The Keeper of Lost Things

by Ruth Hogan

  Carrot had ventured out from under the table and was sleeping contentedly at Freddy’s side. Freddy poured Stan a glass of whiskey.

  “So is it as great as it sounds being a train driver? Every schoolboy’s dream?”

  Stan swirled the amber-colored liquid in his glass and sniffed it approvingly.

  “For the most part,” he replied. “Some days I feel like I’m the luckiest man alive. But I nearly packed it in before I really got started.”

  He sipped his whiskey, reaching back for once to the memories he had struggled so hard to forget.

  “I’d only been driving solo for a couple of weeks. It was my last run of the day; cold and dark outside, and I was looking forward to my dinner. I didn’t even see her until she hit the cab. After that, there wasn’t much left of her to see.”

  He took another sip of his whiskey; bigger this time.

  “It was in the local paper. She was ill, they said; bad nerves. Stood waiting in the cold. Waiting for my train. Terrible shame it was. She had a nipper; a girl. Dear little thing. They put her picture in the paper.”

  Freddy shook his head and whistled through his teeth.

  “Jesus, Stan, I’m sorry.”

  Stan drained his glass and thumped it down on the table.

  “It’s the whiskey,” he said. “It makes me maudlin. It was a long time ago. Thank God, Stella drummed some sense into me and persuaded me to carry on driving.” They sat in silence for a moment and then Stan added:

  “Not a word to Sunshine, though. I never told her.”

  “Of course.”

  Carrot’s ears flicked at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Sunshine came in carrying a tray, followed by Laura and Stella. She set the tray down on the table.

  “Now it’s time for the lovely cup of tea and the even lovelier mince pies,” she said, pointing at the plate, piled high.

  “And then we’re going to play Conveniences.”

  Halfway through the first round, Sunshine remembered something that she had been meaning to tell her parents.

  “Freddy’s crap in the sack.”

  Freddy nearly choked on his whiskey, but Stella responded with admirable composure.

  “What on earth makes you think that?”

  “Felicity told me. She’s Freddy’s girlfriend.”

  “Not anymore,” growled Freddy.

  Stan was shaking with laughter and Freddy was clearly mortified, but Sunshine was undeterred.

  “What does it mean—crap in the sack?”

  “It means not very good at kissing.” It was the first thing that came into Laura’s head.

  “Perhaps you should do more practice, then,” said Sunshine kindly, patting Freddy’s hand.

  When Sunshine and the SS went home, the house fell silent. Laura was left alone with Carrot. And Freddy. But where was he? He disappeared while she had been seeing Sunshine and the SS out and waving them off. She felt like a giddy teenager, uncertain if she was excited or afraid. It was the wine, she told herself. Freddy came out of the garden room and took her by the hand.

  “Come.”

  The garden room was lit with dozens of candles and there was a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket, flanked by two glasses.

  “Will you dance with me?” Freddy asked.

  As he placed the needle on the record, Laura spoke silently to God for the second time in as many days.

  Please, please, let it not be Al Bowlly.

  In Freddy arms she wished that Ella Fitzgerald would improvise a few more verses for “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Freddy looked up and Laura followed his gaze to the bunch of mistletoe that he had attached to the chandelier above their heads.

  “Practice makes perfect,” he whispered.

  As they kissed, the photograph of Therese shattered silently into a starburst of splintered glass.

  CHAPTER 30

  Eunice

  1989

  The photographs on the sideboard were supposed to help Godfrey remember who people were, but they didn’t always work. As Bomber, Eunice, and Baby Jane came into the sunny sitting room, Godfrey reached for his wallet.

  “I’ll have a tenner on My Bill in the two forty-five at Kempton Park.”

  Grace patted him affectionately on the hand.

  “Godfrey darling, it’s Bomber, your son.”

  Godfrey peered at Bomber over the top of his spectacles and shook his head.

  “Rubbish! Don’t you think that I’d know my own son? Can’t remember this chap’s name, but he’s definitely my bookie.”

  Eunice could see the tears welling up in Bomber’s eyes as he remembered the countless times he had placed bets for his father under the strict instruction, “Don’t tell your mother.” She took Godfrey gently by the arm.

