by Roberta Kray
‘What’s the matter, darlin’?’ he mocked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
With nothing left to lose, she raised her chin and stared him defiantly in the eyes. ‘Go on, then. If you’re going to shoot me, you may as well get it over and done with.’
‘I ain’t gonna shoot you,’ he said. ‘Not here, at least. Wouldn’t want to disturb these poor souls, now would we?’ He glanced round at the graves and sniggered at his own joke. ‘Nah, you and me are going to take a little walk, all nice and calm like. You’ll go first and I’ll be right behind.’ He gestured with the gun. ‘Get going, then. Towards the gate. And don’t do anything stupid. We pass anyone, you keep yer gob shut, right?’
She nodded.
‘So what are you waiting for?’
She walked slowly, unsteadily, her legs like jelly. Her guts were churning, bile rising into her throat. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Where do you think?’
‘To see Hull,’ she said, her voice quivering with fear.
‘Mr Hull to you, darlin’. And he ain’t best pleased with you and your feller. I can tell you that for nothing.’
She could have pleaded with him to let her go, begged and grovelled, but she knew it was pointless. She plodded on, one painful step after another. If she’d had the strength, she would have made a run for it – a bullet in the back was better than the long, lingering punishment Hull would have in store for her. She bowed her head but didn’t bother to pray. She was beyond hope or faith. God had abandoned her. She was on her own.
1
1949
Judith Jonson had officially been a widow for five years. ‘Missing in action’ was what the telegram had said, but she hadn’t immediately given up hope. Missing wasn’t dead. Missing wasn’t a body blown into a thousand pieces or a man lying on his back with a bullet through his heart. A chance still remained that Dan had been taken prisoner or become separated from his regiment. A chance still remained that he was out there somewhere.
She had clung onto this dream for too long, refusing to accept – even when the war was over – that her husband was never coming home. It had been too stark a fact to face, too devastating a blow. Although her head had told her one thing, her heart had said another. Deep down she’d continued to believe he was still alive; she had felt it in her bones, in her soul. To accept that he was dead was to give up on him, to give up on them.
Judith was still coming to terms with her loss, trying to deal with the sharp edges of a grief she should have confronted long ago. Sometimes it took her unawares, creeping up when she was at work, on the bus, or simply washing the dishes. The emotions she felt were strong, even violent. They tore through her, rocking her body and taking her breath away. She would have to close her eyes for a few seconds until the worst of the pain was over.
Dan was gone. She had to get used to the idea. Her grief was hardly unique; there was barely a person she knew who hadn’t lost someone close – a husband or boyfriend, a brother, father, son or uncle. They all carried the same burden, the same aching sense of loss. But life went on, and somehow a way had to be found to deal with it.
Judith’s way was to keep busy. During the day she worked for a firm of solicitors called Gillespie & Tate – typing, filing and answering the phone – and at night she filled the hours before bed with anything that kept her occupied. She sewed, read, wrote letters or tended her vegetable patch at the local allotment. What she dreaded most were the weekends. Free time was her enemy, providing the kind of space bad thoughts could creep into.
This Saturday, however, wouldn’t be a problem. As the bus travelled through the town of Westport, she gazed out of the window at the rows of shops – all closed for the evening now – and wondered what she could wear for Charlotte’s wedding. Clothes rationing was over, but she wasn’t sure about buying something new. Money was tight and she had to be careful. Although she had savings in the bank, she was reluctant to dip into them; most of the money had been deposited by Dan, cash put aside to start his own business, and it didn’t feel right using it. What if he came back and … Judith’s hands curled into two tight fists. She knew she had to stop thinking like that. There wasn’t going to be a miracle, not after all these years.
Don’t think about Dan.
She glanced at the clock on the town hall – a quarter to six – and wondered if Charlotte was happy. George Rigby was a small, rotund, rather pompous man, a civil servant who had a tendency to lecture. On the plus side, he had his own hair and teeth, and a nice semi-detached house overlooking the park. Judith smiled. As it happened, she didn’t suspect Charlotte of anything more cynical than ‘settling’, a current trend among her single friends as they approached the age of thirty.
She understood why they were doing it. Time was running out if they wanted children, a family, a more respected position in society. She would have done the same, perhaps, if she’d had irrefutable proof of Dan’s death: settled for someone who was kind and decent, even if they were a little dull. It wasn’t easy being alone. She frowned and gave a tiny shake of her head. No, it might not be easy, but it would be even harder to live with a man she didn’t love.
The bus was gradually emptying, and she noticed that a copy of the Daily Mirror had been left behind on one of the seats. Judith leaned across the aisle and retrieved it. Something to distract her for the rest of the journey. The paper was full of news about John Haigh, who’d been hanged for murder at Wandsworth prison yesterday. She wondered what it was that had turned him into a monster. He had killed six people, maybe more, and then disposed of their bodies in acid. All for money. She shuddered at the horror of it.
Quickly she flicked through the pages, looking for something less gruesome to read. While her eyes scanned the print, her thoughts turned again to Charlotte’s wedding. It would be a simple affair, a short service at the register office followed by a reception at the Astor Hotel.
