by Ros Franey
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know.’
‘It is the right thing, Annie. You’re the one who’s said it all along.’
‘That’s what’s worrying me! Suppose I’m wrong?’
‘Well, you’ve got university in a couple of weeks. Think of that.’ Whenever Beatrice mentions the university, there’s a wistfulness that makes me feel worse.
We’re both silent for a few moments. ‘You’d better get going,’ she says. ‘Buses not so good on Sundays.’
I sit up. ‘Should she wear the disguise, d’you think?’
Beatrice groans. ‘Not today, surely. They won’t be watching the station. Will they?’
We haven’t considered this. We look at each other in consternation.
‘I’ll get her to wear the hat,’ I decide. ‘Not the specs.’ I’m starting to feel better. ‘They don’t exactly know who they’re searching for; the hospital people won’t recognise her in the hat. She’s so different in ordinary clothes, anyway.’
‘So: ten minutes before the train?’ Beatrice instructs. ‘You’ll need to buy her ticket first.’
‘I can do that. See you—’
‘—by the departure board,’ she finishes. ‘Twenty-past five.’
I jump off the bed, straighten my frock, give my hair a quick brush with Bea’s hairbrush and go downstairs to get my coat. I’m about to leave the house when, as if on cue, Mother comes out of the sitting room, shutting the door carefully behind her. Daddy will be dozing in his armchair by now.
‘Annie.’
‘Mother.’ I wait. We look at each other for a few moments.
‘I heard at the Mission this morning’ – her voice is even more clipped than usual – ‘that the woman, Miss Blessing, has disappeared from the hospital.’
I say nothing. There’s a kind of boiling in my head. I wonder what I’m going to do to her if she tries to stop me leaving the house.
‘I don’t know what you’ve been up to all these weeks in that place,’ she says. ‘But if you have anything to do with her disappearance…’
She pauses. If she understood who my letter was from three days ago, she will know that I do. But it is not quite a question and I don’t answer it.
‘Then,’ she continues, ‘I pray you get her away, Annie. Get her right away. I don’t want to know. Just get that poor creature away from here.’ Her voice is shaking, her eyes bitter, but she says nothing more.
I want to say I will, I promise, but I can’t trust her. Instead, I say, ‘I have to go now, Mother.’
She looks at me a moment longer. Then she murmurs, ‘It’s more than I could do.’
Maisie opens the door in her Sunday pinafore. ‘Oh Annie, I’m glad to see you.’
‘How is she?’ I ask.
‘She’s all right.’ Maisie steps outside for a moment, pulling the door to behind her. ‘Tell Beatrice,’ she says, ‘she’s got to go easy on her. She’s very nervy. I wish she could stay here and not go to London. We’d look after her till her sister comes.’
I suddenly very much want this to happen, too, but it’s not safe. ‘You’d be at our house all day,’ I point out. ‘Mr Brown wouldn’t be here. They could come at any time. If Daddy ever realises who he had in his car last night, he knows where he dropped her.’
‘I know, Annie. You’re right.’ She looks anxious. ‘I just worry for the poor lamb. Six years is a long time to be locked up: she’ll need looking after. This morning she barely dared get out of bed. I took her up a cup of tea and she jumped like a scalded cat.’
‘Beatrice’s landlady is kind, and Bea will be there every evening. Edwina will collect her in five days.’
‘Well, that’ll be a mercy. ’Cos I worry for you and Beatrice, too, you know, while she’s still in the country. Now come and have some tea before you go.’
On the bus to the station, Millie sits very straight and still. She says, ‘I can’t believe I’m really going to see Eddie again!’
I glance at her. Something has been bothering me and I haven’t had a chance to ask her. This is hardly the time, but there will be no other. ‘Millie, when Edwina comes to London … she does know, does she? The truth about my father when you were a girl?’
Millie nods. ‘She does. Now. I couldn’t let her come without telling her.’
‘You mean, she didn’t know before?’
‘That letter you posted for me. That was my chance to tell.’
‘Only now?’ I am shaken.
She looks down. ‘I couldn’t, before, Annie. I couldn’t say it.’
‘So all these years they’ve never known?’
‘Later, when I felt I could perhaps tell them, I had no way to do it – until you took that letter for me. Then, just the day before yesterday, I had a reply from Eddie. She couldn’t say anything much, of course, but it’s quite clear that it was after reading my letter she decided to come. She’s going to support me, whatever happens. I think it was that that finally gave me the courage to leave.’ She turns to me and smiles. ‘Something else to thank you for.’
