The Guest Who Stayed

by Roger Penfound

  Alice tried to get up most days and spend time with Evie, even though she was beginning to experience some pain. The medication she had been prescribed to ease the suffering left her feeling lethargic by the middle of the afternoon so Jack would take charge of Evie allowing Alice time to write her letters. On the first two occasions she had simply dissolved into tears and not written a word but now, at the third attempt, she was determined to begin.

  My darling Evie,

  Today you are six and you’re getting to be a big girl. It isn’t long since Mummy left you and I expect you’re still sad and a little angry. It’s perfectly alright to feel like that, my sweet girl. When bad things happen it’s natural to feel angry but I promise you that you’ll feel better with time.

  Remember, my darling, that I will always love you and will always be thinking of you. Be good for Uncle Jack and for Daddy. They will look after you and keep you safe.

  I hope you have some nice friends, Evie. It’s good to have friends and to treat them well. They will be important to you in the future.

  Enjoy your special day, darling, and I’ll be watching over you always.

  All my love, Mummy XXXXXX

  That evening in bed, Jack decided to broach the question of his health.

  “Alice, there’s something I need to tell you. I’ve been meaning to do it for a long time but could never find the right words.”

  “Tell me then,” said Alice without expression.

  “It’s about my health – my bronchitis. Well, it’s more than bronchitis, it’s actually my lungs. You see, in the war those bad things that happened to me – well, they did a lot of damage. The truth is that before I came down here to Frampton I was only given three years to live.”

  “Three years,” gasped Alice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, I was going to but everything happened so fast. Suddenly, you were expecting Evie and you wanted me to be with you to bring her up. I didn’t want to frighten you. It’s why I agreed to us living with Jed. I thought that if I died then at least you’d have him. And it’s also why I put money into the business. I wanted you to have a means of support and I knew Jed would look after you when I died. But then I didn’t die. It’s been seven years now. But I don’t know when it might happen, Alice. I just don’t know.”

  Alice was silent – her face ashen, her heart pounding.

  “Say something, Alice,” implored Jack.

  “If you die, Jed couldn’t look after Evie. He’s a lovely man but he’s not capable of bringing up our daughter by himself. She might end up in an institution and I couldn’t bear that.”

  “Maybe we should begin to think about foster parents or sending her to a boarding school,” suggested Jack.

  “No, not that. Jed must find a wife. He needs a wife, someone who will care for Evie too.”

  “But who?”

  “Flora. If it hadn’t been for me using him for my own ends, he would probably have married Flora rather than me.”

  Jack looked startled. He had pushed the incident with Flora to the back of his mind. He had heard rumours that she had a baby but had no idea where she was now.

  “They’re better suited,” continued Alice. “Flora’s easygoing and grateful for what she has. She would have made Jed a much better wife.”

  “But Jed would never be where he is now without you. If he’d married Flora he would still be an odd job man or a farm labourer. It was your ambition and your determination that got Jed to build his business. Don’t think badly of yourself, Alice.”

  “What’s done is done. But, Jack, I want you to find Flora. Let Jed know where she is. But don’t let him know where the information came from.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “It’s what you do, Jack. It’s what you did in the war. It’s time to do it one last time.”

  Dearest Evie,

  Happy birthday, darling. Today you are twelve and starting to be quite grown up. Soon you will be a young lady. I expect by now you are reading this alone without Daddy to help you so I can begin to share some secrets with you so that you can feel you know me a little better.

  When I was twelve, darling, I had no mother either. She died when I was five. I only had my daddy who was an unhappy man and was sometimes cruel to me. I also had to look after my little sister, Polly, and protect her too. I am telling you these things because I want you to know that I understand how you may be feeling. It’s likely that Uncle Jack has died now because the war years made him very ill. So you might feel quite alone. I found great support and comfort from my friends and I hope you have good friends too. I learnt that it is important to trust your friends and always be loyal. I fear, my darling, that I used my friends a little and that is a lesson I learnt. Let them be what they want to be and support them. Then they will always be there for you too.

