Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  We travel along the A2 amidst a patchwork of green fields, and for the first time in a long time, I miss Hutton village, with the long stretching moors and the narrow roads. Now that Isabel is gone, I can go back there. I can see Seb again, and the thought makes me feel conflicted. Will he want to see me after everything I’ve done?

  Killer.

  I put those thoughts out of my mind because this is a time to do good, to clear some of that guilty conscience of mine. Mark turns the radio up and rolls the window down, showing me the beautiful bright sunshine outside. I just wish my mind wasn’t clouded with darkness.

  The café where we meet has a portrait of the white cliffs on the wall. Francesca is sitting below the picture, a pot of tea resting on the table in front of her. She’s tall, slim, somewhat severe in appearance, with a pointed mouth and rosebud lips, but she smiles politely and gestures for us to take our seats. Mark helps me into mine. I keep an arm pressed over my wound, as though I’m protecting it.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “Thank you for agreeing to help us.”

  “Not at all,” she replies. “Aren’t you the nurse—?”

  “I am,” I interrupt. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with today. This is all about Mark and his grandfather, who lost a sister in 1944. There was a fire, and Abigail’s body was never recovered.” I glance at Mark, unsure how to proceed. It’s never easy asking people if they believe their relatives may have kidnapped a child many years ago.

  But Francesca is more forthcoming than I expected. “Yes, I know about that. My mother died a few years ago, and I was sorting through some old photographs. My Uncle Steven—my mother’s brother—explained to me about my Great-Aunt Marie and Uncle Clive and the small town they used to live in. Clifton-on-Sea. I did some research into Clifton and discovered the fire and all of the rumours that surrounded it. I also saw that some people thought my ancestors took Abigail Hawker because they couldn’t have children of their own.” She takes a sip of her tea and leans back in her chair. “I… I have to be frank with you. I thought these rumours might be correct. My Great-Uncle Clive was not a good man. According to Uncle Steven, they had to leave Clifton because Clive had had an affair with a sixteen-year-old student.”

  “Do you think he might have been a paedophile?” I ask as gently as it’s possible to ask such a question.

  “It’s possible. The girl was very young indeed, and I believe it to be true, so I suppose he was. I don’t know if he did anything with anyone younger, or if it was just that girl.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

  Mark shows her photographs of Abigail and the mysterious Mary. “What about these? Do you recognise the people in these photographs?”

  Francesca shakes her head again. “I’m sorry, no. I don’t. I checked through all of our photo albums and all of the letters kept from that time, and there’s no sign of a young girl matching your missing girl. If my great-uncle did take this Abigail, he… Well, he didn’t take her to Dover, anyway.”

  The unspoken implication is clear. He could have killed her and dumped the body somewhere else before the family ran away from the town. But is it possible that after all these years, Abigail’s body was never found?

  Mark and I leave the café feeling somewhat dejected, but before we leave the town, we drive to the cliffs and eat fish and chips while gazing over the Strait of Dover. The vinegary grease tastes good after being on a restricted diet for weeks.

  “We might have to face the fact that we’ll never know.” Mark chucks a chip towards a group of seagulls, and we watch them fight over it.

  “There’s still the children’s home. I have some replies to my emails from a few weeks ago. Why don’t we stop off in Canterbury and see if we can find anything else out?”

  Mark’s shoulders sag, and I place a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “I want Grandad to find peace,” he says in a very small voice.

  “Let’s go to Canterbury,” I urge.

  *

  On the way to Canterbury, I pull up the emails sent to me by the various records offices and libraries. Most have come back to tell me they found nothing, but there is one from a lady claiming to have found a young girl the same age Abigail was at the time. As Mark drives back the way we came, I call the lady, Geraldine Abbott, and ask if we can call in this afternoon. Time is rushing ahead and it’s after four already, but she agrees to stay late for a chat with us.

  I can tell from Mark’s silence and the tense line of his shoulders that he’s feeling dejected after meeting Francesca, but I have a better feeling about this. Geraldine doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would stay late at the office just to tell us she hasn’t found anything after all.

