by Jonker, Joan
Cyril’s eyes rested on the sheaf of letters, and he was just reaching for them when a knock came on the door that he recognised. ‘Come in, my boy, I know your knock by now.’
The face that came around the door had a mop of black hair, flashing brown eyes and a friendly smile. Just the sight of it lifted Cyril’s spirits for this was Charles’ best friend, Oscar Wentworth. The one person who loved to talk about his son, who had been his school chum at five and was still his best friend when they were twenty-five. He missed him as much as Cyril did. He had been best man when Charles married Evelyn at the registry office on the day he’d left to fight in the war from which he never returned. A year later Oscar had married Gwen, Evelyn’s friend and bridesmaid, and they now had two children.
‘Sit down, my boy, and I’ll ring for a pot of tea.’ Just a few seconds after the bell on his desk tinkled, Miss Williams opened the door. She had worked there long enough to be able to say, ‘The kettle is on the boil, just give me five minutes.’
‘Miss Williams, what would I do without you?’
‘Find another secretary who would put her foot down and say, “Please sign those letters, Mr Lister-Sinclair, so they can catch the lunchtime post”.’
Cyril smiled, something he could do when Oscar was there. It brought a blessed release from tension. ‘They will be signed by the time the tea arrives, Miss Williams, I don’t want to be scolded.’
When they were alone, Oscar said, ‘You are lucky with Miss Williams, Cyril, she’s perfect. Friendly without overdoing it, and not afraid to smile. My father’s secretary is like a little mouse, I’ve never seen her really smile in all the years she’s worked for him. She shuffles along with her head down, and even one of my famous jokes doesn’t light up her face. I tried for years, but I’ve given up now. Father is quite happy with her, her work is faultless. But I would prefer a spelling mistake that came with a smile.’
Cyril signed the correspondence, and pushed it across the desk when the tea was brought in on a silver tray. ‘There you are, my dear, signed and sealed.’
‘Thank you.’ Louise Williams smiled at the boss who was so kind and thoughtful she would go to the ends of the earth to please him. When she caught him looking sad, she was saddened, too. ‘I’ll be mother and pour. Then I’ll leave you in peace and make sure those letters get to the post on time.’
While she was pouring, Cyril looked from her to Oscar, the two people who had helped him keep his sanity. Particularly Oscar who, since the day the telegram had arrived to say Charles had been killed, had seldom missed a day without visiting Cyril either at the office or at home. He was the one who snorted with derision when Cyril said he was thinking of selling off his business interests and retiring, for he had lost the competitive thrust needed to stay ahead of his rivals. But his son’s friend wouldn’t allow him to. He’d come into the office every day for a year and willed Cyril to reawaken the interest he’d always had. He knew that if his dear friend’s father was at home all day, he would slowly fade away through lack of companionship, stimulating conversation and love. There was also the need to talk about Charles. Oscar was fond of Mrs Lister-Sinclair but thought her selfish, a little childish, lacking in humour and with no interest in her husband’s businesses or what was going on in the world. And Oscar had been very straight about telling Cyril that if he was at home all day he would go crazy.
The tea poured, Miss Williams made her exit, saying over her shoulder, ‘I’ve left room for a touch of the whisky you have hidden in the side drawer.’
Oscar chuckled. ‘She really is a treasure.’
‘Clever, too,’ Cyril said. ‘She knows as much about this business as I do. If I were to absent myself from the office for a month, everything would still run smoothly.’
‘If you want to take a holiday, Cyril, I could always come and work with Miss Williams to keep the wheels oiled. You could do with one, you know.’
‘Who would I have for a companion? I would be as alone on holiday as I am here.’ Cyril opened the side drawer and took out a bottle of whisky. After pouring a small measure into his cup, he handed it to Oscar. ‘How is the family, my boy? Mother and father keeping well?’
‘Both fine! Dad doesn’t seem to grow any older for all he works hard. I’ll swear he has more hairs on his head than I have. And Gwen and the children are well, although my wife has her hands full with the two boys. Charles is nearly six, and Richard just a year younger.’
