Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  ‘We were about to grab a coffee. Would you like to join us? Greta knows a nice little hole in the wall just around the corner.

  ‘Greta.’ My voice sounds like fingernails on a blackboard. ‘Um, hi, nice to meet you. I’m Alex.’

  Barely looking up from the screen of her phone, Greta suddenly grabs Chris by the arm, completely blanking me. ‘Look,’ she points to the screen. ‘Can you believe it? Charles Snodford paid triple the estimate for that Chippendale dining set.’

  Chris leans his head down to her level and laughs. ‘I thought he was supposed to be downsizing?’

  ‘I’d better be going.’ I stand up, my sandwich feeling like a rock in my stomach. ‘Must get the next train. It was nice to meet you, Greta.’

  ‘Yes.’ Greta smiles – at Chris, not at me.

  What is it about lithesome young blondes being attracted to an eccentric clockmaker with a penchant for vintage band T-shirts and faded jeans? My eyes accidently wander downwards towards the latter. As gangly as he looks from a distance, up close, he’s a solid, very attractive man. I feel a spark shoot down my body. My eyes meet his pale blue ones and I blush.

  He steps forward, freeing his arm from Greta’s crimson claws. ‘There’s a big sale going on at the auction house – Greta’s one of the handlers. One of Dad’s best clients is supposed to be downsizing, and he’s seriously bidding on everything.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, glad to be let in on the joke.

  ‘Listen, Gret,’ he says. ‘Alex doesn’t get down to London that often, and we’ve got some things to discuss. In private.’ He takes out a thin wallet and peels off a ten. ‘But get yourself a coffee, okay?’

  Greta looks at me with daggers in her eyes. I stare right back at her. Chris watches me, and I have an uncomfortable feeling that he’s perfectly aware of what’s going on.

  Greta takes the money in her talons. ‘Whatever,’ she shrugs. ‘Maybe we can grab dinner later.’

  As she clicks off in her high heels, I suddenly feel annoyed and wish I’d never come. ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I say. ‘She’s clearly very taken with you.’

  He laughs and murmurs something in a voice so soft that I have to lean closer to catch the words. ‘She and I won’t be having dinner,’ is what he says. His breath ruffles the hair by my ears, his lips so close to my skin that I think it must be an accident. I look straight ahead and smile.

  *

  When we reach the door to his workshop, the chiming clocks bring me back down to earth. He goes in before me to one of the tiny rooms off the corridor – a little kitchen. ‘Coffee?’ he says.

  ‘That’d be great.’ While he’s boiling the kettle, I recount my meeting with Mr Pepperharrow. We chat for a few minutes about the books and the model spitfires. Then, Chris hands me my mug of coffee and I follow him into the Aladdin’s cave of his workshop, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light. He pulls up a chair for me at his worktable. I tell him about ‘Marina’ and what Mr Pepperharrow said about her, leaving out one crucial fact – who she worked for.

  ‘So Mrs Fairchild really is Frank Bolton’s daughter?’ He immediately grasps the nettle.

  ‘It explains a lot,’ I say. ‘Like why he adopted her and why he left her the house.’

  ‘Yes.’ Chris sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers. ‘It would seem so.’

  I lean forward. ‘But there’s one more thing you should know, Chris. It’s about that photograph – the one I couldn’t find.’

  ‘The one of Frank and two other men? Did it turn up?’

  ‘Not yet. But I asked Mrs Fairchild about it. She knew who the third man was.’ I take a breath. ‘He was called Jeremy Stanley.’

  Across the table, his pale blue eyes widen like pools. I feel a sudden shift in the air between us. I suddenly wish that I could rewind the clock by thirty seconds; a minute. Take everything back.

  ‘Jeremy Stanley is my great-grandfather. The original clockmaker.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes sharpen. ‘You knew?’

  ‘I didn’t know the exact connection. But Mrs Fairchild told me that he’s a relation of the Heath-Churchleys. And Mr Pepperharrow mentioned clocks.’

  ‘Jeremy Stanley is my mum’s grandfather. My great grandfather.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It looks like you have a new suspect,’ he says soberly.

