Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  ‘I think those things come from going to good schools.’

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ Mum concedes. ‘In that case, it sounds like she was very lucky. There must have been so many children orphaned in the Blitz. It was nice of Frank Bolton to adopt her.’

  ‘Yes. Very nice…’ I hesitate.

  ‘You think there’s more to it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just that a few odd things have been happening lately.’ I tell her about the envelopes being left by the ‘uninvited guest’ – omitting the part about me being locked in the loo and then arrested.

  ‘That is odd. And a bit unsettling.’

  ‘I read one of the letters,’ I say. ‘It was a diary entry. From the war – during the Blitz.’

  ‘Really? And you don’t know who’s sending these diary entries? Or why?’

  ‘No – I’ve no idea.’ I tell her about the locket, wishing I had it to show her – but it’s still with the Clockmaker in his safe. I recount Mrs Fairchild’s ‘episode’ when I showed her the newly restored musical bird and she fainted.

  ‘How awful.’ Mum’s brow furrows in concern. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Get to the bottom of it.’ I trace my fingers over the carved initials in the wood. ‘And learn more about my birth family… if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Oh, honey, of course it is.’ She purses her lips. ‘I just worry, that’s all.’

  ‘I know, Mum.’ I take her hand across the table and give it a squeeze. ‘But I’m fine, really. Or else… I will be. It’s just a lot to take in right now. But I want to find out more – about the locket and about Catherine Fairchild’s mother.’

  Mum withdraws her hand and fiddles with her wedding ring, lost in thought. ‘I might be able to help,’ Mum says slowly. ‘It’s a long shot – a very long shot.’

  ‘What?’ I lean forward.

  ‘Well, I could speak to someone in our life insurance department at work. They’ve got people who trace family medical histories. Granted, not that far back, but…’ she shrugs. ‘I could make a few calls.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It may well come to nothing, though.’

  By some unspoken cue, we both get up from the table. ‘You never, know, Mum,’ I say. ‘And in this case, I think it’s worth the risk…’ I give her a long hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  On the way to her car, I promise that I’ll drop in for Sunday lunch – (‘nut roast sounds great, thanks – or maybe I’ll bring a vegetable curry’) – and give Dad a call in a day or two to help him heal his wounded chakra.

  - Chapter 21 -

  My meeting with Mum has taken the storm out of my sea. When I return to Mallow Court the lights are off – Mrs Fairchild has choir on Thursday nights – so I don’t try to seek her out. Instead, I collapse on the sofa with a glass of wine, too tired to think, but with my mind racing.

  I stare up at the skylight and the silver grey clouds, aching inside over the things I’ve learned. I feel desperately sorry for the birth mother I’ll never know, and for Mrs Fairchild – my grandmother (it will take me a while to get used to thinking of her in those terms) – who luckily broke the silence and contacted me (though I’m still miffed that it wasn’t solely my skills as a manager that she was after). And Mallow Court – I now understand why, deep down, I felt an affinity to the house from the first moment I saw it. It’s a part of me too.

  But as Mum said, I’ll need some time to take everything in and process it. In the meantime, it’s the future I need to be focusing on. And first off, I need to get to the bottom of the anonymous diary entries and stop whoever is harassing Mrs Fairchild.

  I filter back through the memories that my grandmother imparted when we spoke in the garden. It was a jumble – understandably so – but she was vivid enough in describing Mamochka – who lived in fear of something, or someone, in a little flat next to the yellow kitchen.

  Then, between the yellow kitchen and the orphanage, Mrs Fairchild mentioned a brown kitchen. Maybe a foster family? And throughout, the one common thread is the jewelled bird. A pretty locket given to Catherine by her dying mother. The locket then disappeared for a short time, and Catherine was reunited with it at the orphanage by Frank Bolton. How did he end up with the locket? And why did he adopt her?