  There you are, Isabel. I’m hopeful again. No matter what you say about me, I’ll always be hopeful. You’re not the only cockroach around, you know.

  I’m a little disappointed that the office is out of the town centre, as I had hoped to see the cathedral and the Tudor buildings. But that does make it easier to park, and doesn’t take us too far out of our way home.

  When we reach the records office, I’m sweating from the long day. Even walking across the carpark takes it out of me, but I still feel energised as I press the buzzer and wait for Geraldine to answer.

  Ever since working at Crowmont Hospital, I’ve had a hatred for buzzers. They always remind me of that first day. Mark jangles his keys in his pocket, and I place a hand on his elbow to calm him. When the door opens, we discover that Geraldine is a tiny woman wearing bright pink lipstick and thick-rimmed glasses. Her voice suits her frame: it’s high-pitched, but not shrill.

  “You must be Lizzie,” she says, holding out a hand for me to shake.

  “And this is Mark. He’s George Hawker’s grandson.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widen. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, then. Come in.”

  The offices are small, crammed with furniture and bookcases overflowing with books. There are a few desks stacked high with files, mugs left on desks and ancient computers that desperately need an update. Despite the dustiness and the tea rings, the place feels cosy, and light gushes in from the large window.

  “Take a seat. I won’t be a moment.”

  I find an armchair with wooden armrests, and Mark pulls up a desk chair to sit in. Geraldine rustles through some papers on her desk, muttering to herself as she goes.

  “I’m sorry to bother you late in the day,” Mark says as she works, filling the silence. “We’ve just been to Dover to speak to someone else we thought might know more about Abigail.”

  “Oh, really,” Geraldine says, sounding slightly distracted. “Did you find anything out?”

  Mark sounds older when he says, “No.”

  “But we’re still hopeful,” I add. “If there’s anything you can help us with, it would be fantastic.”

  “Actually, there is.” Geraldine produces a piece of paper that I can see is a scan of some handwriting. The handwriting is in columns, with names on one side and dates on the other. “This is a copy of the register for Canterbury Catholic Children’s home, where a lot of displaced children were sent during and immediately after the war. Now, I didn’t find anyone called Abigail on the list, but I did find an Annemarie, aged eight, who was sent to the children’s home around the same time as the fire.” Geraldine passes me the scanned image, and I immediately see the pencil marks where Geraldine has highlighted the name.

  “Mary,” I whisper, handing the sheet to Mark. There’s a lump in my throat as I say, “Um, Mary is a name we believe might be connected to Abigail as she grew older. Someone sent a photograph to George of a woman who might be Abigail, and on the back it just said ‘Mary’.”

  “Oh, I see.” Geraldine nods. “That’s interesting. I actually have some more information for you. It’s noted here that Annemarie was injured when she came to the children’s home. Head trauma. It was her uncle who brought her to the home and claimed that she’d been hurt during the Blitz in London. According t
o these records”—Geraldine gestures to more handwritten notes—“Annemarie didn’t remember her own name.”

  “What was the name of her uncle?” Mark asks, finally lifting his eyes from the paper before him.

  “That wasn’t recorded, I’m afraid,” Geraldine says. “But it is recorded that she was sent money and clothes by the same uncle and was occasionally visited by him. Does any of this sound plausible to you?”

  I find myself nodding. “It has to be Simon Blackthorn. He had the connection to the family. He was most probably Abigail’s father. Maybe she saw him start the fire and he snatched her, hurting her in the process. When he realised her memory was gone, he also realised he wouldn’t be able to care for her and sent her to the children’s home. What do you think, Mark?”

  “I think it makes sense. What happened to Annemarie after she left the children’s home?” he asks.

  “She left in 1952.” Geraldine lifts up another sheet of paper. “Here, it’s written that the home arranged for her to work as a maid for a household called the Colemans. Her surname is listed as Prior.”

  “Annemarie Prior. I wonder how she got that name,” I say.