  ‘Really, Chris. I had no idea. It’s such… I don’t know – a coincidence. And I, for one, don’t believe in coincidence.’

  He shakes his head. ‘But we both know it’s not a coincidence, don’t we? My great-grandfather and Frank Bolton were good friends.’

  ‘No – I mean, you can’t assume that just because they’re in a photo together. It was probably something to do with the ambulance brigade, or some kind of group they belonged to. Something blokey – with nicknames.’

  His eyes are opaque as he stares past me at the row of grandfather clocks. ‘It’s not because of the photo. They were long-time friends. Didn’t Mrs Fairchild tell you that?’

  ‘Sort of…’ My voice wavers.

  ‘That’s the reason Cee-Cee was having her wedding at Mallow Court. Daddy arranged it with Mrs Fairchild.’

  ‘No,’ I clarify, now on more solid ground. ‘That’s not right. Cee-Cee and her fiancé came to a wedding fair. I remember, because it was the first one we ever held, and I was so determined to get everything right. I met each of the couples individually.’ I smile faintly. ‘Cee-Cee complained about the venue – the great hall was too small; there wasn’t enough accommodation for all of her guests; the ceiling on the marquee was too low…’ I wave my hand, ‘and that’s before she even looked at the catering options.’ I wince at the memory. ‘If I’m honest, she kind of knocked the stuffing out of me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Chris says. A hint of a twinkle has returned to his eye at my description of his half-sister. ‘She can be like that. She had her heart set on the Orangery at Blenheim Palace. That was where the first wedding was to have been held. For the second one, my father convinced her to have it at Mallow Court. He knew Catherine was trying to get the wedding business off the ground and that he could muck in. Dad may be many things, but he does honour family connections.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look away, feeling unexpectedly hurt.

  ‘So where does that leave us with Jeremy Stanley?’

  I wrest myself back to the present – or, in this case – the past of sixty years ago. ‘All I know is little titbits. Apparently he was Frank Bolton’s business partner for a short time after the war. Your great-grandfather and mine were both into ladies knickers it would seem.’ I give a hollow laugh.

  Chris doesn’t smile.

  ‘But your great-grandfather wasn’t really a businessman so he sold Frank his interest.’

  ‘My great-grandfather was a clockmaker. I don’t see how he could have invested any money in Frank’s factory. The big house on Larkspur Gardens was destroyed, as was his shop. His father, Lord Stanley, was in banking – and that took a big hit during the war too. After the war, my great-grandfather was skint. It was the Heath-Churchleys who were wealthy. They were family friends all along, but it wasn’t until his daughter married, and then his granddaughter – my mum – married Charles Heath-Churchley that the Stanley fortunes were in any way revived.’

  I’m aware of the hurt in his voice; the worry that his beloved great-grandfather might not have been the man he thought. Though in this case, I guess he’ll just have to join the club.

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest any wrongdoing on his part,’ I say, trying to reassure him. ‘And I may as well tell you the other thing too.’

  ‘What, there’s more?’

  It’s like an impenetrable wall has come between us.

  ‘My great-grandmother – the Russian woman – was a cook for the Stanleys. She died when their house was hit by the bomb. Her name was Marina.’

  ‘Marina.’ He speaks the name quietly, drooping his head. And at that moment, I real
ise with a stab of despair that whatever there might have been between us – unless that was all my imagination too – is now at an end. I’ve cast new aspersions on – in his Dad’s words – ‘one of the nation’s oldest, proudest families’. Christopher Heath-Churchley may be a black sheep… but he’s still a sheep.

  ‘I should go now,’ I say, drinking down the last of my coffee. ‘I’ve got a lot to do for the costume exhibition. It’s opening in a few days. I hope maybe you’ll come and see it.’

  He nods noncommittally.

  I stand up, wanting to reach out to him. But I’m too afraid – the gap between us has grown too wide.

  ‘I should give you back the locket and the key,’ he says, his voice low.

  Before I can respond, he turns and goes through the door to the auction house. He’s gone several minutes. I look around a final time, my heart welling up with sadness.