  The questions spin around in my head, colliding with the raw emotions of the last few days. Whatever the truth is about Catherine Fairchild, it’s my truth too. She’s my grandmother. My grandma…

  *

  I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, my phone is ringing, jarring me awake. It takes me a second to realise that I’m in my flat – safe and sound. In my dream I was running away from a storm of fire, as bombs exploded all around me and a black cloud of rubble flew through the air. My brow is drenched with sweat.

  Moving in slow motion, I reach for the phone on the table. ‘Hello,’ I say groggily.

  ‘Alex? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I sit upright. The voice on the other end of the line melts the terror of the dream away. ‘Hello Tim.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten about dinner – if tomorrow night’s still good for you?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ In truth, with everything that’s been going on, it had slipped my mind. But now, butterflies flit around my stomach like I’m talking to a teenage crush.

  ‘Good. Shall we say seven – I know a great little French restaurant…’

  We make plans for the following evening. Despite my recent personal earthquake, I can still feel anticipation bubbling below the surface. Seeing Tim will be a perfect escape from all the tumult in my life. He’s a safe, upstanding member of the community, with good values – and very attractive. Meeting him again was surely pure luck – or maybe karma – but either way, I plan to enjoy myself.

  When the call ends, I get up from the sofa to have a bath. As I’m running the water and steam is rising up into my face, the phone rings again. My towel falls to the floor as I hurry out of the bathroom to get to the phone. I reach it on the sixth ring, and pick up breathlessly.

  ‘Alex? It’s Chris Heath-Churchley here.’

  All of a sudden, I’m aware that I’m standing there stark naked. But I don’t feel cold – not at all.

  ‘Hi Chris!’ I say.

  ‘Sorry to call so late. But I may have found something.’

  ‘What?’

  He hesitates. ‘I’d rather, well… could you come by? It may well be nothing. The thing is, I just don’t know.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Can you come tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Hold on.’ I quickly check my diary. I’ve got to finish my leaflet for the costume exhibition so it can go to the printers, and then give a lecture on Elizabethan architecture to a luncheon group at noon. And then, there are the bold letters I’ve written down in relation to the evening: Dinner with Tim – 7 pm. Le Boutille Rouge.

  ‘Would three o’clock work?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah.’ His voice is sharp with a tension I’ve not heard before. ‘See you then.’

  The line goes dead in my hands.

  *

  In the morning I go over to the main house to go through the day’s schedule with the guides, and make sure Edith is okay holding the fort again. As I near the door to the staff entrance, I notice a brown envelope lying on the mat, like a viper waiting to strike. I feel a sickening sense of violation – someone must have come here in the night and left it. All of the security cameras are inside, so there’s no telling who it was. The envelope is addressed to ‘Catherine Bolton’. I pick it up, determined to open it and get to the bottom of what’s going on without disturbing her further. I turn it over to see if I can open it without tearing it. The glue is stuck together so I start to tear the top of the long edge—

  The door opens in front of me. It’s Mrs Fairchild – Grandmother, I remind myself – in full gardening regalia: rubber clogs, floral-patterned blouse, wide-brimmed straw sun hat. She looks every inch the carefree retir
ee out to spend a pleasant morning among the roses and dahlias. Except for her eyes – which look dark and sunken like she hasn’t slept.

  ‘Good morning.’ I say, feeling a bit awkward and unsure what to call her.

  ‘Hello Alex. Did you sleep well?’ Her smile seems forced. Before I can answer, she points to the envelope in my hands. ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘It was left on the mat.’ Reluctantly, I hold it out to her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She takes it from me, her eyes snagging on the torn edge, and puts it in her trouser pocket.

  ‘No problem. Oh, and by the way, I told him off.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She brushes my arm with her fingers. ‘I’m sorry to cause you so much pain, Alex. But it’s been eating away at me for a long time. And until I get to the bottom of things, I thought it best you knew the truth.’

  ‘It’s fine. And I’d like to help.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘But right now, I need a little bit of time. The past is difficult enough. It all feels very raw. I hope you understand.’

