by Ali McNamara
‘Yes, it is. A friend is doing it up for me. He’s just sent an update.’
‘I bet that’s taking a while. A mate started something similar a couple of years ago and he’s still doing it.’
‘I bet he’s not working on it full time, though. Malachi is. Well, in between jobs at his garage, but he’s very quiet at the moment so he’s getting on with it superfast.’
‘How long has he been repairing it?’
‘A couple of weeks. This is what it looked like before.’ I show Simon a photo Malachi sent me just before he started working on Daisy-Rose.
‘And he’s done all this in two weeks? What is he, some sort of superhero?’
‘He’s a hard worker.’
‘He’d have to be working twenty-four hours a day to get that done in a fortnight.’
I look at the photo again. I guess Malachi had done quite a lot in the short time I’d been in St Felix – I hadn’t really thought about it properly.
‘He has a bit of help, though.’
‘Ah, you didn’t say he had a team working with him. Well, that’s different. But still, they’re doing brilliantly.’
I decide not to tell him Malachi’s team consisted of two local boys who popped in occasionally after school.
‘So, enough about Malachi, the magical mechanic,’ Noah says, quite obviously changing the subject.
Simon raises his eyebrows.
‘Let’s talk about what we’re really here for today – this race, and more importantly, to talk to members of the running club.’
We hang around the race start with Simon introducing us to a few members of the Brighton Bombers running club, but no one we speak to has any recollection of a Frankie. In fact, most of the runners we speak to weren’t even involved in the club in the eighties.
‘Here’s your coffee,’ Noah says, handing me a paper cup after he’s gone to fetch hot drinks for all of us. ‘How’s it going?’
The weather, although apparently perfect for running, is chilly for spectators and I’m glad of the warmth as I take a sip of my frothy cappuccino.
‘Not great. Most of the runners haven’t finished yet. Simon keeps pulling over anyone he knows when they cross the finishing line, but no one seems old enough to remember our Frankie. He’s gone to cheer on Lucy now. He reckons she’ll be finished soon.’
We watch the runners pour over the line, scanning them for a Brighton Bombers running vest, but trying to talk to anyone when they’ve just run ten kilometres is difficult as all they want to do is grab their medal and a drink of water, and find their loved ones.
Simon appears through the crowd after a bit with his arm around an attractive woman who I assume must be Lucy. She’s wearing a finisher’s medal over her pink and navy running vest. She looks hot, but not too dishevelled like many of the runners we’ve seen finishing.
‘This is Lucy, my wife,’ he says proudly. ‘Lucy, meet Ana and Flo – I mean, Noah.’
‘Hi, good to meet you,’ Lucy says brightly, shaking our hands. ‘So you’re the infamous “Flood” that Simon is always talking about?’
‘Hush, woman,’ Simon says. ‘Don’t make his head any bigger than it is already.’
Noah grins. ‘How was your race?’
‘Good, thanks, new PB. It wasn’t really about time today, though – we were raising money for our charity.’ She holds out her shirt, and I swallow hard when I realise what it says: Breast Cancer Research.
‘Great cause,’ Noah says. ‘Does your running club often raise money for that charity?’
‘Not always. We like to vary it, but my running mate today was keen to do it for them this time because her grandmother died of the disease. Where is she?’ Lucy looks around. ‘She was with us just now, Simon.’
Simon shrugs. ‘I asked Lucy this morning about the club members’ records for you, and she doesn’t seem to think they’ll still have them dating back as far as you want to go.’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ Lucy says, turning back to us. ‘We went all digital a few years ago – I’m not sure what happened to the old records. Maureen might know, I suppose?’
‘Maureen?’ Noah asks.
‘Yeah, she’s my mate’s mum. I think she was involved in the club in the eighties. You should ask her. We’re all going back to my mate’s house for a post-run get-together – it’s like a tradition. I’m sure you’d be most welcome. It’s a sort of open house thing.’
‘Lovely!’ Noah says, while I’m still thinking. ‘If you don’t mind us tagging along.’
‘Not at all. There will be loads of people from the club there. I’d be very surprised if you can’t find what you’re looking for at that gathering.’
Lucy’s friend lives in a large detached house on the outskirts of Brighton so we grab a lift from Simon and Lucy.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Noah says to me in a low voice, as we sit together on the back seat. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes…’ I whisper back. ‘It was just Lucy’s charity. It threw me a bit.’
‘Because it’s the same kind of charity that Frankie was supporting? Yeah, I noticed that too – what are the chances?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I was a bit thrown because breast cancer was what my friend Daisy died of.’
Noah’s face pales. ‘Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘Why would you? Coincidental on both counts, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps. In my experience coincidence is rare though.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know exactly yet. Time will tell.’
‘What are you two muttering about in the back there?’ Simon asks. ‘Whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears, no doubt!’
