Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  Part 5

  The strongest of all warriors are these two — Time and Patience.

  ― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

  - XVI -

  1st December 1940

  I’ve done what I’ve done. The bombs keep falling, people keep dying. I go to work each night, swallowing back the same fear over and over again. But there’s a new fear too. Fear of the seeing the light go out in Catherine’s eyes when she looks at me. She… who has become my everything.

  I tracked her down – it wasn’t hard. Most of London’s orphans had been evacuated. I found her in a beast of a place out Essex way. Cold, grey – a building that might benefit from being levelled by a bomb.

  When the matron brought her to me, I wanted to shout that she’d got the wrong girl. I didn’t recognise the dull, sallow skin, the dank yellow hair, the slump in her shoulders. Or the eyes – hollow and haunted. She’d been crying – skinned her knee – so they said, anyway. My fist itched with the urge to punch the matron – and anyone else who helped to put that look on the girl’s face. But instead, I knelt down and brushed the tears from her cheeks. I made the decision then and there – the right decision – and I couldn’t believe I’d wavered even a little…

  I reached into my pocket and touched the heavy silver locket on the chain. As I drew it out, her eyes changed – animating, slowly beginning to glitter with life.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried out, putting one hand to her mouth. She took the locket and held it up to her face and kissed it. ‘You found it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ I ruffled her hair. ‘I found it. And it’s yours always…’ I swallowed back a tear as somewhere inside me, a tiny spark of hope flickered to life, ‘…and I’m yours too – if you’ll have me.’

  *

  I signed the adoption papers and we left the building hand in hand. ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life,’ I said.

  She looked at me with eyes the colour of a summer sky. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for everything.’

  Not everything – I wanted to say, but instead I just squeezed her hand.

  - Chapter 52 -

  I wake up in my bedroom – not the bedroom in my flat in the coach house under the skylight, but my childhood bedroom. I’m lying under the glow-in-the-dark stars that Dad pasted up on the ceiling the summer I turned ten. When I try to turn my head, it feels like cement. Mum is there, sitting in a chair next to the bed reading a novel. A mug of tea is steaming on the bedside table.

  ‘Mum?’ I say groggily.

  ‘Alex! You’re awake!’ She puts down the book and picks up the mug. ‘Here, drink this.’ She holds the cup up to my mouth and I take a tiny sip. ‘It’s builder’s with two teaspoons of sugar,’ she whispers. ‘Dad said I should give you chamomile or lemongrass.’ We both wrinkle our noses. ‘But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

  ‘Thanks Mum.’ I try to sit up but the room spins. ‘And how is…’ my heart seizes with worry, ‘Chris. My umm …’

  She gives me a reassuring smile. ‘He’s fine. So is your grandmother.’ She presses her lips together. ‘I can’t speak for the other one – the one with the gun.’ She shudders. ‘A neighbour – I think her name was Sally Edwards – called the police.’

  ‘She did?’ I add this to the bank of information I’m struggling to process. ‘And how did I get here?’

  ‘Your friend Chris called an ambulance. You were in hospital for two days – they had to operate to remove the bullet in your shoulder.’

  Oh. So that’s why everything hurts.

  ‘If the morphine is wearing off, I can get you another injection. But I insisted that you come home.’ She wipes a sudden tear from her eye. ‘I hate hospitals.’

  ‘Thanks Mum.’ I try to reach for her hand. A sharp pain shoots from my shoulder all the way down my arm. I give right up.

  She reaches out and brushes the hair away from my face. ‘I just can’t tell you how worried I was when they phoned. I thought…’ her voice quivers away to nothing.

  ‘I’m so sorry for putting you through that.’

  ‘I’m just glad it’s over.’ She hesitates. ‘It is over, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I say. ‘And I’ll tell you all about it – it’s quite a story. But right now…’ the stars begin to swirl above me, ‘…I think I need another little sleep.’