  ‘Um, sure,’ I say, disappointed. ‘I’ll be around – you know where to find me.’

  ‘I’ll get on with the weeding then. It’s supposed to rain later.’ With that, she walks off, her clogs crunching along the gravel path.

  My instincts say to run after her – insist she enlighten me about the envelope and whatever’s inside it – more journal entries, I assume. But after several years of being her employee, I don’t feel comfortable pulling the ‘granddaughter’ card. I decide to head for familiar territory – the estate office. On the desk, the message machine light is flashing. There are several wedding inquiries, and a woman ringing about a lost scarf. ‘I think it must have been in the main house – or maybe the garden. Or the woodland walk, you know – by the river.’ That narrowed down, she asked if I could please have a look, as it was given to her by a ‘dear friend who moved away to Australia’. Taking it as a sign, I decide I could do with a walk and go out into the garden to look for the scarf.

  It’s a pleasant day – a bit hazy with a light breeze. I head down by the river and along the paths of the woodland walk, losing myself in the copse of birches and beeches. I think about all the people who have lived in the house and walked here before me. Frank Bolton was the first one of his family to live here, so even if I was related to him by blood – which, because my grandmother is adopted, I’m not – I couldn’t claim kinship with past denizens. It strikes me how despite finding an important link to my own heritage, the chain is disappointingly short.

  The walk curves across a little bridge to the shores of the lake. There’s no sign of the scarf, so I return to the main gardens. I ‘happen’ upon Mrs Fairchild in the rose garden, sitting on a curved stone bench between v-shaped yew hedges. Leaning next to her is her rolling edger – her knees have dirt on them and she’s clearly been at work. But she’s just sitting there, staring off into space. In her lap is a piece of paper. She doesn’t seem to notice me, and a moment later she stares down at it. Tears glisten in her eyes.

  ‘Mrs Fairchild?’ I say softly, taking a few steps towards her.

  ‘Alex.’ She folds the paper swiftly in half. ‘Sorry – I was miles away.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a scarf that someone lost. White with blue poppies – it has sentimental value.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it.’ For a second she looks up at me like I’m a complete stranger rather than her newly claimed granddaughter. ‘Sorry.’

  She seems to want to be alone – and normally I’d respect that. But it hurts that she’s not letting me in so that I can help. ‘I think we need to put a stop to this,’ I say. ‘We can’t have people turning up and leaving envelopes where they aren’t meant to be.’ I purse my lips. ‘And clearly, you’re upset.’

  I’m hoping – and half-expecting – that she’ll hold the paper out to me. Let me read it, get involved, and make it go away. After all, why not? Granddaughter or not, I’m a trusted employee and I’d never betray a confidence.

  Instead, she tucks the paper away in her pocket.

  With a sigh, I turn to leave.

  ‘Wait, Alex,’ she says.

  I turn back. She’s smiling in the old way – like when we were just employer and employee and there was no long shadow between us.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says.

  I cross my arms. ‘Fine. But you’ll need to fill me in or I’m going to have to take action.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘You win.’

  I move closer and stand before her.

  ‘Someone has been sending me things,’ she says. ‘Diary entries that relate to my childhood during the war. All that remembering – not to mention the changed circumstances between you and me – well, admittedly, it’s been a difficult trip into the past.’

  ‘I understand. It’s been hard for me too.’ I manage a smile. ‘But good too.’

  She stands up from the bench, her eyes still moist. ‘Would it be okay if I…?’ she holds out her arms and I go into them. She squeezes me tightly. I can feel the rise and fall of her chest, the beating of her heart. She smells of floral soap with a hint of linseed oil.

  ‘I love you, Alex,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve always loved you. I just wish I’d told you sooner.’

  ‘I… I love you too, Grandma.’

  She pauses for a fraction of a second – then her worried face blooms into a smile. ‘I’ve waited a long time to be called that,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to pressure you. But, if you could … learn to see me that way, then I’d be so glad.’

