by Nicola Upson
“If that’s the way you want to play it.”
“How can you live with yourself, Charity?” Josephine demanded. “You’ve used Betty’s relationship with her sister to get your own back for every imagined slight you’ve ever felt, and have you even considered what this might be doing to her? She’s wracked with guilt over Dorothy’s death, and really it should be you because you’ve been pulling the strings all this time. Dorothy’s blood is on your hands, not Betty’s or George’s or Harriet’s, and certainly not on Jeannie’s.”
“Josephine? What the hell’s going on? Are you all right?”
Josephine turned round to find Marta looking concerned, and wondered how much she had overheard. “Yes, I’m fine,” she insisted. “We’re finished here. Miss Lomax was just leaving.”
CHAPTER 4
Try as she might, Josephine couldn’t get the conversation with Charity out of her head. She lay awake for most of the night, struggling to answer some of the questions it raised and worrying about the possible consequences of her lie. She found it impossible to believe that Jeannie had had anything to do with Dorothy’s death, and yet—now that the seed of suspicion was planted—she couldn’t quite dismiss the idea altogether, particularly as she knew something that Charity didn’t: when Jeannie eventually returned to the greenhouse that night, she had changed her clothes, and Josephine remembered wondering at the time why she had bothered to discard wet things only to be soaked all over again; now, the explanation took on a more sinister possibility. She heard again the urgency in Jeannie’s voice when she was asking to see her, and began to fear what she might be about to confess. If their love turned out to be the reason for a young girl’s death, Josephine would never forgive herself.
The next day, she wanted to raise the subject with Marta and try to explain why she hadn’t been honest about Jeannie from the outset, but Marta went to her study early to work, so Josephine decided to do something practical instead. A telephone call to Moira House brought the good news that Gertrude Ingham was still there, and Josephine left a message for her, explaining what she wanted and why. An hour later, she was rewarded with a response from Miss Ingham’s secretary, who informed her that the principal was in a meeting with the school’s governors but sent her warmest wishes and hoped that they might meet again before long as she was a great admirer of Josephine’s work for the stage. In the meantime, she was more than happy to pass on addresses from their files, and to save time, Josephine took them down over the phone. As she had hoped, Joyce was one of the girls who kept in touch with her old school, and Josephine was intrigued to see that her address wasn’t a clinic, but a teashop in Southend. There were no contact details for Mags, but she didn’t doubt that Joyce would be able to help her there if necessary.
Even the formal brevity of a telegram couldn’t entirely obscure Joyce’s delight at the suggestion that they meet, and as Josephine set out for Essex early the following morning, she found herself looking forward to seeing her again. Marta had said very little about her plans, other than to reiterate the dangers of meddling in something that was getting out of hand, and showed no interest in going with her; knowing how quickly her lover worked when she was engrossed in a project, Josephine wasn’t at all convinced that she couldn’t spare the time, but she didn’t argue, hoping that a day apart would either clear the air between them or bring on the row that had been brewing for days.
The Essex seaside town was bigger than she expected, and—as the nearest coastal resort to London—bustled with holidaymakers keen to make the most of a summer that, though fading, seemed reluctant to leave altogether. A sign at the railway station proclaimed the benefits of Southend “for health and pleasure,” and Josephine wouldn’t have argued; as she took a leisurely stroll to the seafront, where Joyce had her café, she was impressed by the way in which the town had managed to combine its fine streets and beautiful old buildings with the feel of a modern resort. She soon located the address she was looking for on Marine Parade. The teashop looked busy, and Joyce had asked her to avoid the lunchtime rush, so she walked past and crossed the road to sit in the sun for a while. The promenade was still popular at the fag end of the season. Some of the more adventurous visitors were enjoying a trip out to sea, and Josephine followed their progress as they sailed toward the grand iron pier—the longest in the British Empire, according to advertisements she had noticed on the way, and served by its own electric railway. There was something precious about a warm day in September, when the sun could never be taken for granted, and she wished that she had tried harder to persuade Marta to come with her.
Plans for a physiotherapy clinic might have fallen by the wayside, but Joyce was obviously as passionate about the cinema as she had always been. Her café was called The Reel Thing, and its walls were lined with film stills and movie magazine covers, some of them signed by the stars they celebrated. It was the only glitzy note in what was otherwise a typically English setting—understated yet welcoming, with crisp white cloths, flowers on every table, and an irresistible smell of home cooking coming from the kitchen. Josephine took her place in the queue to be seated and looked round for Joyce, eventually spotting her by the till. She looked very different as an older woman, and—had she passed her in the street—Josephine doubted that she would have recognized her, but the smile which she lavished on her customers was familiar enough to overshadow the fuller figure and permanent wave, and she wondered if Joyce would find her much changed by the twenty-odd years that had passed since they last saw each other. Her reaction suggested not: she rushed out from behind the counter at the first glance in Josephine’s direction, dispensing with any formal greeting in favor of a hug. “How lovely to see you again,” she said. “I was so surprised to get your telegram, but I often think about you—it’s not everyone who can say that their old teacher hobnobs with Derrick de Marney.”
