The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bit of a bad time,’ she mumbled, picking up a large kettle from the range. She began to fill it under the gushing tap. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

  The stench was making me queasy and the prospect of lingering by the corpse-covered table was decidedly unappealing, so I assured her that neither Annie nor myself required a drink.

  ‘Oh … are you sure?’ She still seemed somewhat dazed. ‘Oh, right then.’ She abandoned the kettle on the drainer and looked at the table, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Well, we can’t stay here. You’d best come through.’

  Much to my relief, she ushered us into one of the closed-off rooms we had passed earlier – a sitting room which appeared to be kept for best, its stuffiness suggesting it hadn’t been aired in a while. The furniture was of good quality. The sofa and chairs were protected with antimacassars, the dresser gleamed with polish and a bow-fronted display cabinet was crammed with china and trinkets. Mrs Probert took a wooden armchair next to the grate and indicated for us to take the sofa.

  ‘What is you want then?’ She directed the question to me, but her wary eyes were fixed on Annie.

  ‘Mrs Probert – how do I begin?’ I apologised for ambushing her earlier and admitted my abrupt questioning wasn’t perhaps the most appropriate way of broaching such a difficult subject.

  I paused, pondering how much detail to give away, how many secrets to reveal. I had no reason to suspect her of being a gossip, but what I had come to discuss was highly sensitive and I had a fear of idle chatter finding its way to the village. I was handling explosives, and I needed to proceed with utmost care to avoid a tragedy.

  ‘Some curious things have been coming to light recently, up at the big house, and – well, we’re just trying to get to the bottom of it all, for everyone’s sake. I can’t go into full detail – I’m sure you’ll understand why – but all I can impress upon you is how important it all is.’

  She may have been listening to me, but Annie remained the subject of her intent focus. As I stopped speaking she seemed to remember her manners, and, with some reluctance, favoured me with her attention.

  ‘Mrs Probert, we are trying to establish the identity of a baby we believe to have been born at Greyswick. Not Hector Brightwell, of course, but another baby, perhaps one not everyone is aware of – perhaps one that ought not to have been there at all.’ I hardly dared ask my next question. ‘Would you know anything about that?’

  Outside the window the branches of a silver birch were flailing in the increasing wind, its pale green leaves sparkling as they fluttered. The attractive image caught Mrs Probert’s eye, and she watched it for some time, her fingers playing with the hem of her apron.

  ‘There was another baby,’ she admitted at last.

  ‘Below-stairs?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Was it … had Sir Arthur fathered the child?’

  It didn’t take an expert to decipher the dilemma written all over her face. The woman before me knew something, some secret, a secret she had nursed for over twenty years, a kernel of truth she had stifled within her for all that time.

  ‘It’s really not my story to tell.’

  ‘Mrs Probert, please, please help us.’ Suddenly I had a horrible thought, and aghast I blurted out, ‘Oh Mrs Probert! It wasn’t your baby?’

  Her head jerked up. ‘Good God no! It wasn’t mine – but it’s not right for me to talk about it. You should be asking her yourself.’

  ‘Who Mrs Probert, who should we be asking?’

  ‘Why, the babe’s mother, of course.’

  The wind was howling down the chimney now. Annie and I exchanged glances while Mrs Probert focused on her fidgeting fingers. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Who is the baby’s mother, Mrs Probert?’

  ‘Miss Scott. Miss Scott was the baby’s mother.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  ‘Miss Scott?’ I echoed in shock.

  Mrs Probert nodded just once.

  ‘Dear God.’ A bewildering array of evidence lay scattered before me, tantalising fragments which when assembled would form an intricate mosaic of the truth, but vital parts were still missing. I had to find them. ‘Mrs Probert, you must tell us what you know, it’s imperative.’

