Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  But I want to tell him; confide in him. It doesn’t matter who his father is, or what schools he went to or what car he drives. As far as I know, he hasn’t judged me on those things. It’s me who hasn’t looked beyond what’s in a name, to the person that my instinct says he is. A good person. Someone that I’m going to trust.

  He sits in silence waiting for me to continue. That in itself says a lot. Having made the decision to tell him everything, I struggle only with figuring out where to begin.

  ‘Someone is out to hurt Mrs Fairchild,’ I say. ‘My grandmother.’

  It’s like a floodgate has opened. I start by telling him how my parents hid the truth about my birth mother and grandmother from me. ‘It was done for noble reasons,’ I say, ‘but the revelation knocked me for six. I’m still getting to grips with it.’

  He listens intently to my story, his face occasionally slipping into a frown.

  ‘And now,’ I continue, ‘she’s been receiving anonymous letters. Diary entries from back during the war.’

  ‘Whose diary?’ he asks.

  ‘The diary of a man called Hal Dawkins. He was an ambulance driver, along with her adoptive father, Frank Bolton. Hal Dawkins pulled Catherine out of the wreckage during the Blitz.’ With an embarrassed sigh, I proceed to tell him about Tim – leaving out certain salient details such as my erstwhile attraction to him, and the kiss that had once seemed promising – and meeting his vindictive gran.

  ‘So this Tim person brought you to this woman under false pretences?’

  Somehow in the safety of his presence, I’m able to laugh about it for the first time. ‘It was unbelievably awful,’ I say. ‘It was like…’ I hesitate as a wicked thought enters my brain, ‘like you introducing me to your dad and him realising that I’m the “little nobody” who ruined his daughter’s wedding.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he laughs awkwardly. ‘I get it.’

  ‘She genuinely feels aggrieved – and if what she said was true, then I can understand why. But in any case, I was completely ambushed.’ I shake my head. ‘And Tim claimed afterwards that he didn’t know what she intended to say. He had a good story – for all of it. But the fact is – he admitted that she sent the diary entries to Mrs Fairchild. I can’t get around that, can I?’

  His pale eyes cloud with concern. ‘I’d stay away from this Tim character – and his gran – if I was you.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m going to.’

  ‘But what exactly is she claiming?’

  ‘She says that her father was framed for looting – a crime for which he paid the ultimate price.’

  ‘But how does that implicate Frank Bolton?’

  ‘She says that he was the real looter – and that the diary entries prove it. She said that Frank Bolton was the one who gave trumped-up evidence against Hal Dawkins – got him arrested.’

  ‘Whew,’ Chris whistles. ‘Quite a business.’

  ‘Yes.’ It’s as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I sense that my troubles are in safe hands – skilled hands – that can make sense of the most delicate and complex machinery; hands that can make a long mute mechanical bird begin to sing again. What had he told me that time in his workshop? ‘I take things apart and put them back together again.’ It’s my turn to sit back, while he mulls over the information.

  ‘It’s a fascinating story,’ he says finally, ‘and tragic, no doubt. But there are lots of gaps, and, it would seem, very little proof. We need to figure out where we can find more clues.’

  My mind processes the crucial word: we. He’s going to help me. I don’t have to do this alone.

  ‘I agree.’ I smile broadly. ‘But I’m not quite sure what to do next.’

  ‘I’ve got a few ideas.’ He pushes back his chair and stands up. ‘Like for starters, I think we need another pot of that delicious coffee.’

  *

  Time seems suspended as we sit at the table, drinking coffee and eating scones, bandying about theories and strategies. The tea shop becomes more and more crowded as lunchtime approaches, but only a small part of me is even aware that an outside world exists. The conversation gradually becomes a general ‘getting-to-know-you’ chat about our lives. When he asks, I tell him about my background – my dad, and my mum. The chip on my shoulder shrinks. Chris is fascinated by my dad’s dual penchant for yoga and Karl Marx.

