Chapter 9
Every couple of months there is a changeover of books in the mobile library. Customers put in their requests and some of the books are exchanged from the main library, while others are ordered in as new titles. On book changeover day I call into the main library at the start of my shift and, with the janitor’s help, load the boxes of new books into the van. During the day I use any spare time to re-order the shelves, filtering out the less popular books to make space for the new ones.
This month’s batch of books holds a couple of delights for me, with two new Agatha Christie novels, plus Alastair McLean’s Force 10 from Navarone, which I’m certain Greg will love. I’m in the middle of sorting the crime shelves when I hear a friendly voice.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ Phyllis says, putting her shopping bag down on the counter. ‘Oh, excellent, new books. Anything that might take my fancy?’
‘Take a look, but you can’t have Agatha, at least until I’ve finished with her.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of depriving you. I’m guessing you’ll be needing every ounce of Poirot’s genius to help with your new case. I’m assuming you’ve decided to take it on, despite everything?’
‘Everything, being Greg and Bean?’ She won’t have missed the edge to my voice. ‘I’ve seen the most beautiful pram.’
‘Ah, a good incentive then. Come and look at this, I’ve found a photo.’ She pulls an envelope from her bag and hands it to me. I take out the black and white photo and hold it close to the desk-light.
‘Kenneth Elm?’
‘Spot on. When you mentioned the father with bronchitis, it triggered a memory. I’ve got photos of several of my class groups and, to be completely honest with you, the names and faces are starting to merge. It’s no fun getting old, you know.’
‘Rubbish, you’re still a youngster.’
‘Well, I retrieved my box of photos from the loft, rifled through them and there it was.’
‘I need a magnifying glass.’
‘I know the photo isn’t great, one of the teachers took it on their box Brownie. It was the school play. We’d encouraged Kenneth to get involved. He wasn’t the most confident of children. He had a minor role, but his father approached me afterwards, asking if I thought he had potential.’
‘To be an actor?’
‘I had to let him down gently.’
‘Was he a bright student?’
‘Average, as I recall. But keen and very polite.’
‘He’s a vet now.’
‘I thought you didn’t know anything about him?’
‘Yes, well, I didn’t, but then I took Charlie to the vet for dad and there was his name, on the board.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘No, that’s the next challenge.’ Now is not the time to mention secret moonlight pursuits.
‘So, my photo doesn’t help then?’
‘Of course it does. Everything helps. It might give me an intro. You know that Poirot says, “Beware! Peril to the detective who says: It is so small - it does not matter. That way lies confusion! Everything matters.”’
‘Good for Poirot. So, a vet, well, he did better than I would have imagined.’
‘What about his sister? She wasn’t at your school? Her name is Dorothy, she was a couple of years older.’
‘Sorry, no I don’t think so. Now I’ve remembered Kenneth, I’m certain I would recall if I’d met his sister. She must have been at the secondary modern. What’s this?’ she says, turning to read Libby’s poster. I’ve put it up on the cork board beside the counter. Phyllis reads it aloud.
Tidehaven Observer celebrates the past
Prepare for Remembrance Sunday by
sharing your wartime anecdotes with us
A selection of letters will appear in a
special double-page spread on November 6th
We’d love to hear from you.
‘Libby’s idea,’ I say.
‘To help with your case?’
‘Er, kind of, yes.’
‘Mm,’ is all she says and I’m left wondering if her silence means disapproval, or if she is as intrigued as I am to know more about the Elm family.
On my days with dad I check through his post, which is usually an assortment of bills and the occasional thank you card from a grateful patient. Even though he can’t see them, I’ve created a sort of montage with all the ones he’s received over the years. It’s good PR, I tell him, although he doesn’t need any marketing or promotion. His waiting list speaks for itself.
But today we have a happy surprise among the assortment that has landed on the doormat.
‘Hey, dad, how about this? We’ve got a card from Aunt Jessica.’
