by Anita Waller
Doris’s foresight in emailing to ask that the church be unlocked for them had proved to be a smart move, and they were met at the door by the vicar, who told them his wife would make them a drink once they were ready for it.
They viewed George Stephenson’s resting place together and they decided it made sense to split up and gather booklets to add to their journals, sharing everything between them each evening.
Doris switched off from her thoughts of Harry, and began her holiday in the beautiful church. She stood by the altar for some time. All her life she had been in awe of people who had contributed in some way to society; the only way to feel their presence, once they had died, was to stand by their gravesides and think. She did this in the welcoming church. Her father had given her a love of railways, and a love of George Stephenson. She felt honoured to be standing by the side of such a great man, even if it was only in death.
She didn’t want to take photographs; she sat on a pew and did a quick sketch of his final resting place, then moved on to inspect the church properly. She met up with Wendy, and together they found the small room used for after-service drinks by the congregation.
The vicar’s wife made them tea and scones, and then left them to talk.
As they left they dropped money into the donations box, and walked out into the sunshine.
A quick tour of the grounds, and they were back in the car, and heading out of Chesterfield towards their first stop for the night at Cromford.
‘That was fab,’ Wendy said. ‘I thought you were crazy when you suggested this, but when you’ve done a bit of research and you feel you kinda know the chap, it makes a difference. Clever bloke, wasn’t he?’
‘Certainly was. You want to stop for lunch?’
‘Not bothered if you’re not. That scone was huge. I can wait till we have our evening meal, maybe have a mid-afternoon coffee at the hotel. Does that suit you?’
‘It does, and I promise, after we’ve eaten tonight, I’ll explain what all that was with Harry’s grave. It’s too complicated for me to have told you when we were there, and I couldn’t tell you last night because I still wasn’t sure I was going to do anything about anything. But around two this morning I knew I was.’
Wendy stared at Doris. She couldn’t ever remember a time when Doris had been unsure of anything.
The two women settled into their hotel rooms, and after eating in the hotel rather than going out to find food, they headed back to Doris’s room.
Doris pulled her file towards her and removed a letter. ‘I need to talk to you about Harry.’
Wendy grinned at her. ‘The dandelion said a lot.’
‘He might have been dead fifteen years, but he’s not taking it lying down, believe me. When I had Claire, things were definitely not good with us. I had to take leave of absence from work to have the baby, and as you know I was much higher than him in pay grade and it always rankled. I believe now that if we hadn’t had Claire, our marriage wouldn’t have lasted.’
‘This was when you were in work and pensions?’
Doris gave a brief smile. ‘Kind of. Work and pensions was my cover. I can’t say much more about what I did because when you sign the Official Secrets Act it’s a lifetime thing, but I know a little about work and pensions.’
Wendy’s eyes widened slightly. ‘And you were senior to Harry?’
‘I was. I think he thought having a baby would stop me, but it didn’t. I really only finally gave up my work when Mouse came to live with me. Even now my knowledge is still sought, but nobody at Connection knows that. However, that’s irrelevant. I discovered he had been having an affair while I was pregnant. I wasn’t good while I was carrying the baby, sick a lot, uncomfortable pain, that sort of thing, and I asked him to leave as soon as I found out.’
‘You must have backtracked on that.’
‘I did. I listened to him. I think he must have kissed the Blarney Stone or something because he persuaded me it was over, he had ended it because he didn’t want to lose me or the baby I was carrying. He promised he would never stray again, it was a weak moment in his life… you know, the usual rubbish men come out with when they’ve been caught dallying. Anyway, I had Claire, went back to work when she was six months old and we lived a comfortable life. I never had any reason to doubt him again, until this week.’ Doris stood. ‘Shall we have a cuppa?’
‘It’s that serious? Shall I fetch my whiskey?’
‘No need. I’ve brought mine.’ Doris reached into her suitcase and took out the Jameson’s. She made their drinks, and sat back down by her file, picking up the letter as she did so.
