‘You really loved her, didn’t you?’ she said to the photograph on the bookcase. ‘All those years – she must have been quite a woman.’
Not for the first time, Zoe regretted the lack of anything in Louisa’s hand. It was like being party to half a conversation, and always there was the desire to hear the other voice, share the full exchange. As it was, Louisa Elliott remained a partly-perceived, enigmatic figure, while the only living person to have known her remembered her best in old age, when the temperament and passion of youth had faded.
Sighing, Zoe studied her collection of photographs, copied from those in Stephen’s possession. They had become so familiar, sometimes it seemed they were more real than members of her immediate family. That sense of presence worried her occasionally, making her wonder whether the obsession was becoming unhealthy; but the intimacy of those letters, their verve and individual style, made the writers seem alive.
Had she been a contemporary, such glimpses into their private lives would never have come her way; nor would Zoe have desired it. It would have been like reading her father’s correspondence, or invading her mother’s private life. But whereas she had no desire to know the intimate details of her parents’ lives, she did want to know what had driven Robert and Louisa apart in the mid– I890s, and what had really transpired between Liam and Georgina. More and more was she sure, despite the lack of hard evidence, that those two had been lovers.
From Stephen’s transcript, she saw that two dates in Liam’s diary, at the end of October, were underlined, along with four more in November and December. They contained no more information than the initial G. On previous occasions he had noted that, ‘G visited today’ or, ‘went up to town with G.’ The lack of detail was significant in a diary that contained references to food, weather, the quality of a concert, and places he had visited. Only during that two-day visit to York was there a similar lack of comment. ‘Went to Leeds to see Robin. He seems in a poor way just now,’ was the sum of it. No mention of the reunion with his mother and Edward, nor of the long journey north. It was as though he could not bring himself to write about emotional matters, or that he was, for some reason, afraid to do so; instead there was just an aide memoire, a brief comment, or a solitary initial.
Had he come here, to see Georgina? Zoe was sure he had.
Why else the dreams?
The same dream, with variations, many times repeated. Always Liam, always in uniform, always here. At first the furniture and old-fashioned décor seemed strange. The long room with its single tall window, off-set, contained a bed, shelves full of books and photographs, and a wash-stand. In dream-time she paused in the doorway, surprised to see Liam stretched out on the bed, fully dressed in uniform and boots. His hat was on the bedside chest, and his attitude was one of immense sadness. He did not speak, simply lay there, gazing at her.
Zoe was herself, in modern clothes, and she knew that this was her own time, seventy years on from his, despite the dark surroundings. Astonishment gave way before a sense of love flowing between them.
His silent presence, that sense of loving, was present in every subsequent dream. What changed was the flat itself, and the change was coincident with the spine-tingling discovery that Georgina and Robert Duncannon had lived here during the First World War. After that, the rooms in the dream became more recognizably her own.
She knew now that the bedroom in the dream was her spacious modern bathroom with its airing cupboard and shower-cubicle. The old fittings had been ripped out before Zoe moved in, and her father had asked her advice on colour and layout. At the time, neither of them had given a thought to what the room had been originally.
When Georgina had shared this flat with her father, that tall, off-set window had sported elegant drapes, with a chest of drawers beneath it, a bed to one side and a wash-stand at the foot. It must have been the room where Georgina slept.
Had Liam slept there too? It was a question which came frequently to mind, and no amount of rationalizing on Polly’s part could sway Zoe from the conviction that Liam was trying to tell her something about his relationship with Georgina. She constantly reminded Polly, whenever the subject came up, that she had dreamed of Liam in the flat before she discovered Georgina’s address. But as her friend pointed out, she had been obsessed with Liam long before that.
Was it wish-fulfilment? Or did the essence of the man live on, enabling him to enter her sleeping mind, flooding it with certain images, leaving clues for her to follow?
If that was so, then Zoe had to admit that the clues were obscure. Dreaming, she had seen him in her kitchen, standing there smoking, and looking vaguely lost; she had seen him by her desk, gazing out of the window into busy Queen’s Gate.