‘Excellent. Where is she? What does she say?’
The postcard carries an Italian stamp and the caption on the front reads, Saluti da Roma. The photo is divided in four, showing the Colosseum, St Peter’s Basilica, the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps.
‘Hooray, she’s coming to see us. Listen to this,’ I say, reading her note aloud:
‘Dear Philip and Janie, it’s high time we had a catch up and as it’s not so easy for you to come to me, then it looks like I’ll have to brave your English winter and head to Tamarisk Bay. I thought we could have Christmas together. What do you think? Write to me c/o Ufficio Postale, Piazzale Orazio, Anzio and let me know. Lots of love, Jessica.’
‘Well, that’s a turn up,’ dad says.
‘You don’t think there’s a problem, do you? Is that why she needs to come back?’
‘She’s not coming back, she’s visiting for Christmas. She’ll have a real surprise when she sees that bump of yours.’
Aunt Jessica stepped into the breach when mum left and the three of us spent nine happy years together. Then, once I was old enough to look after myself, and look out for dad, she decided to leave us to it. Since then she’s travelled all over Europe, sending us regular postcards and making me envious.
‘Do you think she’ll stay until Bean is born?’ I say.
‘One step at a time, princess. I know you, I bet you’re already planning to ask her to be godmother. Don’t have too many expectations, or you’ll be disappointed.’
‘Think how brilliant it’ll be, dad. There’s years to catch up on. She can stay with us, or maybe she’d like to stay here with you. Oh, my God, I’ve just realised, she hasn’t even met Greg. How crazy is that? But, you’re right, I can’t think of more perfect godparents; you, Jessica and Phyllis.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘What?’
‘Well, it sounds a bit one-sided. Won’t Greg want to involve his family? His parents, or his sister maybe?’
My sigh was a little too obvious.
‘All I’m saying is,’ dad continued, ‘talk to Greg, see what he thinks. It’s his baby too, remember.’
Greg almost always arrives home before me and by the time I’m back he has had his bath and is relaxing in the kitchen with a cuppa. But today I race back from dad’s and run a bath, carefully timed so it’s still hot when he arrives sweaty and muddy at the back door.
‘You’re home,’ he says, dropping his lunchbox in the sink. ‘That’s a nice surprise, everything alright?’
‘Absolutely. And sir has a hot bath ready and waiting for him.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I’ve been neglecting my husband and decided I’d better do something about it.’
‘Feeling guilty, eh?’ He puts his arms around me and pulls me in close to him for a hug, or at least as close as Bean will permit. ‘Joining me in the bath?’
‘You’re joking. I’d only create a tsunami. But I’ll scrub your back if you like.’
An hour or so later we’re in the sitting room. I’m relaxing on the sofa, with my feet on his lap and my head snuggled into one of the cushions.
‘Guess what?’
‘What?’
‘Aunt Jessica - she’s coming home for Christmas. She sent
a postcard. She’s in Italy, lucky thing.’
‘Excellent. I’ll finally get to meet her.’
‘And she’ll get to meet you, and maybe Bean.’
‘Will she stay on then? Into next year?’
‘I hope so. Imagine, if she does we could ask her to be the other godmother.’
He lifts my feet off his lap, extricates himself and turns to face me.
‘The other godmother?’
‘Yes. Phyllis is one and then Jessica.’
‘When was this decided?’
He may have been warm from the bath, but there was now a distinct chill in the air.
‘It makes perfect sense,’ I say, trying not to sound defensive. ‘Phyllis is like my grandmother and well, Jessica virtually brought me up. You know how close I was to her.’
‘And who are you planning for godfather? Your dad, I suppose?’
I bite my lip and try to calculate a response that will ease the mounting tension.
‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ he says, glaring at me.
‘What?’
‘Do you intend to make all the decisions about our child? I’m only the father, after all.’
