‘We were always hungry. Grandad gave us fish off his boat. He showed me how to catch eels and flounders on the foreshore. Uncle Joey caught rabbits, I helped kill and skin them. With the other Grandad I collected eggs from his chickens. Auntie Lilly had a world map on the wall. She stuck flags in it and would tell us how the war was going in Russia and the Far East especially.’
‘When our house was bombed we were lucky to live, the neighbours, and the rest of the family looked after us really well. The bomb didn’t hit the house but fell into the garden. It was a good job we didn’t make it out into the shelter because we would have been dead for sure. Both of the Grandmas turned up. One had walked about six or seven miles because no buses were running, They saw the house first and thought we were goners so there was a lot of crying and hugging. Then we went to stay with one of the Grandmas.’
Later in the day, just as my conversational energy is flagging, Phyllis walks in.
‘You look tired,’ she says. ‘Bean keeping you awake?’
‘Amongst other things.’
‘Any luck with you know who?’
I smile at Phyllis’s attempt at secrecy. From the twinkle in her eye I get the feeling she is enjoying being on the edges of a mystery. Before I can reply she turns to the noticeboard.
‘Interesting article, it brought back many memories. Some good, some not so good,’ she says.
‘What was it like for you? Did you carry on teaching throughout the war?’
‘We had trainloads of evacuees. Poor little mites. Spilling out of the carriages, onto the platform, looking as frightened as baby rabbits. Some of them were barely bigger than their suitcases.’
‘Did you take any to live with you?’
‘Yes, a brother and sister. Both younger than Cynthia. Put her nose right out of joint, but I told her how lucky she was not to be one of them.’
‘How long were they with you?’
‘They came from London. They’d never seen the sea. The first weekend I took them to the beach they ran straight into the water, clothes and all. Didn’t even take their shoes off.’
Phyllis takes a handkerchief from her handbag and wipes her reading glasses, before putting them away. ‘Cynthia got to love having them around, she wept when they left. Promised she’d write to them every day.’
‘Did she stay in touch?’
‘For a while, but life takes over, doesn’t it?’
‘Do you know where they are now? If they’re still in London?’
She shakes her head.
‘It must have been hard to concentrate on education with bombs falling all around.’
‘Some days we didn’t even try. There was such an influx of evacuees we had to use any available space for lessons. We even used the tearooms in Tensing Gardens a few times.’
‘That old shack?’
‘The children loved it, especially the ones from the inner cities. All that grass to run about on and all those trees to climb.’ She has been leaning up against the counter, but now she moves to one side and says, ‘Do you mind if I sit down for a while?’
‘Here you go,’ I say, passing her the spare chair. ‘Let’s both take the weight off. My legs get tired carrying Bean around all day.’
‘Wait until he’s born.’
‘He?’
‘Well, he or she. Do you have a preference?’
‘No, ten fingers, ten toes and not too much screaming. That’s all I have on my wish list.’
‘You’ll make a great mum.’
‘Will I? There are times when I’m not so sure.’
‘Well, you can’t send it back, too late for that.’
‘Phyllis, I’m in a quandary.’
‘With your case?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure who to believe.’
‘What do your instincts tell you?’
I lay my hands on my midriff, enjoying the sensation of Bean’s gentle movements.
‘Your instincts are good,’ she says, ‘trust them.’
Chapter 12
Before going home, I call round to Hugh’s lodgings. Mrs Summer invites me straight in.
‘I am pleased you called,’ she says. ‘I am worried. I ring the hospital this morning and they say he is no better, no worse. They say, I am not family, they can’t tell me.’ She gestures to me to follow her through to the sitting room. ‘Sit down please, would you like a drink?’
I’m still trying to work out her accent. ‘No, I’m fine thanks. I was hoping there would be some improvement,’ I say. ‘I wonder how long they’ll keep him in?’
‘What about his family? Have you spoken to them?’
I shake my head. I’m not lying if I say no. After all, I don’t even know if Hugh has any family still alive.
‘I’ll visit him again and let you know if there’s any significant change.’
‘Please tell him that, of course, I will keep his room for him.’
‘Oh, I thought you said…’
‘I was very harsh before. It was a shock, seeing him like that, the coughing, the breathing. It all came back.’
I raise an eyebrow and wait for her to explain.
‘My husband. We weren’t married long. They said it was the cigarettes, but I’m sure it was his job.’
‘What did your husband do?’
‘Labourer at the gas works. The money was good, but it was dangerous work. It got into his lungs. We had bought this house a little before he… I had to find a way to pay the bills. I don’t like having lodgers, but…’
‘We all do what we can to make ends meet.’
‘You run the library?’
‘The mobile library, yes.’ I wonder what she might say if she knew what else I’m choosing to do to bring money in. ‘Well, I’ll be off then, but I’ll keep in touch.’
The next opportunity I have to visit the hospital is Tuesday afternoon. The rain is thundering down and as I wait at the bus stop each car that passes seems determined to splash me. By the time the bus arrives I’m like Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. It’s a short walk at the other end. I don’t even bother opening my umbrella, as the wind would more than likely turn me into Mary Poppins. Two reminders in quick succession that it’s time Greg and I went to the cinema.
