear too needy, since he knew she was spending the day alone.
Just as she was thinking about heading out for a wander along the High Street, her phone pinged again. Grabbing it, heart thumping, she wondered if it was Sam. It wasn’t, she soon realised, but the text was just as welcome. It was from Josie.
We’re going to the pub for a quickie before late dinner. Join us?
Florence was surprised at how pleased she was for the invite. Solitude for most of the day had been lovely, but the thought of a drink or two at The Travellers’ Rest with Josie sounded like a good contrast. She loved the pub, with its atmospheric lighting, stained glass windows and quirky rooms and chambers, and at Christmas she was sure it would look even more decorative. She pulled on her yellow raincoat and her gloves and headed out before she could think twice about it.
She could hear the pub even before she got there; The Travellers’ Rest was somewhat of a hub on Christmas Day, and the happy burble of people enjoying a festive drink emanated enticingly. As she drew closer, she could see that the landlord had put out a couple of gas patio heaters on the pavement so that people could enjoy their mulled wine or a sneaky cigarette in relative warmth.
Crossing the threshold, she saw Josie and her husband and young son sitting at one of the tables in the corner by the large inglenook fireplace that dominated one wall, with the bar off to the right.
‘You made it!’ Josie, obviously one or two mulled wines ahead, rose from the table and enveloped Florence in a warm hug. ‘I didn’t like to think of you spending Christmas Day completely on your own.’
‘Thanks for the invitation,’ Florence smiled. ‘Although I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.’
Josie scooted down the bench she was sitting on to let Florence sit down. ‘Nick’ll get you a drink – I’m about due another one anyway.’ She waved her empty glass at her obviously long-suffering husband, who threw Florence a quick grin and then headed back to the bar. ‘The only problem with coming in here is that I keep spotting parents of the kids in my classes!’ Josie said. ‘But I’m sure they’ll give me Christmas Day off, if no other time.’
As if to demonstrate her point, a couple with a glum-looking twelve-year-old in tow drifted past their table to the bar. The pre-teen pretended to be engrossed in his mobile phone, but his parents gave her a cheery wave.
Nick soon returned with two glasses of mulled wine, and as Florence sipped hers, and soaked up the cheery and festive atmosphere of the pub, she found her gaze drawn to the framed black and white photographs on the walls. Just to her right was a selection of shots of the various festivals that Willowbury High Street had hosted down the years, from the summer solstice celebrations to scenes of the town covered in snow. Hats figured large in all of them, it seemed. There were a couple of photos of what seemed to be local drama productions, too.
As if sensing her question, Josie followed her gaze to the one directly above their heads. ‘Years ago, before the luxury of the Priory Visitors’ Centre was built with its community space, they used to perform the Willowbury Dramatical Spectaculars right here in the function room of the pub. I bet they managed to grease the wheels with a fair amount of festive booze!’ Josie raised her glass.
Florence stood up to get a closer look at the picture behind her. It was a shot of the whole cast of some production or other, and looked like it might have been taken some time in the fifties. The cast were posing, somewhat awkwardly, for the camera, and the costumes had that unmistakable look of post-war austerity about them, but there was something endearing about the make-do-and-mend feeling of the picture. The men stood upright, and some had a distinct military bearing. The women were smiling more broadly, and as Florence looked along the row of faces, suddenly a very familiar one jumped out at her.
‘That’s my Great-Aunt Elsie!’ she exclaimed, nearly choking on the gulp of hot, spiced wine she’d taken. ‘I had no idea she acted in the town plays.’
‘Looks like you’re continuing a family tradition, then,’ Josie said, looking again at the picture. ‘She looks so different there. I mean, obviously a lot younger, but… happy.’ Josie blushed. ‘Sorry, that sounds awful. I didn’t really know her, but she was well known round here for being a bit stern.’
Florence laughed. ‘She really was!’ Peering at the photograph again, she was genuinely shocked at the contrast between the seemingly carefree young woman and the old, abrupt and reserved one she knew as her great-aunt. She looked into that face, wondering what had marked the change. Was it just a lifetime of experiences, or was it something more?
‘Hey, look at that guy next to her,’ Josie said, a thoughtful note in her voice. ‘He was a bit of a hottie. Looks slightly like Sam, in fact.’ She smiled slyly at Florence, who felt herself blushing.
Josie was right, though. The tall, dark blond man standing next to Aunt Elsie bore a striking resemblance to Sam. But then, perhaps it was just the military bearing. Florence could spot a soldier a mile away, just from the way they stood. She looked more closely at the two of them, noticing that they were standing a little closer together than the rest of the cast. As her eyes travelled from their faces downwards, she gave a little smile as she noticed that, hidden slightly by Elsie’s skirt, they were obviously holding hands.