  Enjoy being twelve my darling – you are coming towards the end of your childhood and soon you must begin to deal with the challenges of being a young adult. Try to laugh and try to be happy. These are years you will look back on in the future and draw strength from.

  Remember that I am with you always and that I love you.

  Your ever loving Mummy XXX

  Jack shut the toilet cubicle door and hung his bag from a hook so that it couldn't be seen from outside. The toilet smelt of urine and carbolic. It put him off the idea of eating the sandwiches which he had packed into his bag to while away the hours. He checked his watch. It was six o’clock. Most people would be leaving the council offices now. It would get dark about eight o’clock and he felt sure that the night watchman would do his rounds about then. He would have to wait for another two hours before it was safe to leave his cubicle. He practised drawing his legs up under his chin so they wouldn’t be seen when the night watchman came in to check the toilet. His stomach rumbled and he reluctantly delved into his bag for the sandwiches.

  It was a struggle for Jed getting Evie ready for bed that night. He still couldn’t understand why Jack was away. Alice had said it was something to do with urgent business. Jed needed to talk to him about the housing redevelopment. They would need to expand. They would have to employ more people and acquire more vehicles and equipment. They would probably need a bigger yard as Jed’s garden office was surrounded now by a growing assortment of tools and equipment, provoking Alice to remark that the house looked more like a building site than a home.

  “Daddy, wake up. You’re falling asleep again. Tell me that story about the princess with long hair.”

  “Once upon a time, a princess was locked in a tower by an evil witch.”

  “No, not that one – silly. The one where the forest grows up all around her.”

  “That's Sleeping Beauty and she doesn’t have long hair.”

  “Yes, she does. You’re stupid. You know she does.”

  And with that, Evie buried her face in the blanket and screamed, kicking her feet furiously on the end of the bed.

  Jack checked his watch. It was eight thirty. The night watchman should have made his rounds by now. He listened out for some sound, doors opening or the shuffle of feet in the corridor, but all he could hear was the slow drip of a tap in the washroom. He felt a cough developing in his lungs and tried to control it by breathing heavily and slowly. It emerged as a splutter developing into a series of gasps which he tried hard to suppress.

  Suddenly, Jack detected movement. Instantly, he was transported back to his wartime persona. His hand reached for the knife which he kept strapped to his shin and he braced himself for the attack. But this was a lavatory cubicle in 1928, not a rendezvous in war torn France. And he was about to encounter the night watchman not a German commando unit. He relaxed slightly.

  The door to the toilet opened and he heard feet shuffle in. A thin beam of light from a hand torch shone around the room and searched beneath the closed cubicle doors. There was a pause and Jack expected the feet to retreat. But instead, they moved into the room and he heard a cubicle door being pushed open. Ja
ck braced himself. He couldn’t afford to be discovered. If necessary, he would quickly overpower the night watchman, knock him to the floor and make his escape. He pulled his feet up to his chin and sat perched on the toilet seat. The cubicle door next to his was kicked open. Feet shuffled in. There was a grunt followed by incomprehensible mumbling and then the sound of urine flowing into the toilet in a slow and intermittent stream. Another grunt was followed by the rasping sound of wind being passed. Jack struggled to control his breathing as an acrid odour invaded his cubicle. Then he heard the feet retreating from the toilet and the door slam shut.

  Hello, my darling,

  Today you are eighteen and you are quite a grown woman. It will seem a long time since I left you now. I wonder what your world is like. I expect it’s very different from the one I knew. It’s strange writing to you knowing that you will be eighteen when you read this. As I write this letter you are five and you are playing at the foot of my bed with your rag doll. You’re a very pretty little girl but you’re strong willed and impetuous. How will you manage these qualities when you're older? I want to say something to you that matters, something that will give you strength, something that maintains the bond between us. But I struggle to find the right words.