  He returns with the velvet bag and a copy of the receipt. ‘Please sign here that I returned your property,’ he says, not looking at me.

  I do so in silence, no longer taking any pleasure in the description of the item written on it – ‘jewelled bird mechanical locket, possibly Russian’ – that had once been filled with such promise. I tuck the velvet bag in my pocket.

  ‘Okay, well, thanks for the coffee – and… um… everything.’ It’s difficult to keep my voice from breaking. I smile awkwardly and walk down the corridor to the door. A black despair seeps into my bones. Is he not even going to say goodbye?

  Turning back, I find that he’s there behind me. We stand a foot apart, me looking up and him looking down.

  ‘I suppose I should try to find out exactly what my great-grandfather did during the war.’ His voice catches. ‘I mean, I really ought to know, shouldn’t I?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, Chris. None of us could have foreseen this. I’ve lived my whole life without knowing who my real mother was, let alone what any of my relatives did during the war.’

  He leans forward and takes hold of my arms. I’m hyperaware of every elemental particle in my body orienting itself towards him like a magnet. The incandescent heat radiating between our skin as his face comes close to mine, the delicious sharpness of his stubble on my cheek. And then his lips as they mould to mine, soft, exploratory… wanting. And I long to disappear inside of him; give in to the rushing sensation that wants to sweep me away. My body wants to stay here, in this new alignment, this unexpected half of the same whole. But the clocks speed on relentlessly.

  ‘Goodbye, Alex,’ he whispers. He brushes his long fingers gently through my hair, then turns away and disappears back inside the workshop.

  I stand in the loading bay of the auction house, willing the ghost of him to become flesh. For all this to be over – or maybe never to have begun – because right now, it’s as if the wheels and cogs of the earth have ground to a juddering halt, and all I can feel is the loss of him. Our moment was sweet and beautiful, and, I’m certain, never to be repeated.

  A tear leaks from my eye as I turn back towards Hatton Garden. The Clockmaker’s kiss still lingers on my lips and in my memory. As does the finality of his ‘goodbye’.

  - Chapter 33 -

  On the train home, I grip the velvet bag in my pocket, and settle into a deep state of mourning. Maybe I was deluded into thinking that Chris and I might have had something… a future, even. But now, a long-buried past has inserted a wedge between us. I wish I could snip Jeremy Stanley out of that photograph, and remove him from the fabric of that time. But of course that’s silly and pointless. It’s even more imperative now that I find out the truth once and for all so that everyone concerned can put the past firmly where it belongs – in the past.

  When I arrive home from the station, I go straight up to my flat. I know I need to speak to my grandmother, but right now, I want to be alone. As soon as I enter, I that sense something is different – a very slight, almost imperceptible scent that I don’t recognise.

  In the sitting room everything is just as it was – books on the shelves, a few spread out on the table. My pictures, my sofa, the TV. The kitchen is also just the same.

  At the door of the bedroom, I stop, my heart quickening. My bed is rumpled and unmade – just like I left it – but propped up on the pillow is a photograph in a silver frame. A photograph of three men linking arms: ‘Flea’, ‘Badger’, ‘Spider’.

  I run back out to the sitting room and grab a poker from the fireplace. Holding it before me, I check the flat: the cupboards, behind the door, under the bed. My chest pounds with panic as I check behind the shower curtain. No one.

  Setting down the poker, I return to the bedroom. I pick up the photograph, turning it over in my hands. There’s no message from the ‘uninvited guest’ – other than the fact that he’s been here. That message is loud and clear.

  The idea that someone has violated the sanctuary of my flat makes me feel unclean and uneasy. Instead of remaining, I go over to the main house and just manage to catch Edith on her way out. I ask her if there have been any suspicious goings-on – without telling her what has happened. She assures me that everything has been going smoothly in my absence, and tells me that Mrs Fairchild has gone out for dinner with her ‘friend’, David.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I say. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  I spend the evening alone in the main house doing the final preparations for the costume exhibition due to open in now only two day’s time. If there are any intruders lurking in nooks and crannies while I’m there, they graciously remain hidden.