  ‘I do see you that way,’ I say. ‘Deep down, I think I’ve felt it all along.’

  ‘Oh Alex.’ She kisses my cheeks and wipes her eyes. For a moment the shadow has passed, but I know it’s lingering in the background.

  We come apart. I hesitate, wanting to maintain this new closeness, but knowing that there are still more questions that I need to ask. I walk over to one of the rose bushes and breathe in the vibrant scent.

  ‘So do you have any idea who might be sending these diary entries?’ I ask off-handedly.

  ‘No. I figure someone found the diary and decided to make some mischief. I can’t imagine it’s more than that.’

  I sense she’s still holding something back. But at least it’s a start. ‘Okay,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll let it go for now, but if there are any more envelopes – or people coming round at night to leave them on the doorstep, then I’m going to get the police involved.’

  She gives a little laugh, but her eyes are mirthless. ‘Actually,’ she says. ‘I already have.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My “friend”…’ she gives me a little wink, ‘—the one I told you about? He’s with the police – a former DI. I’ve told him what’s going on and he’s going to help.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m a little hurt that she got him involved, whereas for me getting information out of her has been like pulling teeth. ‘And does this “friend” have a name?’

  ‘It’s David.’ Just saying his name takes ten years off her face.

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘He’s retired now, of course, and recently moved up here from London. He gave a talk at a WI meeting about elder safety. He walked me home afterwards, and well… as they say, the rest is history.’

  ‘That’s great.’ I swallow back a dollop of jealousy. Having just found my biological grandmother, I’m a little reluctant to share her so soon.

  ‘Anyway, he said he may be able to find who’s doing it.’

  ‘Okay. That’s good. And… what about the locket?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Do the diary entries mention it? The Clockmaker told me that it might be more than just a toy or a trinket. He thought it might be valuable.’

  Mrs Fairchild takes her gardening gloves out of her pocket and picks up her trowel. ‘I very much doubt it. But you’re welcome to find out what you can. In fact – if
you like it, it’s yours.’ She rests her hand on my arm. ‘My mother gave it to me when she died – it’s the only thing of hers that I have. I would have given it to my daughter. Like a family heirloom. That never happened.’ Her smile fades. ‘I came upon it when I was looking through some of my old things for your costume exhibition. I always loved it, but it was painful too, so I kept it packed away. But when I saw it, I knew that you should have it – when you found out the truth. But then the diary entries started coming, and things just seemed… too complicated.’ Her shoulders slump a little.

  ‘I understand,’ I say. I put my hand on hers, as my chest swells with emotion. Maybe it’s because my grandmother never got the chance to give the locket to her daughter. Or maybe it’s because the truth has finally come to light and she can pass it on to me.

  - VII -

  13th November 1940 – 1:30 a.m.

  ‘Poor Lamb,’ Sadie said. The kitchen was brown and homely, smelling of overcooked meat and male cat. ‘Put her by the fire and let’s get a hot drink in her.’

  I ushered the girl over to the table. On the wall was a wooden clock that I hadn’t seen before. I stared at the brass pendulums as they swung back and forth, blurring before my tired eyes like shooting stars. Sadie came over to me.

  ‘You did right to bring her here,’ she said to me. ‘We’ll make her nice and comfortable on the sofa. Though, she can’t stay – she’ll have to go to the church. Be evacuated with the others.’

  I nodded. Of course she couldn’t stay. But I didn’t want her going to an orphanage either. ‘Can you give me a few days?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Poor mite.’

  ‘You seen Flea tonight?’ I said.

  She snorted. ‘I ain’t seen him in weeks except at breakfast. He’s out all night. Working – so he says.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But I’m not sure I believe him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked sharply. The image of him bending over the dead woman had lodged itself in my mind, refusing to budge.

  She leaned closer to me. I braced myself for the words I didn’t want to hear. ‘He’s got a lady friend out Hackney way,’ she whispered. ‘I think she might be up the duff.’