‘When I bought Little Mouse Cottage I arranged for mail redirection, stating mail addressed to anybody with the surnames Lester or Walters should be forwarded to my new address. I paid for a two-year provision. I get maybe one a month now, usually junk mail, but last week I got an actual letter, and it was addressed to Harry.’
‘Wow! Did it upset you?’
‘Receiving a letter addressed to him? Not initially, I thought it was strange. Once I’d read it… I can’t say I felt upset, but I felt bloody angry.’ She passed the letter to Wendy. ‘Read it and then we’ll talk.’
Wendy took the A4 sheet of paper that had been folded into three and smoothed it open.
27 Long Lane,
Hucknall,
Notts.
NG23 7WY
Dear Harry Lester,
I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you. My name is Rosie Steer, although when I was born forty-six years ago (on the fourth September 1973) it was Rosie Chambers. My mother was Lily May Chambers.
My mother died two months ago and I am in the process of sorting out her papers and clearing her home. She never married anyone after you left, and has always said that you were a fly-by-night who couldn’t commit to anything.
It now seems that was wrong, and that she had a long-term affair with you that lasted the best part of three years, and, according to her diary, she gave you up because I was growing older and she didn’t want me to have memories of you. It seems you had another family and a wife, who you wouldn’t leave to go to her. I know she told you lies, and it is important I set the record straight.
I would like to meet with you at some point. My mother became really bitter and I can only assume it was because of the hand she had been dealt in life.
I won’t give you my email because the only one I have is connected to work, but I would like to hear from you. You can write to me at the above address.
Regards,
Your daughter,
Rosie
Wendy read it through a second time, then carefully refolded it. ‘The bastard. The evil bastard.’
Doris gave a slight laugh. ‘Don’t hold back, will you? You’re right though. So I need to make a decision. Do I go to see Rosie, or do I simply write to her and say her father is dead?’
‘I think you have to see her. She’s clearly not happy that she missed out on seeing her father, and it might soften the blow of finding out he’s dead if that information doesn’t arrive in a letter. And anyway, aren’t you a little bit curious?’
‘No, but you obviously are.’
‘So when are we at the nearest point to her?’
‘Tomorrow we’re going to track down Sir Richard Arkwright’s grave, spend the rest of the morning in his Masson Mill then on to Hucknall and Lord Byron straight after lunch. As you can see, Rosie lives in Hucknall. That’s the day we stay at the Cockcliffe Country House. We’re only there for one night. So if we can see Lord Byron in the early afternoon, we can also visit Rosie then. I don’t have a phone number to warn her we’re coming so…’
‘Don’t make me laugh, Doris Lester. Put your Connection head on and find something out about her, including her phone number.’
Doris shook her head. ‘I don’t feel I should. If she’d wanted Harry to have that number, she would have included it. Besides, a bit of a surprise might help things along.’
‘Or s
he’ll have a heart attack in front of us.’
‘You think I shouldn’t do this?’ Doris was troubled.
‘Of course you should do it. She deserves some answers just as much as you do. It’s a pity bloody Harry isn’t here to face the music though.’
‘Have you worked it out that she’s two years younger than Claire would have been?’
Wendy nodded. ‘I have. He obviously lied, and simply carried on.’
‘That’s the bit that hurts. And going by this letter, it was actually Rosie’s mother’s decision to end the affair, not his. It cheapens our marriage, but I’ll get over it. I’ll never visit his grave again. You think it was his way of paying me back for being so much his superior at work? It never sat easy with him, but I had more skills that the Civil Service needed. And I’m not one to turn down challenges, as you know.’
‘This is a bit of a challenge, Doris. You up for it?’
‘I’m up for it.’
3
They put thoughts of a cheating Harry Lester to one side, and opened their journals for the first time. The little Sprockets churned out several photographs and the memories began. Doris’s sketch of the last resting place of George Stephenson was photographed by Wendy so that she could have a phone and a Sprocket copy, and they cut out sections of information from the leaflets they had gathered. Even the receipt for the tea and scones in the church was placed in carefully, and when they had finished both of them sat back and smiled.