  There are still things I want to tell you so that you understand more about me and more about yourself. But the time is not yet right. I want to prepare you, though. Let me just say this. At eighteen you may have experienced, or you may be about to experience, a relationship with a man. This will present you with many different powerful emotions – love, loyalty, desire and possibly despair. But the strongest of all emotions is passion. It’s powerful because it comes not from the mind but from the heart, deep inside of you. It lacks the logic of the other emotions yet is has the power to drive your destiny forward in unexpected ways. You can’t avoid passion if it comes your way but be ready for the chaos it brings with it. Passion is difficult to identify until it has engulfed you. It can cause you to destroy those things that you hold dear whilst at the same seducing your entire being with sublime joy. Passion has many faces, my darling, and I urge you to beware. But I believe you are strong and whilst you will face many dilemmas, as I have done, you will eventually rise above the turmoil.

  Your ever loving mother, Alice

  The hypnotic drip, drip of the tap had lulled Jack into a stupor from which he awoke with a start. He stretched his cramped limbs and looked at his watch. It was nine thirty and he could tell from the gloom that it was getting dark outside.

  Slowly, he eased himself off the toilet seat and cautiously opened the cubicle door. The washroom was empty. He splashed cold water from one of the basins onto his face and tried to bring himself to a state of alertness. The door creaked as he let himself out into the corridor beyond. It was painted in grey, interspersed with green doors at intervals along its length. Each door announced the municipal functions of the people who worked within – engineering, drainage, highways, rural affairs. Jack made his way with stealth along the row of doors until he recognised the one that his informant had told him would provide the answer he needed. It said simply ‘Parish Needy’. Jack turned the handle but the door was locked. He reached into his pocket for a small screwdriver and with the skill of a seasoned saboteur, he turned the lock.

  Inside the room was a large table with four seats arranged around it. Behind the table were rows of polished wood filing cabinets. Jack made his way to the first of these and shone his torch cautiously over it. The label stated simply 'Parish Paupers’. He moved along the line of cabinets passing ‘Cripples and War Wounded’, ‘Foundlings’, ‘Work House’, ‘Destitute Widows’, ‘House of Correction’ – a sad litany of Frampton’s rejected and ostracised. His eyes were suddenly caught by a label on the next cabinet ‘Lunatics and the Insane’. Under this were drawers labelled ‘Certified Lunatics’, ‘Simpletons and Idiots’, ‘Short Term Care’ and ‘Illegitimate Births’.

  Jack pulled open this bottom drawer to reveal a row of hand written cards. The first one read:

  Adams, Mary. Baby 273. Born 4th December, 1917. Mother died in asylum 16th July, 1918. Father believed killed in action. Baby sent for adoption.

  Jack wondered at the sad destiny of Baby 273. Did he or she survive? Did anybody ever love or care about Baby 273?

  He flicked through the cards until he got to the ‘F’s and searched for ‘Fulton’.

  Fulton, Beatrice. Baby boy 357. Born 7th July, 1919. No known father. Mother and baby placed into service 21st July, 1919.

  Fulton, Catherine. No known family. Baby girl 382. Born in asylum 25th December, 1920. Mother and baby died December 27th.

  ‘Fulton, Flora’. His heart skipped a beat. He pulled out the card.

  Fulton, Flora. Unmarried pregnant woman aged twenty years. Disowned by parents and placed into Parish care 12th February, 1922. Baby 372. Born 14th May, 1922. And there was a scribbled note in the margin next to the baby’s number which said simply ‘Emma’.

  Further down was the information Jack needed.

