The Happy Family Facade

by Allison Osborne

  He could’ve gone on and on about his parents, but he didn’t want to boast. Irene’s childhood was a direct contrast to his, and he didn’t know how much he could speak about his own past without it affecting her–if she even let it, that is.

  From what she’d told him, she loved her childhood, but he didn’t know enough yet, to know which triggers to avoid to keep her from going silent.

  “Unfortunately,” she said. “Having children does not automatically make you a good mother.”

  Her comment surprised him. He knew not every mother was perfect, even he had disagreements with his own mother occasionally. But, his thinking was that, if you had a child, then you automatically loved them.

  “It must give something, though,” he said. “Some type of motherly instinct.”

  Irene chuckled darkly, staring down at her dirty pants, picking at a piece of soot. “Not always. At least it didn’t happen to my mother.”

  She froze, a surprised look on her face. She blinked rapidly as if holding back tears, and turned to face the window. Joe had no idea how to respond. This was the first time she’d mentioned her mother in any capacity except to tell him that the woman simply wasn’t in Irene’s life at all. There were times that if Joe didn’t know biology, he would’ve thought she simply didn’t have a mother and was popped into her father’s arms at 221B.

  He wanted to ask so many questions all at once but knew better. This was a conversation meant for a night in and several cups of tea.

  The traffic picked up, and they rode in silence for the next little while until Joe turned onto Baker Street. Irene never pulled her gaze from the window until Joe put the automobile into park.

  “You carry on to the appliance store,” Irene ordered, seemingly recovered from her emotional moment. “Gather pamphlets and booklets on heaters and cookers. We shall deliver them tomorrow, and hopefully, get another look upstairs.”

  “Oh.” Joe was a bit taken aback by her order. Had he offended her so much that she didn’t want to come with him? Usually, they went everywhere together during cases.

  She looked at him, one hand on the door handle of the car, and must’ve noticed his trepidation.

  “I can come with you if you want,” she said. “But I would like to get started developing this film.”

  Joe shook his head. “No, no. I can go on my own. Do not worry. Are you...?”

  He paused, wondering how he could ask if she was okay without receiving an automatic response of ‘I’m fine’.

  “Are you good to develop those pictures by yourself?” he finally asked. “I don’t mind helping.”

  The hesitation in her answer worried Joe. He was just about to turn the car off and insist he follow her inside when she reached out and curled her fingers around his.

  “I am perfectly fine, Joe,” she said. “I am anxious to get these pictures developed and see what clues lay in them. I’ll have Miss Hudson hold off supper for a short while.”

  She offered him a soft smile, then exited the vehicle.

  Joe sighed as he watched her enter 221B. He wished he could get across to her how much she could trust him. He didn’t have anyone to tell her secrets too anyway, even if he wanted to. But he saw all the activity that swirled behind her eyes, and if he could make her feel the relief he felt when he told her his story about the war, then he wanted to do that for her. Perhaps she just needed a bit more time.

  As Joe pulled the automobile away from the curb, he realized that he had no idea where the appliance store was even located.

  Chapter V

  A Revealing Memory

  Irene rubbed her head, trying to rid herself of the headache, as she stood in the darkness of Joe’s half-bathroom. She didn’t know if it was the fumes of the photo developer, the stress of this case, or her exchange with Joe that led to such pain. Developing the pictures, however, had managed to serve as a good distraction from her slip-up. She rarely thought about her mother, and for something on that subject to come out of her mouth was shocking, to say the least. There wasn’t even a story to be told, even if Irene wanted to sit Joe down and tell him everything.

  “Irene!” Joe’s voice drifted upstairs. “Supper’s out.”

  She plucked the last few photos hanging from the line and left the room. She’d taken a good collection of photos with the borrowed camera, and she hoped they held the key to this mystery.

  Hurrying down the stairs, the smell of spam hash filled her nose, and her stomach growled. Joe already had two large helpings on his plate when she entered the room.