‘Don’t be like that. Of course I want your opinion. Let’s not row. I know, why don’t we have loads of godparents? Who would you like? Your mum and dad? We could ask them too. Bean will love having loads of people looking out for him - or her.’
‘How about Becca? Don’t you think she’ll want to be involved with her big brother’s first child? I’ll tell them they’re the reserves, shall I? The also-rans?
‘Come on, now you’re being silly.’
‘And you’re being selfish.’ He pulls away from me, stands up and walks out of the room. I hear him put his jacket on and when I go out into the hall, he’s standing by the front door.
‘Where are you going? We haven’t had supper yet.’
‘The pub. Don’t bother with supper, I’ll get something there.’
‘Let’s talk about it some more,’ I say, but my voice is drowned out by the noise of the door slamming.
Chapter 10
At breakfast the next morning I’m trying to think of the best way to raise the subject of godparents again, without causing another row. Instead, Greg comes up behind me and kisses the back of my neck.
‘I’m not sure I deserve that. I’ve been mean and thoughtless, haven’t I?’ I say, turning to return the kiss.
‘Well, if you want to put it like that,’ he says, smiling. ‘Just don’t shut me out, we’re a partnership, remember?’
‘You’re right and I’m sorry, really. Am I forgiven?’
‘You’re in luck because my pub visit last night has put me in an excellent mood. Alex managed to get a pair of tickets for the match. I don’t know how he did it, but I’ve told him there’s a pint in it for him, at the very least.’
‘This Saturday?’ I ask, taking off my coat.
‘Yes, Brighton, at home. Should be brilliant.’
‘If they win.’
‘Of course they’ll win.’
‘Says their biggest fan.’
My immediate thought is a free Saturday to do more investigating, before alarm bells start ringing in my head. Maybe it’s time to share more than godparent decisions with Greg.
The letters have started to arrive for Libby’s nostalgia feature and now I understand why her editor suggested she sort through them in her own time. We take it in turns to read some aloud to each other. Our emotions swing from sadness, through incredulity, to joy. The same emotions that many families must have experienced during the terror of the bombings, when they received news that a missing loved one was safe.
‘Living through a world war must have changed that generation forever,’ I say, taking a bite of my sandwich. Libby and I are spending lunchtimes together in the library van, with the Closed sign posted on the door so we are not disturbed. ‘I wouldn’t have coped. Young men sent off to blow other people up, with only a few months’ experience of handling weapons. Mothers having to let their children be evacuated to live with strangers. And the little ones, imagine how terrified they must have been.’
‘We only just missed it, if we’d been born a few years earlier that could have been us, being sent off to some strange village with our little suitcase and name badge.’
‘I can understand why dad doesn’t talk about it.’
‘Interesting how many people do want to share their memories though. Maybe it’s easier writing it down?’
The realisation that Dorothy has chosen not to write in doesn’t surprise me. I would have been more surprised if she had. Libby is disappointed, even though her editor is delighted with the response and has promised her a bonus for coming up with the idea.
‘No mention of a day off in lieu for all the hours I’ve spent trawling through misspelled tirades,’ she says, sounding disgruntled. ‘Some of these people write as though they’re the only ones affected. They seem to forget it was a world war.’
‘Remember that education back then wasn’t like it is now. Children often didn’t start school until they were six or seven. No wonder their spelling isn’t perfect.’
‘You think I’m heartless, don’t you?’
‘Maybe you have to be in your line of work.’
‘What about yours then?’
‘What, being a librarian?’
‘No, I mean being a private investigator. That’s what you are now you know, you’re being paid, so that makes it official.’
‘I try to remain objective, not jump to conclusions. Hopefully, I don’t let my emotions cloud my judgement, but that’s not the same as being heartless. And, no, I don’t think you are, well not all the time, anyway.’