By the time I walk into the hospital entrance, I’m dripping wet, so I stand for a while in the doorway to let the worst of the water drop off me. I can imagine Matron’s disdain if I drip rain water all over her pristine lino.
Feeling a touch more presentable, I start to make my way to the ward and notice someone ahead of me in the corridor. He is walking with a purposeful stride, but he doesn’t need to turn around for me to know who he is. I speed up so that I’m alongside him.
‘Mr Elm,’ I say, studying his expression to determine if it is one of surprise or annoyance.
‘Mrs Juke.’
‘Visiting someone?’
‘Why else would I be here?’
‘Perhaps for an appointment?’
‘And you?’ he says. ‘All well with the baby, I hope?’ He has a way of speaking that is clipped, emotionless. Maybe a technique to disguise his lisp.
‘I think we both know why I’m here. And I’d hazard a guess you’re here for the same reason. Hugh is very poorly you know. Any over excitement could bring on another attack.’
We have reached the entrance to the ward and we hesitate at the door.
‘Only one visitor at a time at the bedside, I think,’ I say, pivoting around and walking over to the two chairs that are positioned near to the ward entrance. ‘Why don’t you go in first, I’m happy to wait. But go easy on him, don’t do anything you’ll regret.’
‘I think you are out of your league here, Mrs Juke. Go home, concentrate on your husband, your baby.’
Kenneth Elm can join the list of men who think they can tell me what to do; Greg, Frank Bright, even dad. Kenneth’s patronising attitude makes me more determined to see the case through, even if my paying client is lying.
Ten minu
tes later, the ward door swings open and Kenneth strides out.
‘He’s all yours,’ he says, with vehemence, the lisp no longer disguised.
There’s no time for me to reply, as he sweeps past me and thumps down the corridor out of sight.
Hospitals are warm, often stuffy, places, with an all-pervasive odour of disinfectant. Not an environment conducive to a pregnant woman, with a queasy constitution. However, the perspiration now coating my body is likely to have nothing to do with the temperature. I push the ward door open tentatively and approach Hugh’s bed. The curtains are drawn around him and I can hear voices, which though muffled, sound anxious.
‘Who allowed him in here?’ says a female voice, with clipped tones.
‘I’m sorry, Sister, I didn’t realise…’ A younger voice, this time.
‘This is not the time or place for your apologies, come to my office when you finish your shift. For now, please stay with Mr Furness and no visitors. You understand?’
With that, the Ward Sister pulls the curtain aside and steps out. As she moves away from the bed, I catch a glimpse of Hugh, lying down, with eyes closed and an oxygen mask over his face.
‘What are you doing here?’ she says, glaring at me. I have visions of being asked to stay behind after class to write I will not eavesdrop fifty times.
‘Er, I was here to visit Mr Furness,’ I say, in my most soothing voice.
‘No visitors,’ she says, articulating clearly as though I was a foreigner, or hard of hearing.
‘Can I come back later? To see how he is?’
‘No visitors until further notice. Now, out, out.’ She ushers me out of the ward as though I’m a naughty child, loitering somewhere I’m not supposed to be.
Before catching the bus home, I need to calm myself and make some notes. There’s a café near to the bus stop. I push the door open, hoping they are not about to close up.
‘Are you still serving?’ I say.
‘Come in love, take the weight off.’
My relief is palpable. A friendly voice, a smile and the smell of home baking.
‘This is what we need, Bean,’ I whisper and put my hand on my midriff.
‘What’ll it be?’ the waitress asks, moving a strand of her hair back from her flushed face. ‘Sit yourself down, I’ll bring it over. You look like you could do with a bite to eat. How about a delicious piece of bread pudding? Just made it this morning.’
‘Perfect, thank you. And coffee, please.’
There are no other customers, but I choose a corner table, as far away from the counter as possible, in case my arrival sparks a flurry of trade. The waitress brings over the coffee and a more than generous slice of warmed bread pudding. A waft of nutmeg and cinnamon makes my mouth water. I can see my appetite for supper diminishing rapidly; something else I’ll need to explain to Greg.
I take my notebook out and leaf through the pages. Some of the sections are almost full, while others remain blank. I am certain Hugh is still hiding something from me. What’s more, he has yet to explain the relevance of the left luggage ticket, which is nestling inside my lost property box in the library van. There are three distinct questions I need answers for: why does Hugh believe Dorothy is in danger; why does Kenneth believe Hugh is lying; and why doesn’t Hugh want to involve the police?
Now that Hugh is too poorly to talk to me, I need to find another way of filling in the blanks. Kenneth is my only link with Dorothy and he has made it clear he is not keen to talk to me. Right now, I would say the feeling is mutual.
Over the next couple of days, I mull over events so far. I may not be a brilliant judge of character (my experiences with Zara proved that) but surely a man who cares for animals can’t be all bad? There has to be a reason that Kenneth is trying to protect Dorothy by keeping Hugh away. I just need to find out what it is.
Everything I’ve learned from Poirot has taught me that it’s useful to dig around in someone’s past. If I can piece together a clearer picture of the Elm family, I may unearth some clues.
