by Pat Herbert
“Anyway, I felt suddenly emboldened to ask her out, although I suppose I’d expected her to say no. But, to my surprise, she said she’d love to and told me about a film she wanted to see that very evening, some French thing, I can’t remember what now. Something worthy in black-and-white with sub-titles. You know the sort of thing.”
Jerry smiled. “Boring, I think you mean.”
“I suppose I do. But I made out I’d enjoyed it because she so obviously did. It’s silly what you say and do just to impress a girl, isn’t it?”
Jerry nodded knowingly.
“After that first night, we became almost inseparable, except when we went to lectures and returned to our respective lodgings. It wasn’t long before we decided to move out of halls into a communal flat, shared with two other student couples. It was a bit squashed and informal, but at least we had a room to ourselves.
“We were so happy together then. It didn’t seem to matter that we were at war with Germany. By then, Ron had enlisted in the Royal Navy, and I supposed it wouldn’t be long before I was called up. I dreaded it, because I was a pacifist, but I was prepared to drive ambulances and bind up wounds. It was the least I could do, but when I got my papers, I was rejected because of my flat feet. It was a relief, I have to admit, although I felt a bit guilty about not doing my bit.
“But Sophie told me not to be silly and, as long as she still loved me, I continued to be happy. I planned to ask her to marry me as soon as I graduated and had taken up a curacy. I suspected she wouldn’t be the normal run of vicars’ wives, being so lively and happy-go-lucky. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more disorganised person than Sophie, before or since, but none of that mattered. She was the only woman for me.
“Then, one day, she wasn’t there anymore. I came back to the flat from a lecture and ran straight up to our room as usual. She often got back before me and I couldn’t wait to take her in my arms. Sorry, Jerry, if this sounds a bit Mills & Boon.…”
“Don’t be silly, Bernard. I’m interested. What happened then?”
“All I found, when I got to our room, was a scribbled note on my pillow. It said, and I can still remember the exact words, ‘Darling, forgive me. I’ve let you down. I love you, but I can’t stay. Don’t try to find me – it will only bring you pain. But remember this – I will always love you. Be happy. Your Sophie.’
“I broke down then and wept like a baby. I just couldn’t understand what had happened. Why had she gone away, like that? Everything had been fine up until then, although I’d begun to suspect something was wrong a few days before. She’d become a bit moody, and not her usual cheerful self. Nothing so dramatic as having a row, or anything. It was a real mystery to me. I couldn’t think where she would have gone, unless to her parents, who lived in Chesterfield somewhere. I didn’t even allow myself to think that she might have found someone else.
“I know what you’re going to ask, Jerry. Why didn’t I try to find her? Looking back, I don’t really know now.”
As Bernard finished his story, the plane touched down on Spanish soil. Jerry was choked. What a sad tale. How could such a seemingly perfect relationship end so abruptly?
“Did you never find out what happened?” he asked, as the plane taxied to a halt.
“No. And I never saw her again from that day to this.”
“How sad,” said Jerry, unbuckling his safety belt. “You really should have gone after her, you know.”
“What’s the point of regrets, Jerry? It only makes you bitter and life’s too short.”
“But love is all there is in the end. We only get one stab at life, so shouldn’t we do all we can to be happy while we’re here?”
“I’m a man of God. I think God tests us, and I don’t think we’re put on this earth to be happy all the time. After all, Jesus wasn’t. He had His trials, so why shouldn’t we? Anyway, I’ve no complaints. My life’s been good, and I’m well looked after.”
Jerry didn’t altogether agree with the old man’s philosophy and secretly thought Bernard had been pretty feeble to give up so easily. He put his arm around the old man as they made their way through customs.
36
In the taxi on the way to their hotel, Jerry brought up the subject again. “But, honestly, Bernard, wouldn’t you like to know what happened to your Sophie – even now?”
“Perhaps. More so now than in the past. I had the business of living to get through then. My work as a vicar and father confessor kept me fully occupied. But now that I’ve retired I’ve found myself thinking more and more about Sophie. I lost a dear friend recently, so I feel a gap in my life now.”
“Once this is over, maybe I can help you find her? After all, we’ve got the world wide web now. You never know.…”
Bernard smiled. “Do you think there’s a chance?”
“Sure – why not?” Jerry smiled encouragingly. “I want to know what happened to her almost as much as you do!”
Bernard laughed as they pulled up outside the accommodation that Jerry had had the foresight to book before leaving London. Both men felt at home at once inside the small, family-run hotel, as they made their way to the reception desk.
After a good night’s sleep, they felt ready for breakfast and for the prospect of meeting the Miles-Harrises. They gazed out of the window at the early autumn sunshine as they finished their meal. It was going to be a lovely day, but they weren’t particularly looking forward to it.
Once in the taxi on their way, Jerry turned to Bernard and reminded him that, under no circumstances, were they to implicate Eve when asked how they had got their address. “Just say we sneaked a look in the file while her back was turned,” said Jerry.
