‘What happened?’ he said, and the gentleness in his voice stole through her usual reserve. ‘What have you lost?’
‘Everything,’ she replied, and when Ben frowned, not understanding, she found herself telling him it all. About the bookshop, and how they had dreamed of a life spent working together; about Ed, and how his death had taken away the certainty of her future; about how the floods had destroyed what little she had left and burdened her with a shop she couldn’t sell and debts she couldn’t pay. The words tumbled out. It was a relief to speak of it at last, after months of bottling up her misery.
‘Do you wish you could have interviewed the unluckiest girl in Yorkshire now?’ she asked, referring to the headline he had shown her in the newspaper when they first met. ‘Would that have made a good story?’
‘No. It’s not a good story,’ Ben said, and for barely a second, he placed his hand over hers and squeezed it.
Clare shivered as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. Ben stood up. ‘Shall we carry on walking?’
They returned to the towpath and headed back towards the locks.
‘There were bad floods here a few years ago,’ Ben said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘Perhaps you could speak to some of the businesses that were affected. They might be able to give you some advice about your shop and on starting again.’
‘No,’ Clare said, stopping as they reached the bridge by the theatre. ‘There’s no point. I had everything I wanted, and now it’s gone. I’ve had plenty of pep talks about second chances, but it would always be second-best, wouldn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily. I know the situations can’t compare, but being a journalist is my second chance, and I can’t regret it. I share a crummy house, drive a clapped-out car, and have a precarious bank balance but I’ve never felt so lucky.’
‘I think we’ve already established that I don’t have luck like that.’
‘Perhaps you need to start making your own luck. It’s simple, isn’t it?’
It did sound simple when he said it, and for a moment Clare’s habitual gloom wavered, and she wondered what might be possible… but then a gust of wind blew away her fragile hope, and she huddled into her coat, the familiar despair wrapping round her again.
*
Two weeks went by, and the initial excitement of identifying Randall Hunt fizzled away as they came no closer to finding out who the woman in the photograph was. Ben sent Clare regular text messages about his search – funny, warm messages that unaccountably brightened her day – but there was no disguising the lack of progress. He had suggested publishing the photo in the newspaper, and it was an obvious solution, but Clare held back. The couple in the picture had preserved their privacy for sixty years; she didn’t want to be the one to ruin that.
With options running out, Clare showed the photograph to Nicky, her boss at the pharmacy.
‘I don’t suppose you recognise this woman, do you?’ she asked, holding out the photo and carefully covering Randall Hunt’s face.
‘What?’ Nicky glanced at the image. ‘It’s black and white! How old do you think I am? I could only have been a baby when that was taken.’
‘I mean do you recognise her as a customer? If you try to imagine what she looks like now…’
‘If she’s still alive, she must be in her late eighties by now, at least. One grey perm looks the same as another to me. Is it important?’
‘Not really, only…’
The loud beep of Nicky’s mobile phone interrupted.
‘That’s all I need,’ Nicky said, throwing down her phone. ‘Brian tripped over the cat last night and has sprained his ankle. He can’t drive, so he can’t do the prescription run.’ She looked across at Clare. ‘Lucky I have you now. You’ll have to do it. I have a list as long as your arm of prescriptions that need delivering today.’
‘Me? I don’t know how to do it.’
‘It’s hardly rocket science. You drive to a house, you drop off a prescription. There’s even a satnav in the van. If Brian can manage, I’m sure someone with your qualifications can.’
The day didn’t prove to be a highlight of Clare’s employment at the pharmacy. It was murky and miserable – a clear reminder that the summer was over and autumn on the way. The rain was so heavy she could barely see through the windscreen, even with the wipers on the fastest setting. She leaned forward in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her fingers went numb as she tried to negotiate the steep and twisty lanes around town. At last she reached the final delivery on the list and followed the satnav’s directions onto a narrow track, holding her breath as she squeezed the van between the bushes lining either side. She was beginning to wonder if she’d gone wrong when a huge black-stoned house came into view around the next bend. Clare lost concentration for a second, the van hit a pothole and skidded into a bank of mud.
