Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  ‘That’s a Spitfire.’ Mr Pepperharrow points at the model I’m looking at. ‘Beautiful little plane; handled like a dream with those wings. But she had more than just looks – she was deadly too. She had a 500 mile range, and a powerful Merlin engine. She could reach a top speed of 362 mph. With eight machine guns standard, she could deliver 160 rounds per second.’

  ‘Really?’ Unexpectedly interested, I look at the model plane with a new respect.

  ‘Yes, young lady.’

  If I ever had any questions about the war, people in it, or people who may or may not have lived on Larkspur Gardens during the Blitz, one look around and I have no doubt that I’ve come to the right place. But what am I really looking to find out? The truth, or the version of it that I’m hoping for?

  He sits down in an armchair by the gas fire. He’s wearing plaid pyjamas, and on the collar is pinned a rumpled paper poppy. Winston settles on top of his slippers. ‘Sit anywhere, young lady,’ he says. ‘I’d offer you a cuppa, but my leg’s playing up like the devil today. Maybe if I rest for a minute—’

  ‘Can I get you some tea, Mr Pepperharrow?’ I offer with a smile. ‘I’m sure I can find my way.’

  He peers at me. ‘Yes, if you like. It’s all there in the kitchen.’ He gestures with his shaky hand. ‘Builder’s for me, please.’

  ‘Builder’s it is.’ I leave the room and go off to the kitchen, hoping that with a cuppa in front of him, Mr Pepperharrow will find it harder to turf me out if he doesn’t like my questions.

  The kitchen is small and clean, except for a pile of dishes in the sink. While I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, I squirt some soap on a sponge and give them a good washing up. On the wall near the sink is a calendar. It’s this year’s but the photos are all black and white come-hither pin-up shots of 1940s models: Betty Grable; Jane Russell, Rita Hayworth. I find it vaguely sweet that this probably counts as racy to Mr Pepperharrow.

  I search the cupboard and find teabags and a pack of Hobnobs. I make two mugs of builder’s tea and put the biscuits on a plate. Piling everything on a tray, I go back to the front room.

  Mr Pepperharrow has pulled a tartan rug over his knees, and the gas fire has been turned on – the room is boiling. Winston is snoring softly in doggy dreamland. Mr Pepperharrow is flipping through a new biography of Winston Churchill that I know got good reviews in the Telegraph. When I enter, he sticks a needlepoint bookmark in his place and closes the book. I set the tea and biscuits down on the table next to him. ‘Hobnobs,’ he says, looking surprised and pleased. ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  I sit in the chair opposite him. On the mantle above the gas fire are some family photos. Two boys in military uniforms on the deck of a ship, an old wedding photo of Mr Pepperharrow, and, I assume, his wife. A photo of a young girl – a granddaughter maybe? – hugging a huge Pooh Bear at Disneyland.

  He sees me looking at the photos. ‘Not a great world to bring a family into,’ he says, ‘but me and the missus, may she rest in peace, did it anyway. Two fine sons, three grandchildren. I can’t say I regret it.’

  I smile. ‘You have a lovely family.’

  ‘Family is important,’ he peers at me. ‘It’s the reason why we fight on. And now you’ve come in search of yours.’

  ‘Umm… how did you—?’

  Tilting his head sideways, he studies my face and smiles dreamily. ‘You’re her spitting image,’ he says. ‘Different hair maybe, and clothes, obviously. But the eyes – grey blue with those amber flecks. Not many have those, I reckon.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, flustered. I’m aware of my heart kicking hard beneath my ribs, ‘but who exactly are you talking about?’

  ‘Why, Marina of course.’ He narrows his eyes like I’ve gone thick. ‘The Russian lady. That’s who you came to see me about, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Marina.’ I say the name out loud, letting it settle on my tongue. The Russian lady. Her eyes – the same as mine …

  A cloud of scepticism crosses his face. ‘Who did you say you are again?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I take a sip of tea to hide my flushed face. ‘I’m Alex Hart. I work at Mallow Court – up near Aylesbury. The house is owned by Catherine Fairchild. My grandmother. She’s the adopted daughter of Frank Bolton, if the name means anything.’