‘Do you think they did that for the cameras?’ she asked, pointing to the clasped hands.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Josie replied. ‘Your great-aunt never married, did she? And yet they look pretty happy there.’
‘They do.’ Florence looked thoughtfully at the photo. ‘I wonder if the landlord’ll do me a copy?’ The romantic in her wondered what the story was, and why she’d never seen a
ny evidence of this man, or this relationship, before. Aunt Elsie had certainly never mentioned anything about a lover; at least not to her great-niece.
Suddenly, she thought back to the loft space at Mistletoe Cottage that she’d so briefly explored a few weeks ago. She’d needed to spend a few hours with Josie’s script so she hadn’t looked closely at what was really there in the boxes that had been left. Perhaps there would be something up there that might shed a little light on the mystery man in the photograph?
Swigging back the rest of her mulled wine, filled with a sudden sense of excitement; after all, what else was she going to do with the rest of her Christmas Day, Florence stood up from the table.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ she said to Josie. ‘I’m going to head home now.’
‘Everything OK?’ Josie asked, seemingly concerned by Florence’s hasty attempt to leave. ‘Seeing that photo hasn’t upset you, has it?’
‘No!’ Florence smiled. ‘Quite the opposite in fact. She gave her friend a quick hug. ‘I’m going to get into the attic at my aunt’s house, see if I can identify the mystery man in that picture. There’re a fair few boxes and things up there – I bet there must be a clue somewhere.’
‘Ooh, I like the sound of that!’ Josie smiled back. ‘If I didn’t have to get back home, cook a turkey the size of a small dog and entertain Nick’s mum and dad, who are descending right at pre-dinner drinks time, I’d be up the ladder with you.’ Suddenly she looked concerned. ‘You sure you’re sober enough to climb in the loft?’
Florence laughed. ‘I’ve only had a couple, and there’s a set of counterweighted steps to get up there, so it’ll be safe enough. I’ll take my phone with me, so if I do get into trouble, I promise to drag you away from your in-laws!’
‘Deal,’ Josie said. ‘Text me if you find anything interesting?’
‘I will,’ Florence said. She was filled with excitement. Perhaps she was finally going to find out a little more about her great-aunt Elsie, and why she had always been alone.
31
Florence hurried back to Bay Tree Terrace through the chilly winter air, stopping only to wish a merry Christmas to a couple of students who were mucking about by the entrance to the priory.
‘Haven’t you got homes to go to?’ she asked as she passed.
‘Been let out for a bit before dinner,’ one of them replied. ‘Mum forgot the sprouts, so she sent me to the Co-Op to get some before they closed.’
‘Best get them back to her, then!’ Florence replied, not quite able to turn off her ‘on-duty’ voice, even on Christmas Day.
‘Yes Miss!’ the student laughed, then turned to his friend. ‘Laters.’
As Florence headed away from them, they called a cheery ‘Merry Christmas’ after her, and she waved a vague hand in their direction. Her thoughts were still so full of Aunt Elsie and the mystery man, she couldn’t concentrate on anything else for the moment. What was the story? And how come none of her family had ever known? She was so caught up in her curiosity that it hadn’t even occurred to her that the Co-Op was shut on Christmas Day, so sprouts certainly wouldn’t have been the reason those kids were out and about.
She let herself into the house and, not even stopping to flip on the hall light, headed straight upstairs. Ensuring that her phone was, indeed, in her back pocket, she went to her bedside drawer and got the torch that she kept there. Then, pulling briskly on the cord that brought down the counterweighted attic ladder, intent on her mission, she headed to the roof.
The loft smelt of dust and was chilly compared to the rest of the house, but was, thankfully, dry. Aunt Elsie had obviously had it boarded at some point, too; the roof joists were covered with long, wide lengths of board, which made negotiating the space a whole lot easier. Florence had a memory of poking her head through the loft hatch as a young teenager, when Aunt Elsie had gone out to get some groceries one afternoon and being put off from going any further by the prospect of falling straight through the ceiling. Fear, rather than curiosity, had got the better of her that day. But not today.
Hoisting herself off the ladder and through the hatch, she switched on the torch and took a moment to get her bearings. Several boxes and an old brown suitcase were stacked neatly against the far wall, the ones she’d briefly looked at last time she’d come up here, but the rest of the space was empty. She wondered if, when the house clearance people had come in shortly after Elsie’s death, they’d missed them. They certainly weren’t easily visible from just poking your head through the loft hatch. She herself had authorised the clearance but, unfortunately, hadn’t been able to be present during it, which she regretted deeply. Perhaps if more possessions had been left, she’d have had more of an insight into the mystery of Aunt Elsie’s past.