  “I didn’t realize you took so many photos,” he said, handing her a plate. She dropped the last lot of the pictures onto the dining table, then helped herself to some potatoes and meat from the bowl on the kitchenette counter.

  “The attic is sealed,” Joe said, pulling the photo of the attic door toward him. “You’d need some hefty tools to get in there.”

  Irene nodded, shoving the hash into her mouth and nearly moaning at the delightful taste. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was after neglecting her stomach all day. “Pull out the photos of the Johnstons’ bedroom. I want to compare them.”

  Joe did as asked, lining up the five pictures Irene took. She dragged her chair around beside him and sat elbow to elbow, so they could view the photos together.

  “Look at the difference,” she observed. “Mrs. Johnston’s side of the room is barren of all personal details. There isn’t even a single wedding photo. But look at Mr. Johnston’s side. Covered in pictures of him and his son. Him and Mrs. Johnston. It’s full of trophies and memorabilia.”

  “What’s this?” Joe picked up a picture of the photograph on Mr. Johnston’s bedside table.

  “Something curious and concerning,” Irene said before shoving another forkful of food into her mouth.

  “Why does he have a photo of Miss Flagner on his table?” Joe wondered. “And when did he take it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Irene said. “I’d like to take another look at the actual photograph because when I first saw it, something didn’t sit right with me. Look at what else I found in the closet.”

  She laid the two photos down of the mysterious door.

  “Oh, dear,” Joe groaned. “Secret doors are never good.”

  “It was locked, the key probably somewhere either on Mr. Johnston or in the room.” Irene forked the last bit of hash into her mouth and wandered to their case board.

  She wrote down all their clues, circling the central theme:

  CLOSET

  “We must get through that door,” she announced. “That is our primary goal.”

  “The entire family is odd,” Joe said. “Mrs. Johnston has a disconnect from her whole family, that is utterly obvious. Hughie seems fidgety and distrustful of everyone. And Mr. Johnston appears as though he is living in some sort of fantasy world.”

  “And poor Miss Flagner is caught up in it all.”

  * * * * *

  The rain had held off for now, but the freezing Autumn wind chilled Irene when she stepped out of the automobile. Joe followed, the briefcase of pamphlets he’d collected earlier at his side. No one was outside on the Johnston estate’s lawn today, and that would make it all the more difficult to search the house again.

  They rang the front bell and waited.

  “They were expecting us, right?” Irene asked, glancing at Joe.

  “They were.”

  Irene rang the bell again, fighting the urge to walk right into the house. The door finally opened a few inches, and the maid peered out.

  “Oh,” she said hesitantly. “Hello there. Um, I’m not sure this is the best–”

  A loud shatter of glass drowned out the rest of her sentence. Irene pushed the door open at the sound, rushing into the large foyer.

  Incoherent shouting came from the sitting room. First Mr. Johnston’s voice, then Mrs. Johnston right back at him.

  Chloe appeared at the top of the stairs and hurried down to meet them.

  “
Today is not a good day,” she said. “Come outside.”

  Once they were safely out of the house, Chloe spoke.

  “When I came into the sitting room for morning tea, Mr. Johnston wished me a happy birthday, but my birthday is in January.”

  “Did you correct him?” Irene asked.

  “I said he must be mistaken,” Chloe said. “But he insisted. Told me we were having cake later. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night, and he smelled rather odd. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “Spoiled meat?” Irene offered, remembering the scent from his closet.

  “I believe so,” she agreed. “He got riled up when he asked the housekeeper when the cake would be ready, and she wondered who it was for. He shouted at her until she agreed to make whatever he wanted.

  Behind them, the front door burst open. Mrs. Johnston stomped out of the house, gloves and purse in hand. She climbed into her car without a word, started the engine and took off, tires squealing.

  “What were they fighting about?” Irene pressed.