Waking that morning at the beginning of August, Zoe retained an image of him sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at a photograph in a large silver frame. He was partly turned towards her, head bent, fair hair falling forward across a furrowed brow; and the image was so clear, his distress so real, she had reached out to touch him even before she opened her eyes.
As ever, he eluded her. The image went, and as she opened her eyes she saw only her room, the large wardrobe, the matching Victorian chest, a couple of Pre-Raphaelite prints on the wall, and her favourite photograph of Stephen, in a wooden frame, on her bedside table.
She had taken it herself, on the city walls near his flat with the Minster in the background. He was smiling at her, as though trying to remind her of happier times spent together in York. But it all seemed so long ago, so unreal; even less substantial than the dream which had just faded from sight.
York. Stephen was no longer there, but the city was. Glancing back at the photograph, just for an instant it seemed to Zoe that Liam was smiling, beckoning her away.
Telephoning Joan Elliott, Zoe hoped that she would suggest Stephen’s flat as an overnight abode; but apparently some old-fashioned sense of propriety prevented that. Contacting the hotel on Gillygate, she hoped it would not be fully booked at the height of the tourist season. Luckily, Mrs Bilton had a single room available, the same one Zoe had used before; and after that friendly conversation, she found herself more pleased than sorry. After all, Gillygate had been Louisa’s home for some twenty years before she and Edward moved out to Clementhorpe, and knowing so much more about the family gave the small hotel even greater significance.
With her ancient Renault recently serviced and running sweetly for the first time in months, Zoe decided to drive up to York, taking the A1 as far as Stamford, then motoring at a leisurely pace through the sleepy country lanes of Lincolnshire. It was not an idle choice: in a village south of Lincoln, Louisa’s mother had been born, and from another village nearby, Louisa had received letters from a cousin, John Elliott. Zoe felt it was a fair assumption that the Elliotts had remained in the county for at least a couple of generations, and she wanted to see the area for herself.
It was the day to do it: good harvest weather, with an arc of blue above and billowing white clouds along the horizon. The fields were gold with wheat and barley, acre after acre rolling away across gentle dips and rises, marked by crumbling walls and ancient hedgerows, the towers and spires of village churches standing clear from dark pockets of trees.
The roads wound tortuous routes round woods and fields, became village streets and returned to leafy lanes; fortunately the traffic was light, and she was able to drive slowly, pulling in whenever another car nudged impatiently from behind. She wanted to absorb it all.
A minor road took her from Sleaford to Metheringham, the place of Mary Elliott’s birth, but just before it she had the surprise of Blankney, a model village of quaint, neo-gothic cottages set either side of the main road. From here, John Elliott had written to his cousins in York. It gave her a strange feeling. The church, heavily restored, was still in occasional use, but the Hall, to one side and at the head of a curving drive, was in the process of being demolished. Wondering why, and hating the sight of those broken walls, she turned her
back on it, staring out across the road at what must have been a sweep of parkland, and was now the rising slope of a golf course. A patch of woodland on the crest caught her eye, and she stood looking at it for a while, although she could not have said what it was about it that intrigued her.
She glanced at her watch: past one o’clock already, and she had to have lunch and make her way to York. There was no time to go strolling across the golf links, just to explore a belt of trees no different from all the other woody coverts she had passed on the way here. Nevertheless, she had a strong feeling that she must bring Stephen here; then, with a shrug, Zoe went back to her car.
A signpost indicated that the side road would bring her into Metheringham. It became a village street, with the church set back on one side, and a couple of inns punctuating the curve of cottages, shops and small businesses that seemed to form the heart of a spreading community. Although it was quiet here, with a hot, noonday stillness, Zoe sensed the presence of natural, homogeneous life, so different from the sterile precision of Blankney, a mile away. And the small pub facing the church boasted upwards of a dozen customers, most of them with plates as well as glasses before them.
