Paul must have continued to mull over the matter of Sylvia`s inheritance, for he came up with a useful suggestion. `Do you think the Harland Venture might know where Eleanor Franks is?`
`Why would they?`
`More than likely they won`t. But seeing Harland`s and the Franks family are joint beneficiaries of Tom`s Will, it`s just possible there might be some other connection between them as well. Isn`t it worth a try?`
The prospect of solving the mystery was tempting, with only one drawback. `I can`t. I`ve lost the piece of paper you gave me, with the phone-number on, so I can`t ring them up, and there wasn`t an address on it, so I don`t know where they are.`
`Your solicitor does,` Paul reminded her. `I let him have the phone-number as soon as I heard from them. He`d have had to let them know they`d not be getting any more monthly payments, so he`ll know how he got in touch with them.`
After so many setbacks, Sylvia could not believe matters could be so simply resolved. `What if he won`t tell me? Aren`t lawyers confidential – you know, like doctors and priests?`
`In that case, ask him if he`ll write to them himself and make enquiries. That wouldn`t involve him in breaking any confidences, so he surely won`t have any objection.`
Paul was right – there was no objection, simply no point. `I thought of that as soon as your son-in-law gave me their phone-number, but the money was paid to them by Bank Transfer, and acknowledged by e-mail,` Mr. Holmes explained. `They insist they don`t know Daniel Franks at all, and in view of that, I can`t think they would know his mother. I could ask, though, if you like.`
`Please do. I know it`s a long shot. I`m not even sure if she is his mother – she could be some other relation, or none at all. It`s just with the name being the same.`
The Harland Venture replied promptly, their letter a masterpiece of tactfully-suppressed irritation:
"As stated in our response to your previous enquiry, we know nothing of the whereabouts of Daniel Franks, and therefore nothing concerning his mother.
Since your own client is unable to furnish any information as to where or how they might be contacted, and Mr. Franks is not a client of ours, we must respectfully point out that there is nothing further we can do to assist you in this matter, and would suggest that your enquiries might be pursued more fruitfully elsewhere."
`That`s telling us straight,` Mr. Holmes apologised, closing the folder of documents germane to the settlement of Tom`s estate. `I`m sorry, Mrs. Brandon, but it looks like the end of the line. If you want to push it any further, you`d be best-off getting in touch with Harland`s yourself. Every time we send a letter or make a phone-call on your behalf, it costs you.`
Sylvia spread her hands in exasperation. `Even if they don`t know anything, somebody must. Surely all the Franks family can`t be friendless orphans. Have you any idea who else I could ask, or where I could go to get information?`
`It`s difficult. None of the Government agencies – tax, national insurance and suchlike - would be willing to give you her address. The police won`t look for her unless she`s either committed a crime, or been the victim of one. Even if you knew her doctor, solicitor or bank, they wouldn`t give you details of where she lives either. You could try advertising, as your son-in-law did to find the Harland Venture. But unless you know which papers she reads, it could be an expensive business. And if she wants no further involvement with Mr. Brandon`s affairs, she mightn`t bother to reply.`
With no hope left, Sylvia returned to pick the brains of Dave at the museum. `When Eleanor Franks worked here, you can`t by any chance remember what newspapers she read, can you?`
`Now you`re asking!` Chin in hand, he thought before replying. `No. Sorry. We`ve always bought one for the whole office to share, so not many folks brought their own. It doesn`t follow she`d make ours her first choice nowadays, anyway.`
Sylvia agreed, unable for the moment to think of any other ideas for finding the elusive Daniel or his mother - Will I ever get to know what connection he had with Tom?
TWELVE
As the day of the folk-concert drew nearer, Sylvia was beset by nervous doubts -- Why on earth did I say I`d go?-- he`s bound to get the wrong idea if we start dating. She expunged the word dating from her mind. This was not a romance, simply casual friendship between two sensible adults with similar interests, both temporarily at a loose end.