  “I am not sure,” Chloe said. “I’m sorry, Miss Holmes. I tried to hear, but they shut the door.”

  “It’s alright, Miss Flagner,” Irene said. “We’d best be off before we raise suspicion. Tell them we will be back tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I should get back to the house. Poor Mary will have quite the mess to clean up, and I should help her.”

  Irene and Joe went back to the Vauxhall and climbed inside.

  “What now?” Joe asked, clutching the briefcase of pamphlets to his chest.

  “We follow Mrs. Johnston,” Irene said, simply.

  It didn’t take them long to find Mrs. Johnston’s car on the road. She’d bypassed the route into London and instead drove to a small village on the outskirts of the city, pulling up to an old tea house.

  Irene immediately formulated a plan in her mind to talk to Mrs. Johnston alone, without her husband looking over her shoulder. Joe rolled past the teahouse, and Irene spotted an alley a few shops down with enough room for their automobile to fit.

  “Back into there,” she instructed.

  “We can’t see the tea house,” Joe said.

  “We don’t need to see it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going inside.”

  Joe backed the car into the alley and put it in park. A butchers lay on one side and on the other was a short fence with cows grazing in the pasture beyond.

  “May I remind you,” Joe said. “That Mrs. Johnston knows who you are, and they will not let you into the tea house looking like that.”

  Irene laughed. “The thing about disguises, Joe, is that they come off. And sometimes your true self is the best disguise.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  She winked at him before grabbing her brown bag from the back seat. She pulled a small, clean rag from an inner pouch and scrubbed the dirt smudges from her face, then tossed the rag into the back of the car. Irene applied some mascara and her red lipstick before working on her hair. Pulling out pin after pin, she handed them all to Joe.

  He watched with presumed fascination at her transformation. Curl by curl fell from the top of her head and she finger-combed them into a lovely mane around her now-fresh face.

  Large blue bag in her hand, she exited the car. Quickly glancing around for any windows that might steal a glimpse of her, she dropped the bag and pulled out pants and a blouse. Crouching low, she stripped and pulled on her new outfit. Her pair of Oxfords sat at the bottom of the bag, and she kicked off the heavy work boots and tugged on the brown leather shoes.

  By the time Irene climbed back into the car, she was out of breath but appeared as if she were about to go downtown shopping with some lady friends for the day.

  “I may just purchase a drink in there,” she said. “I’ve never changed so quickly before.”

  She gazed at Joe and was met with a curious expression. He looked at her as if seeing a marvel at the zoo. She grew worried that, in her hurry, she missed something crucial in her look.

  “Does this not look correct? What did I miss?”

  Joe shook his head. “Nothing. You look fantastic. I am just in awe of how quickly that happened. You look like an entirely different person.”

  She gently patted his cheek with pride. “That, my darling Joe, is the point. Now, I shan’t be long. Relax and enjoy the sun’s attempt at shining today.”

  Irene left the car, tugging her purse over her shoulder, and strolled down the street. As she approached the tea house, she saw Mrs. Johnston through the window, sitting at a table, slowly stirring a full cup of coffee. She appeared to have a million thoughts in her mind as she stared out the window at nothing in particular.

  Irene entered the small shop and was welcomed by a collection of scents that made her comfortable and hungry all at once. Coffee, tea, baked bread and biscuits all beckoned her to the counter to order something from the menu.

  And she did just that. She ordered a cuppa and a Welsh cake, then leaned on the counter, surveying the rest of the place as she waited for her order.

  Mrs. Johnston still sat silently by the window, and Irene searched her brain in an attempt to figure out how to approach her. She’d almost forgotten that a disguise was only useful if you knew how to use it properly.

  Her tea and cake arrived, and she took the mug and plate and approached Mrs. Johnston.

  “Excuse me,” she said, as polite as she could. “May I just say how much I adore your shoes.”

  Irene put on a northern accent, akin to Joe’s, and was surprised at how easily it came to her.