Florence padded carefully over the wobbly wooden boards to the boxes and case. Suddenly and inexplicably, she felt nervous. What if she didn’t like what she found in them? What if the image she’d carried in her mind and in her heart of Great-Aunt Elsie all these years was wrong?
Then she chided herself. Elsie had been a person; a living, breathing person who’d had a whole life before Florence had ever got to know her. What could she possibly discover about her that could sully that?
Taking a deep breath, she opened the first brown box. With the torch in one hand, it was tricky to get a good, clear look at the contents, but from what she could see, it contained mostly birthday cards of a distinct 1970s vintage. Smiling slightly at the array of garish pictures of technicolour flowers, cute-looking elephants and women in flowing dresses, she was tickled to think of Aunt Elsie opening and displaying those on her mantelpiece. She’d see if she could use some of the better preserved examples of cards in a Media Studies lesson at some point. She got to the bottom of the box and put it down next to her, diving into the next one.
As she pulled open the top of the box, she immediately realised that its contents were a little different. Underneath the flaps was a covering of what looked like thick, blue felt. The material felt stiff under her fingertips, and was folded tightly to fit into the confines of the box. Years of feeling that same sort of felted material pressed against her cheek as she welcomed back her father after a deployment made Florence draw a deep breath as she was assailed by her own memories. The pain of seeing him go and the relief of having him back were in tandem. They never went away.
With slightly shaky hands, she carefully drew out the material from the box, propping the torch up on the junction of a roof beam so that she could get a closer look. It had heavy creases from years of being packed away, but as she carefully unfurled it, the flash of colours on the breast pocket and the sheen of silk lining confirmed it. She was holding a piece of not just her aunt’s history in her hands, but his, too: the man in the photograph in the pub. It had to be.
The metal buttons on the tunic were dulled from the years, but in her mind’s eye, Florence could see immediately how they’d have looked, immaculately polished, done up and gracing the form of the man who had stood beside Aunt Elsie.
With trembling fingers, she placed the tunic to one side and looked into the box to see what else was there. Her heart stopped as she pulled out a mottled photograph of a man in naval uniform, staring directly at the camera. The same man who’d been with Elsie in the picture on the pub wall. Despite the seriousness of the pose, his eyes were shining with laughter, and she knew, instantly, that Elsie had loved him. There were other photographs, tucked in that same box. Smiles so happy they seemed to light up the gloomy attic on their own; laughing eyes and carefree poses, looking as though nothing in the world could touch them. But then Florence found something else that put the photos into sharp perspective.
‘Oh Elsie…’ she murmured. Tucked next in the box, near to the bottom, was the heartbreaking telegram from the War Office. His name was Henry Braydon and the Korean War had parted him and Elsie forever.
Florence’s eyes filled with tears as she next discovered letters from Henry to Elsie, writing that was so w
arm and passionate that she could feel the love burning from the pages. He spoke of their future plans, the life he so desperately wanted them to have, the things they would do once he got home. The telegram in her other hand spoke volumes about why that could never, ever be. She couldn’t imagine the pain Elsie must have been through. Suddenly, she felt a new sense of understanding and sympathy for her great-aunt, who’d never once revealed this enormous sadness; at least not to Florence and her mother.
There was a newspaper article underneath the letters, yellowed with age but still readable, from the Willowbury Observer. It seemed that Henry had been shot down south-west of Pyongyang in 1952. He had been one of a hundred thousand British forces who’d supported a joint United Nations task force in the Korean War. At the time of writing, his body hadn’t been recovered.
Realising she was shaking, both from the chill in the attic air as well as the emotion, she grabbed the box she’d been looking through and carefully brought it back down the ladder with her. The rest could wait for another day, but she wanted desperately to read the letters from Henry, to get a sense of the love he’d had for her great-aunt. All the summers and school holidays she’d spent with Elsie hadn’t prepared her for a revelation of this nature, and she wanted to learn more about her great-aunt in the comfort of her lounge, Elsie’s favourite space.
As she pushed the ladder back into place, she jumped as her phone pinged. Her heart leapt again when she saw it was from Sam.
Coming back tomorrow, thank goodness! Working from 2 p.m. through the night, though :( Lunch with me the day after? S x
Florence’s heart lurched. She’d missed Sam and she was looking forward to seeing him again, but the emotions of what she’d just discovered about Aunt Elsie were running very close to the surface. She knew that Sam still desperately missed navy life; that much was obvious whenever he spoke about his former career. She would bet her bottom dollar that his commanding officer would have him back in a heartbeat, and his career had been cut short. She imagined trying to cope with the uncertainty of waving him off, not knowing if he was coming back. Not to mention the long spells where he’d be away from home. She’d been through enough with her father. And now it seemed that Elsie had suffered the same fate, but with heart-breaking consequences.