So Millie’s letter, not mine, has persuaded Edwina; and Edwina’s letter has persuaded Millie. And I realise that’s as it should be.
We arrive in good time for the train. As we turn the corner into Station Street, I cast an anxious glance around the forecourt, looking for police cars, but there’s nothing obvious.
I haven’t told Millie about our concern that the hospital authorities may be looking for her and, whatever Maisie says, she seems a little calmer today, with the courage to gaze about at her surroundings. ‘It’s like seeing everything for the first time!’ She tells me. ‘Breathing fresh air again, the colours – I feel so out of things, Annie – but it’s wonderful, too.’
At Sunday teatime, the station is not crowded; I imagine the rush will come later. A few people bustle towards trains after a weekend visiting friends and family. Some carry bunches of dahlias from late-summer gardens; others have knapsacks with maps tucked into the side pockets, on their way home from hiking in the Peak District, perhaps. I guide Millie to the ticket office and buy her a single to London.
‘Cheaper if you get a return, Miss,’ says the ticket clerk. ‘It’s valid for a month.’
‘She won’t be back,’ I tell him.
‘Very well.’
I hand the ticket to Millie, who puts it carefully in the purse I’ve given her. We make our way back into the main station and head for the departure board, which is above a sort of bridge that spans the platforms. The London train will leave from platform one in twelve minutes’ time. I look around for Beatrice, who is generally early for trains, but she’s not here yet.
Millie says, ‘Annie, I don’t know how to—’
‘Please don’t, then.’ I smile at her. ‘We did it for us, you know, as well as for you. It was something we needed to do, all three of us.’
‘There was no need,’ she says gently. ‘But you did it anyway. I can’t tell you how it helps – not just physically, of course: I’m here, after all! But it helps …’
‘It was the least we could do.’
‘I just hope you don’t get into trouble!’ she says seriously.
‘Millie,’ I take her hand. ‘I’m about to start a whole new life. My future is not in that hospital. Whatever happens, Beatrice and Fred and I will be fine. I just long to hear that you’re safe and well in Canada, and you must write and tell me everything.’
‘I will. I promise.’ She smiles, her eyes glistening.
And then I see Beatrice. She is almost upon us. Her distress is palpable. She is actually wringing her hands. She says, ‘I couldn’t warn you. I so wanted to warn you! There was nothing I could do.’
A few paces behind her, my father.
For a moment, I freeze. I wonder if they would make it to the platform if they ran now. But they don’t. I walk towards him. ‘Daddy!’ I put out my hand. He pushes it off.
‘I thought as much.’ His pale blue eyes are looking at Millie. ‘Ida Rowbotham
, indeed!’
Millie shrinks away. Beatrice puts her arm round her to support her.
‘Daddy,’ I say. ‘You have to let them go.’
‘I shall do no such thing, miss. Don’t you tell me what to do!’
‘Listen!’ I fasten my hands around his forearm to restrain him. ‘Listen to me. You will hear nothing of her again, I swear. She is going to Canada. Her sister is taking her away for ever.’
‘Oh no, she’s not!’
‘Why does it matter to you?’ I challenge him. ‘What’s it to you if she leaves the country?’
‘She’s a sick woman, Annie. She’s going nowhere!’
‘She’s not sick!’ I am speaking urgently but low, close to his face. If we make a scene of this, we’re all lost. ‘You know she’s not sick. Your doctor friend knows it. You’re keeping this woman a prisoner, adding to the appalling harm you’ve already done her!’
‘Harm? I’m her guardian! I saved her from ruin, didn’t I?’
‘You shut her up in that place!’ Beatrice is speaking now, soft but insistent. ‘You thought if you said she was mad you could keep her there for the rest of her life.’
‘Daddy,’ I tell him. ‘This is the only decent thing: let her leave.’
‘Go and sit in the car, Annie. I’ll deal with you later.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No. You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t have the right.’
‘I’m your father!’
‘And Beatrice and I are atoning for your sin – your crime!’ I am staring deep into his vacant eyes. I wonder if he even understands what I’m talking about.
‘I’m no sinner. You’re the sinner, you deceitful, lying girl, and after what you’ve done – I’ll tell you this for nothing – you will not be going to the university.’
He wrenches his arm away and lunges for Millie. Beatrice moves deftly between them.