Clare climbed out and inspected the damage. Not only were there clear scratch marks down the side of the van, it was well and truly stuck in the ditch. It was just her luck, wasn’t it, that Brian had to be absent on the day the weather turned? Nicky was going to be furious. The charm bracelet peeped out of the bottom of her sleeve as she gave the van a half-hearted shove. She didn’t know why she was still wearing it. If anything, her luck had been worse since she’d found it.
The local garage was too busy to rescue her for at least an hour. Deciding she might as well finish the delivery, Clare trudged along the track, rain soaking through her clothes and puddles splashing over the tops of her shoes, until she reached a weathered oak door and banged on the knocker.
It must have been a couple of minutes before the door opened, to reveal an old man with thick white hair, tartan slippers and a warm smile.
‘Is it raining?’ he asked, peering past Clare and looking up at the sky. ‘What are you doing out in this weather, lass? Only fish and fools enjoy this much water.’
‘Mr Wardle?’ Clare asked, holding up the pharmacy bag, which was rapidly disintegrating in the rain. ‘I’ve brought your medicine.’
‘But you’re not Brian.’
‘No, he’s not well today.’ Clare held out the bag, but the man made no effort to take it. He looked past Clare again.
‘Nay, you didn’t try to drive up the track in these conditions, did you? Brian knows better than that. You’ll end up stuck!’
‘I am stuck. Someone’s coming to help me out.’
‘Well, you’d best come in while you wait. You look like you could do with a cup of tea.’
She could actually do with a large glass of red, but tea was a close second, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Clare followed Mr Wardle into the house. He shuffled through a wood-panelled hall that was large enough to hold a fireplace and two wing-backed chairs, and into an old-fashioned but spotless kitchen. Glossy purple cupboards with metal trim handles had clearly survived for several decades, and a large, scrubbed pine table filled the centre of the room.
Mr Wardle opened a cupboard and took out two mugs. He popped a teabag in each one.
‘Don’t tell my sister,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘She’s a stickler for the full works, cups and saucers and teapots. Do you mind it the simple way?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but wandered over to Clare and held out his hand. ‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ he said. ‘I’m Bert. How do? Who might you be?’
‘Clare.’
‘A proper, solid name.’ He nodded in approval, although Clare wasn’t too sure she liked being called solid. ‘I once knew a Clare. Good teeth and trim ankles. Almost asked her to dance once at the Astoria in Todmorden but I lost my nerve and next thing you know she’s engaged to some fella from Burnley. Takes all sorts,’ he said, handing Clare her mug. ‘Come on through to the parlour, the fire’s going in there.’
The parlour was a dark but comfortable room next to the kitchen at the back of the house. A Victorian tiled fireplace dominated one wall, and Clare headed towards it, craving its warmth and reluctant to leave a
wet patch by sitting down on any of the chairs.
‘This is an amazing house,’ she said, looking round. ‘Have you lived here a long time?’
‘Almost ten years.’ He gestured towards a row of shelving to one side of the fireplace, which was filled with picture frames. ‘It’s my sister’s house. She’s been here for over sixty years, and I moved in when we were both left on our own. It’s not been a bad arrangement, bar the odd disagreement now and again. It certainly beats being alone.’
Clare managed a small smile and turned away to look at the photographs. They were typical family photos – babies, children, weddings – clearly chronicling the passing years in both the faces and the fashion. She was about to speak to Bert again when an older photograph caught her eye, a black and white image of a teenage girl and boy. She pulled it forward and stared at it.
‘Is this you?’ she asked Bert, holding out the frame. He smiled.
‘Aye, I’ve not changed a bit, have I?’ He tugged at his hair. ‘Still all my own, and not many can get to my age and say that.’
‘But who’s this with you?’ Clare asked, pointing to the girl at his side.