Bernard nodded. “Of course. Don’t worry, I won’t give the game away.”
The Miles-Harrises’ house was very impressive from the outside. The white façade looked pristine in the autumn sunshine, and they could see a swimming pool as they approached it from the street where the taxi had dropped them.
“Talk about the lap of luxury. They moved from Bockhampton Road to here? What a change!” observed Jerry.
“Very nice,” agreed Bernard. “Is this what’s called a hacienda, d’you think?”
“I think so,” said Jerry, thoughtfully. He looked forward to moving himself, although maybe not so far as Spain, just to the next street would do.
They both stood, admiring the house for several minutes. It was situated in a quiet cul-de-sac, and there was hardly a sound to be heard. No cars, nothing. Then their ears attuned to the cicadas and various bird songs. It was magical, like something out of a Walt Disney cartoon.
Finally, they steeled themselves to walk up to the front door and ring the bell. It wasn’t long before a tall, grey-haired, rather elegant woman of indeterminate age stood before them, a friendly smile on her open, pleasant face.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked politely.
Jerry returned her smile. “Hello. I’m Jerry Bracegirdle, and this is Bernard Paltoquet. We’ve....”
He stopped. She was staring at Bernard and Bernard was staring at her.
“Bernard? Is it really you?”
“Sophie?”
Yes, it was she. Bernard’s long-lost sweetheart stood before him, the Spanish sun highlighting her English rose complexion which still seemed as fresh as the day he had met her.
“H- how did you find me?” she asked. The shock on her face was the only thing that marred her beauty for Bernard at that moment. “Have you been looking for me for long?”
“I – I – forgive me, Sophie, but I haven’t been looking for you at all,” Bernard replied, not altogether tactfully.
“Then how – why?”
“It was a completely different matter that’s brought me here,” Bernard told her. “Can we come in?”
“Of course, please do, both of you.” Sophie stepped aside to let the two men enter the house.
“Let me get you
some tea. I always remembered you liked your tea, Bernard. Or do you prefer coffee these days?”
“Tea would be lovely,” Bernard said. “But my young friend here may want coffee.”
“Tea’s fine, thanks,” said Jerry.
While Sophie went off to the kitchen to prepare it, the two men looked at each other in amazement.
“What a coincidence!” said Jerry. “You must be over the moon.”
“I can’t quite believe it yet,” said Bernard. “It’s like a miracle. To find her after all these years.”
Jerry looked across at the sideboard and noticed the photograph of a smiling, grey-haired man. And then he saw the black crepe draped around the frame.
“Bernie,” he whispered. “Look! The picture of that man over there. It’s got black crepe around it. What does that mean?”
“It means he must have recently died. Don’t be so nosy – oh, I see what you mean...”
“Do you think it’s Mr Miles-Harris? Do you think he’s dead?”
“If that’s who it is. I should say that’s what it means, yes.”
Then they looked along the sideboard and saw an array of cards, mostly tastefully decorated with flowers. Sympathy cards, of course.
“Oh my God,” said Bernard, when the full import of the display sunk in. “Do you suppose her husband has just died?”
“Looks like it,” said Jerry. “Sshh! She’s coming.”
Sophie came back into the room with a tea tray. She placed it on the coffee table between the two men and sat down opposite them.
As she poured the tea, Bernard coughed politely. “Er, we couldn’t help noticing that you have recently been bereaved. We’re so sorry to come at such a time. Of course, we didn’t know, otherwise we wouldn’t have dreamed of bothering you.”
“Oh please, don’t give it another thought. Of course, you didn’t know. How could you? My dear husband died of a heart attack just over a week ago. He didn’t suffer for long, which was a blessing.”
“How long had you been married, Sophie?” Bernard asked as he sipped his tea.
“Just over fifty years,” she replied. “We’d only just celebrated our golden wedding anniversary.”
Neither man knew how to respond to this piece of information. “That’s nice” seemed inappropriate in the circumstances.
“He hadn’t been well for several weeks,” she continued, “but he was doing all right until that girl turned up. That sent him over the edge and caused his fatal heart attack.”
“‘That girl’?” asked Jerry.
“Oh nothing. I didn’t mean to say anything. After all, it’s no concern of yours.”
Jerry cleared his throat. “I think that’s where you’re wrong, Mrs Miles-Harris. The girl you mean was Beth Morrison, wasn’t it?”
Sophie looked taken aback. “Yes, I think so. I know her name was Beth, anyway. I can’t remember her surname. But – how did you know?”
“Does my name mean nothing to you?” Jerry asked her.
“No, I don’t think so. Are you her husband?”
“No. I was her boyfriend. My name’s Bracegirdle.”
“Yes, I know. You told me. I think I would remember a name like that.”
“I was the poor idiot who bought 57 Bockhampton Road off you,” Jerry told her. Bernard shot him a warning glance.
Sophie looked at the young man in surprise. “I – I didn’t know. My husband handled that side of things.”