‘I was grateful to you and Gwen for calling your first-born Charles, it was very thoughtful of you.’
‘Nonsense! Charles was my friend, the best anyone could have, I never considered any other name for my first son. And it was Gwen’s wish too, not mine alone.’
Cyril looked down into his empty cup for a while, then asked, ‘Gwen was friendly with Evelyn, wasn’t she? I believe they were together when Evelyn first met Charles.’
‘Yes, I believe they were. I’d known Gwen for a while at that time, but there was nothing between us but friendship. The seeds of romance were sown at the registry office the day Charles and Evelyn were married.’
‘Does she still see Evelyn?’
Oscar looked surprised. ‘No, I think she only called to see her once after the baby was born. Amelia, I believe the child was called.’
‘Yes, I saw the baby, and she was called Amelia, but whether she was ever christened I do not know. Over the years I’ve many times wondered if I was wrong about Evelyn. You know the story she told me, and I didn’t believe her because I didn’t think my son capable of treating the woman he wanted for his wife in such a shabby way. The child bore no resemblance to Charles at all. Colouring, features, nothing that would lead me to think she was my son’s child. And on top of that there were no tears of sorrow when I told her Charles had been killed, she never went into mourning. In fact, what really sickened me was the way she failed to ask what the telegram said, or where or how Charles died. There was not one tear shed. The only words she uttered, were, “What’s going to happen to me?”’ He placed the cup and saucer on the silver tray. ‘But always at the back of my mind I’m asking myself, did I do right? I don’t worry about Evelyn because I never did like her, she was shallow and selfish. But what if Charles was the father of the baby, and for seven years I’ve never bothered to find out about the child? I’ve left it so long now, I wouldn’t know where to start. But I’d hate to go to my grave wondering if I had made my son’s child an outcast.’
‘There must be some way of finding her if that’s what you want, Cyril. I’ll have a word with Gwen, see if she has any way of finding where Evelyn disappeared to.’
‘When I asked her to vacate the house in Princes Avenue, I did suggest she tried the property letting office in Moorfields. Whether she ever went there I don’t know, but it’s the last thing I remember saying to her. Oh, and I told her to take whatever items of furniture and bedding she would need. That is all I can tell you.’ There was a plea for help and understanding in the eyes searching Oscar’s face. ‘What are your thoughts, Oscar? Was I wrong in the actions I took? Too quick to judge? Was I perhaps hitting back at her for not being heartbroken, as I was?’ Cyril ran a finger across his forehead. ‘I know you are the one person I can rely on to tell me exactly what you think. So, in my place, what would you have done, then and now?’
‘Acted as you did at the time, Cyril, without any doubt. Evelyn’s actions would have hurt and angered me. But they would not have surprised me, I was never an admirer of hers. Never thought she was good enough for Charles, but he was besotted and wouldn’t listen. However, since it means such a lot to you, I will be perfectly frank. Over the years, like yourself, I have had doubts niggling at the back of my mind. Was Charles the father of the child? Could he have lost control because he was going away to a foreign country to fight in a bloody war that was claiming the lives of millions of men? If he did act out of character, who are we to blame him? I for one would not think badly of him, for he was a good man and a friend I was
proud to have.’ Oscar leaned forward to put a hand on the teapot. ‘Talking is giving me a thirst, and this tea is still warm enough to be drinkable.’
‘I’ll ring for a fresh pot,’ Cyril said, reaching out to press the bell. ‘I feel quite thirsty myself.’
Oscar covered his hand. ‘No, don’t ring. Why don’t I finish what I have to say, then we can adjourn to the club for lunch and a drink? We can spend an hour going over what we’ve discussed and see where we want to go from there.’ He grinned. ‘It’s nice and quiet there, and although I am partial to a drop of whisky, my favourite tipple is claret.’
‘Good thinking, my dear boy. The chairs are more comfortable there, too!’
