by Roberta Kray
It would be three more years before she saw Dan Jonson again.
2
Judith was so absorbed in the past that she almost missed her stop. The bus was halfway along Trafalgar Road before she realised where she was, gave a start and quickly got up. As she descended onto the pavement, she realised she was still holding the copy of the Daily Mirror. Oh well, she would take it home and put it in the bin.
The evening was still warm and she savoured the feel of the fading sun on her arms. The air smelled of dust and salt and cut grass. A few seagulls wheeled overhead before circling back to the beach. She sauntered along the road, glancing into windows as she passed, snatching glimpses of other people’s lives. The houses were large Victorian constructions, imposing red-brick buildings with front and back gardens. Once they had been the homes of the wealthy middle classes – some still were – but most had been converted into smaller dwellings.
Number 25, where Judith had lived since getting married, was one of the latter, the three storeys of the house each divided into two flats. She paused at the gate and looked up at the first floor, a tiny hopeful part of her still expecting to see Dan at the window. But of course he wasn’t there. She walked up the path and unlocked the front door.
After checking through the pile of mail in the shared hallway – nothing for her – she headed up the stairs. The green carpet was worn down the middle, almost threadbare, and the banister was shiny from use. Inside the flat, she took off her coat, hung it up on a peg and went through to the living room, where she placed her handbag and the newspaper on the table and opened the window to let in some air.
For a while, she stood gazing down on the street, watching other people wend their way home from work. It had been on an evening like this, the sun still shining, that she’d bumped into Dan again. Except, of course, that it hadn’t been exactly like this. Certainly not quiet and peaceful. The country had been at war and the streets full of men in uniform. She would have walked straight past – he was in a crowd, a sea of khaki, outside the Red Lion – if he hadn’t called out her name. She’d turned and seen him smiling, moving towards her. What had she felt? Surprise, naturally, but something else too, an emotion she had not quite been able to grasp.
‘It’s good to see you again. How are you?’ His hand touching her elbow as if it had been a few weeks rather than three years. ‘Come and have a drink. Will you? Say you will.’
And so she had. And that had been the start, or the second start. They had sat and talked as though they had been friends for ever. No, more than friends. She had felt a connection to him, something deep and intense, a feeling she might have called love if the notion hadn’t been so ridiculous. He was a stranger, and yet he wasn’t.
She had only got a vague explanation as to why he hadn’t followed up on his suggestion of a tour – something about having taken a job in Leeds – and she hadn’t pressed him. To have done so might have made her look too eager, too interested. She had brushed it aside as if it was of no consequence. She had learned, however, that he’d been working as a locksmith in Liverpool before the war broke out. And that he had big ambitions. He was going to open his own business when the time was right.
‘Security,’ he’d said. ‘That’s what people are going to want after this war is over: safe houses, safe businesses, good-quality protection. I can give them that. You have to think big, Judith. Life’s too short to waste.’
She had liked hearing him talk, and she had liked the silences too, the way they could be quiet together without it feeling awkward. They had fallen in love quickly and passionately. Nothing had mattered to her but him; he’d been the centre of her universe, day and night, the axis around which everything else revolved. Dan, having sustained a shoulder injury, had been on leave until he’d recovered enough to return to his regiment. Knowing that time was in short supply, he had acquired a special licence and they married within a month of meeting again. A whirlwind romance, everyone had called it, but she felt like she’d known him all her life. He’d been strong and tender, thoughtful and kind. Even in remembrance, she felt the intimacy of his kisses.
Judith folded her arms across her chest. It was the war, she thought, that had made everyone crazy, heightening their emotions so they lived every day as though it might be their last. But she had no regrets. They might have married in haste, but there had been no repentance.
She moved away from the window, walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on the hob. While the water was boiling, she went to the pantry, retrieved the dish with the remains of last night’s rabbit stew, lifted it to her nose, sniffed and shrugged. Not too bad. It was hard to keep food fresh in the warm weather, but she reckoned it was safe enough to eat. With so much rationing still in place, it didn’t pay to be fussy.
Back in the kitchen, she lit another gas ring and set the stew on to simmer. She made a pot of tea and then peeled some potatoes, putting aside the skins to take down to the allotment. As she looked around for something to wrap them in, she remembered the newspaper she’d picked up and went to get it.
Placing the Daily Mirror on the counter, she opened the paper in the middle, dropped the peelings onto it and folded the centre pages round them to make a small, neat parcel. She was about to throw out the rest of the paper when her gaze alighted on a photograph she hadn’t noticed on the bus: the aftermath of a dramatic robbery, of a car crashed into the plate-glass door of a jewellery store in the West End of London. A smash and grab. Two policemen were standing at the entrance to the shop, and beyond them a crowd had gathered on the street.
At first her gaze was concentrated on the car, but it gradually widened to include everything else too. It was then that her heart skipped a beat. Standing on the corner, in the centre of the crowd, was a tall, blond man. He had his face partly turned away, but she’d have known him anywhere. Her eyes widened. She gasped. It couldn’t be. It was.