  Mrs. Johnston glanced at her shoes, a smile now spreading across her face.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Irene slid into the chair next to her, choosing boldness over caution.

  “I’d love to know where you purchased them. I don’t think I could pull off that colour myself, but I’d love a dark brown or green.”

  “Cuthbert’s,” she replied. “Just to the east of central London. If you ask for Anne, she will help you.”

  “Wonderful,” Irene said. “I’m still learning my way around London.”

  A baby’s cry came from outside, and a woman walked by pushing twins in a double pram. One was screaming, and the other had so much drool dribbling from his mouth that his entire jacket was soaked.

  Irene paid close attention to Mrs. Johnston’s expression. Her nose wrinkled in disgust and she gave her head the smallest shake.

  Irene decided to test the waters. “Oh dear, that is a handful I would not want.”

  “You don’t have children?” Mrs. Johnston appeared surprised as she gave Irene a once over.

  “I do not.” Irene decided to push, see just what kind of candid answers she could get from Mrs. Johnston out of the gaze of her husband. “Do you?”

  Mrs. Johnston sighed and nodded, but didn’t seem at all happy with her own answer. “I do.”

  She must’ve realized how incriminating her response sounded because she straightened, plastering a smile on her face.

  “I mean,” she added. “I love my son, but...”

  She trailed off, and Irene pounced on the opportunity.

  “But that was not your plan?” Irene finished.

  Mrs. Johnston shrugged, a bitter tone entering her voice when she next spoke. “What’s the point of us making plans when we have people to marry and houses to fill?”

  “I am not fond of children, myself,” Irene said.

  Mrs. Johnston chuckled. “It is refreshing to hear another woman say that. I thought it was just me and there was something wrong. All women must love children and want to become mothers. Or so we are taught.”

  “I was raised without a mother,” Irene confessed, a knot starting in her stomach. “And my father made sure I knew to never do something I didn’t want to do.”

  A lump caught in her throat to match the one now firmly planted in her stomach and she took a sip of tea
to make it go away.

  “Fathers and their daughters,” Mrs. Johnston scoffed. “No offence meant, of course! I’m sure that your father was lovely, or at least he sounds like it if he gave you that advice. But I’m telling you, there is an entirely different parenting love that comes from a father to his daughter.”

  “Or a son and his mother?” Irene offered.

  “I suppose,” Mrs. Johnston allowed begrudgingly. “Sometimes, you just don’t know what to do. You look at this little being, and suddenly it’s all up to you to make sure this child grows up to be a functioning part of society. It's pressure that I didn’t want, but where I come from, the biggest deal is put on it.”

  “Does your husband feel the same way?”

  Mrs. Johnston scoffed. “He loves his children, and every day I’m sure he wishes I did too.”

  Her sentence struck Irene and gave her pause. Children? It could’ve been a slip of the tongue, but Mrs. Johnston seemed like an exact woman.

  Mrs. Johnston looked at her watch. “I should get back. We are supposed to have repairmen in to fix our cooker, but they were sent away today because my husband...Oh, never mind. I won’t trouble you with my woes. Tell me, before I go, are you married?”

  Irene shook her head.

  “Good,” Mrs. Johnston gave a small, supportive pat on Irene’s hand. “If you do, marry someone rich, so that when you have babies, someone else can look after them for you.”

  She slid off the chair and left the tea house without another word.

  Adrenaline pumped through Irene as she attempted to save everything Mrs. Johnston just told her into her memory. She watched Mrs. Johnston climb into her automobile and gave a little wave when she drove off.

  Irene grabbed her uneaten cake and rushed back to Joe and their own automobile waiting in the alley.

  Breathless from her brief sprint down the pavement, she thumped into the seat and held out the cake for Joe. He made a joyful noise, taking it with a pleased smile.

  “Judging by the look on your face,” he began, taking quite a large bite of the dessert. “And the fact you didn’t even touch this cake, you learned something of importance.”