  Recommendation that mother and baby be placed in service. It was dated 22nd July, 1922. But there was no mention of where Flora had been sent. Jack turned the card over but the other side was blank. The idea that his night spent in a toilet cubicle had been in vain caused him intense anger. He tried to think what he would have done in the war if he was trying to decipher a captured enemy document. The card had been filled in with a heavy hand. Splodges of ink testified to this. It gave him an idea. He shone his torch from underneath the card, searching for any impressions that may have been left whilst someone was pressing down on another piece of paper. At the top right hand corner of the card he could just make out the faint lines of some other writing. He focused the torch beam on this area. They seemed to be part of an address. He was certain he could see ‘Norwich’ but the road name was more difficult to make out. It looked like All Saints, but it could have been Old Souls. It was near enough. He could check the details later. And there was a name. It looked like Hunt or Gunt. Jack wrote the details quickly into his notebook but not before the shuffling of feet could be heard rapidly approaching down the corridor. Instantly, his war time skills kicked in. He grabbed an ornamental letter opener from the desk and crouched behind the office door, his sinews tensed like coiled springs, ready to strike.

  Darling Evie,

  This is the last letter that I will write to you. I am growing tired now and I sense the end may not be far away. Writing these letters has been such a comfort to me. They have helped me to feel that the end is not so final, that through these words you and I have kept our love alive over these past twenty years. I have spoken to you about thoughts and ideas that seemed important to me and that I hope have meant something to you too. But in a sense, all that I have been telling you has been preparing you for this final letter. Because, Evie, my darling, there is something that I have kept from you and that I must tell you now because it’s your right to know. As a result of this you may hate me but that is a risk that I must take. I hope that in time you can come to understand what led me to do as I did and to forgive me ...

  Jed poured himself a large whisky. He was relying more on drink these days. The bedtime routine with Evie had been more demanding than usual. She had wanted to see Alice but Jack was with her, helping her to cope with a new intensity of pain that was beginning to rack her body. Evie had accused Jed of preventing her from seeing her mummy. She told him that she hated him and that he was the most horrible daddy in the world. Jed tried to remain sanguine but inside the hurt penetrated to the core of his sole. Not only was he a bad husband but he was also a terrible father. He gulped at the whisky and sat down disconsolately at the parlour table. He pulled a copy of the weekly Frampton Gazette towards him. The front page was full of the latest gossip to hit the sleepy town – the break in and subsequent assault of a night watchman at the town hall the previous week. The town was alive with theories and motives. The night watchman, who had suffered a bruise to the
back of the head, had asserted that he was attacked and beaten by a band of at least five men dressed in military– style uniforms. He had fought bravely to defend the interests of the town but his wounded leg and the clear imbalance in terms of numbers led to him suffering the indignity of being bound, gagged and strapped to an office chair where he remained until discovered by cleaners the following morning. Given the severity of the crime, police support from nearby North Walsham was called in to help the local police constable. However, the mystery was compounded by the fact that nothing appeared to have been stolen and there was no evidence of forced entry. The supervising police officer from North Walsham claimed that the break in showed signs of a military operation. The cord binding the night watchman’s limbs had been applied with military precision and was out of all proportion to the restraints needed for the lame victim. Rumours abounded in the town of a renegade group of German prisoners of war who had been roaming the Norfolk countryside since the end of hostilities, unaware that the war was over. Others argued that the night watchman was clearly complicit in the operation as he had fallen asleep after having been bound and made no attempt to call for help.

  Jed cast his eyes over the headlines with mild amusement. Then he turned his attention to a small pile of unopened letters that had arrived that morning. He recognised most as bills. These would be handed to Jack who still managed the business finances. There was one letter, however, that he didn't recognise – a small white envelope of the type people used for sending invitations. It was addressed to him. He opened it and unfolded a small sheet of white paper. He was transfixed by what he saw. The blood drained from his face leaving a deathly white pallor. The note said simply:

  ‘Flora Fulton, The Larches, All Saints Avenue, Norwich’. Jed stared at the piece of paper for nearly ten minutes. He tried to think who might have wanted to tell him this. Of course, it might be a joke, some misplaced prank. But maybe it was genuine. He knew for certain that he would need to find out.