Josephine had actually never met the actor who starred in Hitchcock’s film of her book, but it seemed churlish to admit as much when Joyce was so excited; in truth, she was just as starstruck by the film world as her former pupil, and she looked round the walls with a genuine fascination, impressed by the collection of autographs. “I’ll have to get you his picture,” she said, hoping that Marta could pull some strings. “Hitchcock’s too, although I know whose cheekbones I prefer.”
Joyce laughed. “That would be wonderful. Now come and sit down.”
“Thank you, but don’t let me interrupt. You’re still busy, and I’m very happy to wait.”
“There’s no need.” She ushered Josephine to a table with a reserved sign on it, much to the annoyance of two elderly women who were ahead of her in the queue. “I’ve been saving my lunch break for you, and the girls can easily manage without me while we talk. To be honest, I think they could manage without me altogether if I let them. They’re a good bunch.” Joyce looked proudly at her staff, half a dozen girls who—without exception—were young, hardworking, and polite. “We always choose the ones who haven’t had much of a chance in life,” she said. “That was very important to us when we started out, and I’ve never had one who’s let me down yet. Now—what would you like?”
“Whatever you recommend. It all looks wonderful, and I’m famished.”
“Good. I won’t be a minute.” She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Josephine to wonder who the “we” referred to. She found the answer in a photograph on the wall above the table that Joyce had chosen for them—not a film still this time, but a picture of the café with two young women standing by the door, about to cut a ribbon; the one on the right holding the scissors was Mags, and Josephine was delighted that they had fulfilled their ambition of running a business together, even if it wasn’t the one they had talked of originally.
“This is lovely,” Josephine said when Joyce returned a few minutes later with a tray of tea. “And obviously very successful. I’m so pleased for you.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Joyce said, arranging the cutlery and cups. “And
two cottage pies coming up.” She took the seat opposite Josephine and removed her apron. “It’s nice to sit down for a minute. We haven’t stopped all summer, what with the heat wave last month and now this. We had visitors sleeping out by the pier because all the hotels were full, and quite frankly they had the right idea. I’ve never known it to be so hot. In the end, we took the kids and went down to join them. They thought it was a hoot.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Three—two girls and a boy. They’re a bit of a handful, but David’s great with them, and he often works nights, so he can have them while I’m busy here.”
“It’s quite a change from physiotherapy.”
“Fancy your remembering that. Are you disappointed in us?”
Josephine laughed. “Of course not. I couldn’t wait to get out of teaching in the end, so who am I to criticize? And I’m willing to bet that this is considerably more entertaining. Harder work too.” She paused while one of the waitresses set down two delicious-looking plates of food. “Who does the cooking?”
“Me, mostly—in the evenings, once the kids are in bed.” She encouraged Josephine to eat while she poured them both some tea and went back to her story. “We did try the physiotherapy idea for a while after college.”
“Did you go to Anstey like you were planning to?”
“No. We chose Chelsea in the end because it was closer to home.”
“And it’s a good school.”
“Yes, we learnt a lot and had a few interesting placements, but to be honest, it wasn’t really what either of us wanted to do. Then Mags’s father died and left her a bit of money. I already had some savings from a trust fund, so we decided to pool our resources.” She smiled and preempted Josephine’s next question: “We always used to come here on the way home from school, and one night we were walking back from the pictures and noticed it was for sale. We bought it the next day, even though neither of us had the faintest idea about running a restaurant, and we never regretted it.”
It was a lovely story, and Josephine was pleased that things had worked out for them. “How long have you had it?” she asked.
“Nearly fifteen years now.”
“And how is Mags? Is it her day off?”
Joyce’s face clouded over. “You don’t know … Of course you don’t. Why would you? Mags died, I’m afraid. It was three years ago now, but it still feels like yesterday.”
She looked down awkwardly, as if the news were somehow her fault, and Josephine was mortified. “Joyce, I’m so sorry. Whatever happened?”
“She was hit by a car, just outside here. One of our regulars forgot her change and Mags ran across the road after her without thinking.” Joyce smiled sadly to herself. “I always used to joke with her about being too honest for her own good. Told her we’d never make our fortunes if she carried on like that.” Josephine put her fork down, her appetite suddenly gone. “The bastard didn’t even stop,” Joyce added, her anger barely diminished since the day of the accident. “They never found out who it was.”
“Were you here when it happened?”
Joyce nodded. “I heard the screech of the brakes outside, and then people started screaming. I ran out to see what was wrong, telling myself not to panic, but I think I knew already. She died in my arms. David couldn’t get here in time. They didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.”
Josephine was confused. “But I thought David was your husband?”
“He is now, but we only got married after Mags died. She was the love of his life. I’ve never known two people to be so happy.”
“So the children …”
“Are Mags’s, yes. The youngest was only six months old when she died.”
