Lost Property

by Isabella Muir

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ I say, pulling up a chair to his bedside. ‘Mrs Summer had me worried. Sounds as though you had a nasty episode this morning. Feeling better now?’

  ‘Good of you to come,’ he says, speaking slowly and quietly, taking small breaths in-between each word.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t brought you anything, it was all a bit of a rush. I wanted to catch visiting hours. You know what these Matrons are like. Dragons, or so I’ve heard.’

  ‘The nurses have been extremely kind. I gave poor Mrs Summer a shock. It’s the worst episode I’ve had for a while.’

  ‘How long have you had your lung condition? Is the treatment not helping?’

  ‘There isn’t much they can do. I’m supposed to stay calm, anxiety exacerbates it. But this search for Dorothy…do you have news for me?’

  I pour Hugh a glass of water from the jug on his bedside table.

  ‘I’ll pop out and get myself a glass, back in a second.’ I wander out to the little kitchen area outside the ward, taking my time so that I can decide on the best approach. Whatever I say, or don’t say, could well trigger another attack for Hugh. My actions could affect the health of my client. I’m beginning to wish I’d never taken his case on and yet there is a vulnerability about Hugh, a sadness that I can’t quite make out. Perhaps I’m a sucker for lost souls.

  Returning to Hugh’s bedside I pour myself some water and sit down. He is looking expectantly at me.

  ‘Hugh, I told you about the nostalgia feature, didn’t I?’

  He nods. ‘Has something cropped up? Have you heard from Dorothy?’

  ‘Well, we’re still working our way through the correspondence. But you mentioned there was more you could tell me about Dorothy, about the time you had with her, during the war. Are you able to talk about it?’

  ‘I told you. We met and once the war ended I didn’t see her again.’

  ‘There must have been more to it than that?’

  ‘I was a pilot,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, I know. You said you were in the RAF and Dorothy was a land girl, that’s right, isn’t it?’

  He nods and closes his eyes. He is quiet for a moment and I wonder if the memories are too difficult for him. Then he starts to speak. His words come out slowly, interspersed with small breaths. Throughout his explanation I am watching, scared that as his story unfolds the trauma of his memories will trigger another coughing attack. One of the ward nurses is hovering in the background. I’m grateful she is there, in case I need to call her.

  ‘I was more than just a pilot,’ he says.

  ‘Were you a squadron leader?’

  He hesitates as though he is struggling to find the right words. ‘Have you heard of the SOE?’

  ‘No, were they a special air forces division?’

  ‘In a way, but not only the air force. The Special Operations Executive were recruited from across all types of people, military personnel as well as civilians. It was a secret organisation, designed to create havoc, undermine the enemy in ways they would least expect.’

  ‘And you were part of it?’

  ‘Let’s just say I worked with them on occasion.’

  ‘What did you have to do?’

  ‘When the conditions were right I would be tasked to fly an operative into northern France. The French resistance were doing a marvellous job in the face of terrific danger, and the SOE gave us a chance to help them.’

  ‘So the people you flew in, the operatives, what did they have to do?’

  ‘We were never told. You have to understand this was a secret organisation, everything was on a need to know basis. All I ever needed to know was where and when. Flights were planned around the moon period.’

  My frown encourages him to explain.

  ‘They often chose the days just before or after the full moon. It helped us with navigation and meant we could spot anything that might hamper our landing, like a river running through the middle of a field. Members of the resistance would be there at the meeting point, and they would take the Joe away.’

  ‘The Joe?’

  ‘That’s how we referred to the operatives, we knew them as Joe. No names, no pack drill.’ He stops speaking and draws a few deeper breaths. I reassure him that he doesn’t have to tell me now, the rest of the story can wait until he is stronger. Although, in reality, I wonder if he ever will be stronger. Right now, it seems doubtful.

  ‘One night I was given my orders. A sortie was planned for 22.00 hours. I prepared the plane and waited. The Joe arrived and as they climbed up into position I caught a glimpse of a face. It was a moment that will live with me forever.’

