Letters to the Lost (10 page)

Across the table Ada was looking at her shrewdly over the rim of her teacup. ‘Well, you don’t look fine. You look like a puff of wind could blow you away.’

It was a curiously accurate way of describing how she felt¸ Stella thought, sipping her tea. Like she was becoming transparent. Like she might disappear. Like the rest of the world was a movie in Glorious Technicolor and she was the only character in black and white; a two-dimensional cut-out, the girl from the wedding photograph with the fatuous smile.

While she’d been ill the things with which she filled her days – helping out at the crèche in the church hall, the Red Cross Parcels, shopping and cooking for Reverend Stokes and doing his dismal laundry – were taken over by other people. When she went to pick up the reins again she found that the hands that had held them were more capable than hers, and wondered what her purpose was. She was supposed to be a housewife, but since she’d so transparently failed at keeping both house and husband, where did that leave her?

‘It’s the weather, I expect. And the war – the start of another year and no sign that we’re any closer to the end. It seems to have been going on forever.’ She placed the cup reluctantly back into its saucer and forced a smile. ‘But listen to me moaning when I’ve got nothing to moan about. Not compared to most people.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, love. There might be plenty worse off, but it’s not easy saying goodbye to your husband when you’ve only been married a few weeks. Have you heard anything?’

Stella shook her head, resisting the urge to point out that if she had, Ada would have heard it too. Charles’s letters were always addressed to her, but written in the style of a parish newsletter with the words ‘please share with all at St Crispin’s’ printed at the top. Stella wrote to him once or twice a week, which was about as often as she could, given the scarcity of interesting things she had to tell him. He rarely acknowledged her trivial bits of local gossip (‘the Scouts have begun their own Spitfire fund and are collecting tin cans . . . Marjorie Walsh has been busy making rhubarb and carrot jam and very kindly gave me two jars . . .’) which was understandable, but made their correspondence seem like a one-sided conversation held over a bad telephone line. It had been three weeks since his last letter.

‘Oh well, it’s the post. Nothing for weeks and then four letters fall on the doorstep at once, that’s what happens with my Harry, and he’s out in North Africa like Reverend Thorne.’ Ada picked up the teapot and swilled it round before pouring them each another cup. ‘It’s the waiting that’s the worst thing. You ought to keep busy – go down the pictures or have a day out up west, take your mind off it.’

‘Nancy’s invited me to the Opera House with her on Saturday, but I don’t know . . .’ Stella sighed. ‘It seems such a long way to go in the blackout.’

Ada’s eyebrows shot up to disappear beneath her floral turban. ‘Covent Garden? Wouldn’t have thought Nancy Price was much of a one for the opera.’

‘It’s not opera any more. They’ve taken the seats out to turn it into a dance hall. It’s where she goes most Saturdays now with her friends from the salon.’

‘Very nice, I’m sure. Well, if it’s good enough for ’er, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go and have a look at it. At least then you can say that you’ve danced at the Royal Opera House.’

‘I’d have to get Reverend Stokes’s tea first.’ Stella picked absently at a pulled thread on her coat. ‘And then there’s Charles . . .’

Ada rolled her eyes. ‘Old Stokes didn’t starve to death while you was poorly, did he? Far from it, given the amount he puts away, the crafty old devil. And as for the vicar . . . Well, he’s not here, is he?’

‘Exactly. I’m not sure what he’d think about me going out to have fun while he’s stuck out there in the desert.’

Ada stood up and carried her cup over to the sink. Her lips were pressed together, as if she was struggling to stop something escaping them. Evidently the struggle became too much. Seizing the dishcloth she swiped it vigorously over the draining board and said, ‘Well I know what I think. North Africa’s a long way from King’s Oak, and things are different now. We’re all in this war, like it or not, and we’ve all got to manage as best we can. Even Mr Churchill says that morale on the home front is very important, and if that means putting on a bit of lipstick and a nice frock to go out dancing – well, so be it.’

Stella smiled wanly. ‘I don’t have lipstick. Or a nice frock.’

Ada snorted. ‘Well, if that’s all that’s stopping you, we can soon sort that out. Let’s go and have a root through the donations.’

‘But they’re for the refugees . . .’

Ada hitched an eyebrow. ‘You never heard of the phrase “Charity begins at ’ome”? Come on Cinders, let’s see what we can find.’