She ordered a smoked mackerel salad which was both generous and good, and a glass of orange topped up with ice and soda. Considerably refreshed, and with a little time to spare, she decided to have a look at the church. It was locked, a sad reflection of the times, and the exterior told her very little. In some disappointment, Zoe walked round it, studying gravestones here and there, looking for the Elliott name but by no means expecting to find it. But then, under the East Window, she found a whole row of Elliotts, dating back to the beginning of the 1800s, their names engraved on crosses and arched stones, ‘In Loving Memory’ and ‘Sacred to the Name of...’ interspersed with biblical quotations.
Her knowledge of village burials and rituals was virtually nonexistent, yet as she gazed at other stones, it came to her that to be buried so grandly, and in such a prime position, these Elliotts must have been people of some substance. Were they Tisha’s family, and Liam’s? Were they the grandparents and great-grandparents of Edward and Louisa? Impossible to prove from the monuments, but she had a powerful feeling that they were her people, and Stephen’s, and that one day, perhaps when he came home, they must return here together, and search the parish records.
She left them in their undisturbed peace, left them to the sun and the birds and the gentle rustling of the breeze in tall trees. Something of that peace settled with her as she headed out on the Lincoln road.
The city, topped by its magnificent cathedral, climbed the ridge before her, dominating the broad agricultural plain in a far more dramatic way than York; and yet there were similarities enough to catch her eye, to make her think of Roman legions building major defensive strongholds on that ridge, and then again, seventy miles to the north, at the fork of two rivers at Eboracum. Norman overlords had seen the same advantages, as had medieval merchants and the princes of the church; and in the 1850s, something had prompted at least two members of the Elliott family to leave one cathedral city for another.
She arrived in York just before five, amidst the bustle of home-bound workers and a crawl of cars and bikes down Gillygate. There was a long-stay car park beyond the junction with Lord Mayor’s Walk, fortunately remembered from her last visit. With a sigh compounded of relief and pleasure, Zoe stepped out onto the tarmac, fished her overnight bag from the Renault’s back seat, and gave the little black car a pat for not letting her down. The smile stayed all the way down Gillygate as she joined the hurrying feet, feeling part of the city’s life, part of its people, its solid stone pavements, and its air, which was golden with dust. It was, Zoe, decided, unbelievably good to be back.
Mrs Bilton greeted her like an old friend, made her a cup of tea and sat with her for a few minutes in the front parlour. When she had gone, Zoe found herself staring at the fireplace, thinking of Edward and Louisa, and Mary Elliott who had left her home in the Lincolnshire countryside to live and eventually die here. She thought of the children too as she climbed the stairs, passing rooms any one of which might have been their nursery; and then there was Robert Duncannon, to whom this house must have been very familiar.
So many coincidences. And in the beginning they had been astonishing, but as time went on they began to seem almost normal, part of a distinctive chain that had forged its original link at her meeting with Stephen Elliott. But was that really so? Zoe asked herself as she went upstairs. It was the first in her life, but the links in the chain seemed to have been forged long before that. Perhaps the first one was made in this house.
It was an idea which seemed to come from nowhere, an idea that took root as she paused on the landing and stood before an open door. She gazed into a spacious bedroom with two long windows and a pretty Victorian fireplace on the far wall. The windows were open and looked out onto Gillygate; she could hear the passing traffic and snatches of conversation from people in the street. This had been Mary Elliott’s home, but it had also been an hotel. Had Robert Duncannon stayed here? Was this the place where Louisa met him for the very first time?
It was a warm evening, but Zoe shivered; hairs pricked at the back of her neck and along her arms. Rubbing them, she hurried up to the next floor, dumped her bag and went straight down again, pausing only long enough to note that the door which had been open, was now closed.
Refusing to entertain the thought that it had opened and closed of its own volition, she hurried out into the busy street.
Following the directions Joan Elliott had given her, Zoe headed straight for Walmgate.