‘If we write as much as this for every grave we visit, we’ll need two journals each. I’m going to leave two pages between each day’s entry, because I feel as though I’d like to know more,’ Wendy said. ‘And tomorrow’s chap I know precious little about anyway, other than he invented the spinning jenny.’
‘Sir Richard Arkwright,’ Doris mused, ‘began the industrial revolution. He did a lot of good, but the downside was he used a lot of child labour. I remember studying him at school, and I can vaguely recall a class trip to his grave and the mill, but not much else. I’ve deliberately not looked anything up in detail for any of these, it’s much more fun doing the digging together. Don’t forget we have the laptop if you want to look stuff up at any time.’
Wendy spluttered. ‘As if I’d dare, Doris Lester. I’ve brought my iPad that works when it thinks it will; I’ll manage with that. So, he’s in a churchyard, isn’t he?’
‘He is. It seems he was buried in St Giles’ Church in Matlock, but then his remains were moved to St Mary’s in Cromford. Other than that, I only know snippets of his life, so I’m hoping we find out lots more when we get there. I need to go back to that office and dazzle Luke with my superpower knowledge.’
‘Oh, I think you dazzle him anyway.’ Wendy smiled. ‘In his eyes, you’re the boss, not Kat and Mouse.’
‘You think?’
‘I don’t think, I know. Who does he turn to with queries? Who does the surveillance jobs these days? You and Luke.’
Doris smiled. ‘He’s a lovely lad. I’ve moved into Nan mode with him now, as easily as I did with Kat. But enough of work. Let’s see what we can find out about Lord Byron, he’s the next on our list.’
‘And Rosie Steer,’ Wendy said softly. ‘You have to put this one to bed, Doris, because if you don’t it will eat away at you. You’re the strongest woman I know, so don’t let this peccadillo get the better of you.’
Doris gave a slight shake of her head, as if clearing her thoughts. ‘I won’t, but I’ve no idea what to say to her. She’s only recently lost her mother and I’m going to be saying she hasn’t got a father either, she’s fifteen years too late.’
‘You’ll think of something, and you’ll get it right, little Miss Diplomacy.’
Doris poured them both a whiskey into their tooth glasses, and they returned to their journals, looking through the information already garnered.
‘So, Richard Arkwright.’
‘Sir Richard Arkwright,’ Doris corrected.
‘And George Stephenson wasn’t a Sir?’
‘Seems not. But our next one is, or was, a Lord.’
‘Mmm, Lord Byron. I know his work but precious little about him. Every day’s a school day on this holiday, isn’t it?’ Wendy laughed. ‘So, anything I should know about Sir Richard before we get to the romance of Byron?’
‘I don’t know much, but the basics are that Arkwright was born in 1732 and died in 1792 and he was the youngest of seven surviving children of a marriage between Thomas and Sarah. In 1769 he patented the first spinning frame which revolutionised the cotton industry. Clever chap, yes?’
‘Certainly was. I’ve all on threading a needle.’
‘I know. I’m hoping to inspire you tomorrow. We’ll go visit his grave, then have a couple of hours at Masson Mill. This mill was his pride and joy. It’s on the banks of the Derwent, because it had so much more power than the water that fed the Cromford Mill. It’s a museum with shops and cafés but there’s still a working part of it. I think we’ll have a good morning there, then after lunch we’ll head over to Hucknall for a date with Lord Byron.’
Wendy downed her whiskey, gathered up her belongings and said goodnight. ‘Breakfast at nine?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I think so. It will only be a brief visit to his grave, then down to the mill. I’d like us to be leaving by about half past one, then we can head over to the Cockcliffe Country House and get booked in before we look for Lord Byron. Is that okay?’
‘Fine by me. See you in the morning.’