  Around ten o’clock, my grandmother returns home. I’ve left the lights on in the great hall to alert her to my presence, and I call out to her so she’s not startled.

  ‘Oh, hello, Alex,’ she says. ‘Burning the midnight oil, I see.’

  ‘I want everything to be perfect for the grand opening,’ I say. ‘Did you have a good evening?’

  Her cheeks flush like bright apples. ‘Yes, thanks. We had a lovely dinner at a new Italian restaurant in Oxford.’

  ‘Nice,’ I say.

  My grandmother yawns. ‘It was, but I had a few glasses of wine. I probably should be getting off to bed.’

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Well, I suppose.’

  She follows me down the dimly lit corridor to the staff kitchen, our footsteps making the old floorboards creak grumpily. I can tell she’s tired, so I put the kettle on and immediately get down to business.

  ‘I found the missing photograph,’ I say. ‘Someone left it on my pillow.’

  ‘On your…’ She raises a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Alex. You mean they came into your flat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She purses her lips. ‘Do you think we should call the police?’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll take it seriously, and besides, we do have the security company. Maybe I should get an alarm put in over at the coach house.’

  ‘Yes, do that. I don’t like the idea of someone lurking around.’

  ‘Me either, but so far it’s only been mischief.’ Even to me the words sound lame and unconvincing.

  ‘Hmm … maybe.’

  I make us both a cup of tea and sit down opposite her at the table. She seems pensive, staring down at the liquid in the cup before taking a sip.

  ‘I went to London today,’ I say. Now seems as good a time as any to broach the other subject.

  ‘Oh? Is this about the locket again?’

  ‘Indirectly. Have you ever heard of a man called Miles Pepperharrow? He’s a neighbour of Sally Dawkins.’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He’s been living on Larkspur Gardens all his life. He remembers you and…’ I pause, ‘your mother.’

  ‘My mother?’ This time, the cup doesn’t make it to her mouth. She clatters it down on the saucer.

  I take a breath and continue on. ‘According to him, there was a big Georgian house at the top of the road owned by Lord Stanley – Jeremy Stanl
ey’s father. They had a Russian cook who lived in a room off the kitchen. Her name was Marina.’

  ‘Marina. The name was in the diary. She was…’

  ‘Mamochka,’ I say.

  ‘Marina,’ she repeats, lost in a memory.

  ‘He couldn’t tell me much.’ I say. ‘Just that she was very beautiful.’ I smile. ‘I think he was a little in love with her.’

  ‘That’s nice to know, I suppose.’ Her face is soft and dreamy.

  ‘But there was one other thing. He didn’t have any proof, of course, but according to him, Frank Bolton was your real father.’

  ‘My real…’ She folds her hands in her lap, staring down at her cup.

  I wait in silence for almost a minute while she tries to process what I’ve told her.

  Finally, she looks up. ‘Well, that would explain a thing or two, I suppose. The questions you were asking about why he adopted me, and why he left me the house. Though,’ she frowns, ‘why didn’t he tell me the truth?’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t know himself? Maybe Marina didn’t tell him.’

  ‘Even if what you say is true, and he is my… real father… I’m not sure that it changes much.’ Her sudden radiant smile belies her words.

  ‘No. But I thought you should know.’

  She takes her half-empty cup over to the sink and washes it out.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ she says, her back to me. ‘It… well, it really shouldn’t matter after all these years. But somehow… it does.’ She turns to me then, and holds out her arms. I go into them and she hugs me tightly. ‘But I suppose that you, Alex, more than anyone, know how it feels to find your family at last.’

  ‘I do, Grandmother.’ I kiss her cheek. ‘I know exactly.’

  - X -

  13th November 1940 – 5:30 a.m.

  ‘Badger,’ Spider said, his cut-glass vowels strangling from his mouth.

  I knew I should comfort him, but I stayed in my chair, paralysed.

  ‘Everything is gone,’ he said. ‘The house… everything.’ His shoulders drooped. ‘But there’s worse. There was a servant. She didn’t survive.’