7

2011

Jess was no stranger to charity shops. Back home in Leeds, Gran had been a regular, working her way methodically all the way from Cancer Research to the Red Cross on her Friday morning trip to town, hardly ever returning home empty-handed. Jess’s childhood had been spent in the bobbly cast-offs of other children, but she didn’t mind. Gran’s eye was good, and her finds often included the kind of popular, branded items that would otherwise have been beyond Jess’s reach.

But the Rainbow House Hospice shop in Church End was in a whole different league to Yorkshire’s cheerfully eclectic second-hand shops. At first glance it could easily have been mistaken for another artsy little boutique, with a window display featuring a vintage suitcase, brown leather brogues, a scattering of dried leaves and a faux-fur coat. A second glance, at the price tickets on the garments inside, did little to revise that impression. With increasing despondency Jess worked her way along the rails. Fifteen pounds for a pair of jeans? Twelve for an ordinary-looking grey jumper? Gran would be horrified.

Fifty pounds had seemed like a safe, solid amount of money, but it was dwindling alarmingly fast. She’d spent almost ten yesterday on bread and cheese, milk and cereal, a toothbrush and toothpaste and, in a rush of homesickness she couldn’t resist, a Battenburg cake – Gran’s favourite. She’d hoped that another ten would equip her with some wardrobe basics. Nothing fancy, just stuff that would increase her chances of finding a job by not looking like a total freak.

Much to her relief she managed to find a pair of unassuming black leggings and a slightly bobbled dark green jumper amongst the designer offerings. Both were in her size and at a price that didn’t make her eyes water. She took them over to the cash desk, behind which a tiny lady with an immaculately sculpted head of silvery curls was reading a detective novel. She laid it hastily aside as Jess approached.

‘Just those, was it, dear? Very good. Would you like a bag?’

‘Yes please.’ While she fumbled in her pocket for her money Jess put the sheaf of application forms she’d collected during the course of the morning down on the counter. ‘Oh, I forgot – I wanted shoes too. Can I—?’

‘You go ahead, dear, I’m not in a rush. We’ve been quiet this morning. What sort of shoes were you looking for? Something nice to go out dancing?’

Jess smothered a wry smile. ‘Oh, no. Flat. You know – comfortable, for every day. Anything, really. Size five.’

The shop contained nothing as utilitarian as a rack of shoes; rather, they were displayed in artistic arrangements, positioned against scarves in toning colours or alone on shelves, like pieces of statement sculpture. Jess couldn’t see anything that fitted the description of ‘flat’ and ‘comfortable’, but the lady came out from behind her counter and reached, with difficulty, to take down a pair of black suede ankle boots. She turned them over and peered at the size on the bottom, holding her glasses like binoculars.

‘There, dear, I thought so – size five. And brand new, by the looks of it. Would you like to try them on?’

‘How much are they?’

More squinting and peering. ‘Let me see . . . My goodness, twenty-four pounds. That seems like quite a price, but I suppose it must be the make.
L.K. Bennett
,’ she read out slowly. ‘It means nothing to me, but Audrey – she’s the manageress – she knows about these things. She does the prices.’ She held them out. ‘They’re lovely and soft. Very nice quality.’

Jess shook her head quickly, her cheeks tingling with sudden heat. ‘It’s fine. I can’t really . . . I mean, I’ll just take the other things. Thanks.’

Mouse-like, the lady scurried back to her place behind the counter and rang the items through the till. As she folded them, with neat little paws, she noticed the application forms. With a sympathetic cluck she said, ‘Looking for work? There’s not much about at the moment, is there?’

‘You don’t happen to know of any jobs going, do you? Anything at all, I’m not fussy—’

The curls didn’t move as the lady shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. My grandson’s been trying to find something for months now – just to give him a bit of pocket money to go out with his friends and what have you. That’s six pounds, please dear.’

Jess counted out coins and slid them across the counter. She didn’t say that a job meant more than pocket money for her, or that her chances of finding one were vastly hampered by not having an address to put on the forms. She’d imagined finding work would be a case of going into shops and enquiring, then perhaps being referred to the right person. Application forms to be sent to head office were not part of the plan.