  “If this Simon Blackthorn did kidnap Abigail like you think, perhaps he had papers forged,” Geraldine suggests. “With the chaos of the war, it might have been much easier to do it then.”

  I glance down at all the information again, but instead of thinking about Abigail, I find myself thinking of Tom. Will I have to track him down one day? Two weeks, and not so much as a phone call.

  “Thank you for your time.” Mark stands and shakes Geraldine’s hand, new energy giving him a spirit that’s wonderful to see.

  “Yes, thank you so much,” I add. “You may have helped figure out what happened to Abigail, and it will make an old man very happy.” I almost pull Geraldine in for a hug, but shake her hand instead.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Mark slips his hand in mine as we walk back to the car. He gives me a little squeeze, and I squeeze back. That bit of pressure tells me everything I need to know. It’s gratefulness, not love, or lust, or attraction. It’s relief. We’ve been through this together, and now we’re about to come to the end. The mystery of what happened to Abigail Hawker is about to be solved. We’ve tracked down the Colemans.

  They live on a farm estate just outside Canterbury. Rather than waste any more time, we’ve decided to drive there now.

  The drive from Geraldine’s office to the Colemans’ farm is a relatively short one, without incident thanks to the sat nav. Here, the countryside is fecund green, and the farmland spreads out among the dry stone walls. I open the window and let the smells in, good and bad. If I close my eyes, I’m back at the Braithwaites’ farm, with Seb waiting for me at the cottage.

  “We should manage our expectations just in case nothing comes of this,” Mark says as he pulls onto the drive. “They might not be in. They might not talk to us. Annemarie might not be—”

  I place my hand on his arm. “Now is the time to be optimistic. Now is the time to hope.” We lock eyes. “We’re going to find out what happened. Okay?”

  He nods. “Okay.”

  On the way down to the farm, my shoe catches on a loose stone, tripping me forwards. The quick movement pulls on my stitches, resulting in a sharp pain that’s a lot like the knife Isabel stuck in me. At least while I’m here, away from the caves of Clifton, I can try to forget, even for a moment or two, about everything that happened. I need to practice what I preach—as always—and allow myself a moment of optimism.

  Somewhere on the farm, a dog barks, and the sound echoes back to us. A horse nods its head in the paddock to our left, occasionally twitching its ears away from the flies. A curtain moves on the ground floor of the farmhouse. I imagine that the Colemans are not expecting visitors, especially not ones who walk slowly while holding their insides together.

  Mark knocks firmly on the door, and a jolt of electricity travels through my body. It’s perhaps thirty seconds before the door is answered, and during that time there’s an instant when I feel like running away. But then I realise that the jolt of electricity isn’t fear, it’s excitement. This is the kind of nervousness that should be savoured, because it leads to something positive. For the last few years of my life, that sense of nervousness always led to bad experiences. Not anymore. Today, that changes.

  “Hello?” The woman who answers is wearing an apron and has her hair tied back in a bun. She frowns, clearly wondering if we’re here to sell something or try to convince her to switch religions.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Mark says, and it just now strikes me as the most often-spoken phrase in Britain. “My name is Mark Hawker, and I was hoping you might have some information about a young woman who worked here in the fifties and possibly the sixties. Annemarie Prior.”

  “I’m just a housekeeper,” she replies. “You probably want to speak to Maeve. Just wait here a moment, and I’ll see if she wouldn’t mind talking to you. She’s in her eighties now, you see.”

  “Thank you.”

  There’s the sound of a chain moving across the lock as she closes the door. I don’t blame her at all. As I think about locks and safety, my mind wanders back to Isabel again, always close to me, always there.

  The chain shifts, and the door re-opens with a creak.

  “She remembers Annemarie.” The housekeeper appears surprised as she informs us of this. “And she will see you, but only for a few moments. She hasn’t been very well recently.”

  “Thank you,” Mark says, and for a moment I think he might actually hug her.