Nevertheless, she could not reason her misgivings away. On the day before the concert, she actually found herself standing outside the TV shop, on the brink of telling Raymond Hood that the outing was off. But what reason could she give? -- I could say outright that I don`t want a romance, but I`ll look-well if that`s not what he wanted either -- I`ll sound as if I really think-I`m-It, assuming every man I meet must be after me.
More possibilities surged through her mind. What if he`s Gay? -- how do I know he isn`t? -- Or does he chat-up women regularly? -- I don`t know a thing about him except that he manages this shop, but I doubt very much that he fancies me for my mind alone – I`m not as brainy as all-that.
In the end she walked away from the shop without going in, unable to think of the right excuse to cancel their arrangement - I can`t get out of it - I`ll just have to go through with it this time, and see what happens.
On the evening of the concert, more nervous than ever, Sylvia was ready far too early. The hairstyle she had worried about did not turn out too badly after all. Patty had trimmed it into neatness in the belief that her mother was going for a job interview.
Choosing something to wear was not easy. Best to dress plainly, she decided. Anything too sexy-looking might give him the wrong idea. Sexy? -- get real! she thought -- a supermodel wouldn`t look sexy in anything from my wardrobe.
Raymond Hood arrived exactly on time, looking almost as nervous as she felt -- if I can see how jittery he is, can he tell how jittery I am? she wondered. On the way to the City Hall they conversed only briefly, sounding exactly like the comparative strangers they were. Had it been wise to accept his invitation at all? -- If it`s a disaster, I won`t need to come out with him again.
Once the concert began, reservations fell away, lost in the delight of the music. Longing to tap her feet to the infectious sound of fiddle and small-pipes, entranced with Janet Bennett`s flawless singing-voice and polished performances on the clarsach, Sylvia found she was actually enjoying herself. So was Raymond Hood, it seemed. Between items, and during the interval they discussed the music, sharing knowledge and exchanging reminiscences about occasions when they had heard the same melodies played.
`It`s marvellous to meet somebody like-minded,` Raymond said as they drove back to the flat. `You can`t discuss things like this with young folks – they don`t know any of the music and haven`t any interest in hearing it.`
`My daughters certainly haven`t,` Sylvia admitted. `I never dared play any of my folk-tapes or CDs when I lived with Delia and Paul, in case it was annoying them.`
`We must do something like this again soon,` Raymond suggested as the car drew up outside her flat. `I`ve really enjoyed tonight.`
`So have I.` Sylvia took her courage in both hands. `Would you like to come in for a coffee?` The alacrity with which he accepted made it obvious he had been hoping for an invitation -- Am I going to regret this in a minute? But he did not disappoint her, behaving as the perfect gentleman, and taking his leave without having to be thrown out, a considerable relief to her. It had been all right after all – she would dare to go out with him again if ever he asked her.
For the next week or two she did not hear from Raymond, a circumstance leaving her with mixed feelings. She had certainly enjoyed the concert, and would gladly have gone out with him again if invited. On the other hand, too many meetings in quick succession might lead him to expect more than she was willing to give.
On another of the long evenings when nothing on TV tempted her, she set about clearing out more of Tom`s boxes. Three of them were filled with caravanning magazines which she binned without compunction. Still nothing to help her wit
h her quest for Eleanor Franks` address -- would she ever find out where the woman had gone to?
On Remembrance Sunday, she went to the Eldon Square War Memorial for eleven-o`clock. Her paternal grandfather had been killed in at Passchendaele in the First World War. After the death of her grandmother, leaving no-one else of that generation left to mourn the fallen soldier, Sylvia felt obliged to keep his memory green. Why do we still do it? -- Is there any point nowadays? -- it`s all ancient history -- not nearly as many people come, as used-to.
Close by her, a veteran of World War Two smartened rigidly to attention as the bugle sounded, as if the years had slipped suddenly away, leaving him once again the brave young volunteer of so long ago. She watched his face, wondering about the man inside. He bought his newspaper and cigarettes regularly at the shop, and she knew him well by sight. But like all old soldiers, he never spoke about the War, and she had never asked him. Now he stood smartly, eyes-front, his expression inscrutable. What does he see as he listens to the Last Post? she wondered -- Are there battlefields before him, where his comrades lie, headless, limbless, disembowelled, corpses red with fresh blood, things I`ve never seen and – thank God – never will have to see because he did? The thought was humbling, giving poignant meaning to the glib word Sacrifice that people used without really thinking.