By now, her pulse had started to race. She snatched up the paper, peered closer and then held it at arm’s length, trying to get his features into focus. Her hands were shaking. She felt dizzy and disoriented, as though the earth was spinning beneath her. It wasn’t possible, and yet … Judith went hot and cold. She stared and stared, wondering if she was going mad, if her eyes were playing tricks on her. But she knew the way he stood, recognised that slight slouch of his shoulders, the lines of his body. And even though his face wasn’t clear, she was sure it was his face.
‘Dan,’ she murmured.
Her knees buckled and she staggered sideways, let go of the paper and grabbed the edge of the counter to prevent herself from falling. Time seemed to stop, to become suspended in that single moment. It couldn’t be him. He was gone, dead, killed at Anzio. But her eyes, her instincts, her heart told her something different. The man in the crowd was Dan. It was him.
She heard her breathing, shallow and fast, like a sound that was coming from someone else. Her mouth was dry. Euphoria exploded in her, splintering her grief, causing hope to ricochet like shrapnel round her body. He was alive. He was in London. He’d been standing on a street corner only a couple of days ago. Which street exactly? She suddenly had to know. Snatching up the paper, she quickly read down the article. New Bond Street. Yes, the name was familiar to her. A posh part, she thought, the kind of place rich people shopped. But there was nothing to stop anyone from walking down it, from pausing to stare at a spectacle. Her eyes flew back to the photograph again.
She willed the background to come into focus, for it to reveal its secrets. She stared and stared until her eyes hurt. She turned her head away and rubbed her face. As she glanced out of the window, she noticed her neighbour, Annie, coming up the drive. Without a second thought, she rushed out of the kitchen, through the living room and out onto the landing.
Annie climbed slowly up the stairs, humming a tune. She was a curvy, dark-haired woman in her late thirties and nearly always cheerful despite the disappointments in her life. She looked up, saw Judith, smiled and then frowned.
‘You all right, love? You’re white as a sheet. Look like you saw a ghost.’
‘That’s the thing. I just … I don’t know … I think …’ Judith, struggling to find the words she was searching for, shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. ‘I’ve got to show you something.’
Annie reached the landing, drawing level with her. ‘Show me what?’
‘It’s in the flat.’
‘It’s not a mouse, is it? I can’t stand mice.’
Judith tugged on the sleeve of her jacket. ‘No, it’s not a mouse.’ She quickly pulled her into the flat and through to the kitchen. ‘There,’ she said, indicating the newspaper lying on the counter. ‘The picture! Look at the picture at the top of the page!’
Annie looked at the photograph and laughed. ‘Cheeky bastards.’
Judith leaned over her shoulder. ‘The crowd on the corner. Do you see?’ She waited, but no cries of astonishment escaped from Annie’s lips. ‘There,’ she prompted, pointing a finger. ‘Look at him. Look at that man.’
‘What about him?’
‘It’s Dan!’
Annie gave a startled jump. ‘What?’
‘It is,’ Judith said insistently. ‘You knew him. Can’t you see? The way he’s standing? He always did that – leaning a bit to one side. And his height. And his hair. Everything is so … him.’
Annie scrunched up her eyes and peered again at the photo. She waited a moment before saying diplomatically, ‘Well, I’m not saying it’s not, love, but you can’t really see his face properly. It’s all a bit blurry, isn’t it?’
‘I know, but …’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I am sure. I’m positive.’ But doubt was creeping into Judith’s mind. Was she only seeing what she wanted to see? Now that Annie had failed to recognise him, her conviction was starting to fade. ‘I mean, he’s so like Dan, don’t you think? Everything about him. As soon as I saw the picture, I thought …’ Her voice broke and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘It has to be.’
Annie turned and patted her on the arm. ‘What we need is a brew and a sit-down. I’ve got to get these shoes off; my feet are bleedin’ killing me. Yes, a nice cup of tea and then we can work out what you’re going to do next.’
‘You believe me?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? You were married to him, love. I should think you’d know your own husband when you see him.’
Relief flooded through Judith. She could have hugged Annie. ‘There’s tea in the pot. I’ve just made it.’
The two women sat side by side on the sofa, a light, flowery scent wafting in the air. Annie worked at Gillows, a big department store in the centre of town, where she served on the perfume counter and helped herself to as many free samples as possible. Judith watched as she kicked off her high heels, stretched out her legs and wriggled her toes.
‘You don’t think I’m crazy, then?’
‘No more than the rest of us. But just be cautious, right? Don’t get your hopes up too much. You can’t be sure of anything at the moment. What you need is a clearer photo, or a different one. Whoever took that snap probably took others too. You should ring the Mirror, see if you can track down the photographer.’
Judith picked up her cup and put it down again. She glanced over at the clock. ‘That’s a good idea. Is it too late now, do you think? I could go to the phone box and … No, I’ll wait until the morning. It probably is too late now.’
‘Yes, wait until the morning. You should sleep on it first.’
‘Sleep on it?’ Judith repeated, wondering if Annie had just been humouring her. ‘Why would I need to do that? In case I come to my senses, you mean? God, you do think I’m crazy, don’t you?’