George was a widower and didn’t want too much fuss. It didn’t seem to matter what Charlotte wanted.
Judith hoped she wouldn’t be seated beside a possible ‘prospect’ at the hotel. Having secured her own future, Charlotte was forever trying to fix up her unattached friends with suitable partners. She pulled a face. Invariably these men bored her to tears, making her jaw ache from trying not to yawn. There had to be a spark, didn’t there, something to make the pulse race and the heart flip? Or maybe that was hopelessly romantic. Maybe that kind of love only showed up once in a lifetime.
Don’t think about Dan.
But it was too late. Eleven years had slipped away and she was sitting at her desk in the reception area of Gillespie & Tate. The front door opened. She looked up from her typewriter to see a tall man in his mid twenties, over six feet, with a narrow, angular face and hair so blond it was almost white.
‘Good morning. How can I help?’
‘I’m looking for a good solicitor.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right place. Mr Gillespie or Mr Tate?’
He shrugged. ‘Who would you recommend?’
‘They’re both excellent.’
A slow smile crept onto his lips. ‘I’m sure they are, but which one would you prefer to do business with?’
Although she was only eighteen, Judith knew better than to be drawn into publicly favouring one of her bosses over the other. ‘Let me check the appointment book and see when we can fit you in.’
‘Dan Jonson. That’s Jonson without an h. Tomorrow morning would be good.’
‘Ten thirty with Mr Gillespie?’
‘Ten thirty sounds fine.’ He nodded, thanked her, turned to go and then turned back.
‘Tell me, er … sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Judith.’
‘Tell me, Judith, what’s this town like?’
‘Like?’
‘Is it a good place to live?’
‘I suppose so.’
He rocked back on his heels a little, inclined his head and frowned. ‘If you don’t mind me sa
ying, that’s not the best recommendation I’ve ever heard.’
Judith gazed up at him, studying his face more closely. His eyes were grey, the colour of flint, but not hard. His voice – she thought the accent was southern – betrayed more than a hint of amusement. Was he laughing at her? A flush rose into her cheeks. ‘I’ve never lived anywhere else, so I’ve nothing to compare it to.’
‘All right, let me put it another way. Why do you stay in Westport?’
Now it was Judith’s turn to frown. No one had ever asked her this question before. ‘Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got friends here, and a job.’
‘And family?’
She shook her head. Her parents had passed when she was young, and the aunt who had raised her had died of cancer a couple of years ago. ‘No, no family.’
‘Me neither. Not always easy, is it?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he walked over to the window, nudged aside the net curtain and gazed out along Earl Street. ‘Seems like a busy town.’
‘In the summer,’ she said. ‘That’s when the visitors come. It’s quieter in winter.’
‘London’s always busy.’
‘Is that where you’re from?’
‘For my sins.’ He was quiet for a moment and then said, ‘You can get tired of a place. It can wear you down.’ He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Or maybe a place can get tired of you. Who knows?’
‘I’ve never been to London. What’s it like?’
He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged again. ‘Like anywhere else, only bigger: crowded, noisy, full of people trying to keep their heads above water. It’s good and it’s bad if you know what I mean.’
Judith wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded anyway. Normally her conversations with clients didn’t extend much beyond the weather. They were simple, uncomplicated exchanges where nothing more was expected of her than a general agreement as to the dampness of the air or the bitterness of the wind. ‘So what brings you to Westport?’
A shadow flickered across his face. ‘Nothing in particular. I just fancied a change, somewhere different.’
‘A fresh start,’ she said, wondering if he was running away from something – or someone. A love affair, perhaps, that had gone wrong. Not that she knew much about love. Her experience was limited to a schoolgirl crush on the curate, a few slow dances at Trinity Hall and four dates with David Beckles, after which she’d been unceremoniously dumped. The latter still rankled, not because she’d been especially keen – no one could be as fond of that boy as himself – but because she’d wasted precious time on him.
‘Yes, a fresh start. That’s exactly what I’m looking for.’ He moved away from the window and came to stand beside her desk. ‘But what I really need is someone to show me round. How about it? At the weekend, perhaps, if you’re not too busy. What do you say?’
Judith was taken by surprise at the request. Or was it a proposition? She hesitated, unsure of his motives. A part of her wanted to say yes – she was interested in this man, intrigued by him – but she didn’t want to come across as the type of girl who could be picked up at the drop of a hat.
‘Don’t make your mind up now,’ he continued, seeing her hesitation. ‘Have a think and let me know tomorrow. I’d be grateful, though, for the tour and the company.’
Judith watched him leave, her heart beating a little faster than usual. She was attracted to him, although she wasn’t entirely sure why. He was older than her, and more striking than handsome with his height and that shock of pale fair hair. But there was something about Dan Jonson that piqued her interest. For my sins, he had said. She shouldn’t make too much of it. It was just a turn of phrase, words people used, and yet she sensed a deeper meaning. There was an air of mystery about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It disturbed and excited her at the same time.