Doris found sleep difficult. She got out of bed a little after three and made a hot chocolate, opened up her Kindle once again, and settled down to read. Her thoughts were constantly drifting to Rosie’s letter and Doris recognised she was still unsure about what actions to take.
The letter gave no clue as to Rosie’s character; was she a nasty piece of work, or a pleasant, welcoming woman who would be sorry she hadn’t met her genetic father and got on with her life? Doris dragged herself back to her book and tried to dismiss the unknown Rosie, but it was proving impossible.
Doris put the Kindle on the bedside table, slid down under the covers and forced her eyes closed. She had to sleep; she was doing the driving.
Doris was quiet during breakfast, partly due to lack of sleep and partly due to the impending Hucknall visit. Her eyes felt full of grit, and she blinked frequently to try to wake them up properly.
‘You’re quiet.’ Wendy looked across the table at her friend. ‘Didn’t sleep too good, I presume.’
‘No, I was still awake and making a hot drink at three. I’ll be glad when today’s over and I can put this peccadillo, as you call it, to one side and forget about Harry and his paramour.’
‘Peccadillo, paramour – all the “p”s this morning. You read a dictionary during your waking hours, then?’
Finally Doris laughed. ‘If I had, I’ll leave you to imagine what other word beginning with p I could use in relation to Harry bloody Lester.’
Wendy thought for a moment and then grinned. ‘Got it. Five letters, and means to stab with a needle.’
They high-fived, and the young girl who had served them breakfast came over with the cafetière to top up their coffee cups.
‘Can I get you ladies anything else?’
‘No thank you.’ Doris smiled. ‘We’re incredibly fat and full after that delicious breakfast, and we’ve got a date with a grave.’
‘You’re here for Sir Richard?’
‘We are. Do you get many people here for that?’ Doris asked.
‘Oh yes. They visit graves of famous people, it’s the thing to do, it seems.’
‘That’s exactly what we’re doing,’ Wendy said. ‘We’re off to see Lord Byron’s this afternoon.’
The waitress smiled and removed their plates. ‘Have a good day, it’s supposed to be sunny, but maybe that’s after the rain’s finished. It’s bucketing down at the moment.’
‘Great,’ Wendy said and turned to look out of the window. ‘Look at that.’ The r
ain was river-like as it ran down the panes of the large bay window.
‘Don’t be a wimp, woman. We’ve got brollies and raincoats, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, but yours is bright yellow.’
‘My brolly is black. And I love my yellow coat. Let’s face it, when I’ve got that on, you won’t lose me in a crowd.’
‘You think there’ll be a crowd at Sir Richard’s grave?’
‘No, but there might be at the mill. Then you’ll be glad I’ve worn a yellow coat. And it’s from Marks and Spencer.’
‘Does that make a difference?’
‘Certainly does. It means the yellow won’t fade.’
‘Oh dear gods.’ Wendy dropped her head into her hands. ‘I was counting on it fading.’
‘I’ll compromise,’ Doris said, trying to keep her face straight. ‘I’ll not wear my yellow shoes with it.’
‘What?’ Wendy lifted her head. ‘Yellow shoes?’
Doris pushed back her chair. ‘Good Lord, Wendy, you’re so easy to wind up. Of course I haven’t got yellow shoes. They’re boots. See you down here in ten minutes?’ and she turned and walked towards the lift, a grin on her face.
Wendy watched her friend, her brain frantically trying to think of a way of repayment. Her time would come, she decided.
With Doris dressed in yellow and Wendy in bright red, they made a colourful sight in the grounds of St Mary’s Church in Cromford, walking around between the graves, taking note of where the extended Arkwright family was buried before heading inside, through the beautiful triple-arched entrance.
Sir Richard was in the crypt, lying beneath the chancel and the nave, along with close members of his family, and the two ladies stood for a moment, their thoughts filled with the knowledge they had gleaned of his life, and the part he had played in history.