  His eyes are open now, staring straight ahead. Sweat appears on his forehead and he seems unable to continue.

  ‘Who was it Hugh? Did you recognise the person?’

  He nods and in a whisper he says, ‘yes, it was the woman I loved.’

  My mind is whirling with questions. This new disclosure answers so much and yet leaves even more unanswered. Before I can ask him anything else the Ward Sister announces that visiting is over and asks us all to leave. There are only two other visitors on the ward, so the three of us file out dutifully, like children en route to the playground. As I walk out into the hospital grounds I realise that once again I have failed to ask Hugh what I had planned to ask him. Although, if he and Dorothy worked with the SOE, perhaps they were privy to some critical information that must remain secret. Maybe it is the organisation itself that is putting Dorothy in danger.

  Much later, I lay in bed and revisit all Hugh has told me. I’m still working through the implications, as Greg wraps his arms around me and turns off the bedside light.

  ‘Do you think Bean will like football?’ he says, any annoyance from our row about godparents long forgotten.

  ‘Bound to.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll play.’

  ‘Or she?’

  ‘Um, girls playing football? Maybe not.’

  ‘Famous netball player then, or tennis?’

  The only answer I get is a throaty snore.

  Chapter 11

  I arrive early at dad’s on Thursday morning. The kettle is already on the gas and Charlie is looking a little damp from his early morning walk.

  ‘The birds have been at the cream again,’ I say, transferring the milk from one of the bottles into a milk jug. ‘How about I put out a box for the milkman, something with a lid that the little monkeys can’t peck through?’

  ‘Good idea. Maybe check with the milkman first though, when you next see him. Just in case he thinks it will make too much work for him.’

  ‘We’re having a “godparent discussion” this evening, apparently,’ I say, passing dad his hot drink. ‘Greg mentioned it as he rushed out of the door this morning.’

  ‘Well, go easy with him, remember Bean is part of both of you.’

  ‘Am I being selfish?’

  ‘No, not selfish, maybe a little thoughtless sometimes.’

  ‘Mm, that’s hard to hear from my dad.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more thoughtful when it comes to looking out for me, but with Greg, well you can be a bit hard on him.’

  ‘We’re stuck in a pattern. I say something, he gets upset, we have a bit of a row, then he storms off to the pub. He sulks for a day or so, then we make up and everything’s fine.’

  ‘Relationships are organic.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, ever changing. Shifting, like the tide going in and out. Sometimes the sea is calm, other times it’s tempestuous. As long as you’re both good swimmers, you’ll be okay.’

  ‘You and mum didn’t like the sea much, did you? The sea of married life, I mean.’

  ‘I guess I was happy to float in dangerous waters and she didn’t see herself as a lifeguard.’

  ‘Mm,’ I say, mulling over what dad has said, as well as what he hasn’t.

  ‘So, the godparent discussion,’ dad says. ‘Do you know how you’ll approach it? What do you thi
nk Greg is hoping for?’

  ‘I’ll let him do the talking, I’ll listen carefully and aim for a fifty-fifty result, fair to all parties.’

  Dad smiles, as I add, ‘Thank goodness we only have to go through this once.’

  ‘You don’t know that, who knows what the future holds,’ he says.

  ‘Oh yes, that is one thing I do know for certain. Anyway, on another subject, I need to do some research and you’re just the man for it.’

  ‘First patient due in forty-five minutes. Enough time to complete your research?’

  ‘Possibly. Stage one, at least. What do you know about the Special Operations Executive? Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Goodness. Well, as I understand it they were our secret weapon during the war. Churchill’s Secret Army it was known as, I think. They got involved in all sorts of clandestine operations, blowing up bridges, sabotaging supply chains. They even created dummy airfields to confuse German reconnaissance. Why?’

  ‘It turns out Hugh wasn’t just another pilot. He worked with the SOE.’

  ‘I’m amazed he told you.’

  ‘Me too. He’s so desperate to find Dorothy that he wants to prove he trusts me, I suppose.’