‘I forbid you to fall asleep in them, Cyril. My imagination is fired now, and I want an answer to the question that has plagued both of us for seven years.’ Oscar sank back in his chair. ‘One thing you should perhaps know is that at the age of one month, all babies look alike. Mine both had blue eyes and mousy hair. At eight months their eyes were brown and their hair dark. Then we could see baby Charles gradually taking on my features, when his nose became the shape of mine. And the same thing happened a year later with Richard. Blue eyes, mousy hair at birth, then six months later the spitting image of me. So you really wouldn’t have been able to make any judgement on baby Amelia, she was far too young for anyone to say who she resembled.’ He went to push himself out of the chair. ‘Shall we make our way to the club now?’
‘Can we just go a little further here first, my boy, and then smooth the details out at the club? The main question I want to ask is, do you think it’s too late to try and solve the mystery or shall I begin to search for Evelyn and her daughter? I could hire a private investigator, that would speed things up. I wouldn’t know where to start myself.’
‘I think we both know the answer to that in our hearts, Cyril. If we don’t try, we will always wonder what the truth is. I definitely think we should waste no time, enough has been lost already. We may be disillusioned at the end of our search, but at least we will have tried and will not be burdened with guilt for the rest of our lives. But rather than hire a private detective, I would like to start the search myself. I would feel I was helping Charles. I could start at the property letting office in Moorfields. I know that many years have passed, but they must keep records. Have you any recollection of the date Evelyn left Princes Avenue? That would be a help.’
Cyril rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed in concentration. ‘I remember the baby was born on the eighteenth of September, the maid brought a note to inform me. That was in seventeen. Evelyn and the baby left the house one month later. That means her daughter will be eight next week.’ A catch came to his voice, and an unwelcome tear to his eyes. ‘What a stupid, blind fool I’ve been to have left it so long! If she is Charles’ daughter, I have missed seven years of my granddaughter’s life.’
‘Come now, Cyril, this is no time for self-pity. If we find the girl, and find proof that she is your granddaughter, then think of the happiness it will bring you and your wife. It would change your whole lives, give you something to live for. It will also give you back a part of your son. If we are not successful in finding mother and daughter, then you will have lost nothing. But let’s think positive, it’s half the battle.’
‘Are you sure you want to take such a task on, my dear boy?’ Cyril asked. ‘I would willingly hire a detective.’
Oscar shook his head. ‘I want to do it to put your mind at rest, and my own. But most of all, I want to do it for Charles.’
The following morning Oscar entered the premises of the property letting office in Moorfields. He was well dressed and had an air of authority about him, so one of the two men behind the counter came over to him immediately. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I hope so, my good man, but my quest is not an easy one. I am trying to trace a woman who may have rented a house from you in October nineteen seventeen. Rather a long shot, I know, but I would be grateful if you could assist me. It’s important to a friend that we should trace this woman and her child.’
‘We keep records of all our tenants, sir, and they go back some twenty years. If you can give me the family’s name, I can certainly look it up for you.’
‘The lady in question is a Mrs Lister-Sinclair, and she was a widow with a new baby.’
The man’s face showed his surprise, for the Lister-Sinclair name was known by most business people in the city. ‘Oh, I don’t think I can help you, sir. I’ve worked here since the office opened, twenty years ago, and know all the names of the people who rent our property. I can safely say I would have remembered if anyone of that name had registered with us, it is a name well known in the city.’
Oscar’s heart sank for a second, then he had an idea. ‘It is possible the lady married again, so could I crave your indulgence and ask to look in your tenants’ book for a name I might recognise? I am prepared to pay you a pound for your time.’
The man’s colleague left the person he was talking to and came down the counter. A pound was almost a week’s wages, and he wanted his share. Particularly as he was the senior clerk. ‘Bring the book out, Watson, and let the gentleman look through himself to see if any of the names rings a bell.’ He gave Oscar his best smile. ‘We are always willing to help, sir.’