  It obviously does mean something. A hundred emotions seem to flare up at once on Mr Pepperharrow’s face. His hand trembles as he sets down his teacup on the table, the liquid sloshing over the rim onto his Churchill biography.

  ‘I know the name,’ he says.

  I’m afraid I’ve said the wrong thing and that he’s going to clam up. I quickly turn tack back to the subject that got me through the door in the first place. ‘I’m here to find out anything you can tell me about Marina. You see, I have something that might have belonged to her – a locket.’

  His sunken eyes grow round and huge. He starts like he’s going to get out of his chair, but his ‘bad leg’ seems to prevent it. ‘You have Marina’s locket? I wondered where it got to.’

  ‘It’s with a specialist right now who’s repairing it. Otherwise I would have brought it with me.’ I shrug apologetically. ‘But I really don’t know anything about Marina – where she came from, who she was, and why my grandmother ended up with her locket. I was hoping you could help me.’

  He stares off as though he’s only half listening. His eyes rest on a clock hanging on the wall between the windows. It’s a simple wooden carriage clock with a white enamel face and brass roman numerals. There’s a brass escutcheon on the case for a winding key. But the clock itself is stopped, the hands pointing to 11:50.

  ‘I told her she shouldn’t be pig-headed. That she had a duty to go to the shelter.’

  ‘Where was the shelter?’ I ask, hoping to get him talking freely.

  ‘At the school,’ he says. ‘They had a deep cellar. The nearest Tube was too far away, of course, so she was supposed to go there. But Lord Stanley had a wine cellar. Marina thought that would be safe enough.’ He bows his head. ‘But she was wrong.’

  ‘The Stanleys? Was she related to them?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He guffaws. ‘They were upper class – lived in the big Georgian house at the top of the road. Marina was the cook. Lived in a tiny room on the lower ground floor just off the kitchen. Suited her, it did.’ He shakes his head. ‘Kept her head down in case anyone came looking for her.’

  ‘Who – who would come looking for her?’

  ‘The Bolshies. Secret police or NKVD.’

  ‘Why would they have been after her?’

  ‘Who knows? She never talked about her time in Russia. Clammed right up.’ He shakes his head. ‘But I think lots of them Russians that came here were at risk. Stalin and his goons weren’t ones to let well enough alone.’ He sighs. ‘I would have protected her, though, if she’d let me.’ His eyes grow vague. ‘She was twice my own age when I met her,’ he says. ‘Forty if she was a day. And with a babe in tow. But even still I fancied her. It wasn’t just that she was a looker – though she was. She also had the voice of an angel. She used to sing the babe to sleep. She had a deep, melodious voice, almost like a cello or a bassoon. Those songs in Russian – they could tear at the heartstrings even if it all sounded like gibberish.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Those songs – the words and melodies buried in the subconscious of an elderly woman who remembers little else about her early life. Mrs Fairchild – my grandmother – is undoubtedly the ‘babe in tow’. ‘And who was the father of the baby?’

  ‘Psshaw,’ he waves a hand. ‘She was a looker like I said. I wasn’t her only admirer.’

  ‘I see. So you don’t know for sure who the father was?’

  He stares at the blue flames. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Please Mr Pepperharrow, I know it’s painful if you had feelings for her. But I really need to know.’ Pieces of the puzzle swirl in my head just waiting to click into place. ‘Was Frank Bolton an ‘admirer’?’


  His grey eyes scan my face. ‘Maybe.’

  - Chapter 31 -

  I sit back and stare into my teacup, finally seeing the truth – it’s the only logical explanation. Frank Bolton didn’t just adopt a little girl with a pretty face – he sought out a very particular orphan.

  ‘He was her father,’ I say. My great-grandfather. A low, deep tremor passes through me. Frank Bolton – whatever the truth is about him – he’s part of who I am.

  Mr Pepperharrow shrugs. ‘Only Marina knew for sure.’

  ‘But you believe it?’

  ‘He adopted her, didn’t he?’ He twiddles his gnarled fingers. ‘I doubt Frank would have done that out of the goodness of his heart.’

  ‘Would you say Frank was – how shall I say this – a good man?’ I can’t quite disguise how desperate I am for him to confirm this, especially now that I know I’m related to him.