  ‘Why is it relevant?’

  ‘Well, he flew occasional sorties for the SOE, flying SOE operatives into France and recovering them too sometimes.’

  ‘It must have been extremely dangerous.’

  ‘Incredibly. I’ve scoured our reference section in the library, but I could only find one book, it was an account of the work they did in France.’

  ‘Handy to be working in a library?’

  ‘My workplace has taken on a whole new meaning. Imagine what Poirot could have done with access to all that background information. Although most of the time he didn’t seem to need it.’

  ‘His knowledge came from experience, you’re a touch younger than him, remember?’

  ‘Well, the book backed up what Hugh told me, the operations were meticulously planned, they’d choose a day just before or after a full moon.’

  ‘The clear conditions would have helped with their visibility, and yet at the same time made them more visible.’

  ‘Yes, imagine the risks they had to take and the French resistance too. These were people just like you and me and yet they were prepared to endanger their lives on a daily basis.’

  While we have been talking Charlie has stretched himself out between the two of us, rolled onto one side and drifted off into a deep sleep. Now we are both distracted for a moment as he twitches and growls, no doubt chasing an imaginary rabbit across a field and into its burrow.

  ‘I told you about Dorothy,’ I continue, ‘the woman he wants me to track down? Well, Hugh and Dorothy had been seeing each other, dancing and…’

  ‘They were in love?’

  ‘That’s what he said, yes.’

  ‘Anyway, one night Hugh is due to fly an operative into France. Everything was anonymous; they were all known as ‘Joe’. So, Hugh prepares himself and his plane and the Joe arrives, dressed in overalls, camouflage, I suppose. It was dark, of course, so he assumes it’s a man. It was only when he saw the face up close, he discovered it was Dorothy.’

  ‘But I thought she was a land girl?’

  ‘She was. All SOE operatives worked undercover, they had ordinary jobs, lived ordinary lives, until the moment they had to go into action. Because of all the secrecy, neither of them knew the truth. It must have been such a shock.’

  ‘For both of them. And for Hugh, imagine having to leave the girl you love in the middle of occupied France, never knowing if she was going to be taken prisoner, or worse. What happened?’

  ‘Well, that’s the saddest part. She had her orders, but everything had to be secret. Even though Hugh worked with the SOE as well, she couldn’t tell him anything.’

  ‘Need to know, and all that.’

  ‘Exactly. All he knew was the location where he had been told to leave her. He flew her out there, landed in the field and members of the resistance met her and that was it. He didn’t see her again.’

  Before I could finish the story, my hiccups decide to intervene. Imagining Hugh and Dorothy’s plight was clearly too much for my anxiety levels.

  ‘Drink some water, take a breath,’ dad says. ‘Do you think Hugh is being straight with you? He is clearly an expert at keeping secrets, maybe there’s more to this story that he isn’t sharing with you. He’s told you Dorothy is in danger, do you think it’s to do with the SOE? By the very nature of it an organisation like that will have had its enemies.’

  As I sip the water the hiccups begin to subside, allowing me to reply. ‘From what I’ve read she was one of the lucky ones, many of the operatives were captured and sent to concentration camps. It’s truly horrible, dad, they were tortured, some were executed and the terrifying thing is that many were just my age. I can’t bear the thought of what they had to go through.’

  ‘What are you mixed up with, princess? This doesn’t sound at all straightforward. Maybe it’s time to call a halt.’

  On my next library day, I have time to think over what I’ve discovered so far, which isn’t much. Certainly not enough to justify Hugh’s down payment. In truth, all I can tick off my list is having established the identity of Hugh’s mystery follower.

  Call it serendipity or coincidence, but the next person to walk into the van is Kenneth Elm. I keep my head down, focusing on the pile of books on the counter, foolishly hoping he won’t notice me.

  ‘Mrs Juke?’ He has a slight lisp, it’s barely noticeable. Perhaps he has spent a lifetime trying to disguise it.