  *

  Hours later – or maybe it’s days – I wake up, still in pain, but slightly less hazy. This time, it’s Dad sitting in the chair next to my bed. ‘Alexandra,’ he says solemnly. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like I’ve been shot in the shoulder.’

  He takes my hand in his. ‘Think of the pain as a balled-up fist. Then think of the fist releasing and the pain and tension drifting off into the universe.’ He traces a circle on my palm.

  ‘Um yeah. Are there any more of those painkillers?’

  ‘Yeah sure. They’re around here somewhere.’ With a grin, he rummages in the drawer of the bedside table.

  ‘Did they get him?’ I ask. ‘The man who shot me – Hal Dawkins, aka David Kinshaw?’ Just thinking about the smug look on Hal Dawkins’s face as he levelled the gun in my direction brings a fresh wave of pain to my shoulder.

  Dad chuckles as he takes out a blister of tablets. ‘You wounded him badly enough to put him in A&E. They took him into custody from there. When you’re up to it, they’ll come and take your statement. What was it you stabbed him with? A model Spitfire?’

  I nod.

  ‘Glad to see our good old British planes saved the day again. Did you know, Alex, without people like your friend Miles Pepperharrow, we’d all be speaking German today?’

  I raise an eyebrow at Dad’s uncharacteristic show of patriotism. ‘Or Russian,’ I can’t resist adding.

  ‘Yes, well…’ Dad bows his head a little. He hands me two tablets and a glass of water. As I swallow them, his tanned brow furrows, like he’s trying to figure out if he knows me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I say. ‘About… who I am, you know?’

  To my surprise, he begins to laugh. ‘I guess having a daughter who’s actual royalty is my comeuppance for not telling you about your birth mother. The world works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It sure does,’ I smile. ‘So you’re not… disappointed?’

  He ruffles my hair. ‘How can I be disappointed? To me, you’ll always be the daughter of Rainbow and your mum – not to mention, yours truly.’ He points to his chest. ‘It’s the best combination of nature and nurture I could imagine.’

  I laugh. Humility was never Dad’s strong suit.

  ‘Though…’ he muses, ‘I hear your young man is quite the toff. Not sure I approve of that.’ He smiles.

  ‘Um, but Rainbow was…’ I trail off as the painkillers start to kick in and my eyelids grow heavy.

  ‘Yes, well… come the revolution we’ll all have a lot to account for.’

  *

  In my dream the sky is red, the buildings are black. I look up at the bomber’s moon darkened by arrows of planes flying across. I brace myself for the flash, the earth-shaking blow. But all of a sudden clouds appear, the planes scatter without dropping their deadly cargo. And the rain begins to fall, washing away the sins of the past. Dawn breaks over the horizon and I hear music. Humming; words in a strange language; low and powerful…

  ‘Alex?’

  I blink awake. My grandmother wipes away the tear that’s fallen onto my cheek as she leans over and kisses my forehead.

  ‘Grandmother,’ I say, still groggy. ‘Are you okay?’

  She laughs and cries and smiles, all at the same time. She squeezes my hand like she’ll never let it go. ‘Oh Alex, I’m fine. It’s all over now… isn’t it?’

  A torn piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘Yes, grandmother. It’s over. I… I’m sorry about your “friend” – David.’

  She laughs. ‘Well, as it turns out, he was just too old for me. But when I visit him in jail, I must get the
name of his plastic surgeon for if I ever need a little nip and tuck.’

  I laugh. My good, sunny, happy grandmother. She’s back.

  ‘Also, I had a long chat with Sally Edwards earlier today.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She’s mortified by the whole thing. When her father waltzed back into her life about six months ago, she thought he was Lazarus returned from the dead. Gave her a line about taking care of her, getting to know her and Tim after all these years. But she didn’t tell Tim he’d returned – not until after the incident that put me in the hospital. She asked me to let you know that Tim was as in the dark as the rest of us.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I say noncommittally. ‘But why did Hal come back after all these years? Why now?’