‘That’s my sister. That’s our Nancy. A real beauty, wasn’t she? You could have scoured the whole of Yorkshire and not found one to match her.’
But Clare had seen one who matched her – on the photograph in her handbag, looking with love into the face of Randall Hunt.
*
‘I’ve found her.’
Clare telephoned Ben as soon as the van had been rescued, and she was safely back in Haven Bridge. ‘Her name is Nancy Wardle.’
She told Ben the story of her afternoon, hardly able to contain her excitement, and apart from a few interruptions to laugh at her driving skills, Ben seemed equally thrilled.
‘How sure are you?’ he said. ‘Did you ask her brother?’
‘No. He might not know anything about it, if it was a secret affair. I’m almost certain, though. She had the same eyes and smile.’
‘It’s unlikely there were two girls who looked like that around the same area at the same time. She was stunning.’
It was true, but for some reason Clare’s excitement dipped a little on hearing that, which was ridiculous, because what was it to her if Ben did consider someone stunning? It wasn’t as if she had any interest in him herself.
‘What do you want to do next?’ Ben asked, interrupting the confused swirl of her thoughts. ‘Are you going to visit again and return her things?’
‘She’s in the Peak District for a few days, visiting friends.’ Clare had managed to weasel the information from Bert. ‘I suppose it gives us more time to double-check. Would you mind looking into Nancy, see if you can find anything else? I promise it will be the last thing I ask of you,’ she added, belatedly conscious that she had referred to “us” automatically.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’m happy to help. I want to hear this story as much as you do.’
*
Ben phoned Clare later that evening, when she was curled up in bed with a book.
‘I think you’re right,’ he said, cutting straight to the point. ‘I can’t believe I missed this before. Randall Hunt visited the Haven Bridge Picture House in 1953 and guess who worked there?’
‘Nancy?’ Clare didn’t need to wait for confirmation; she could sense Ben’s smile down the telephone. ‘Is that where they met? Did you find a photo of them together?’
Ben laughed. It was an oddly intimate sound to hear in her bedroom, when she was wearing only her pyjamas; oddly comforting too. It reminded her of the long, late-night conversations she had shared with Ed before they moved in together. She snuggled further under the duvet.
‘Nothing quite that good,’ Ben said. ‘I found an article about his visit, and there are two photos. One is of Randall on the steps of the Picture House, and the other is of members of staff lining up to meet him. Nancy is in the line. The timing fits, doesn’t it? What do you think?’
Clare didn’t hesitate.
‘I think we need to meet Nancy.’
*
Ben parked his car on the road and together they wandered down the track to the house on the moors, while the early autumn sun warmed their heads and the curlews circled high in the sky. Clare felt a curious sense of anticipation – positive anticipation, not the usual gloomy dread she had lived with for so long.
Breaking all sorts of rules, she had looked up Bert’s telephone number in the pharmacy records and arranged to visit him and Nancy this morning. She’d mentioned vaguely that she had found something that might belong to Nancy, but Bert hadn’t seemed to care. He’d said they were always glad of visitors, and of an excuse to break into a new packet of biscuits.
Bert answered the door, shook their hands, and led them straight to the parlour. A lady was standing by the window, and she turned as they entered the room. Clare knew at once that it was Nancy: the eyes and the smile were unmistakeable. But this wasn’t the Nancy she had expected. She had imagined a tiny old lady, bowed with age, with permed grey hair and shapeless, comfortable clothes, shuffling around in her slippers like Bert. The real Nancy was slim and tall, her white hair styled in a pixie cut and wearing elegant trousers and a silk blouse that made Clare look the dowdy one.
‘How very good to meet you,’ Nancy said, shaking Clare’s hand with a firm grip. There was no trace of a Yorkshire accent, and her voice was redolent of old films. ‘Bert tells me that you might have something of mine. This is quite the mystery. I don’t recall having lost anything recently.’