  ‘Good morning, how can I help you?’ I say. He knows my name; this does not bode well. He glances around the van; there are two other customers, one browsing the historical novels section and the other looking at children’s books. Both are focused on their task.

  ‘You followed me, the other evening. I’d like to know why,’ he says.

  My first thought is to deny it, but I don’t want to insult the man’s powers of observation. He saw me, he knows my name.

  ‘I was helping a friend of mine.’

  ‘Is he a friend? Does your father know you’re chasing strange men around at night?’

  ‘You know my father?’

  ‘Of course, his guide dog Charlie is one of my patients. Your father is a brave and talented man. Does he know what you’re up to?’

  ‘Up to? I’m not up to anything.’

  I don’t attempt to hide the indignation in my voice. My hiccups are threatening again. Between my hiccups and his lisp, we make an interesting pair for any eavesdroppers.

  ‘Why is he looking for my sister?’ he says.

  ‘What makes you think he is?’

  ‘He’s been asking around. Tamarisk Bay is a small town. When a stranger turns up and starts asking questions, word gets around.’

  ‘He knew your sister during the war. They were friends.’

  ‘That’s not the way she remembers it.’

  ‘You’re in touch with her then? She’s moved back here?’

  We have to stop speaking while a customer brings his selection of books over to me for stamping. I have a brief conversation with him and Kenneth moves away, towards the first row of bookshelves. I watch him as he runs his fingers over a few of the spines, settling on one and sliding it out, only to slide it back in without opening it. Having dealt with the customer, I signal to Kenneth and he returns to the counter.

  ‘The truth of it is he’s worried about your sister.’ I say, keeping my voice as low as possible, without whispering. ‘He believes she’s in danger.’

  ‘The only person she’s in danger from is Hugh Furness.’

  ‘No, that’s not true. He’s come here especially because he’s concerned for her safety.’

  ‘Think about it. Why is he being so clandestine? Why involve you at all? If he was really concerned about her, why not approach me directly, or better still speak to the police?’


  There are still times when I wish I was a little girl again, with my hero dad beside me. This is definitely one of them. I have no idea which of these men is telling the truth. If Kenneth is right, I’ve got myself mixed up with a liar, at the very least, maybe far worse. On the other hand, if I’m to believe Hugh, a woman’s life could be in danger. I can’t sit and do nothing.

  ‘Why have you been following Hugh?’ I ask.

  ‘To warn him off.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just speak to him, you know where his lodgings are. Why not knock on the door and have it out with him?’

  ‘He’s a clever man. I couldn’t risk him questioning me. I might have let something slip. Dorothy is my sister, she’s vulnerable, it’s my job to protect her. You can give your friend a message from me, and from my sister.’

  ‘What kind of message?’

  ‘Tell him to go back where he came from. There’s nothing for him here.’

  There are no options open to me. I can’t talk this through with dad, because he will want to warn me off, Greg is out of the question, and Libby is so focused on getting the next scoop I can’t trust her to keep quiet. For now, all I can do is watch and wait for someone to make the next move.

  The nostalgia feature has been published and it has become the talking point of all my library customers. So much so, I’ve pinned one of the spreads on the cork noticeboard that hangs beside the counter. Some of the customers are keen to tell me their stories, some have written in to the paper, but others are happy to talk.

  As I listen to their tales I try to imagine what it was like living in fear every day for years. I jot down a few of their anecdotes in my notebook, immersing myself in that time, with its mixture of desperation and joy.

  ‘The air raid siren was rising and falling for the alarm, and plain straight for the All Clear. This sort of sound still turns my stomach more than twenty years later.’

  ‘Mother made us siren suits, one-piece with leggings, tops and hoods, out of old blankets to slip over our nightdresses when we had to run through the neighbouring gardens to the shelter. They weren’t warm enough. I made up a little suitcase to take with me to the shelter, in case our house was destroyed. It contained a Bible, because that seemed to me to be appropriate to the occasion, a handkerchief, because I had a horror of being without one (!!) What else? Perhaps a drink of some sort. I forget.’