  ‘I don’t even know with absolute certainty that I’m right.’ Perhaps regretting her indiscretion, she attempted to back-pedal, but it was too late. She had lifted the lid on Pandora’s box, and there was no replacing it now. ‘I hate gossip,’ she said, throwing herself back against the chair. She gripped the curved ends of its polished arms. ‘I’ve always told my Maisie to watch that wagging tongue of hers, and here you are asking me to tittle-tattle, and I don’t even know you from Adam – I don’t even know that I’ve got the baby you’re after!’ she declared with a hint of defiance now. ‘Miss Scott’s baby was never actually at Greyswick.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I didn’t mean to be sharp, but the last few days had shredded my patience and set my nerves on edge and this convoluted dance with Mrs Probert was not helping my humour any. I disliked talking in tongues at the best of times – I just wanted her to be frank. I decided to adopt a more direct approach.

  ‘Look, Mrs Probert, the cat’s out of the bag so to speak, so why don’t you just tell us what you know and then we can decide whether we’re talking at cross purposes. I promise you now, whatever you tell us will be treated with the utmost confidence.’

  I was in no position to make this last pledge, but I offered it up as an inducement. It appeared to be ample balm for her conscience and she let out a sigh of defeat.

  ‘Well, it looks like it’s the only way I’m going to get rid of you, short of throwing you out!’ She scowled. ‘All right then, but this is just between us. Like I say, some of it is me putting two and two together and maybe I’ve made five, I don’t know.’

  The wind gusted now against the walls of the house, rattling the windows in their frames. Beyond, the branches of the birch tossed wildly. Mrs Probert sighed again as she collected her thoughts, opening her album of memories, lifting the tissue sheets that protected each precious glimpse of the past from the destructive effects of time.

  ‘I was an upstairs maid responsible for, amongst other things, Lady Brightwell’s room. I’ll tell you now, there isn’t much a servant doesn’t know in a big house like Greyswick. I must have been one of the first to realise she was expecting. I was responsible for collecting her napkins, you see, and I noticed there weren’t any one month. I spoke to Miss Scott about it because I didn’t want to have missed anything, but she confirmed what I already suspected. The mistress had just fallen, but it was far too early to be presumptuous and I certainly didn’t want to tempt fate. Miss Scott asked me to keep it quiet and I was most happy to do so.’

  She sat forward, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, uncomfortable with the whole torrid affair. Annie and I stayed quiet, while she fidgeted herself back into a place of calm from which to continue. The room was growing darker and darker as the threatening clouds continued to mask the sky, shielding the sun.

  ‘It wasn’t long after that conversation when one night I bumped into Miss Scott in the servants’ corridor upstairs. I’d popped up to get something from my room, and when I came out she was just standing there in a complete state, crying and shaking. I asked her what on earth was wrong, but she couldn’t control herself long enough to tell me. Well, I didn’t know what to do. I took her into my room and sat her down, but I couldn’t seem to do anything to comfort her.’ The colour drained from her cheeks. ‘It was awful.’ It was a hushed admittance, delivered in the deferential tones one talks of death. ‘I’d never seen a girl so upset before.’

  We all jumped as rain struck the window, clattering as the heavens opened. Distracted by the ferocity of the storm, we paused to watch in wonder as it lashed down in thick sheets, blown diagonally by the same vicious wind whipping the trees. Mrs Probert made a shocked observation on the severity of it all before con
tinuing.

  ‘She managed to ask me to get Mrs Henge. I ran downstairs and found her in her office and told her Miss Scott was in a terrible state and that she ought to come. Well, she went deathly pale and hurried upstairs. I trailed after her because I didn’t know what else to do – and Miss Scott was in my room after all.’

  Her cheeks took on a guilty hue, afraid we would think ill of her for inveigling her way into another woman’s misery. I didn’t care – I was just glad she had.

  ‘Mrs Henge was shocked to see Miss Scott like that. She went straight over and put her arms around her. I don’t think they realised I was there, to be honest – I just stayed in the doorway. I knew they had a … special … friendship.’