She gestured at them to sit down. Clare perched on the edge of the sofa and Ben took a seat by the fire while Bert brought in tea and biscuits. Clare glanced at Ben and he nodded, confirming that he agreed this was the girl in the photograph, although the raised eyebrows that followed the nod suggested that Nancy wasn’t what he had been expecting either.
‘So why don’t you tell me what this is about?’ Nancy asked, after a few minutes of small talk while they made the most of the tea and biscuits.
‘Do you know a shop in Haven Bridge called Miss Moonshine’s?’ Clare began. The atmosphere changed at once; Nancy stiffened and sent her brother what appeared to be a warning look.
‘I’m aware of it,’ Nancy said. ‘I believe it’s even older than I am. But I’ve never been in it.’
‘Oh.’ Clare didn’t know if this was bad news or not. She reached in her bag and took out the book of poetry. ‘A few weeks ago, I bought a box of bric-a-brac from there, and found this book inside.’
She held out the book and Nancy took it. Her hands shook as she held it, inspecting the front cover. Then she opened it, flicking through the pages, too fast to be reading the words – almost as if she were looking for something. She reached the end cover and let the book drop to her lap.
‘Yes, this could well be mine. I used to have a copy just like it. But how could you know? My name isn’t in it.’
‘I found this inside the book.’ Clare delved inside her bag and brought out the photograph. ‘I recognised you when I delivered Bert’s prescription.’
She passed the photograph to Nancy, and any lingering doubt was washed away when she saw the emotion ripple across the older lady’s face: surprise, followed by a flash of tenderness, finally replaced by wariness as Nancy looked up at Clare.
‘Have you shown this to anyone?’ Nancy asked.
‘No.’ Clare decided not to mention Miss Moonshine and Nicky.
‘And why are you showing it to me?’
‘Well…’ Clare was confused. Wasn’t it Nancy in the photograph? ‘I thought you would want it back. There was this as well,’ she added, feeling like Mary Poppins as she rooted in her bag again and brought out the note. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to lose them. If it had been me in the photo, if someone had written this note to me, I would want to keep it forever.’
Nancy studied Clare for what seemed a terrifyingly long time and then she smiled.
‘Forever?’ she repeat
ed. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re still at an age where forever seems possible, and even desirable. May I?’
She held out her hand for the note. When Clare passed it over, Nancy glanced at the words, too briefly to read them, as if she knew them off by heart.
‘If you managed to track me down, I dare say you had easy work to discover the identity of the man?’
‘Randall Hunt,’ Ben said. ‘A rising star from the Golden Age of Hollywood until he disappeared. Do you know why?’
Clare shot him a warning glance. What was he doing? She wanted to hear the story as much as he did, but they had agreed not to interrogate Nancy. It was up to her whether she chose to tell them the story or not.
‘I do,’ Nancy said. ‘I’m probably the only one left now who does. Apart from Bert, of course. He always knew everything. He took that photograph, you know. The only one we ever had taken together. It was too risky, you see.’ She turned the note over in her hand. ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have this back. Dear Bert, who had kept our secret so well for almost sixty years, decided to spring clean one day and took piles of old goods to Miss Moonshine’s shop. He had no idea that I was using this book as a hiding place. I have lived in dread that it might fall into the wrong hands.’
‘It hasn’t,’ Clare said. ‘I only wanted you to have these things back because they must be precious. You don’t need to tell us anything. Whatever secrets you have are safe.’
Nancy studied her and then nodded and relaxed back in her chair.
‘We met at the picture house in town,’ she said. ‘I worked there, and he visited when he was filming out on the moors near Hardcastle Crags. Something clicked at once, the magical way it sometimes can. Perhaps you know?’
Nancy glanced from Clare to Ben.
‘Oh, we’re not –’ Clare began, only to be silenced by the sight of Ben’s smile.
‘We met up whenever we could over a long, glorious summer. We took whatever was available: minutes or whole days, early mornings or late nights. Every moment was precious because this was it, we both knew that. The thing we had seen in the romantic pictures. The real thing.’
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