  “It’s a beautiful place you have here, and it’s a lovely day. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to show me round the gardens?”

  Godfrey smiled at her, delighted.

  “It will be my pleasure, young lady. I expect my dog could do with a walk too,” he said, looking at Baby Jane with a slightly puzzled air. “Although, I must confess, I’d almost forgotten I had him.”

  Godfrey put on the hat that Grace passed to him.

  “Come along, Bomber,” he said to Baby Jane, “time to stretch our legs.”

  However offended Baby Jane might have been about being mistaken for a boy dog with her master’s name, she hid it well. Better than Bomber managed to hide his sadness at being mistaken for his father’s bookie. Grace put her hand to his face.

  “Chin up, darling. I know it’s tough. Yesterday morning he sat bolt upright in bed and accused me of being Marianne Faithfull.”

  Bomber smiled in spite of himself.

  “Come on, Ma. We’d best follow them before they get into mischief.”

  Outside, the vapor trail of a plane was scrawled across the blue sky like the knobbled spine of a prehistoric animal. Folly’s End House sadly had no folly, but it did have very beautiful and extensive gardens for its residents to enjoy. Grace and Godfrey had moved in just over three months ago, when it became clear that Godfrey’s reason had set sail for faraway climes, and Grace could no longer cope with him alone. He occasionally took a brief shore leave in reality, but for the most part the old Godfrey had jumped ship. Folly’s End was the perfect harbor. They had their own rooms, but help was on hand when they needed it.

  Godfrey strolled arm in arm with Eunice in the sunshine, greeting everyone they met with a smile. Baby Jane ran ahead. When she stopped for a wee, Godfrey shook his head and tutted.

  “I do wish that dog would learn to cock his leg. Next thing we know, he’ll be wearing lilac and singing show tunes.”

  They stopped at a wooden bench by an ornamental fishpond and sat down. Baby Jane stood right at the edge of the pond, fascinated by the flashes and swirls of silver and gold as the koi carp gathered in hope of food.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Eunice warned. “It’s not sushi.”

  As Grace and Bomber caught up with them, Godfrey was telling Eunice all about the other residents.

  “We’ve got Mick Jagger, Peter Ustinov, Harold Wilson, Angela Rippon, Elvis Presley, Googie Withers, and Mrs. Johnson who used to run the launderette in Stanley Street. And you’ll never guess who I woke up in bed with the other morning.”

  Eunice shook her head, agog. Godfrey paused for a moment and then shook his head sadly.

  “No, and neither will I. I had it a moment ago, and now it’s gone.”

  “You told me it was Marianne Faithfull,” said Grace, trying to be helpful. Godfrey laughed out loud.

  “Now that, I think I would remember,” he said, winking at Bomber. “By the by, have you placed my bet yet?”

  Before Bomber could answer, Eunice directed his attention to a distant figure wearing enormous sunglasses and vertiginous heels, teetering in their direction.

  “Oh God!” moaned Bomber. “What on earth does she want?”

  It took Portia some whi
le to reach them across the lawn, and Eunice watched her precarious progress with quiet amusement. Baby Jane had jumped, unbidden, into Godfrey’s lap and was warming up her growl. Godfrey watched Portia’s approach with only mild curiosity and no sign of recognition whatsoever.

  “Hello, Mummy! Hello, Daddy!” Portia crowed without enthusiasm. Godfrey looked behind himself to see who she was talking to.

  “Portia,” began Bomber gently, “he doesn’t always remember . . .” Before he could finish, she had squashed herself next to Godfrey on the bench and tried to take his hand. Baby Jane growled a warning and Portia leaped to her feet.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. Not that vicious dog again!”

  Godfrey clutched Baby Jane protectively.

  “Don’t you speak about my dog like that, young woman. Who are you, anyway? Go away at once, and leave us in peace!”

  Portia was livid. She had driven twenty miles from London with a banging hangover and got lost three times on the way. And she was missing Charlotte’s “designer bags and belts” brunch.

  “Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, Daddy. You know damn well that I’m your daughter. Just because I’m not here every five minutes sucking up to you like your precious bloody son and his pathetic, lovelorn sidekick. You know bloody well who I am!” she fumed.