Surrounded by the trappings of death and mourning, she could not help but contrast Tom`s tragic end with that of the fallen servicemen. His too had been a sacrifice of a sort, though absurdly pointless -- At least the soldiers had a reason for giving their lives -- did you, Tom? -- if you did, I don`t know what it was, and I need to know before I can let-go of the past.
Overwhelmed with sorrow, she took no heed of the people moving away as the ceremony ended. Some pushed accidentally against her, glancing round in irritation before leaving her to her private grief. It felt like the day Edgar had found her at Southwaite -- I`m standing still while life goes on all round me – when will my life start moving forward again?
Sunk in contemplation, she was unaware of someone at her side until a man`s voice broke into her thoughts. `Sylvia? Yes, I thought it was you. How are you?`
`Raymond! How nice to see you again.` The sight of a familiar face pulled her back into the present.
His expression became concerned – perhaps she looked as ill as she felt. `I wish I`d known you were coming this morning. I could`ve given you a lift. Do you want one now?`
`Please.` The offer was a lifeline, for she had no idea how she could pull herself together sufficiently to make her way home.
In the warmth of the car she felt comforted, able to take up the reins of polite conversation again. `Do you go to the Memorial to remember anybody special, or do you just go?`
`I just go. There`s no military background in the family, but I`ve always gone.` He laughed self-consciously. `It`s probably through having it dinned into us at school during the War. Your school would be the same, likely – patriotic pageants, War Savings stamps, singing "Three Cheers for the Red, White and Blue", and being told thrilling stories about our brave soldiers, sailors and airmen.`
She allowed herself a mischievous smile, recalling a one-time pop-song: "If you remember, then dearie, you`re much older than I." `I was too young for school. I wasn`t born till nineteen-forty-one.`
He glanced sideways at her, a mocking gleam in his eyes. `If I had a mind to try, I could work out how old you are, from that.`
`Don`t you dare! That`s one secret every woman`s entitled to keep.` She was glad they had met that morning. His company dispelled gloomy thoughts that would otherwise have haunted her all day.
`I suppose you`re all ready for Christmas?` Raymond enquired as the car bore-left into Elswick Road. In a few minutes she would be home.
`I can`t say I`ve done much towards it yet. It`ll just be the presents to get anyway. Delia and her husband are off skiing as usual for New Year, and Patty always asks us . . .` She corrected the slip hastily. `I`ll be going to Edgar and Patty for Christmas Day, to see the kids opening their presents, so I don`t need to do a dinner. None of us like Christmas Cake, so it`s not worth making one. When they come to me, we`ll only have a buffet because there`re aren`t enough chairs for all of us.`
`You`re a grandmother?` Surely that can`t be such a surprise to him, at my age, she thought – he`s just being polite.
`Of six, I`m afraid.`
Raymond looked impressed. `Your daughter`s got her hands full, with that lot. The presents must cost a bomb.`
`I haven`t even given a thought to it yet.` Reminded of the rapidly-approaching festive season, Sylvia felt alarmed by her lack of preparation. `I`ll have to go to the Town next week and see what I can find for them. Have you many of a family to buy for?`
`My son and his wife, and their new baby. I generally give them money, because I hate shopping so much.`
`Chicken!` Sylvia mocked, picking up her bag from the floor as the flat came into view. `You could at least buy the baby something.`
`I wouldn`t know where to start. What do people give babies, anyway?` He startled her with an unexpected suggestion. `I`ll buy her something if you come with me and help to choose.`
`Me? But I don`t even known your son, never-mind his baby!`
`They live down-South and I hardly ever see them, so I don`t really know Angela either. But at least you`ve got some experience of being a baby girl. You`ll have a better idea of what they like than I do.` Noticing her doubtful expression, he added,` You better come, or else I`ll send them money again.`
`Men!` But Sylvia surprised herself by agreeing to accompany him to the shops the following Thursday.