  Ill at ease, she rose from her chair and busied herself repositioning the shepherdess figurine that graced the mantelpiece.

  ‘Miss Scott said that Sir Arthur had, he’d … he’d forced himself upon her.’ She turned back to observe our horrified reactions. ‘Mrs Henge realised I was still there at that point. She pushed me from the room and told me in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to keep my job I’d best keep my mouth shut. Well, you don’t disobey Mrs Henge and I certainly had no intention of losing my position, so I did as she bade me: kept quiet and got on with my duties.’

  The rain continued to slap against the window. My heart ached as I thought of poor Miss Scott and the unforgiveable violation she had been subjected to. But I thought too of Mrs Henge, flying to her side, and the closeness that Mrs Probert had alluded to. I wondered why it had waned over the subsequent years.

  ‘How awful.’ It was a feeble and inadequate summation, but I didn’t know what else to say – how did one even attempt to capture the horror, the violence of it all? ‘But why do you think there was a baby?’

  ‘Oh, there was a baby all right.’ Done at the mantelpiece, she returned to her chair. Perching on its edge she pitched forward to confide further secrets. ‘Perhaps others wouldn’t have noticed, because, well, for one thing, they didn’t know what I knew – and you have to remember Miss Scott was a slender thing, even more so than she is now. Women like that, they can go full term and hardly show. Me, I was the size of a house by the time I was four months gone!’ She permitted herself a wry chuckle.

  Fragments of soot, dislodged by the rain, clattered down the chimney. One pinged across the tiled hearth and Mrs Probert tossed it back into the blackened confines of the grate.

  ‘I noticed, though. Some mornings Mrs Henge would send me up to tend to Lady Brightwell because Miss Scott was feeling “unwell”. And I noticed other changes – it’s inevitable things alter when you’re in that state. Oh, she hid it well and she had everyone fooled, I’m sure, but not me. And then the next thing you know she’s given leave to look after her parents, conveniently ill. That Russian ’flu proved most timely,’ she added.

  She picked a piece of lint off her skirt. ‘She’d been sent away to have the baby.’ She paused, deciding whether to elucidate further, but I could see she was in the thick of it now and had a misplaced pride in her powers of deduction. She couldn’t resist showing us just how clever she was. She pitched forward again. ‘I thought back on it then, you see, worked it all out. She would have been about seven months, and the mistress no more than eight. And then a couple of months later, back she comes, looking healthy and well.’

  ‘But she can’t have brought the baby with her,’ I said.

  ‘Of course not. I dare say she had it adopted by some couple or other. That’s how these things are usually done, isn’t it? But this is what I’m saying – that baby was never at Greyswick, so how can it be the baby you’re after?’

  It was a conundrum, to be sure. I had come hoping for answers and yet I found I was floundering in a mire of confusion. But there was one more topic I hoped the former maid might be able to assist me with. Her loaded comment about Mrs Henge had not escaped me, and it gave new meaning to the other piece of advice she had given to her daughter, which only now echoed through my memory: ‘be sure not to catch Mrs Henge’s eye’. I didn’t need to say much for the farmer’s wife to grasp my inference. She harrumphed as she settled herself back in the chair.

  ‘She could be as bad as him, if she took a fancy to you.’ There was clearly no love lost between her and the housekeeper and she showed none of her earlier reticence. ‘But it’s different with a woman. The contest is a bit more equal than with a man, isn’t it? A few sharp words and she’d soon back off. She and him were as thick as thieves, of course. I suppose she’d served Sir Arthur for so long she knew all his proclivities and he all of hers – they accepted them, pandered to them. I think she made a point of taking on girls who would appeal to him, but when Miss Scott appeared, well …’

  She tapered off. I had learnt by now to wait, and sure enough, in due course, she continued. ‘She was like a lovesick girl around her.’ Her lips quirked but there was no humour in the expression, only sour disapproval. ‘She would fawn and flatter, it was almost embarrassing. I’m not saying it was anything more than an affectionate friendship. To be quite honest with you, I was never completely sure whether Miss Scott was driven by the same inclinations or whether she was just flattered. But one thing’s for sure, that night she just wanted Mrs Henge, and I have no doubt it was Mrs Henge who made all the arrangements for her when the time came. She would have looked after her that way.’