  ‘He sounds totally unique,’ he says, smiling. ‘Which is so rare these days.’

  ‘He’s that, all right,’ I say. ‘What about your family?’

  His grin fades. ‘I’ve never had the best relationship with my father.’ He slits open a scone, spreads the butter, and closes it up again before taking a bite. ‘Even as a boy. The fact that I liked to take things apart and fix them drove him to distraction.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ I shudder to recall my own limited acquaintance with ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley.

  ‘He might not have minded if I’d been interested in racing cars, or yachts, or airplanes – something that was – in his eyes, at least – more impressive, and more practical.’

  ‘Oh, much more!’

  ‘But clocks…’ he grimaces. ‘That went down like a lead balloon. He never cared much for my mum’s family. But I got on with them. Great-grandpa Jeremy was a real clockmaker – not just a repairman like me. He taught me everything I know.’

  I mull this over. ‘I don’t see why your father isn’t pleased. I mean, you repair and value antiques and your workshop is right behind the auctioneers.’

  ‘As you can probably imagine, Dad did try to get me interested in the family business. But for him, it’s not about the art and antiques. It’s about our fees. He could care less what comes and goes through our doors.’

  ‘But that can’t be completely true. Surely a lot of checking must go on – for the artworks at least. To make sure they’re authentic.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Provenance is all important. It’s the foundation of our sterling reputation. Without that reputation, we couldn’t attract the big buyers and sellers. But in our case, we keep our fees slightly lower than the competition – your Christie’s and Sotheby’s and the like – by not doing our own in-house research. I guess you could say, we maintain our standards by only accepting the best – pieces with genuine, untarnished provenance.’

  ‘Unlike the jewelled bird,’ I say.

  ‘Well…’ he spreads his hands. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s a family heirloom anyway. Mrs Fairchild said that she would have passed it to her daughter – my birth mother. But instead, she’s given it to me.’

  ‘Really? That’s great. It’s a fascinating piece – an incredible work of mechanical art. Much more interesting – in my opinion, at least – than your average Chippendale dining set or old master painting.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I’m here aren’t I?’ His pale eyes gleam with amusement.

  ‘And here I thought you were just seeking the pleasure of my company.’

  ‘And if I was, would that be… out of order?’ His eyes lock with mine. I stare into their crystalline blue. For an instant, I’m transported away, to a magical place where the sun is shining, and I’m stretched out, warm and languid; utterly at peace. A hand reaches out and touches my skin. Every cell in my body seems to open up like a flower. I blink back to reality. Chris has leaned across the table and taken my hand, stroking it with a touch so light that I’m sure I’m imagining it. Almost – except for the shimmering sensation drifting through my entire body.

  I put all my effort into remembering how to speak. ‘I… um… what was the question?’ are the only words I can find.

  The moment is shattered by the ringing of a phone. It takes me a good long second to realise that it’s my phone, squawking in the pocket of my jacket. I grapple for it, hoping it rings off. It doesn’t. I’m aware of Chris watching me as I check the screen. Tim Edwards. Of all the blasted inconvenient times…

  I press mute. Chris shift
s in his chair. ‘I really should be going—’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to go. We could…’ I struggle to think what it is that normal people do. People who like each other – a lot. At least, that’s how it is on my side. There’s no point in trying to pretend anymore that my interest is purely casual – or professional. ‘Go for a walk,’ I venture. ‘In the garden. It’s a lovely—’

  The phone rings again cutting me off.

  ‘Damn it,’ I mutter.

  ‘Go ahead.’ He sips the last of his coffee.

  With a reluctant sigh, I answer. ‘Yes?’ I say, curtly.

  ‘Alex…’ Tim purrs, his voice deep. But instead of vibrating strings deep inside me, this time, I just feel annoyed. ‘I wanted to check how you’re doing.’

  ‘Fine. I’m fine.’ I glance up at Chris. He’s taken out a mobile phone and is scrolling through his text messages.

  ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Can we go for a drink? I’ve read through the diary. What’s there anyway. Some pages are torn out at the end.’

  ‘Torn out?’ I feel like I’m being led on a merry dance.

  ‘Yeah. I asked Gran. She doesn’t know anything about it. But I’m trying to find out more.’

  ‘Please don’t bother.’ A sense of disquiet rises inside me. ‘We’ll never know the truth of what happened back then. I’m sorry for what happened to your gran’s father, really I am. It’s so tragic. But right now, I need to focus on my family. We need to put this whole thing behind us and move on.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Alex?’ His voice holds a veiled threat. I can sense his face morphing into something ugly at the other end of the phone. ‘Sure you can put it all behind you just like that?’

  ‘Well, if you’ve read the diary and there’s anything else to say, then maybe you can send me an email.’

  ‘No – I want to see you. I thought that we were… that we had…’

  Sensing that I need ‘rescuing’, Chris clears his throat loudly.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Tim says.

  ‘I’m just about to start a tour,’ I lie. ‘So actually, I have to go. Bye Tim.’ I press the button to hang up and sit back in the chair, feeling shaken.

  Chris puts away his phone, looking concerned. ‘Are you okay, Alex?’ he says.

  I’m about to say I’m fine but then I catch myself. I’m not fine. Why should I lie and say otherwise?

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to let sleeping dogs lie,’ I say. ‘If word gets out about Frank Bolton being a criminal… I don’t know what my grandmother will do.’

  ‘But surely, that kind of thing just adds colour to this place.’

  ‘She won’t see it that way – nor do I.’

  ‘I understand.’ He nods ‘So we’re back full circle – how do we find out the truth about Frank Bolton?’

  ‘Well, there’s another man in the photograph Tim’s gran showed me. It was Frank Bolton, Hal Dawkins, and someone else. The three of them are in another photo I found here in the house. There are some names written on the back. “Robert Copthorne” – he’s the photographer, I think. And then “Flea”, “Badger”, and “Spider”.’

  ‘“Flea,” “Badger”, and “Spider”? How odd.’

  ‘I’m guessing they were nicknames.’

  Chris frowns. ‘Can I see the photo?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We get up together and he takes our tray to the counter. I’m only half aware of the noise in the café, and the fact that Adele and Chloe are giving me ‘thumbs up’ gestures. The other half of me is aware of Chris’s solid presence as he follows me down the corridor and through a door in the panelling that leads to another corridor.

  ‘I’d like to see more of the house,’ he says as we walk. ‘It seems so quirky – if that’s the right word.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Though not today, I’m afraid. I’m due back in London. There’s an auction of nautical timepieces coming up and the catalogue is due at the printers tomorrow. I’ve still got a couple of pieces to have a look at.’

  ‘Sure.’ I enjoy thinking about Chris in his workshop taking apart clocks and putting them back together. Though, somewhat less if it’s connected with his father’s auction house. ‘This won’t take a moment. It’s just in here.’

  I take down the rope across the door and usher him into the green drawing room. Although he’s undoubtedly grown up in a lovely house – or houses – I’m still pleased when he lets out a low whistle.

  ‘What a lovely, cosy room.’

  ‘It is. My grandmother loves the light in here. And…’ I raise an eyebrow, ‘looking at the photos of her father.’

  ‘Quite the shrine to Frank Bolton,’ Chris agrees.

  I go over to the table where I left the photo and am disturbed to find that it isn’t there.

  ‘I left it here,’ I say. ‘Someone’s moved it.’ My grandmother? I haven’t seen her this morning, but then again, I’ve been otherwise occupied. I search the room but don’t find the photograph anywhere. Part of me wonders whether this is the work of the ‘uninvited guest’. The fact that I’m certain Tim couldn’t have anything to do with taking the photograph doesn’t make me feel much better. Maybe I’m just going mad. ‘I’m sorry.’ I look miserably at Chris. ‘I swear it was here yesterday.’