‘Si, stop it,’ Lucy says. She turns back towards us. ‘Sorry about my husband – it’s a laugh a minute living with him, as you can imagine.’ She rolls her eyes, and we smile politely.
I’d thought Noah and I might feel awkward crashing someone else’s party – after all, we didn’t know the hostess, only one of the guests – but the do extends right through the large house into the extensive and beautifully manicured gardens at the back, and there are so many people milling around with drinks and plates of food in their hands that no one notices a couple of interlopers.
‘I’ll go and look for Maureen,’ Lucy says shortly after we arrive. ‘See if she can shed any light for you. Help yourself to food and drink, won’t you?’
Noah and Simon dive right into the buffet – Noah’s delicate constitution from earlier obviously a distant memory – while I help myself to a glass of orange juice. Feeling self-conscious in the room full of strangers, I turn around and look at the walls of the kitchen we’re currently standing in while I sip on my juice.
That’s interesting, I think, staring at a cluster of prints hanging on one of the walls. Why does that seem familiar?
My attention has been caught by a picture of some mountains, probably in Scotland by the look of them. They’re behind a lake – no, make that a loch – and in front of the loch is a fisherman. Next to the fisherman is a huge pile of fish that he’s already caught.
Nothing unusual in that – hundreds of pictures of Scottish mountains and lochs must have been painted over the years, but this one is different. The colours of the mountains are not the traditional ones but much bolder, brighter shades, and the same is true of the lake, which instead of being a more realistic pale blue-grey is a vibrant shade of azure blue more suited to a Mediterranean landscape than a Scottish one.
I move closer to the picture, and realise that it’s not actually a print as I’d first thought but an original oil painting. I’m just trying to make out the signature when someone taps me on the shoulder.
‘Ana, I can’t find Maureen, but this is her daughter, my friend —’
‘Juliet!’ I exclaim, as I turn around and recognise the young woman from the newspaper offices yesterday. ‘Gosh, what a coincidence!’
Juliet looks as shocked to see m
e as I am to see her standing right in front of me holding a tray full of sausage rolls.
The tray tips, and Lucy, more on the ball than either Juliet or me, swiftly catches it and straightens it up again. ‘How do you two know each other?’ Lucy asks in amazement.
‘We don’t really,’ I reply, the first to recover. ‘We met yesterday at The Gazette offices.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Juliet says now, her voice returning. ‘What a small world.’
Like yesterday, Juliet is smiling, but her smile doesn’t extend to her eyes.
‘I’m sorry if we’re intruding on your party,’ I apologise, wondering if this is what’s upsetting her. ‘Lucy said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Noah is an old friend of Simon’s,’ Lucy explains. ‘He’s only here for a couple of days so I said they could come along. That is okay, isn’t it, Ju?’
Juliet nods. ‘Of course,’ she says in an overly bright voice. ‘The more the merrier.’
‘Great spread.’ I hear Noah’s voice behind me. ‘I should thank the hostess – Juliet!’ he exclaims, seeing her. ‘What are you – Oh, wait…’ he says, catching on much more quickly than me. ‘You are the hostess, right? You’re Lucy’s mate.’
‘I am indeed. Good to see you again, Noah.’
It feels to me like Juliet’s pretence is put on mainly for Lucy’s benefit and not ours.
‘Noah and Ana are looking for someone they think was a member of the running club in the eighties,’ Lucy explains, oblivious to everything else that’s going on. ‘I was going to ask your mum about it but I can’t find her.’
‘Migraine,’ Juliet almost snaps. ‘Gone home.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Lucy continues. ‘I thought she might be able to help. Sorry’ – she shrugs at us – ‘I tried.’
‘You’re looking for one of the guys in the newspaper photo, right?’ Juliet says, looking accusingly at us. ‘You left it in the microfiche reader,’ she explains, when we don’t answer. ‘You didn’t quite tidy everything away.’ She glances meaningfully at Noah.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Noah says, fronting it out. ‘Do you know any of them?’
‘I should do – one of them is my grandfather.’
Thirty-Two
‘Your grandfather?’ I ask, completely aghast. ‘But… how? Why —’
‘What my somewhat bemused friend is trying to ask,’ Noah says, stepping in, ‘is firstly, which one of the men is your grandfather?’
‘The one with Frankie written across his chest.’
I look at Noah, hardly able to contain my excitement, but he remains cool and calm.
‘The Frankie in the photo is your grandfather?’ Noah confirms.
Juliet nods. ‘Frankie wasn’t his real name, though – his real name was John, and Francis was his middle name. John Francis Kennedy.’
‘JFK,’ Noah says, again working this out faster than I can. ‘Nice.’
‘That’s why he was nicknamed “Frankie”. He was always called John until the sixties, and then he decided it best to lose the initials.’