“What about you? Didn’t you have anyone?” Josephine stopped abruptly, before the words “of your own” followed. She was deeply moved by the unselfish way that Joyce had put her own life to one side to do the right thing by her friend’s family, and the last thing she wanted was to sound judgmental.
“Not since the war, no. He was killed at Passchendaele, and no one else quite measured up after that. When Mags died, David and I—well, I was the only one who could console him, and vice versa. And she asked me to look after him and the children—it was the last thing she said to me. I had to promise, to give her some peace.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“It was at first. There were times when David was so beside himself with grief that he’d think I was Mags, and I would have given anything to grant him his wish, but that passed in time. He’s a good man, and the children are a joy. We’ve found a way to be happy.” She glanced up at the photograph, and Josephine couldn’t even begin to imagine the thoughts that must be going through her head. “What about you?” Joyce asked making an effort to lift the mood. “Did you get married?”
“No, I didn’t.” It was a relief to have her answer taken at face value, without any further interrogation, and she remembered how refreshingly immune Joyce and Mags had been to any of the troubling undercurrents at Charleston. “I wanted to talk to you about the night that Dorothy Norwood died,” she said.
“Because of that ridiculous piece in the paper?”
“That started it, yes, but I’ve spoken to Betty since then, and I think she might be right. There may be more to it than we thought.” Joyce looked skeptical, and Josephine continued, “Will you tell me anything that you remember?”
“Of course I will, but I don’t know that I can be much help.” She thought for a moment, giving Josephine the opportunity to carry on with her lunch. “It had been such a hot day, and everyone was irritable and getting on one another’s nerves. It was Dorothy’s turn to help Harriet and Vera with supper, and it took longer than usual, so she was in a terrible mood when she got back, and she and Betty started bickering. There was nothing new in that, of course, but there was an edge to it—there had been since that business about closing the greenhouse windows—and in the end Betty flounced off with Charity, which only made Dorothy more angry. She was always jealous of how close those two were.”
“Dorothy was? I didn’t know that. I always got the impression that she was perfectly happy with her lot. The words ‘cat’ and ‘cream’ spring to mind.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but being good at everything doesn’t often win you many friends. Whenever I think of Dorothy, at school or at the farmhouse, I always picture her on her own. Yes, she was the model pupil, but who at that age wouldn’t swap their teachers’ approval for some genuine affection from a friend or two? And Charity used that by playing up to Betty.”
It was funny, Josephine thought, but both twins had been desperately unhappy in their own way, each wanting a friendship—or at least some sort of recognition—from the other that they had never had. “She’s still playing up to her. Did you know that Charity wrote the newspaper article, using a pen name?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. She always used to say the most outrageous things just to get a reaction, and occasionally one of them would turn out to be true—then she really had you where she wanted you. It seems like nothing’s changed.”
Joyce could have no idea how right she was, Josephine thought. “You said Dorothy was angry when she came back—not frightened or worried?”
“I suppose indignant would be the best word to describe it. Just like she was over the greenhouse.”
“As if she’d been blamed for something else she didn’t do?” Josephine asked, wondering if Harriet had confronted her about the accusations to Miss Ingham.
“Yes, that’s exactly it.” She paused, looking over Josephine’s shoulder, and a smile lit her face. “Here’s David now, with the children. I’m so pleased you’ll get to meet him.”
Josephine turned to see a uniformed policeman coming through the door with a toddler in each arm and a girl of eight or nine by his side. “Ah, so it’s that sort of working nights.”
“Yes, David’s a bobby. He’s taking his sergeant’s ex
am next month.” She looked at him proudly and gave him a kiss, and it was immediately clear to Josephine that the love Joyce felt for her husband was far more than duty. She suspected that Mags had known that too and that her final request to her friend had in fact been a blessing.
“Lovely to meet you,” Josephine said, standing to shake his hand.
“And you. When Joyce said she was having lunch with her teacher, I expected someone older.”
“We were more like friends, the three of us, weren’t we?” Josephine nodded, happy to take the compliment now that she didn’t have to pretend to be in charge. The younger girl looked up at her shyly, then held out her arms. “You’ve got a fan there already,” Joyce said. “It’s a shame you live so far away. We could do with another babysitter.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ruby.”
“Hello, Ruby.” Josephine sat the child on her lap and found her a napkin to play with. She watched Joyce with her family, realizing how wrong she had been to assume that Joyce had sacrificed her own life for her friend’s memory; the way that she and David had found to be happy obviously worked for all of them.
“Right, where were we?” Joyce asked when David had left for work and the children were packed off to the kitchen for something to eat.
“We were talking about Dorothy,” Josephine reminded her. “Where was everybody when the storm broke?”
“We’d just turned in for the night. The next thing we knew, there was an almighty clap of thunder, and the heavens opened. Mags and I watched it from our bunks for a bit, but it wasn’t long before that bloody bell started ringing, and up we had to get.”
