Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  ‘Yes, he made something of himself. What’s wrong with that?’

  She laughs, barring a set of yellow-stained teeth. ‘My father had one flaw. He thought his charm would see him through anything. So when the chips began to fall, he didn’t take it seriously enough. When Frank accused him, people listened.’

  ‘So you’re saying that Frank accused your father of looting?’

  ‘Aye,’ her lip curls upwards as she stabs a gnarled finger at Frank Bolton’s image. ‘My father died for a crime he didn’t commit. And your grandmother – the lovely Catherine – she’s been living off the back of it ever since.’

  ‘No – I don’t believe you.’ I grip the grungy sides of the chair.

  She shakes her head. ‘You may be a nice girl, but you seem a little thick. It was despicable what they did. Frank – and others like him. Stealing from people’s homes when he was supposed to be saving lives. When people got home from the shelter, everything was gone – art, jewellery, money, even clothing. But who could they complain to? Nobody wanted to hear that the Blitz Spirit was a big load of cock and bull. Certainly not the police.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘And it got worse too. Looting from corpses – even from people who weren’t dead yet – helping them on their way.’

  All my muscles tense up at once. I want to laugh in this woman’s face. Get up and leave, slamming the door behind me at the indignity of her accusations. But instead, I sit there, rigid, my jaw clenched.

  ‘And Frank’s other friend…’ she points to the third man in the picture, ‘he was posh. His family had friends in high places. Handy when it came to disposing of things.’

  ‘You…’ I gasp, ‘you have no proof.’

  ‘No?’ When she smiles, her crooked teeth make her look like a witch. ‘You don’t know what I have and what I don’t have, now do you, girl? You’d better ask Catherine – she might tell you differently. My father, you see, he fancied himself a bit of a scribbler. He loved keeping his journals.’

  ‘How dare you!’ I push away the photo album and catapult up from the sofa. ‘You’re the one who’s trying to frighten Mrs Fairchild. I’ve seen what you’ve sent her. Entries from a diary – your father’s diary, I suppose – with nasty little notes scribbled in the margins. That’s harassment.’

  ‘I’m just letting Catherine know what’s what – for now anyway…’ she cackles a laugh. ‘Now who’s looking down on who?’

  ‘She doesn’t deserve any of this. And neither do I.’ In two strides I’m at the door. ‘I’ve heard enough. Goodbye.’

  The old woman continues to laugh as I rush out of the room. My way is blocked by a smiling Tim in the hallway, carrying a tray.

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  *

  I push past him and run out into the night. Behind me, I can hear Tim shouting at his gran. ‘What did you say to her? I thought you just wanted to have a chat?’

  Tim yells out the door as I run: ‘Alex? Alex!’

  I double my pace, petrified that he’s going to chase after me. I pull out my phone – if he follows me, I’ll have to ring – I don’t know! – 999. I’ll tell them… that I’ve been brought here under false pretences, and then stranded in the middle of East London… or… something. I key in my pin as I rush around the corner of the road and practically ram into someone walking the other way. ‘Oh!’ I call out, my arms wheeling to stay on my feet. The other person has no such problem. It’s an old man with a walker. His gnarled hands grip the handles and he doesn’t even waver. There’s a small dog at his feet that starts barking its head off at me.

  ‘Down, Winston,’ the man commands. The dog gives one last yap for good measure.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, my heart kicking in my chest. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  The old man gives a concerned tsk. ‘You should be looking up there.’ He points a crooked finger at the sky. ‘Bomber’s moon – that’s what we called it.’

  I look up at the full moon that’s come out from behind a dark bank of cloud. Suddenly, my eyes begin to swim and it’s like I can see the dark silhouettes of planes blocking out the light, come to kill, maim, and wreak havoc on London.

  ‘You were there?’ The words come out of my mouth before I’ve even thought them.

  As if sensing my distress, the dog lets out a whimper. Is it me, or is everyone in this neighbourhood just plain bonkers?