That evening, she decided to take him up on the invitation. Where was the harm? It would be broad daylight and they’d be in a public place. Nothing bad could happen. She worried he would find the town dull after the bright lights of London and started to plan an itinerary – the promenade, pier, lido, botanic gardens – wondering what might appeal to him most. How could she even begin to guess? She knew barely anything about him.
Judith dressed with extra care the following morning, choosing one of her better dresses and taking time to curl her shoulder-length red hair with the curling irons. She applied a small amount of make-up, some rouge and a lick of lipstick, and thought the effect was relatively pleasing. She went to work with a spring in her step and settled at her desk with a heady sense of anticipation. Dan Jonson would arrive at ten thirty, maybe even a bit before, and ask if she had made a decision. She would agree to meet him, although not with too much enthusiasm. She didn’t want to look overly keen.
It was Mr Tate who scuppered her plans. Emerging from his office at ten past ten, he placed a large brown envelope on her desk.
‘Could you walk these over to Porter’s, please? They need to be signed, so you’ll have to wait.’
‘What, right now?’
‘If it isn’t too much trouble,’ he said drily.
Judith shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I didn’t mean … I just wondered if I could do it later. There’s a client booked in for half past ten. If I go now, there’ll be no one on reception.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage.’
With no other choice, Judith picked up the envelope and rose to her feet. She knew, even as she put on her coat, that she probably wasn’t going to make it back in time. It was a fifteen-minute walk to Porter’s, and there’d also be the waiting around while the papers were read and eventually signed. It would be well after eleven before she got back, and by then Dan Jonson would have been and gone.
As she left the office, she glanced up and down Earl Street, hoping to catch sight of that shock of blond hair, but there was no sign of him. What would he think when he arrived and found her absent? That she was deliberately avoiding him, perhaps. She wished that she’d said yes when he’d first asked instead of hesitating like that. The arrangement could have been in place by now, the weekend something to look forward to.
Judith walked at a brisk pace. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that Dan Jonson’s business might take longer than the allotted half-hour slot. She had no idea what he wanted to see Mr Gillespie about, and wondered what line of work he was in. Something interesting, she guessed, unable to imagine him in a mundane kind of job.
It was a glorious day, the sun shining brightly. She cut down to the promenade and hurried through the summer crowd, dodging left and right, barely glancing at the beach or the rippling sea. Normally she would have stopped for a while, taken a few minutes to drink in the scene, but not today. She was on a mission: the sooner she got there, the sooner she could get back.
She smelled the factory before she saw it, a sickly-sweet aroma floating in the air. Porter’s made confectionery: brightly coloured sticks of rock, lollipops, humbugs and sherbet lemons. She veered off the promenade and strode quickly up Conway Road. By the time she reached the door, she was hot and flustered, her cheeks red from rushing, her dress sticking to her back.
The receptionist was a middle-aged woman with a superior expression. She looked Judith up and down, simultaneously pursing her lips as if she didn’t approve of what she saw.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got some papers,’ Judith explained, slightly out of breath. ‘From Mr Tate for Mr Porter.’
The woman held out her hand. ‘You’d better give them to me, then.’
‘They need signing.’
‘I’ll let him know.’
Judith watched the receptionist casually place the envelope on her desk. Sensing a lack of urgency in her manner, she said, ‘They’re important. I need to take them back with me.’
‘Mr Porter’s in a meeting.’
‘How long is he going to be?’
The woman didn’t answer directly. Instead she flapped a hand in the gen
eral direction of an old leather sofa. ‘You can wait over there.’
Judith gave a frustrated sigh, but with no other choice, she went and sat down. She felt hot and sweaty and frustrated. There was a clock on the wall, the big red second hand racing round its face. It was almost ten thirty. If he was prompt for his appointments, Dan Jonson would be at the office by now. Impatiently she tapped a foot on the carpet. Why had Mr Tate chosen today of all days to send her halfway across town? And why did Mr Porter have to be in a meeting? The fates were conspiring against her.
With nothing else to do, she stared at the walls, at the bright posters: sweets, sweets and more sweets, a swirling mass of candy colours. There was a distant hum of machinery. She could have ended up working here – the factory was one of the major employers in Westport – if her aunt hadn’t insisted on her learning to type. Office work was cleaner and better paid, and the hours were shorter too. She liked her job but she missed the camaraderie of other girls, the chatter and the gossip.
It was a quarter to twelve before the papers were eventually signed and returned to her. Judith didn’t bother rushing back. It was too late now. She sauntered along the promenade thinking about lost opportunities and what might have been. It was only as she was walking down Earl Street that her spirits lifted again. Maybe he had left a note for her, or would phone later on. Maybe he had made another appointment. Maybe he would drop into the office later today or tomorrow. If he was genuinely interested, he’d find a way.
There was no note when she checked her desk at Gillespie & Tate. He had made no further appointment either. Her other hope – that he would find a way to contact her – remained with her for the afternoon and the following day and the day after that. Gradually it began to fade. By the end of the month, she had almost, if not completely, forgotten about him.