`We`ll make a day of it, and you can do yours at the same time,` he said as she climbed out of the car. As she watched him drive away, it struck her that her pleasure in his company was probably disloyal to Tom`s memory, but it was impossible to mourn at hysteria-pitch for ever -- The folks who pushed past me at the War Memorial were getting on with their lives -- Like it or not, I`ve got to get on with mine.
`What do you do at Chrizzy?` Miranda enquired as they sat drinking coffee in her flat. Sylvia supplied her with the same list as she had given to Raymond Hood, and Miranda pulled a face.
`It`s okay, being with the family and all that, but don`t you sometimes feel like a bit o`fun? I`ll tell you what – come down to the Club one night, and watch me dance. They`re putting on one or two gala-nights for the punters in the run-up to Christmas.` Seeing Sylvia`s doubtful expression, the girl adopted a coaxing tone. `Howway, man, it`ll be a laugh, and neebody`ll see you in the crowd. The place`s always packed to the doors.` Since compliance was probably the only way to get any peace, Sylvia agreed.
She confided in Raymond when they met for their shopping-trip. `Could you possibly do me a favour? I feel an absolute fool, asking, but Miranda`s been such a good friend to me that I don`t like to keep putting her off.`
`What`s the favour?
`Will you come with me and see one of her performances?`
`She`s an actress?`
`Not exactly. She`s an exotic dancer at a night-club. She`s forever begging me to come and watch her, but I don`t feel like going on my own at that time of night.`
`She`s a what?` The expression on his face was comical.
`An exotic dancer.`
Recovered from the first shock, he laughed loudly. `It`ll be broadening my horizons – I`ve never seen an exotic dancer perform before, and at least it`ll get her off your back.`
`You really don`t mind? I feel so silly, asking.`
`I don`t mind at all. It might be a good laugh.` It appeared he must have no high expectations about Miranda`s terpsichorean ability.
On the first Saturday in December, they arrived at the Miracasa just before nine-o-clock. In honour of the approaching season, the club was garishly decorated with too much tinsel and too many fairy-lights for good taste. There were few other women in evidence, apart from the waitresses but, having accepted Miranda`s invitation, Sylvia decided to tough it out. She w
ould not need to come again if the show was not to her taste.
`Where would you like to sit?` Raymond asked, looking vaguely round the room.
`Somewhere near the stage. Seeing I`ve had to come and watch her, we might as well get as good a view as we can.` She would be glad to sit down. There was something peculiar about the atmosphere of the club that made her feel out of place, and a strange warm smell that irritated her nostrils. Fortunately they had not much longer to wait. As they sat down with their drinks, the house-lights faded to eerie darkness, except for a row of bright red light-bulbs above the stage.
Then, to the sound of flute and cymbals, Miranda appeared, her top-half draped in a filmy chiffon veil affording an almost unrestricted view of a bra too skimpy to offer worthwhile cover. Similarly-scanty briefs were plainly on show beneath a skirt in the same see-through fabric, both undergarments lavishly decorated with dangling silver discs that clattered monotonously as she danced. Mesmerised by the sight of the veil swirling provocatively around Miranda`s shapely legs aroused in Sylvia the first traces of alarm - What sort of costume is that?
As she stared in fascinated horror, Miranda`s show grew even more explicit. First removing and brandishing the fantastic feather headdress that topped-off her extraordinary rig-out – then the veil – then the skirt -- she continued in leisurely fashion to divest herself of the ruched-satin gloves covering her arms, to the accompaniment of brightly-flashing red-and-gold lights, and enthusiastic applause from her leering public.
`Oh, my God!` Sylvia choked, mortified and embarrassed. `She isn`t a dancer at all! She`s a stripper!`
Raymond shook with silent laughter. `Didn`t you realise? I thought you knew. They nearly all call themselves exotic dancers.`
A Long Road Through The Night Page 15