  Godfrey was unmoved.

  “Young woman,” he said, looking at her scarlet face, “you have clearly been out in the sun without a hat for far too long and have taken leave of your senses. No daughter of mine would use such language or behave in such an abhorrent manner. And this man is my bookie.”

  “And what about her?” Portia sneered, pointing at Eunice.

  Godfrey smiled. “This is Marianne Faithfull.”

  Grace managed to persuade Portia to go inside with her for a drink. Bomber, Eunice, Godfrey, and Baby Jane continued on their stroll around the gardens. Under one of the apple trees, a small table was laid for tea and an elegant elderly lady sat drinking from a cup and saucer. With a younger woman who was eating a lemon-curd tart.

  “They’re my favorite,” she said as they said hello in passing. “Would you like one?” She offered them the glass cake stand. Bomber and Eunice declined, but Godfrey helped himself. Baby Jane personified dejection. The elderly lady smiled and said to her companion, “Eliza, I think you have forgotten someone.” Baby Jane got two.

  Back in the main house, they found Grace alone.

  “Where’s Portia?” Bomber asked.

  “Taken herself back to London in high dudgeon, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Grace. “I tried to reason with her, but . . .” She shrugged sadly.

  “I don’t understand how she can behave so appallingly.”

  Grace glanced over to where Godfrey was chatting to Eunice to make sure that he was out of earshot.

  “I think I can.” Grace took Bomber’s arm and led him over to the sofa.

  “I remember when she was very young.” She sighed sadly, summoning the memory of her small daughter, with a gap-toothed smile and uneven pigtails. “She always was her daddy’s little girl.”

  Bomber took her hand and squeezed it.

  “And now she’s losing him,” Grace continued, “and perhaps for the first time in her adult life, she is faced with something that her money can’t fix. Her heart is breaking and she can do nothing about it.”

  “Except hurt those who love her,” replied Bomber crossly.

  Grace patted his knee.

  “She simply doesn’t know how to cope. She left here in floods of tears, having called her darling Daddy a wicked old trout.”

  Bomber gave his mother a hug.

  “Never mind, Ma, you’ve always got your ‘precious bloody son.’”

  Just as they were leaving, Godfrey beckoned Eunice over to his side.

  “A word in your ear.” He winked conspiratorially at her and lowered his voice.

  “Pretty damn sure that woman was my daughter. But there have to be some consolations for having this ruddy awful disease.”

  CHAPTER 31

  According to Sunshine, Laura had had Freddy on a “sleepover.” But Laura had not had Freddy on a sleepover. She had slept with him, in the same bed, but she had not slept with him. Laura smiled to herself at how peculiarly British it was; using the same words for different meanings but still not actually saying what you mean. Sex. She had not had sex with Freddy. Yet. There. In the space of a few sentences she had gone from innuendo to intercourse!

  On Christmas night, she and Freddy had danced and drunk champagne and talked. And talked and talked. She had told him all about school and tray cloths and Vince. She told him about the baby she had lost, and he had held her close, and she told him about the short stories that she had written and he laughed until he cried. He had told her about his ex-fiancée, Heather—a recruitment consultant who wanted marriage and children, and he didn’t. At least, not with her. He had also told her why he had sold his small IT consultancy (much to Heather’s consternation and the final wheel to fall off their relationship) to become a gardener. He got sick of watching the world through a window instead of living outside in it. Laura finally told him about Graham and their disastrous date, and after some hesitation and another glass of champagne, she even told him about the kiss.

  He grinned.

  “Well, at least you haven’t rushed upstairs yet to swill your mouth out, so I’ll take that as a good sign. And I hope you kept that dress!”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I was too embarrassed to kiss a girl until I was seventeen because of this,” he said, lightly touching the scar that ran onto his mouth. “I was born with a cleft lip, and the surgeon’s needlework wasn’t the neatest…”

  Laura leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth.

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t seem to hamper your technique now.”

  Freddy told her all about Felicity; a blind date set up by a woman whose garden he’d been working on for several years. She swore they’d get on “like a house on fire.” They didn’t, but Felicity was one of the woman’s closest friends, so Freddy carried on seeing her while trying to work out a dignified escape route.

