Paper Doll (32 page)

‘I didn’t know for sure . . . but thought it was worth trying. Then I was convinced that you wouldn’t be there, because I went down to Bournemouth about three years ago and the place was boarded up. The old woman who lives next door told me your father was dead, and she thought you’d been killed in the war.’

‘I was one of the lucky ones who survived it, but I spent some time in hospital.’

‘Poor you, are you fully recovered?’

‘Perfectly. So why did you look for me if you thought I was dead?’

‘My husband knew someone who made enquiries on my behalf. They wouldn’t tell me much, just that you were alive, and had been awarded a medal and bar for bravery. I was overjoyed to learn that you were still alive, and knew I wouldn’t rest until I found you.

‘Anyway, my dear, I called your father’s lawyer, but he was having a week off. So I told the secretary who answered that I was from the police department and needed to contact you urgently. She gave me your details. Up till then I had no idea you were a doctor.’

The doorbell rang again – this time for longer. He must get a receptionist, he thought, and some domestic help. The paperwork was mountainous and his sink would soon be full of dirty dishes.

‘It was lovely to talk to you, Martin. I’ll expect to hear from you later, then.’

‘You will . . . I promise.’ He dropped the receiver back in its rest and headed for the door at a run.

His fellow practitioner, Andrew Pethan, came in followed by a trickle of patients – followed by a small flood. By noon they’d mopped up a couple of latecomers.

Martin hadn’t expected, when he’d hung his shingle on the door, that business was going to be quite so brisk. He made a pile of sandwiches and some tea for lunch and they discussed the situation.

‘Bournemouth’s population is growing,’ Andrew said.

‘And several of your patients have followed you here; I hadn’t considered that.’

‘Will you do the rounds this afternoon, while I catch up on the paperwork and get the banking ready? We desperately need a receptionist, and certainly can afford one now,’ and he suddenly wished Mrs Seeble was available. ‘I’ll put an ad in the paper.’

‘Advertise for a receptionist with nursing experience,’ Andrew advised. ‘There are plenty of sensible and mature women with experience looking for work. In the meantime, I’m sure my wife wouldn’t mind helping out for a short time while the children are at school, even if it’s to sort the files out.’

Within a fortnight they had a competent woman of middle years who’d been a member of the Queen Alexandra Imperial Military Nursing Service. Her name was Olivia Stark, but she was to be called Nurse Stark. There was no nonsense about her. She was efficiency itself, and soon had the practice organized. The men sighed with relief, and the cats slunk off to Martin’s private quarters and stayed there. A separate advertisement found Martin a cleaner for three afternoons a week, selected by Nurse Stark.

With that settled Martin made plans to meet his mother in London and gained Nurse Stark’s permission for a day off in advance. She noted it on the large calendar that she’d hung on the wall.

‘Doctor Pethan wants a day off in February, so you can cover his patients then.’

It was a cool day in early April when Martin took the train up. The landscape was taking on a tender green mantle and the showers of rain hit the train windows, and the quivering drops chased each other down the glass.

He’d assembled a special gift for his mother, copies made of the photographs taken of him during his childhood. He’d placed them in an album for her, so she’d have a sense of him growing up. He bought a gift for his sister, Avis, and a teddy bear for his nephew. Suddenly he had his health and career back. And he’d discovered his family. There was order in his life again, and with it came a warm feeling of hope, as though his life had just begun.

He admitted to himself that there was one big gap in it. The thought of Julia hit him so strongly that he could almost sense her presence and smell her perfume. Emeraude, by Coty, he recalled. He
could
smell it! The woman in the opposite seat was wearing it. But she wasn’t Julia.

His mother was waiting for him at Waterloo station. He recognized her straight away, even though she’d aged. He grinned at the thought. He’d certainly aged too, but inside he could feel the bewildered little boy she’d left behind.

His mother was still slim and elegant. She wore a grey three-quarter coat with a fur collar and a little hat with a flamboyant bunch of cherries on that matched the colour of her shoes. She was as beautiful as the mother of his memory. A little way behind her was a younger woman – his sister, Avis Singleton, with his nephew Timothy held in her arms. She was small and dainty and had tawny-brown eyes and a wide smile.

His mother’s glance went anxiously over the crowd of alighting passengers and settled on him. Her smile came like a mouse tentatively moving from the safety of its hole. Her mouth formed his name and her eyes filled with tears. He strode forward and drew the trio into his arms. His mother’s tears fell.