‘I don’t. I swear. All I mean is that it won’t do any harm to try and get things straight in your head before you go any further. You’ve had a shock, a big one. You need some time to take it in. A few hours isn’t going to make much difference after five years. And look, it doesn’t matter a damn what I think – or anyone else come to that – you’ve got to do what’s right for you. If I thought I saw Joey in a photo, I’d be just the same. You have to follow it up, don’t you, or you’ll always be wondering what if?’
Judith, whose thoughts were still in a spin, gave a nod. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.’ She remembered Joey, a big solid Yank with a broad smile. If he hadn’t died on the beaches at Normandy, Annie would have been living in New Hampshire now, a wife and maybe even a mother. The war had taken all that away from her. She was still blowsy and loud and determinedly cheerful, but there was something brittle there too, as though she’d been broken and the pieces carelessly stuck back together.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You know me, love – water off a duck’s back.’ Annie sipped her tea, glancing at Judith over the rim of the cup. She was quiet for a moment. She opened her mouth as if about to say something more, and then closed it again.
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Judith said. ‘If it is Dan in the photo, then why is he in London and not here? Why didn’t he come home?’
Annie gave a shrug. ‘The war did strange things to people. You hear all kinds of stories: men not remembering who they are or where they live. Or just not being able to cope with what they went through. It changed them, love. You have to be prepared for that.’
Despite the warmth of the evening, Judith shivered. ‘What if he decided the marriage was a mistake, I was a mistake? Maybe that’s why he didn’t come back.’
‘Come off it. He loved the bones of you. Anyone could see that. You two were made for each other.’
That was what Judith had thought too. Now she was starting to wonder. Maybe there were things she hadn’t known about him, hadn’t understood. These worries cast a shadow over her earlier joy. Fear stirred in her guts. What if Dan was alive but had chosen to live the rest of his life without her? It was a question she could barely contemplate, so she pushed it away, driving it from her mind.
3
Judith yawned as the bus made its way through town. She had slept fitfully and the remnants of her dreams – all strange, all disturbing – lingered in her head. Twice she had got up in the middle of the night and gone to look at the picture in the paper. She had wanted to see it again as she had the first time, to have that flash of recognition, to feel that certainty, but no amount of staring could bring the moment back.
This morning she planned to get off a stop early, close to the railway station. There she could be sure of finding a free phone box. She had a purse full of change, a scrap of paper and a pen. It would have been more convenient to ring the Daily Mirror from the office, but first she’d have had to ask permission, and that in turn would have involved explaining her reasons. Of course, she could have just rung without telling anyone, but she didn’t want to chance it. Mr Tate was a stickler for the rules – no private calls from work – and he went through the phone bill with a fine-tooth comb. Judith valued her job too much to take unnecessary risks.
She didn’t like Mr Tate and suspected the feeling was mutual. He was a haughty, self-opinionated man who reminded her a little of Charlotte’s George. What was it with small men? They were like those tiny yappy dogs, always overcompensating for their lack of size by biting at your ankles. Mr Gillespie, on the other hand, was polite and respectful and invariably kind. He had taken her on when she was only eighteen, giving her an opportunity, a chance to prove herself, when other employers were looking for someone more experienced.
Judith gazed out of the window, studying the people on their way to work. What were they thinking about? What they were going to cook for their tea tonight, perhaps, or what kind of Friday they would have, or what they were going to do at the weekend. Her own thoughts felt surreal in comparison: a random picture in a newspaper, a husband who had risen from the dead.
Thinking of the weekend reminded her that Charlotte’s wedding was tomorrow. Normally, when there was troub
le, Charlotte would be the first person she turned to, but this was hardly the time to be announcing that Dan might still be alive. No, she wasn’t going to spoil the big day by shifting the spotlight on to herself. She would explain later, after the honeymoon, when they could sit down together and have a proper chat.
A part of her was relieved by this justification for keeping silent. She knew that Charlotte would be kind but sensible, gently pointing out that the chances of the man in the photograph being Dan were slim, being careful not to encourage any false hope. Hope always brought with it the possibility of crushing disappointment.
The bus drew to a halt outside the station and Judith joined the shuffling queue to get off. Once she’d escaped the crush, she walked quickly, weaving between the commuters on their way to Liverpool and Manchester. She found the row of phones, chose the one at the end, piled up her coins on the shelf, lifted the receiver and dialled the number for the operator.
‘The Daily Mirror, please,’ she said, ‘in London.’
‘Which department do you require?’
‘Er … I don’t know. I’m not sure. Photographic?’
‘I’ll put you through to the main switchboard.’
When the call was answered, Judith dropped her coins into the slot. ‘Oh, hello. Good morning. I’m ringing about a photograph you had in the paper yesterday. It’s on page ten – the one of the car in the jewellery shop door. I was wondering—’
The man sounded interested. ‘Do you have information about the robbery?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. Only I thought … I think I recognise someone in the background, a man in the crowd. I was hoping there might be other pictures, you know, ones that are a bit clearer.’
‘I see,’ the man said, his voice becoming flat. ‘Well, I can’t help you with that. You’ll have to talk to Bob.’
‘Bob?’
‘Bob Hamilton. He’s the one who took the photo.’