  ‘Oh aye. Flew Spitfires – beautiful little plane. And I was born and raised on this street. Whenever there’s a moon like this, Winston and I come and keep an eye out. I’m not about to let Jerry force me out of my rightful house and home. No ma’am. Miles Pepperharrow – that’s me – is going nowhere.’

  I lean down and pat Winston on the head. ‘Sounds sensible, Mr Pepperharrow,’ I say. ‘But I need to get somewhere – any idea where I can get a taxi?’

  He points in the opposite direction from Shoreditch. ‘Try two blocks over. It’s a busy road. Lots of ’em about.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, hoping he means taxis. ‘You and Winston take care now.’

  ‘Oh we will, young lady,’ the old man says. ‘We sure will.’

  Part 3

  There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

  And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pool singing at night,

  And wild plum-trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire

  Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one

  Will care at last when it is done.

  ― Sara Teasdale, ‘Flame and Shadow’

  - VIII -

  13th November 1940 – 3:30 a.m.

  I left Sadie’s house and started walking. The snow had melted into soggy puddles, and clouds covered the full moon. I wandered back up the road thinking of what I’d seen, and why tonight it affected me more than before. But of course I knew why. Marina. I tried to distance myself, forget her name. Forget that I knew her. It was casual after all. But the girl… those eyes. The truth in them staring at me like a mirror…

  I put my hand in my pocket and touched the locket. It was heavy and warm, almost like a life force in itself. I knew I was right to take it – keep it safe for her. I’d give it back… I could trust myself.

  Though my shift was over, I walked back to the ambulance dispatch. Two men were huddled around the table drinking cups of bitter chicory coffee. ‘Evening,’ I said. One of them grumbled a reply. As I put the kettle on again, I heard uneven footsteps outside. A man walked in – not Flea, but damn’d Robbo with his camera.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said.

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea since the kettle’s on.’ He put something on the table. ‘Brought you this,’ he said.

  It was a black and white photograph – it seems like a lifetime ago that he was here taking photos of ‘our brave ambulance crew’ for a newspaper article. The photo showed me – and Flea and Spider – looking years younger. Looking happy. The living embodiment of ‘Blitz Spirit’. And now Spider’s family home is a pile of rubble – the poor bastard’s still on his shift and won’t even know it yet. And Flea… well…

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘I made some copies. Keep it to show your kids someday, and your grandkids. Show them that you did your bit.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I tucked the photo into my pocket. ‘Like you, you mean.’

  He shook his head. ‘Bum leg. Even your lot wouldn’t have me.’

  He turned to leave. The kettle began to spit and hiss.

  ‘Wait a minute, Robbo,’ I said. ‘What else have you seen?’

  He shrugged. ‘Enough.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’

  - Chapter 26 -

  Frank Bolton. ‘Knicker King’, philanthropist, pillar of society and saviour of a crumbling Elizabethan house called Mallow Court. Frank Bolton – the beloved adoptive father of Catherine Fairchild, my birth grandmother.

  Though he’s n
ot related by blood, he’s still the trunk of my newly discovered family tree. But does he also have a secret side to his dossier – a dark side that’s remained hidden over almost sixty years? Is he the kind of man who would capitalise on the misfortune of others – steal from innocent people during one of the darkest moments of history – and then frame another man for it, issuing him with a death sentence in the process?

  For my grandmother’s sake – and my own – I don’t want to believe it. But despite knowing the ins and outs of the country house he purchased and restored, I know very little about him. The question that Tim asked that day on the tour resonates in my mind: How did he make the money to buy the factory? I’d made up an answer on the spot – ‘the war provided a lot of opportunities for an ambitious young man’. Little did I know then what kind of ‘opportunities’ may have arisen for Frank Bolton.