The large, hardbacked book was well thumbed, and as the clerk opened it a sprinkling of dust rose from its spine. Although he was seeing it upside down, Oscar could see the first dates were in January, and said, ‘Could you start at the October entries, please? I believe that would be nearer the time she would have applied to you for rented accommodation.’
The clerk turned the book around so Oscar could read the entries. ‘If as you say, sir, the lady may have married again, then she would have registered under her new husband’s name. But if you wish to check, then you are very welcome.’
Oscar was beginning to think he was on a wild goose chase. He had lost the feeling of optimism he’d had when he’d walked into the shop. It all seemed pretty hopeless if the two clerks didn’t remember a name that would stick in most people’s minds. Still, the man had been kind enough to take the trouble of rooting the book out, the least he could do was take a look. He went down the list of names, and was about to admit defeat when the name Mrs E. Sinclair seemed to jump off the page. He tried not to let his excitement show, he didn’t want to divulge any of Cyril’s private business.
‘This is a possibility – Mrs E. Sinclair. There was a slight tiff in the family and to alter her name was probably her way of getting her own back. All over a silly quarrel, she was just cutting off her nose to spite her face. Anyhow, it’s worth a try, so if you would be good enough to give me her address, I would be most grateful.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t give you her present address, sir. She is no longer a tenant of ours. She handed in her rent book several years ago. I can remember her vaguely, an attractive woman. A bit standoffish, if my memory serves me right, but a good looker.’
‘When she left, did she leave you a forwarding address, or give you any idea where she was moving to?’
The senior clerk had finished with his customer and came down the counter. ‘I remember her, too, sir, she rented from us for about four years. When she came in with her money for the week’s notice, I did ask why she was leaving and where she was going. But she was reluctant to talk, merely said she had found somewhere more suitable.’
‘Would you be allowed to give me her old address, then, and I can try the neighbours there, see if she was more forthcoming with them?’
The older man nodded. ‘Get the books out, Watson, and help the gentleman. If I am not mistaken, Mrs Sinclair rented a property in Bedford Road. But if you go through the books, you can give him the correct address. And please be quick about it, Watson, I’m sure the gentleman hasn’t got time to waste.’
The clerk disappeared into a back office and was away for ten minutes. When he returned he had a look of triumph on his face and dust all over h
is jacket. ‘I’ve got it, sir. I’ll write the address down for you when I’ve wiped some of the dust off my hands.’ The pound note he’d been promised would now have to be shared with his senior, which he felt was a bit unfair, but still, ten bob was a lot of money and his wife would be over the moon when he handed it over to her. They’d be able to have a roast dinner on Sunday, with a large joint of meat. ‘I do hope you are successful, sir,’ he said, handing over a piece of paper with an address on. ‘Bedford Road is easy to find, it’s off Stanley Road and the trams stop on the corner.’
‘That is exceedingly kind of you, you have been most helpful. But I know where Bedford Road is, and I have my own transport.’ Oscar dipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket and brought out the pound note he’d carefully folded before entering the office. ‘Here you are, my good man, this is for your co-operation which I can assure you was most appreciated.’
He placed the note on the counter and out of the corner of his eye could see the senior clerk edging his way towards it. He knew that as soon as the door closed behind him the two men would argue over how the money should be shared.
Once out of the property letting office, Oscar walked the few yards to his car. Sitting behind the wheel, he glanced at the slip of paper, made a mental note of the address, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then as he switched on the ignition, he said aloud, ‘I can but try. For Cyril’s sake, and my own, I pray I have some success.’
It wasn’t a great distance from the city centre to Bedford Road, and soon Oscar was sitting outside the house where Evelyn and her daughter had lived. It was a come-down from what she was used to, but nevertheless it was a nice road with plenty of greenery in the gardens, and the houses looked solid and well cared for. He decided not to knock on the door of the address he’d been given but instead to knock at a neighbour’s house and ask if the tenant had been living there at the time Evelyn lived next door. It was to be hoped the person wouldn’t think he was up to no good and slam the door in his face. But he assured himself that, although he wasn’t gifted with film-star looks, he didn’t look disreputable enough to be a beggar.