I can hear people talking outside the van and a check of my watch tells me that my lunch-break is over. ‘I’m going to call round to see Hugh later. I’ll tell him about the letters, that nothing significant has turned up and try to pin him down about the real reason for tracking Dorothy down. You’re right that he’s hiding something.’
‘There’s something else I’m right about. Put your hands out on the counter.’
‘What?’
‘Both hands, put them both flat down. There, I knew it. You’ve started biting your nails.’
‘Er, yes, guilty as charged.’
‘A new and disgusting habit, or a return to some childhood fetish?’
‘Aunt Jessica cured me of it by rubbing lemon juice on them when I was little. I used to bite them right down to the quick, making them bleed sometimes.’
‘And now you’ve started again?’
‘Mm, trouble is I like lemon juice now, so that won’t work, will it?’
‘I’ve got a better idea. I’ll paint them for you. You’ll hardly want to munch your way through coats of nail varnish, will you? Is that a deal?’
‘Deal,’ I say, closing my hands into fists to hide my fingers.
‘What about Hugh, he’ll want to know what you’re going to do next.’
‘I’ll tell him my plans are fluid.’
‘Non-existent, in other words?’ she winks, throws her bag over her shoulder and leaves.
Although Hugh mentioned his landlady, Mrs Summer, I have yet to meet her. She answers the door promptly and I’m a little taken aback to see a woman in her early forties, with jet black hair and deeply bronzed skin. She is stylishly dressed in a mustard coloured shift dress, with a white linen collar and a string of dark brown beads dangling down the front of the dress. Another reminder, should I need one, that it is never wise to make assumptions. Clearly, landladies come in all shapes and sizes.
‘Hello there,’ I say, ‘I wonder if I could speak to Mr Furness? He said it would be alright to call in.’
She studies me carefully, but doesn’t move back or invite me in. As I stand on the doorstep, I recall Hugh’s suggestion that I can pretend I am his niece. But, at this stage, I’d rather not fabricate too many stories. Mrs Summer could easily turn up at the library va
n one day and the whole thing could escalate out of control.
‘You are?’ she says, still holding the door only slightly ajar.
‘Janie Juke. I’m a friend of Mr Furness. Well, a friend of the family.’ This white lie seems like a good compromise.
‘Come in a moment, please,’ she stands back, opens the door fully and beckons me in.
‘Is he in?’ I ask her. ‘Don’t worry if not, I can leave a message if that’s okay with you.’
‘He is in hospital.’ She articulates her words, as though she is making a public announcement. I detect an accent, possibly European, or perhaps further afield.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Has he had an accident?’
‘His chest,’ she says, laying her hands on her own chest to emphasise the point. ‘This morning he could not breathe. I called an ambulance. It was very frightening.’
‘Goodness, yes, it must have been. Will he be alright? What did the ambulancemen say?’
‘They took him away. They gave him oxygen. They put a mask on him and he kept pushing it away. He was very upset.’
It’s hard to take in all that she is telling me, particularly as the more she speaks the more agitated she becomes and with her agitation her accent grows stronger.
‘I know he has chest problems, but I hadn’t realised it was so serious,’ I say.
‘Will you tell his family?’
‘His family?’
‘You said you are a friend of his family. I have no contact details. They will be worried.’
This is exactly the kind of confusion I was trying to avoid. I choose to sidestep her question. ‘I’ll go to the hospital, see how he is. Shall I let you know?’
‘He should stay in hospital. Perhaps he should not come back.’
‘Are you saying you won’t keep his room?’
She shrugs her shoulders, but doesn’t respond.
I catch the bus to St Richard’s and enquire at the main reception desk. I am told that Mr Hugh Furness was admitted earlier in the day and is in Charlotte Ward. Fortunately, I have arrived during visiting hours, so I make my way to the ward. It’s only as I approach Hugh’s bed that I realise I haven’t brought anything with me, no grapes, no sweets, not even a newspaper. He is sitting up, with no pipes or tubes in evidence.
Lost Property Page 7