‘Never mind. Thanks anyway.’ She picked up the bag and tucked the forms into it, and as she turned to go her stomach gave a loud, echoing rumble. It sounded like an earthquake in the quiet shop. Face burning, she hurried to the door, but in her haste her foot slipped out of one of the too-big shoes and she had to turn back to put it on again.

‘Oh, one moment dear – I’ve just had a thought—’

Jess stopped, her hand on the door, her chest tight with humiliation. She just wanted to get outside, to slip back into the stream of people and become invisible again, but the lady was coming back now, her face creased with compassion as she held out a carrier bag. It was one of the expensive kind, made from stiff cardboard with ropes for handles.

‘The lady who brought in the boots came in with another bag today. She’s having a clear out, she said, because her daughter’s gone off to university. I think there are some more shoes in this one, but Audrey hasn’t had a chance to go through it yet. What the eyes haven’t seen, the heart won’t grieve for. You take it and see if there’s anything you can use.’

‘But I can’t . . .’

‘Nonsense. Go on. We’ve enough in the back to sort through, and you can always bring back any bits you don’t want.’ She gave Jess’s arm a little squeeze. ‘I like a young lady who doesn’t demand everything new. Some young people these days have far too much, in my opinion.’ She cast a disparaging look at the glossy carrier bag. ‘In my day there was a war on and we had to be clever with our clothing. Make do and mend, that’s what we used to say. Once you’ve learned the habit you never quite get out of it. Very best of luck with the job hunting, dear.’

She bought a sausage roll, hot from a bakery (‘Sorry, we’ve got no jobs at the moment but if you drop in your CV we’ll keep it on file . . .’), and ate it on a bench outside the library, taking tiny bites to make it last as long as possible. The wind’s teeth were sharp and its breath metallic but it felt good to be out. She leaned back against the bench and looked cautiously around.

A man threw a ball for an excitable little dog, which leapt up to catch it, twisting acrobatically in the air. A little boy in a green coat ran across the grass, his cheeks pink with cold, his pure, high shrieks streaming behind him in bright ribbons of sound. Ordinary people on an ordinary day; no one following her or watching from the undergrowth. The iron band around Jess’s heart loosened a little and she looked down at the neat black ballet pumps she’d found at the bottom of the posh carrier bag and felt suffused with sudden optimism.

People were kind. She’d got too used to being treated like dirt, to living in an atmosphere of aggression and scorn. But that wasn’t normal; the vicar in the terrible jumper yesterday, the lady in the shop just now had reminded her of that. She had taken a wrong turn, that was all, but she could get herself back on track.

Screwing up the greasy paper bag she shoved it into her pocket and felt the letter there. She took it out and looked at the name on the front. In the cold, clear, outdoor light the handwriting seemed more fragile and ghostly than it had inside the house, as if a breath of wind might blow the words away, like cobwebs and dust.

Mrs S. Thorne.

Jess got to her feet and picked up the smart carrier bag. She had spent enough time trying – fruitlessly it had to be said – to find a way out of her own problems. It would be good to give herself a break and focus on someone else’s for a while.

Walking lightly in her new shoes, she headed for the library.

It took Will an hour and twenty minutes to get from the houses on Greenfields Lane to the offices of Ansell Blake in New Cross. They were situated above a kebab shop (or Turkish restaurant, as Ansell preferred to call it) in a 1960s development that managed to be both hideously ugly and vastly impractical, being sweltering in summer and arctic in winter. But it came with car parking and was, as Ansell pointed out, handy for the A2, which roared or crawled right outside their poorly fitting windows, depending on the time of day. It was also, of course, cheap.

The stairwell smelled of greasy meat and stale oil. The blue carpet was worn and stained. Since probate research didn’t rely on passing trade and most client interaction took place in the homes of potential heirs, Ansell claimed having a ‘poncey office with potted plants and copies of
Country Fucking Life
’ was an unnecessary extravagance. Will thought that having walls that had been repainted in the last ten years and didn’t have a halo of dirt around every light switch was a matter of basic hygiene.

He could hear Ansell on the phone. The absence of expletives and the note of false sincerity in his voice told him it was to a client, but as Will reached the top of the stairs he heard him finish the conversation and hang up. Almost an hour and a half in London traffic had left Will short on patience for dealing with Ansell. He tried to slip past his half-open door unnoticed.