  The housekeeper swings the door open and leads us through into a real farmhouse kitchen with an old Aga and horseshoes nailed to the beams. We continue on, and it’s clear that the farmhouse is kept tidy but hasn’t been redecorated for a few decades. Old books are stacked up in the windowsills with jam jars of wildflowers resting on top, the carpet is worn but still retains its deep red colour, and each of the chairs in the living room is in a different floral pattern. In the background, a grandfather clock ticks away ominously.

  There’s a creak from an old armchair, and a small woman with a grey head leans forward. She’s tucked in up to the chest with a blanket, this one patterned with purple embroidery.

  “Who did you say you were?” Maeve’s fingers point vaguely in our direction, and I can see from the milky surface of her eyes that she can’t see very well.

  “My name is Mark Hawker. My grandfather is George Hawker, and we’re from Clifton-on-Sea. When my grandad was young, his mother died in a fire and his sister disappeared. We’ve been trying to find out what happened to his sister, Abigail. We think she might have been taken to a children’s home in Canterbury, and that she might have been called Annemarie Prior.”

  The woman’s eyebrows lift. “Annemarie. Yes, I remember her. Mary.”

  “Mary?” I blurt out. “Is that the name she went by?”

  “Oh, yes,” Maeve says. “She didn’t like Anne. She wanted to be a Mary. She was young, you know. But I was too. She cleaned for my mother and father and made bread in the mornings. Very pretty, she was. I remember wishing I had those long legs.” Maeve begins to chuckle. “Of course, I still got the boys. Didn’t I, Sophie?”

  The housekeeper nods. “Yes, Maeve, you were quite the catch in your day.”

  “Show them the photograph,” Maeve demands.

  Sophie subtly rolls her eyes but still reaches for the photograph on the mantelpiece above the log fire. Maeve was indeed a catch. Hands on her slim waist, eyes open bright and wide like a movie star, a little mischief in her smile. Slim, beautiful, and cheeky.

  “Gorgeous,” I say.

  Maeve nods. “Oh, I’ve still got it.”

  Mark glances at me with an expression of horror, but I just pat Maeve on the shoulder. “Of course you have. Is there anything else you remember about Mary? Did she work here for long? Do you remember if she moved?”

  “Oh, no,” Maeve said. “Mary
didn’t move. She married my brother. They lived in the cottage near the south field for years.”

  “Did she ever move to Leeds?” I ask, wondering how the photograph of Mary ended up coming from Leeds if she’d stayed here in Dover.

  “Oh, do you know, I think she visited a relative there once,” Maeve replies. “In the sixties. I think it was her uncle.” She pauses. “Or was is some sort of weekend away with the uncle? I can’t remember now, it was a long time ago.”

  “Is… is Mary still alive?” Mark sits slowly down in the chair opposite Maeve, his mouth set in a tense line.

  “No. She died five years ago, and my brother went the year after.”

  Mark presses his hands against his knees before he glances across at me. “Well, it was a long shot.”

  “But my niece still lives there,” Maeve says. “And her husband.”

  “They do?”

  “Oh, yes. Valerie and Gavin. They have two children, Rosie and Sam. Rosie has just had a baby, Oliver, and Sam is away at university in London. Maybe you can meet them some time. Here, let me write down Valerie’s phone number for you. She’d love to know more about her mother.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” There’s a shine of dumbstruck emotion passing over Mark’s face as he takes a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it. Sophie, who was assisting Maeve with the pen and paper, sits back down.

  “Did you know Mary well?” I ask. Surely, if Abigail—who then became Annemarie, or Mary—was Maeve’s sister-in-law, the two of them must have known each other very well. I want to know everything I can about this woman we’ve been chasing for the last few weeks.

  “As well as anyone, I suppose,” Maeve replies. “Mary and Bobby got married in 1960, I think it was. Or maybe it was 1961. I was a bridesmaid. I had ringlets in my hair.” She smiles and mimes the curl of her hair with her fingers. “There was only one man on Mary’s side. An uncle, she said. And a few friends from the town. Some of them she said she knew at the children’s home. The uncle was a strange one. He walked her down the aisle and then left before the reception, without talking to anyone.”