  ‘No worries,’ he says. He checks the black plastic Swatch on his wrist. ‘I really should be off now – you don’t mind, do you?’

  I do mind – more than I’d like to admit. But of course I don’t say so. Instead I smile and assure him that it was lovely meeting up with him and that I hope he will indeed come round for a proper tour of the house.

  ‘I will.’ He smiles in a searching way that makes me blush.

  ‘Great.’

  I lead the way out of the green drawing room and into the corridor that leads to the great hall. The guide on duty at the front door raises a questioning eyebrow at me as we go past.

  Chris stops and examines the carving on the panelling next to the front door. ‘Amazing place,’ he says. ‘You’re very lucky.’

  ‘Yes.’ I grin. ‘Yes I am.’

  Outside the door, he stops, looking confused. ‘I’m in the overflow car park,’ he says. ‘Which way is that?’

  I point to the path that leads to the car parks.

  ‘Ah, I remember now,’ he says. I can tell he’s lingering. ‘I’ll call you,’ he says. ‘We can arrange things – and let me know if you find that photo.’

  ‘I will.’ I step forward a fraction. The air crackles between us. A family with two small children and a pram come up the path from the car park, chatting and laughing noisily. A moment later, the guide is outside waiting to greet them. The moment passes.

  ‘Goodbye, Alex.’ Chris turns and walks off down the path.

  *

  I watch as he drives away – instead of a swish Aston Martin or Jaguar, he’s driving a sensible blue Rav4. My eyes follow the thin trail of exhaust as the car disappears through the front gates. If I’m honest, I was hoping that he would kiss me. But how can I want that when only days ago, I thought I was falling for Tim Edwards? Now, the very idea makes me shudder. What was I thinking?

  I’m forced to put everything aside and give an impromptu tour to a family and a few other people who arrive practically at the same time. As I give my spiel about the house, the other puzzling issues come back to the fore. Where is the photo I found earlier? Did Mrs Fairchild take it – of course, she must have. No big mystery.

  ‘…and I was just wondering if you knew what year they installed the indoor toilet?’ a woman on the tour is saying.

  ‘Oh yes…’ I wrench myself back to reality. ‘It was 1945, the year Frank Bolton renovated the house. He and his wife Mabel couldn’t stand the idea of “roughing it” in their own home.’

  ‘It’s a very lovely house,’ the woman says. ‘Frank Bolton sure was lucky.’

  ‘Yes, lucky,’ I say. ‘That’s certainly one word for it.’

  Part
4

  We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.

  ― Winston Churchill

  - IX -

  13th November 1940 – 3:50 a.m.

  ‘I’ve seen them cut the fingers off a dead woman to get her diamond rings.’ Robbo took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Or they’ll find a dying bloke and “help him on his way”, then take his wallet and watch.’ He shrugged. ‘Happens a lot.’

  ‘But it’s criminal!’ His account made me feel unclean. I touched the trinket in my pocket, fiddling with it nervously. I knew I planned to give it back, but right now, someone could easily misinterpret what I’d done.

  ‘It’s war,’ Robbo replied.

  ‘That doesn’t make it right.’

  He blew out a ring of smoke. ‘I’ve seen a lot of wars in a lot of places. I’ve seen acts of amazing courage and self-sacrifice – just like the posters say. But I’ve also seen it bring out the worst in people. Things happen in the dark, in the chaos.’ He spreads his hands. ‘It’s survival of the fittest. And everything has a price.’

  ‘And what do you do about it – these things that you’ve seen? In the dark, and the chaos – when you’re holding your camera. Do you just stand there?’

  He met my glare unflinching. ‘I don’t hand out medals, and I don’t put people in jail. You can judge me for that if you want. I bear witness – through my camera. You may think that’s not important. And you may be right…’ He stubbed out the cigarette on the table. ‘In fifty or a hundred years, I won’t be around to know one way or the other. Neither will you.’