‘Daddy!’ I have him by both arms now, pushing against him with all my strength. ‘Listen to us. We know what happened. I’m not talking about the baby. We know what happened when she was sixteen, fifteen, fourteen. Listen to me, Daddy: we saw it. I did. Beatrice did. I believe Fred saw it too. Millie knows it. And were there others, Daddy? Was Elsie another one?’
For the first time, something seems to get through to him. He hesitates, but only for a moment. ‘And who’d listen to you? A bunch of children?’
‘Daddy, Mr Wilkinson’s wife saw it!’ I have no idea if this is true, but it’s worth a try.
‘And who on earth is she?’
‘Mr Wilkinson, the verger at the Mission? They all know at the Mission!’
For a moment his eyes narrow. Bea understands what I’m up to; seizes her moment. ‘Mother herself saw it!’
He’s rattled at last. ‘She never saw anything.’
‘You don’t know what she saw. She told me!’ Beatrice insists. ‘You ruined her life. You’ve ruined Fred’s. And mine!’
‘And mine, Mr Lang.’ Millie speaks quietly but clearly. She has detached herself from Beatrice and is standing closer to him. ‘But if you leave me be and let me go to Canada, you’ll not hear from me again. I give you my word.’
The loudspeaker wheezes into action: ‘The train approaching platform one is the five thirty-three for London St Pancras, calling at Loughborough, Leicester, Kettering …’ The rest is drowned by a whoosh of steam and a screech of brakes as the train hisses and grinds into the station.
‘Six witnesses, Daddy!’ I yell at him over the racket. ‘You let Millie Blessing go to Canada. And I shall go to university! You don’t deserve it. You’re a very lucky man!’
A gush of smoke billows over the parapet where we’re standing. I feel him draw back a fraction. ‘Run!’ I shout at them. ‘Run for it!’ And in the steam and the confusion, they do. Beatrice picks up Millie’s bag, waves her ticket at the inspector at the barrier and drags Millie to the iron steps leading down to the platform. I stand and watch through the smoke as they reach the bottom and join the last passengers climbing on board. I relax my grip on my father’s forearms, for the strength has left them. I wait beside him as the announcer finishes announcing and doors slam. I watch the guard with his whistle and his green flag check up and down the line. I see the signal rise at the end of the platform and the whistle blow and the train begin to chug slowly, then faster, as it starts on its journey south. Each a glimpse and gone for ever.
Through my tears, I watch my father turn and make his way out of the station. And in the slump of his shoulders as he goes, I see the possibility – though for now I can put it no higher – that he may not pursue Millie to London or prevent me from starting my degree. So perhaps, after a long while, Millie might become a music teacher in Canada; and Beatrice find her vocation, whatever it is; and Fred break free from the demons in his head; and Miss Higgs make peace with her own conscience and with the man to whom she’s bound for ever. And me? Well, that perhaps I may be all right, I suppose. If I believed in any god at all, I would pray we may all be all right – in the end.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my publishers, Sarah and Kate Beal, for their faith in this novel, and David Reynolds, without whose thoughtful insight it might never have found them. I’m most grateful to the notMorley writers who sat through the first draft and gave me wise criticism; to Elinor Bagenal, Michael Bailey, Elizabeth Byrne and Lesley Toll for their invaluable advice; and to all my colleagues, friends and relations for their endless tolerance and support while I was writing it – particularly Penny Hayman, Barbara Mitchell and Jennifer Potter.
The book is dedicated to the memory of my mother and my dear Auntie Joyce. This is in no way their history, I’m thankful to say (apart from the incident of the long combinations), but their spirits may inhabit the story.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Ros Franey grew up in the Midlands, where this book is set. She is a maker of award-winning social documentaries. Two films about the Guildford 4, together with the book she co-authored, Timebomb, contributed to the quashing of their case. Her other films include investigations into the tobacco industry, Romeo agents in former East Germany and the UK’s treatment of asylum seekers. This is her second novel; her first, Cry Baby, received excellent reviews. She lives in Camden, North London.
COPYRIGHT
First published by Muswell Press in 2018
Copyright © Ros Franey 2018
Ros Franey asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
Typeset by M Rules
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
eISBN 9780995482272
Muswell Press
London
N6 5HQ
www.muswell-press.co.uk
All rights reserved;
no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Publisher. This book may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior written consent of the Publisher. No responsibility for loss occasioned to any person or corporate body acting or refraining to act as a result of reading material in this book can be accepted by the Publisher, by the Author, or by the employer of the Author.
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