  She stood up, signalling our time in the past had come to an end, that the album of memories contained no more snapshots – at least none she was willing to share.

  ‘Now that really is all I can tell you. I don’t mean to be rude, but I have work that needs to be done.’

  Annie and I stood, thanking her for taking us into her confidence, though we remained dazed by what we had learnt. Mrs Probert led the way through the array of furniture to the door. I spotted a photograph of a young man in uniform and I stopped, lifting it from the dresser.

  ‘Is this your boy?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘Vic. He went last year, silly bugger. Didn’t need to go, could’ve stayed here on the farm and done his bit feeding the country rather than fighting for it, but he wouldn’t hear of it.’ I didn’t have to listen too closely to hear the pain in her voice. ‘It can’t go on for much longer, can it?’ I couldn’t meet her eye – the desperate appeal was too much for me to confront with any sort of honesty. I placed the frame back where I found it.

  ‘No, no I’m sure it can’t.’ I hoped there was sufficient conviction in my voice to give her some degree of comfort. ‘Have you just him and Maisie?’

  ‘I had twins.’ She turned her focus to Annie who was waiting patiently by the door. ‘I lost them both to mumps when they were eight months old.’

  I understood now why Annie’s words had defused the woman’s hostility and gained us access to her recollections. I followed her gaze to the self-conscious maid who, feeling the weight of our wonder, slunk closer to the wall as if willing to melt into it, out of sight.

  The rain had subsided by the time we left the farmhouse, but great puddles from the shock storm pocked the yard. We decided to return via the farm lane rather than crossing the sodden field.

  ‘Back there …’ I said at last, curiosity getting the better of me. ‘How did you … What did you do?’

  ‘Not much. She was already there when Mrs Probert opened the door,’ Annie said, keeping her eyes on the path before us. ‘She hasn’t been gone long – she’s been hanging on, not wanting to cross over …’

  ‘Cross over?’

  She glanced up at me. ‘That’s what the dead need to do. They move on … unless something stops them.’

  ‘Like Lucien.’

  She nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. ‘They have to be at peace to go.’

  ‘And why isn’t Mrs Probert’s mother at peace?’

  Annie shrugged. ‘She’s not ready yet. She’s worried about her daughter … about her grandson. She wants to wait until it’s all settled and he’s safe … o
ne way or another.’

  There was something chilling but also achingly sad about her explanation. I thought, of course, of Gerald and I wondered whether he had chosen to wait – and I wondered whether it was selfish of me to hope he had.

  ‘And where do they move on to?’ I persisted. ‘Is there a heaven? A hell?’

  The corner of her mouth curled into her cheek, as her eyes danced with mischief. ‘I don’t know, miss. I’ve never had one come back to tell me.’

  A car was approaching as we reached the road and we waited by the verge for it to pass. The silver Rolls that was by now a familiar sight flew by us. I saw Miss Scott squirm round in her seat to peer through the rear window.

  Noting our dry clothes her expression transformed from recognition to fear, no doubt wondering what we might have learnt whilst sheltering from the storm.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  We had nearly reached the house when we spied a familiar figure loitering by the arch to the servants’ courtyard. Annie’s young soldier was leaning against the brick, his back hunched against us, a cigarette burning between his lips. He made no indication that he had seen us, and it would have been possible to pass by without his knowing, but like a greyhound eagerly snapping at the gate, I could tell Annie wanted to go to him. I was happy to indulge her – though I still nursed doubts about the wisdom of this budding romance. She promised she wouldn’t dally long and as she scampered away it struck me again how young she was, and how foolish I had been at the same tender age.