  ‘Turns out he’d made a nice life for himself in the Caymans with his ill-gotten gains. He really was a police inspector there for a time. But he was homesick for England – apparently, and the money was running low. He heard that I was a widow, and a plan formed in his mind.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I say. ‘To think he’s been out there all this time.’

  ‘Anyway, Sally’s come to her senses now. She’s younger than me, you know – though you might not know it to look at her. She wasn’t even born until after her father was sent away. We’re going to meet again for coffee – get to know each other.’ Her face colours. ‘I told her I’d got used to having a man about the place again. She mentioned this new thing they’re doing in London – speed dating. We might give it a try.’

  ‘Speed dating? With Sally Edwards?’

  ‘Well, Alex, I think we’ve all learned that you only live once.’ Her smile fades suddenly. ‘And something tells me, that you may not be at Mallow Court forever – not now that you’ve got yourself a young man.’ She winks.

  ‘I… I don’t know…’

  I think of Mallow Court and the affinity I’ve had since the first moment I came there. It’s only now that the ties of family and history connecting me to the place have become visible. Could I really leave now after all I’ve discovered? I shift in the bed. On the other hand, even if I do move on – now, or in the future – I can take comfort in the fact that those ties will remain, and even if I leave the nest I’ll always be able to fly back again. And although I still don’t feel completely comfortable with my ‘upper crust’ roots, hopefully Chris can help put me at ease.

  Chris… Maybe it’s the morphine, but a vision pops into my head. Him working in this shop taking things apart and putting them back together, me with a little desk set up in the corner doing research and writing articles. Learning more about art and my Russian history. Maybe even travelling there together …

  She brushes her hand over my forehead. ‘You don’t need to figure it out now. Just rest, and get better. You’ve had quite a shock. We all have. But what’s most important now is that we have each other. Family…’

  She takes something out of the pocket of her cardigan. A piece of paper yellowed at the edges.

  ‘What’s that? Another journal entry?’ Alarmed, I try to sit up.

  ‘No.’ She smiles sadly, patting my shoulder. ‘This was inside the clock. Along with… the jewels. I’d like to read it to you.’

  ‘Okay’

  Holding the paper close to her face, she reads:

  My darling Dochka,

  I am penning these lines in haste – so that I may give them to Miles on his leave and he can keep them safe. I no longer trust in anything I do, and will rely on him. He is the best of men, and I love him dearly. He would have been willing to raise you as his own if I had let him. But I know that he is destined for a better life than he could have with me. I am not strong, and my time may be short.

  Your father is a man called Frank Bolton. Also a good man and he was a comfort to me in my loneliness before I met Miles. But I have not told him the truth of you. He would have wanted to ‘do the right’ thing, and would have married me out of obligation and duty, not out of love. And love – of you – is the sole ray of light in this life of mine. And so, we will muddle along, you and I, for as long as the fates – and our enemies – allow.

  Our enemies – ah yes, my darling. I am sorry to tell you that they are many. In another life I was someone else, a princess like in one of your story books, with gowns and jewels and horses and servants. I did not ask for these things, nor did I value them. Above all I valued my father, and my cousins and relations, though I was not ‘officially’ acknowledged as their kin. That hurt, as did the fact that I was never allowed to know my mother. But it hurt less than what came after. There was… so much death.

  I was lucky, or so I was told, to have escaped to this dull, grey island. Miles told me I should seek out my relatives, claim what was rightfully mine. But I didn’t listen. I saw what having such ‘things’ did to my family while the people starved – it got them killed, including my beloved father. But I was too vain and greedy to give up all my treasures. And this has placed our lives at risk.

  There are people seeking me. People from the darkness of that glittering past. So I have remained hidden in the trappings of the simple life of a servant. If I am jumping at shadows, looking over my shoulder, it is to protect you. Because they would not hesitate to take away everything I love…

  And so, little daughter, let me end with the words to the song played by the bird so beloved of you.