  The taxi lets me off at the station and I have to run to catch the last train. The carriage is stuffed full of people eating stinky Burger King food, and I stand near one of the doors, feeling sick to my stomach. I’ve worked so hard to turn Mallow Court into a business, make it my home, and find out the truth about my family – but could all of it be built on lies and criminal acts? And what about my grandmother? For over sixty years, Frank Bolton has been the rock on which her life was built. Even in death, she idolises him. How will she react if she even suspects the accusations being made against him by Mrs Edwards?

  I think back to how upset and preoccupied she’s been lately. The brown envelopes, the journal entries, they must be the ‘proof’ that Mrs Edwards spoke of. It’s not Mrs Fairchild herself that’s being blackmailed, but her family name, her respected adoptive father, and her right to be in the place she’s called home for sixty years.

  I clench my fists. How dare Mrs Edwards upset my grandmother like that? But what if… what if what she told me is true?

  The train disgorges me an hour later to a dark platform where no one is about. In the dimly lit car park, every shadow holds a possible threat. Tim – the handsome man with the chocolate eyes – the man who wanted me to meet his gran – and now I know why. ‘A friend’ of Catherine – that’s what he’d said she was. Is it possible that he didn’t know what she was about?

  My phone rings in my bag and the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. While I was on the train, my phone rang five times – Tim. I didn’t answer, of course. I let the call go to voicemail now too.

  I hurry to my car and drive back to Mallow Court. When I’m closeted in my own little flat with the door double-bolted, I sink down onto the sofa and take out my phone. Tim has left three voicemails. My thumb hovers over the delete button, but I force myself to listen. At least I should know what I’m up against.

  The first message is breathless and frantic. ‘Alex, it’s me – I’m so sorry. Please, pick up and let me explain. Gran’s a little unstable – as you probably guessed. She told me what she said to you – I had no idea, really. I’m sorry I was so long in the kitchen – a call came in from work that I had to take. Please, pick up – I—’

  The message cuts off. I put the phone down, my heart slowing for the first time since I ran out of the house in Shoreditch. Could Tim be for real? All my instincts scream ‘no!’

  I put the phone back to my ear and listen to the next message.

  ‘Please Alex – I need to explain. Can we talk? I’ll come to you. Tomorrow. Call me back.’

  Tomorrow. Oh God. What can I do? I’ll have to call him back – tell him not to come. To stay away from me—

  Voicemail goes to the last message. This time it’s just a click.

  I turn on the TV to try and occupy my brain as it whirrs, trying to make sense of everything – and coming up woefully short. Mrs Edwards surely posted some of the diary entries – she as good as admitted it. But try as I might, I can’t see her coming all the way to Mallow Court to leave an envelope on the doorstep. So did Tim do it for her? Does that explain why he ‘happened’ to be in the area? Was he the person who locked me in the loo, conveniently showing up later at the police station to play the knight in shining armour to my damsel in distress?

  I flip aimlessly through the channels with the remote, bypassing late night game shows, shopping channels, and phone sex adverts. I settle on a documentary on the bombing of Dresden – it seems appropriate. In the lower right-hand corner is a little man – the sign language interpreter. The narrator is going on about tonnes of explosives, and numbers of burning buildings. The interpreter seems to give up midway through and spreads his hands in a big ‘boom’ gesture. Then he stands back to ‘watch’ as the bombs fall and there’s footage of women and children rushing out of burning houses with as much as they can carry, and getting flattened by the sheer force of the firestorm. It’s so awful and yet mesmerising – I want to flip the channel and yet I can’t look away. I think of my grandmother – but also of Mrs Edwards and the man that I bumped into walking his dog – Mr Pepperharrow? I can’t imagine living through what they did – the terrible fear, the pain of loss, the total and complete ruption in the fabric of normal life.

  The narrator starts up again. ‘In the end, the city was reduced to a smoking ruin.’ The interpreter twiddles his fingers like smoke rising to the sky as the footage shows the devastation. I’ve had enough. I turn off the TV, go to the kitchen, and pour myself a very large glass of red wine. I lay down in bed with the full glass on the bedside table next to me. I turn off the lights but keep my eyes wide open – staring at the light leaking around the edge of the curtains from the ‘bomber’s moon’.