  “One night, I couldn’t face any more of her bragging and braying and calling me bloody Freddo, so I just stood her up. Not very dignified, I know, but damned effective, as it turned out. I lost my client, but it was worth it.”

  Finally, when Freddy and Laura had run out of words, they took comfort in each other’s arms, sleeping furled around one another like petals in a bud.

  They slept in the guest bedroom next to Therese’s old room. The day Laura woke to find the drawers emptied onto the floor, she had moved her things into the room next door. She wasn’t afraid, exactly. Or perhaps she was, a little. She had a horrible feeling that there was, if not a specter, then an uninvited guest at her feast. A soup spoon was missing; one of the table legs was too short; one of the champagne cocktails was flat; one of the second violins was sharp. A sliver of disharmony jangled Padua, and Laura had no idea what she should do to restore peace. Carrot would never go into Therese’s bedroom, but he was perfectly happy to abandon his place by the fire on Christmas night to nestle at their feet on the bed where Freddy and Laura slept.

  When Sunshine found out about the “sleepover” she wanted to know all the details. Whose pajamas did Freddy wear; how did he clean his teeth without his toothbrush; did he snore? And did they kiss? Freddy told her that he had borrowed one of Laura’s nighties, cleaned his teeth with soap and a flannel, and no, he didn’t snore, but Laura did enough to rattle the windows. And yes. They had kissed. Sunshine wanted to know if Freddy was any better at kissing now and he told her that he’d been having lessons. Laura had never seen Sunshine laugh so hard, but how much of it she believed was difficult to guess. How much of it she would repeat when she got home wasn’t.

  It was New Year’s Eve and still very early. The guest room also had a view of the rose garden, but this morning it was barely visible through the driving rain. Freddy
would be here later. They were going out this evening to join the celebrations at the local pub. But in the meantime, Laura was drawn inexorably to the study. Armed with enough toast for both of them and a pot of tea, she went into the study followed by Carrot, and lit the fire. She took a small box down from its shelf and laid the contents on the table. Outside, it was raining harder than ever, and the sound of running water played counterpoint to the spit and crackle of the fire. For the first time, Laura held in her hand an object she could not name, and even after reading its label, she was no wiser as to its purpose or origin.

  WOODEN HOUSE, PAINTED DOOR AND WINDOWS, NO. 32—

  Found, skip outside no. 32 Marley Street, 23rd October . . .

  Edna peered at the young man’s identity card. He said he was from the Water Board; come to check all the plumbing and the pipes. It was just a courtesy call. They were doing it for all their customers over seventy before the winter set in, he said. Edna was seventy-eight and she needed her reading glasses to see what was on the card. Her son, David, was always telling her to be extra careful about opening the door to strangers. “Always keep the chain on until you know who they are,” he warned. The trouble was that with the chain on she could only open the door a crack, and then she was too far away from it to read the card. Even with her reading glasses on. The young man smiled patiently. He looked right. He was wearing a smart pair of overalls with a badge on the right-hand chest pocket, and was carrying a black plastic toolbox. The identity card had a photo that looked like him, and she thought that she could just about make out the words “Thames” and “Water.” She let him in. She didn’t want him thinking that she was a foolish, helpless old woman.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

  He smiled gratefully.

  “You’re a diamond and no mistake. I’m proper parched. The last brew I had was at seven o’clock this morning. Milk and two sugars and I’m a happy man.”

  She directed him to the downstairs lavatory and then upstairs to the bathroom and airing cupboard on the landing which housed the water tank. In the kitchen, she put the kettle on, and as she waited for it to boil she looked out at the long strip of back garden. Edna had lived in her East London terrace for nearly sixty years. She and Ted had moved in when they got married. They had brought up their kids here, and by the time David and his sister, Diane, had grown up and left home, it was bought and paid for. Of course, they could never have afforded it now. Edna was the only one left from the old days. One by one, the houses had been bought up, tarted up, and their prices hiked up as high as a tom’s skirt, as her Ted would have said. These days, the street was full of young professionals with flash cars, fondue sets, and more money than they knew what to waste it on. Not like the old days, when kids played in the street and you knew all your neighbors and their business.