Bernard decided to intervene at this stage. “Look, Sophie, as I said to you just now, I haven’t been actively looking for you at all. You and I finding each other again is a pure coincidence. I came here today with Jerry as his friend and confidante. His girlfriend was murdered in the house you sold him.”
Sophie suddenly looked scared. “Murdered? But how? By whom?”
“I think you know the answer to that one, Sophie,” said Bernard. “Shall we stop playing games? We came here to find out what happened to you and your husband in that house and why you sold it so cheaply to my friend here.”
The old lady looked deflated. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “That house has been nothing but trouble to me and my family almost from day one. I wish we’d never seen the place. It should be blasted off the face of the earth.”
“Our feelings exactly, Sophie,” said Bernard gently. “We’re not here to make trouble for you, especially at this sad time.” He cast a glance at photograph of Mr Miles-Harris on the sideboard. “But Jerry is under suspicion by the police, and you know, don’t you, that it wasn’t him?”
“I don’t know anything of the kind,” she said, defensively, looking from one to other of them. “How should I?”
The two men waited patiently while she seemed to be gathering not only her thoughts, but her scattered wits. Finally, she spoke. “I – I didn’t know anything was really wrong, honestly I didn’t. I just thought it was all in my daughter’s head.”
“Your daughter? She had some bad experiences in that house?”
“She did. But we didn’t really believe her.”
“But if you didn’t believe her, why did you want to get rid of the house? Surely you wouldn’t have sold it for so little if you thought it was just your daughter’s imagination?” Bernard was puzzled.
“Because what it did to her frightened us. We couldn’t keep on the house after it had caused so much trouble for her.”
“Where is your daughter now?” asked Bernard. “Did she move with you to Spain?”
“She’s still in England,” said Sophie. She paused before continuing. “In a mental asylum, actually.”
“Are you saying the house sent her mad?” asked Bernard.
“Look, I think I need to explain a few things. My daughter, Catherine, was a beautiful child, but the trauma of her birth caused a problem with the workings of her brain, and she was what you would call ‘sub-normal’, I suppose. She had ‘learning difficulties’ as I think they politely call it these days and, as she grew older, she became more and more isolated from the other children and clung more and more to me. I was a single parent at the time, which didn’t help matters – ”
Bernard jumped in. “So, Mr Miles-Harris wasn’t Catherine’s father?”
“No. He took her on when he married me. He was a saint.”
“A good man indeed,” agreed Bernard. “You must have loved him very much.”
“Oh yes, I loved him. We enjoyed our life together – at least we did until we moved into Bockhampton Road.”
“But, Mrs Miles-Harris, in what way was your daughter disturbed by the house? Did she see ghosts? Hear voices? What?” Jerry asked eagerly.
“Nothing so precise as that. She kept telling me she felt miserable, especially when she was sitting in front of that fireplace. She also felt cold most of the time. There were days when she would run out of the house and refuse to return for hours. We had to coax her back in with the promise of her favourite video and a box of chocolates.”
“All that sounds upsetting, but I don’t quite see how it would have sent her so deranged as to warrant her being put in a mental home,” observed Bernard.
“No, well, it’s hard to explain. But she was getting more and more introverted. Her condition hadn’t really improved since she was a child. In fact, as she grew older, she got worse. She was on medication, which helped, but really, she wasn’t relating to the outside world at all. Which was such a shame as she was a very pretty young woman. But men frightened her, and any attempt by a young man to befriend her was repulsed almost at once. And, by the time she reached middle age, she had become bitter. She used to pick rows with me and Charlie, my husband, and there were many times when we just didn’t know how to deal with her. Then, when we moved to Bockhampton Road, she started to go completely off the rails. One time, she tried to throw herself off the roof. She said she was being hounded to her death by the house.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Bernard, “I can see why you needed to move right away. But why did you put her in
an institution?”
“We didn’t do it lightly, I can assure you. And she’s a voluntary patient. She wasn’t sectioned, or anything. But the doctors convinced us that travelling to Spain would be traumatic for Cathy, and that a stay in a hospital that specialised in her sort of problems would be better for her. Once she was stabilised, we could then think about getting her over here.”
“So how long has she been in the hospital?” asked Bernard.
“Two years. We went to see her several times, but each time she seemed worse, not better. I think she was being kept on medication most of the time. Although, they said she was receiving regular counselling as well as occasional electric shock treatment.”
“Do they still do that?” asked Jerry, aghast. “I thought that went out with the Victorians.”
“No, they still perform what’s called electroconvulsive therapy – ECT for short. It’s supposed to help severe depressive cases and bipolar disorders – or so we were told. My husband was not happy that Cathy was getting this ECT treatment and said so to the psychiatrist in charge of our daughter’s case. Charlie told him we could see no improvement in Cathy and that, in fact, she was worse. But we were talked round and told we needed to give the treatment more time to work. Neither of us was really convinced, but we didn’t know any different and had to assume that the professionals knew best.”