‘I didn’t know that?’ Lucy says, looking in astonishment from Juliet to us and then back again.
‘It’s true,’ Juliet insists. ‘So why are you looking for him?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I hear Noah saying, as I’m about to tell her the whole story. ‘The Frankie we’re looking for was called that as far back as 1945, wasn’t he, Ana?’
I nod.
‘So I very much doubt it’s the same person.’
‘Good. I mean, that’s a shame.’ Juliet smiles a much warmer smile now. ‘Anyway, if it had been him you were looking for, you’d have been out of luck, I’m afraid. My grandfather died almost thirty years ago, not long after I was born.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I hear myself saying.
‘That’s okay,’ Juliet says matter-of-factly. ‘Shame you had a wasted trip. I guess I could have told you that yesterday if you’d said what you were looking for in the newspapers.’
‘Yes, I suppose you could.’
‘But you’re more than welcome to stay and enjoy the food,’ Juliet says, looking at Noah’s plate piled high with food. ‘There’s plenty to go around. Now I must get these sausage rolls on to the table. Nice to see you again.’
‘Just one more thing, Juliet?’ I ask, before she leaves.
‘Yes?’
‘I was just admiring your pictures on the wall behind us. You’ve got quite an assortment of styles hanging up there. This painting here,’ I say, pointing to the painting of the loch, ‘where did you get it?’
Juliet’s face stiffens again. ‘I can’t say I remember. Why?’
‘No reason. I just quite like it, that’s all.’
‘Didn’t your grandfather give you that?’ Lucy says, looking at the painting too. ‘I’m sure you told me he did.’
‘Oh, that painting. I thought you meant the one next to it. Yes, he did. Just before he died.’
We all stare at the painting now.
‘It’s good, I like it. Also, that’s unusual too,’ I say, pointing up a little higher on the wall. ‘Is that artwork from the band Dire Straits you’ve got framed up there?’
‘Yes,’ Juliet says, obviously relieved to move attention away from the Scottish painting. ‘It’s a cover from one of their singles. Most people think I was named after Shakespeare’s Juliet, but the truth is my parents were huge Dire Straits fans in the eighties and their song “Romeo And Juliet” came out the year I was born, 1981, so they called me after that. It’s a bit of a family joke.’
‘Ah, I see. That’s very cool. Well, I think we’d probably better get going,’ I say to Noah. ‘Everyone has been most helpful, but we don’t want to outstay our welcome and we’ve got quite a long journey back to Cornwall.’
Noah looks sadly down at his plate of untouched food. ‘You’re probably right,’ he says. ‘I’ll just go and say goodbye to Foxy, I mean, Simon.’
Juliet can hardly hide her delight that we’re leaving. She virtually escorts us out of the front door.
‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help in your search,’ she says, at least attempting to look sorrowful. ‘I do hope you find who you’re looking for eventually.’
‘Oh, we will,’ I assure her. ‘Of that I have no doubt.’
‘I’m sorry this trip turned out to be a waste of time,’ Noah says, as we walk away from the house in the direction of the hotel so we can collect our bags. ‘I had such high hopes for it too. I was sure that Juliet was hiding something. Maybe my instincts aren’t quite as sharp as they used to be.’
‘No, I think they’re spot on actually,’ I reply, walking calmly alongside him.
‘How do you mean?’ Noah stares in surprise at me. ‘What do you know, Ana?’
‘I know that Juliet wasn’t telling us the truth for one thing.’
‘How? Much of what she said actually matched up with what I already knew. The owner of the electronics firm was called Kennedy – I found that out on the internet – so the Frankie in the newspaper photo not only worked for Johnson’s Electronics but he owned the company too.’
‘Yes, that part is likely true, but one minute she’s telling us her grandfather died just after she was born, and the next, he gave her that painting.’
‘So?’
‘Well, for one, who gives artwork to a newborn baby? And two, even if they did, I happen to know that that picture is from the late eighties or possibly even early nineties, and Juliet, as she just told us, was born in 1981.’
‘How do you know that? Did it say on it when it was painted? Did the artist date it?’
I shake my head. ‘Nope, not that I saw. But I know that artist went to Scotland around the end of the eighties, and so the painting must have been done around then.’
Noah just stares at me. Then I see it click in his eyes as it registers in his brain. ‘It isn’t, is it?’
I nod. ‘I’m pretty sure it is. I think that painting was done by our Lou
, and the reason I know that is because she wrote to Frankie all about her trip to the Scottish highlands and that very fisherman in one of her postcards.’
Thirty-Three
The next day I wake up back in my bed in Snowdrop Cottage.
Our journey home had been a long one after an accident caused long tailbacks on the A30, but we didn’t mind too much as it gave us plenty of time to discuss our next move.