Away from the town centre it was quieter, with Fossgate practically deserted. The elegant span of Foss Bridge crossed a narrow river which boasted nothing busier than a flotilla of ducklings; further on, Walmgate sat peacefully behind a facade of respectable shops and offices, now closed for the evening. In one guide book Zoe had read that a total of twenty-six inns and alehouses were doing business during the street’s notorious heyday in the last century, when the area was known chiefly for its slums. That disease-ridden, cheek-by-jowl poverty was hard to imagine now, with the slums cleared years ago and many of the shop-fronts renovated to the same bijou standard of Gillygate.
The public houses, she noticed, were now reduced to two, and while memories of the area’s unsavoury reputation still lived on, much new building had taken place within the city wall. Joan’s new flat was on the first floor of a three-storey block, small but practical, and with a view of the inner face of Walmgate Bar.
She apologized to Joan for the unexpected visit, and explaining why, said they would meet, as planned, for lunch the next day. For the time being, however, she was anxious not to stay very long.
‘I don’t know if you recall, but in one of those trunks you gave Stephen, there was a large, leather-bound visitors’ book. We only glanced at it and put it back with all the other books, but I think it covered several years, and I’d like to have a look at it. Really, I’d like to look at it now, if I may. That is, if you don’t mind me having Stephen’s keys for an hour or so. Or if you have time, perhaps you’d like to come with me?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so dear. Not this evening – it’s a bit warm for me to want to trail up there. Besides,’ she smiled, a little guiltily, ‘I like to get my feet up after tea and watch the soaps! No, you take the keys — bring them back tomorrow when you come – I’m sure Stephen won’t mind. After all, if he didn’t trust you, he wouldn’t have given you the letters to sort out, now would he?’
Zoe suppressed a smile at Joan’s belated logic, realizing that it had never occurred to her to offer the facility of Stephen’s flat for the night. Had she asked, Zoe might have stayed there. But in Stephen’s flat, would she have thought to check the old visitors’ book? Probably not.
At half-past seven, the warmth radiating from mellow brick walls in Bedern was still considerable; Stephen’s flat was hot and airless, and the first thing Zoe did was t
o open all the windows. For some minutes, however, she stood looking out at the evening light and lengthening shadows, the play of rich colour across stone and brick and tile. She was reminded of that first evening spent with Stephen, how they had talked while sitting here and looking from this very window. They had watched the colours change and the shadows fall, and seen the last of the light reflected in each other’s eyes.
Abruptly, she turned away. Moving from room to room, she was aware of how strange the place felt without him; like a time-capsule, she thought, finding one of her earrings on the bedside chest. And suddenly she was reliving that last evening, the harsh words and the tears, and that brief hour of passion before the mad dash to Teesport. Three months ago, and it felt like forever; yet every word, every gesture, was etched indelibly upon her mind. If she never saw him again, Zoe knew that last, long night would remain with her, together with the sight of him waving from the deck of the Damaris.
She moved around the bedroom, touching his belongings: a Japanese earthenware bowl holding shells and bits of coral, a carved ebony mask and a framed batik print from Africa, and a small laughing Buddha in jade that had been given as a parting gift by a Chinese crew. With his tremendous rolls of fat and all-embracing grin, the Buddha was symbolic of happiness and good fortune, and even in her presently dejected state, he managed to raise from her a small, wan smile. No wonder Stephen kept him.
In a long wardrobe, a row of suits and shirts and jackets still retained a faint scent of their owner, and Zoe gathered them towards her, laying her face against the fine, soft wool of a black doeskin jacket. Only as she opened her eyes did she notice the row of solid brass buttons, and four gold rings on the sleeve.
She dropped the uniform as though the thing had bitten her, in that moment hating all it represented: his job, the war, the danger in which he stood. Anguish and longing fused into instant rage, and she swept everything back with a curse, hating everything that had taken him away, accusing him, cursing him, demanding of his possessions when, when would he be back?
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