  ‘He did his bit. He was in Norway – that was a bad business for all our boys. When he came back, he started working the ambulance crew. Of course…’ he lowers his voice, ‘doing that, he wasn’t risking his life the way those of us of us in the RAF were. I was flying Spitfires.’

  ‘You did an amazing thing for your country,’ I say.

  ‘Oh aye. Not that you kids these days really understand. You’d be speaking German now if it wasn’t for the likes of those who fought.’

  ‘I’m sorry to dredge all this up. I know it must be difficult, even after all this time.’

  ‘I was the one who loved her – Marina, I mean. If she’d survived, and if she would have had me, I could have loved the little poppet too.’

  ‘That’s … lovely.’ A tear wells up in my eye thinking of this man, and my great-grandmother, and his love for her that’s survived all these years.

  Nudging Winston off of his feet, he gets up and hobbles over to the broken clock on the wall. He takes out a pocket handkerchief and gently dusts the case.

  ‘I know a man who could fix that clock for you if you like, Mr Pepperharrow. I’m sure he’d do it for free. In appreciation of your sacrifice.’

  He stares at the clock, his back to me. ‘I don’t want it fixed. Not ever. She gave it to me – told me to keep it safe. So I took it to me mum’s. It’s not valuable, but it’s special because of her. But when I returned from my mission, I found out that she was gone. The Stanley house took a direct hit, they said. The little girl survived. She stayed with Mum for a day or two. By the time I got back, the clock had already run down – there never was a key to wind it. I set the hands at 11:50 – that’s when the bomb hit.’ His eyes glisten with unshed tears. ‘Every time I look at that clock, I think of Marina, and remember.’

  I wipe my eyes, unable to speak.

  ‘Yes, well,’ he says, ‘It was a long time ago – as you say.’ He begins pacing the room. ‘I suppose I should give you the clock if you’re her great-granddaughter.’ His face looks momentarily stricken.

  ‘Please – keep it,’ I say. ‘I can see that you treasure it. It should stay here with you.’

  ‘Thank you, young lady.’ He gazes at me with a sad smile, and I have the feeling that it’s not me he’s seeing, but her.

  I gather together the empty teacups onto a tray. I’m filled to the brim with emotion, but I need to pull myself together. I came here to get information and ask questions, no matter how difficult the answers may be to hear. Focusing on the old man’s face, I take a deep breath. ‘There’s one other thing I wanted to ask you, Mr Pepperharrow. It’s about Frank Bolton – or maybe one of his ambulance driver colleagues. Were you ever aware of any looting going on around here during the Blitz?’

  His eyes narrow, seeming to sink into his face. The thin wrist leaning on his cane begins to tremble. ‘What are you implying, young lady? Back then, it was all about pulling together and keeping a stiff upper lip. We all helped each other; had each other’s back. Don’t they teach you kids about the “Blitz Spirit” these days?’

  ‘They do, sir,’ I say. He staggers back towards the chair and I take his arm to steady him.

  ‘Course there were always gangs,’ he concedes, ‘and kids looking for coins in the gas meters. But I don’t think that’s what you’re talking about, is it?’ He raises an eyebrow in suspicion.

  ‘No. I’m talking about your neighbour’s – Sally Edwards’s – father, Harold Dawkins. He was an ambulance driver accused of looting. He was sent to the front, and died there, I understand.’

  ‘And well he should have.’ He bangs his fist on the Churchill book. ‘Criminals and conchies – disgraceful. When the rest of us were putting our lives on the line night after night.’

  ‘I understand. But was it certain that Mr Dawkins was guilty? It couldn’t have been anyone else?’

  ‘Well, it was mayhem back then – absolute chaos. You have no idea. Oh, I know what they say – looting wasn’t the worst a body could do. It was a good time for criminals – rapists, murders, black marketeers – that’s for certain. Should have shot the lot of ’em, I say.’

  ‘Um, yes. It’s just that Mrs Edwards seems to think that her father was innocent. That they got the wrong man. She found his journal which implies that the looter might have been…’ I hesitate, unwilling to say it out loud, ‘…someone else.’ I take a breath. ‘It would be horrible if there had been a miscarriage of justice.’