At the next opportunity I call round to see Phyllis.
‘How did you know I was hoping you’d call,’ she says, as she welcomes me in.
‘Baking day?’ I ask, noticing the apron.
‘Cleaning day, extremely boring, but it has to be done. However, I do have chocolate digestives.’
‘I’ve come to tap your brains, well, actually to dig around in your memory.’
‘Tap and dig away.’
‘The Elms. What else do you remember about them?’
As we settle in Phyllis’s lounge, in front of her coal fire, with coffee and biscuits, I am reminded that this is the experience I want for Bean. I may not be a traditional mother, at least as far as Greg and my mother-in-law are concerned, but my relationship with Phyllis proves to me that family doesn’t only mean blood relatives. Shared memories, shared dreams, can bind us together just as tightly, maybe even more so.
‘Since I tracked down that photo of Kenneth and his classmates, the memories have been flooding back,’ Phyllis says. ‘I even had a dream about him the other day. Most bizarre.’
‘Was it a bad dream?’
‘Oh, it was something and nothing. Probably more to do with my having a chunk of cheese after supper. Anyway, I’ve remembered more about Kenneth’s parents. I’m not sure if it will help you much.’
‘All information is useful. Did Poirot say that? If not, he should have.’
‘You’ll be writing your own crime novels next. A thinly disguised memoir - The Janie Juke Crime Mysteries.’
‘Fifty years from now, maybe. You need to be old to write a memoir, don’t you?’
‘You’re not suggesting I attempt one, are you?’
‘I keep telling you, you will never be old, not in my eyes.’
She smiles and shakes her head. ‘Well, Kenneth’s parents. As you know, his father had chronic bronchitis. He’d worked in a factory near Peterborough. He was semi-skilled, I think. Whatever his trade was, he wasn’t able to transfer easily when they moved. The doctor had advised him to move south, to live near the sea, if he wanted to live past sixty.’
‘What age was he when he came to Tamarisk Bay?’
‘He would have been late forties or early fifties maybe. Perhaps he fought in the Great War, but he would have been too old for the Second World War, even if his health had improved. As I recall, when they first moved down he worked for a removal firm, Pickford’s probably. But he had so many days off sick they sacked him. It wasn’t like it is now, people didn’t have any employment protection and there was no National Health Service. So, if you couldn’t afford the doctor, or the medicine, you had to suffer.’
‘We take it for granted, free healthcare. I hate to think what it must have been like.’
‘Life was desperate for families without money and there were plenty of them. Kenneth’s mother had no choice but to find work, wherever she could. She got a cleaning job and took in laundry. Folk who had money were more than happy to pay others to do their chores.’
‘I don’t blame them, I wouldn’t mind a cleaner. And someone to do the ironing.’
‘Wouldn’t we all?’ Phyllis says and smiles. ‘The work would have been physically hard, long hours, seven days a week. I remember Mrs Elm was never able to get along to parents’ evenings, or school plays. That photo I showed you of Kenneth in the play. Well, she never saw him perform.’
‘It must have been difficult for the children.’
‘Kenneth was ashamed of his parents.’
‘But his mother was doing all she could to keep the family fed and cared for.’
‘Children can be very cruel. He had a bad lisp and they teased him for it. Then one day his father turned up at school, ranting and raving. He spoke to the headmaster, told him that if the bullying continued, he’d remove Kenneth from school.’
‘He’d been drinking?’
She nods. ‘It transpired that Kenneth’s father had taken solace in alcohol. It w
ould have been hard for him, knowing he couldn’t support his own family, that his wife was the only breadwinner.’
‘He would have been indignant, being a kept man. It’s not much better now. Mr Elm wasn’t helping though, spending his wife’s earnings on beer. Did he take Kenneth out of school?’
‘No, it was all bluster. But I’m fairly certain that soon after Kenneth left school, his mother died. His father didn’t last long either. So, it would have been just the two of them, Kenneth and his sister.’
‘I wonder how they managed for money. And then Kenneth studied to be a vet. That can’t have been easy, financially.’
Phyllis nods. ‘More questions than answers, but that shouldn’t deter a clever investigator.’
‘Mm,’ I say, filing away this next batch of information in my mind. If this case is a jigsaw, I am just managing to connect the outside edges, with an awful lot of blanks remaining.
Chapter 13
The next time I visit the hospital, I approach with trepidation, expecting Matron to swoop down on me and forbid me entrance. Instead, I arrive at the ward to find the curtains around Hugh’s bed pulled back, with no nursing staff immediately in evidence. Hugh is partly upright, supported from behind with several pillows. He has the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and his eyes are closed.
Assuming he’s sleeping, I pull up a chair as quietly as I can and sit beside the bed, waiting for him to wake up. Watching him lying there, his face pale, the collar of his striped pyjamas appearing above the sheet, I struggle to imagine him as he was when he met Dorothy. The years have been hard on Hugh, his face is lined and there are dark shadows under his eyes; he looks much older than dad, when there can only be a few years between them. Suddenly, I can feel my nose twitching and before I can grab my handkerchief I emit a loud sneeze. As a result, Hugh opens his eyes.
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