  *

  I wake up in a tangle of damp sheets the next morning, after tossing and turning with nightmares. There’s a sharp knot of tension in the pit of my stomach as I get ready to go over to the main house. I desperately need to speak to my grandmother – though I’m at a loss as to what I’m going to say.

  Her gardening clogs aren’t in their usual place by the door, and I surmise that she’s already up and out. I go outside to look for her. The garden is full of life – birds in the trees, bees already buzzing from flower to flower, the ducks and geese by the riverbank wide awake and preening. I check the usual places, but I don’t find her. Admittedly, it’s a relief not to have to regale her with Mrs Edwards’s allegations. In telling off the old woman for harassment, I hope I’ve put a stop to the brown envelopes and nasty accusations scribbled in the margins of an old journal. But the truth has a strange way of outing itself, and I have the strong feeling that there’s more still to come. My only weapon is to do my own research. Abandoning my search, I get the coffee brewing in the staff kitchen and closet myself in the estate office to look up Frank Bolton on the worldwide web.

  The search generates a surprising number of results, mostly related to him as the chairman and CEO of Intimates Unlimited and a few that are related to his death almost a decade ago. There are also some articles that chronicle the modest details of his early life. I learn that he was born in Warrington in 1915 and his family moved to East London when he was still a boy. His father was a warehouseman for a cloth manufacturer and his mum was a school teacher. By all accounts, Frank was a smart boy – if a touch reserved – and he got himself an apprenticeship in the business office of the clothing manufacturing company where his father worked. Just as he was working his way up the corporate ladder, war broke out. He was wounded in the shoulder early in the Norway Campaign in April 1939, and when he returned to London and the Blitz began, he became an ambulance driver.

  This last piece of information chills my blood. The article confirms what I already know from the photo. Frank Bolton was an ambulance driver – just like Mrs Edwards had said. But… I remind myself sternly, this doesn’t mean that Frank Bolton did anything wrong. On the contrary – he risked his life to save others – he was a hero more than anything.

  The article then talks about his career in ladies underwear. He purchased a disused factory at auction that made thermal underwear, elastic, and RAF uniforms. After the wa
r, Bolton took advantage of new fashion trends and began making ladies’ undergarments and nylon stockings. His unique selling point was the ‘double gusset’, which he used a few racy adverts of hand-drawn pin-up girls to market. In the 1950s there was a new-found focus on luxury goods that the average person could afford. What better than British-made lacy pants?

  I stare at the tiny photo of his first factory. Frank Bolton sounds like a legitimate businessman, who happened to be at the right place at the right time – a kind of Sir Alan Sugar for ladies’ knickers. The article talks about Frank’s marriage – to a pin-up girl named Mabel – and their two sons, Henry and Daniel. There’s a brief mention of the house – Mallow Court – that he purchased, contents and all, in a dilapidated state. It also mentions an adopted daughter, but doesn’t give her name.

  I shut down the website, questions battering my head. Why did Frank Bolton adopt a wartime orphan? Why did Catherine, and not his sons, inherit the house? And then there’s the most pressing question of all: what do I do now?

  Indecision eats away at my brain like acid. I need to see all the diary entries that Mrs Fairchild has received so far. Even if they wouldn’t stand up as ‘proof’ in a court of law, they could make things look bad for Frank Bolton. I need to lay out the whole case in front of me and see what picture it forms. Surely, that’s what Tim, the barrister, would do.

  Tim. My skin crawls as I think of the ‘uninvited guest’ – stalking me from the stockroom – locking me in the downstairs loo. Then, calling the police – or maybe having his gran make the call pretending to be Catherine Fairchild – and having me arrested. Then conveniently turning up just in time to ‘rescue’ me; worming his way into my life with his deep voice, dark eyes, and the sob story about ‘widows and orphans’. What a fool I was to trust him. What a fool I was to trust any man after bloody Xavier!