  ‘Oh so that’s what this is about is it? You’re a friend of his are you? That young spiv from down the street.’

  I frown. ‘You mean Tim Edwards?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the one.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we’re friends. But it was his grandmother who made the accusations. She showed me a photograph of three men – her father, Frank Bolton and Jeremy Stanley.’

  He nods. ‘One of Rob Copthorne’s photos. Robbo was always skulking around in the darkness, that one. He saw things – oh yes, I know he did.’

  ‘Yes, he must have. Mrs Edwards said that of the three of them, Frank was the looter. I’m sure you can understand that I need to find out the truth – one way or the other.’

  He shakes his head slowly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, girl. I was flying missions. I knew Frank Bolton – didn’t like him much, but that was because of Marina. I had nothing against him otherwise. Jeremy was “out there”,’ he circles his finger next to his ear. ‘He loved his gadgets and his clocks.’ My stomach takes a nosedive at the mention of the word ‘clocks’. ‘I can’t see him stealing anything, unless it was some old junk that nobody else wanted.’

  ‘And Hal Dawkins?’

  ‘I knew him a good long while.’ He considers. ‘Though never well. He was a bit of a glad-hander. A chameleon. Acted like your best friend to your face. But underneath – well… I don’t know.’

  I stand up. ‘Thank you, Mr Pepperharrow, you’ve been very helpful.’ I leave him – in his chair staring at Marina’s clock. I quickly wash up the cups and the biscuit plate and put them away. As I’m about to pop my head back in the front room to say goodbye, I hear the thunking of Mr Pepperharrow’s stick coming towards me.

  ‘Young lady,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say brightly. ‘I’ll just be going now—’

  ‘Everything I did, I did for her – you won’t forget that, will you?’

  I reach out and give his arm a quick squeeze. ‘I won’t forget, Mr Pepperharrow. I promise. And let me know if you change your mind about wanting that clock repaired.’

  - Chapter 32 -

  My meeting with Mr Pepperharrow has left my emotions raw and my mind reeling. As I walk back to the bus stop, I reflect on what I have and haven’t learned. The headline item is that Frank Bolton is most likely Catherine’s real father. My great-grandfather.

  The pieces of the puzzle fit as to why he adopted her, and why he left her – his eldest child – the house. It doesn’t, however, get me much further towards clearing him of the accusations. Or proving who the real looter was.

  And then there’s the mysterious Marina – m
y great-grandmother. The woman with my eyes, who was always looking over her shoulder in fear, yet seemed to have had her fair share of admirers. Who was she, and how did she come to be in possession of the jewelled bird? Mr Pepperharrow had said she was the Stanley’s cook. Could she have been a servant in Russia, stolen the locket from a rich employer and then fled the country? It’s possible, I suppose. But after so long, how can I find out the truth that she tried so hard to keep hidden?

  I take the bus west past Shoreditch and Old Street. I really should go straight home – there’s lots to do before the costume exhibition opens in a few days. But I’m drawn by a strange magnetic force to get off near Chancery Lane and the streets that lead to Chris’s workshop.

  As soon as I get off the bus, it strikes me that I really should call first, or else give him the heads up that his relative is in a photograph with a would-be looter – or might even be the looter himself. Stalling with indecision, I detour into a shop and get a tuna sandwich and a bottle of sparkling water. Instead of venturing towards Hatton Garden, I walk all the way up to Holborn and up a side street to Red Lion Square. I survey the benches, finally finding one with a small, bird-poop-free area. I sit down and unwrap my sandwich.

  ‘Alex? Is that you?’

  I look up, squinting at the tall figure silhouetted dark against the late afternoon sun. My eyes swim like I’m seeing a mirage.

  ‘Chris?’ An unexpected warmth washes through my body, purging everything except the here and now.

  ‘I’m surprised to run into you here.’ He smiles warmly.

  ‘Yes, well – I was just on my way to see you actually.’ I blink my eyes, coming to the unpleasant realisation that Chris is not alone. Standing next to him, looking bored as she checks the screen of her phone, is a woman. A very attractive woman with long blonde hair, cat-shaped green eyes, and a glossy pink pout. ‘Um, I was just having a sandwich.’