  Fly little feather across a field

  And brush away my sorrows.

  Brush the dust from my face

  And turn into my wing.

  Your loving mother… Marina

  She stops reading. We’re both in tears. I pull her close to me and we sob together over poor, troubled Marina, blood of our blood, who, in fleeing one war, came to a tragic end in another.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ I say, when the tears have subsided.

  ‘Don’t be, child.’ She smiles like the first ray of sunlight after a fresh, spring shower. ‘I have a few, small memories of her, and now I have her words.’ She folds the paper. ‘It’s enough. My only regret is that I didn’t meet that lovely old man – Miles Pepperharrow – sooner.’

  ‘You’ve been to see him?’

  ‘Yes. Just after I saw Sally Dawkins. I showed him this letter.’

  ‘It must have meant everything to him.’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiles. ‘It did. I’ve invited him up to the house for tea. He says, he’ll come – next time he “has leave from the RAF”.’

  I laugh. ‘Well, that’s good.’

  She reaches into another pocket. ‘And he gave me this – I think you dropped it in all the kerfuffle.’ She holds up a shiny jewelled locket on a broken silver chain.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad it’s safe!’ I say.

  She stares at it, mesmerised as she flips open the catch and the bird pops out, singing its song, the precious stones on its wings glittering in the light. Then, she closes it again.

  ‘Here.’ She places it in my hand. ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘But are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. All this princess business… well… I’ll leave that to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I grimace. ‘I think.’

  She laughs. ‘Now, you need to get some rest, and I need to get back to my garden. Those roses aren’t going to deadhead themselves.’

  I reach out for her hand at the same time she reaches for mine. She leans in and gives me a kiss, then turns and leaves the room. I fall back on the pillow, exhausted, and close my eyes.

  *

  Once upon a time, on a slow train from London, I had a dream – or a vision maybe – of Tim Edwards in his expensive suit coming up the path to the house in Abbots Langley, drinking tea with Dad in the spiritual garden, and generally, spending an hour in awkward non-conversation that’s painful for both of them. Which is why, hours later – or maybe it’s days – when I manage to prop myself up on my elbows and look out the window into the back garden, my whole body gives an electric jolt as I see who’s there in reality.

  Dad is sitting at t
he responsibly sourced teak table with a Raku cup in one hand and a bottle of Scotch in the other. Across from him is a tall man with dark hair, stretching out his long legs and drinking a beer. I can hear the faint sound of talking and laughing filtering up through the open window.

  I watch for a while, unable to suppress a smile. I’m sure that neither is what the other expected. Eventually, my visitor stands up and he and Dad shake hands, and then Dad gives him a hard pat on the back. My insides fizz as he turns and walks towards the house and out of my field of view.

  Frantically, I try to finger comb my hair and pinch my cheeks to add some colour. Not that I’ve looked in a mirror for days, but I can only imagine how awful I must look. I glance around the room – there’s an old Duran Duran poster up on the wall, next to a print of the Chi Ro page from the Book of Kells. There are a number of photos tacked onto the bulletin board – mostly unflattering family shots of me with big hair and acne. But as footsteps come up the stairs and down the hall to my door, I don’t feel self-conscious at all. I feel happy.

  ‘Alex,’ Chris says, his voice lighting up the deepest corners of my soul. ‘How are you?’ He sweeps over and kisses me gently on the mouth. Ever cell in my body begins to melt.

  ‘I’m… okay,’ I say. ‘Better now that you’re here.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come up to see you sooner. I had some… um… business to conduct.’

  ‘Oh?’ I pretend I didn’t see him talking to Dad. ‘And what might that have been?’

  ‘Well, first I had to convince someone that I’m not some kind of irritating toff. That I’m a down-to-earth-guy. I wore my John Lennon “Imagine” T-shirt just for the occasion.’