Avis kissed his cheek and whispered, ‘Ever since mother told me about you I’ve wanted to meet you. She was so very scared that you’d reject her. You won’t, will you?’

‘If I was going to do that I wouldn’t be here.’ He found his mother a handkerchief to dry her tears on and handed it to her, making light of them. ‘Here, mop them up before you drown me. Allow me take a look at your son, Avis.’

Baby Timothy had inherited the blue eyes of his grandmother, from where his own had also been inherited.

‘I detect a strong resemblance in him to you,’ Avis said.

‘Do I detect the trace of an American accent?’

‘Canadian. I was born and grew up in Montreal. We moved to Edinburgh when I was fifteen. Now I’m married I live in London.’

‘Then it won’t be too far to visit once I’m settled in.’

‘That would be nice.’

‘It will be. Lord . . . I had no idea I had a sister, and a beautiful one at that.’

She laughed. ‘I think I’ll like having you as a brother,’ she said and she kissed his cheek.

Martin was only there for the day, so he took the baby from her. ‘Here . . . allow me to carry him.’

The child fitted comfortably into his arms, and he gazed down at his nephew and offered him a smile. ‘Hello, Timmy.’

The child smiled back at him.

Julia had just seen Robert and Ellen off. Married quietly the day before in the village church, only the staff who had known them had attended. The pair were now on their way to Southampton, where Robert had managed to take over a public house as licensee.

‘I’ll drive you up to London, since I’ve got to see the lawyer and sign some papers. We’ll go up the night before.’

‘I prefer to do the driving,’ Robert had said with a smile.

‘Then allow me to book you into a hotel as a special thank you for being such a help.’ And there had been dinner, champagne and the honeymoon suite as an extra surprise.

The station was full of hissing engines and the echoing, raucous voices of porters. The platforms were crowded.

‘I’ll miss you . . . good luck,’ Julia said, hugging them both.

‘I reckon I’ll make a good barmaid,’ Ellen said just before they’d boarded their train, and Julia had given a faint smile, remembering Martin coming to dinner with her father and saying more or less the same thing about her. She’d been cool and he’d laughed and he’d kissed her rather unexpectedly.

‘Thank you for everything, Mrs Miller,’ Ellen called out.

As the train disappeared Julia’s stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding her it was past noon.

She went into the station café and had lingered over an unappetizing ham and cheese sandwich, and a pot of tea that was the colour and consistency of varnish. There was a paper somebody had left behind. The headlines read: Fascists win the election in Italy.

Not that the result of the Italian election had much to do with her, and neither had the election in her own country the year before. She was a woman, and therefore not deemed sensible enough to vote until she reached the age of thirty.

‘Damned cheek,’ she murmured, and softly snorted. A lot men knew about women!

The second page revealed a small news item about the official opening of her children’s home, which was already full of needy babies and toddlers, and had a waiting list. She thought that she might buy a cottage in the village for herself. The comfortable flat could then be used for the key staff, while accommodation in the attic rooms was freed up.

The news item read:

Mrs Julia Miller, opening the Latham Miller Memorial home for children. Mr Miller, a noted industrialist, perished when the private aeroplane he was a passenger in crashed into the English Channel during a flight from France. Mrs Miller opened the home in memory of her husband, and has been appointed patron. A board of trustees has been appointed, headed by William Hedgewick of the law firm Hedgewick and Williams, who manages the legal business of the Miller enterprises.

And couldn’t be prised off such a lucrative enterprise. Much to Julia’s disgust she’d not been allowed to serve on the board because she was a woman. Another injustice, considering it was her money they were handling, though admittedly, Latham had earned it with their help in the first place. At least she’d reserved the right to appoint somebody on the board who would act on her behalf. Jeepers! Latham would have a fit if he knew how she was spending it, and she didn’t give a rat’s grunt.

Guests at the opening were Lord and Lady Curruthers. Mrs Miller is pictured with two unfortunate children who are in need of care. In her address she thanked her sponsors, Jellico Linens, who made a generous donation of sheets, towels and baby napkins, and Millikins, who have pledged a two years’ supply of dried milk powder.

Actually, she was pictured with Ben and Lisette, who were sitting astride the grey dappled rocking horse, giggling, while she hung on to them. The Curruthers family was in a separate picture, looking aloof and regal. And although Julia was grateful for the milk powder, the maid she’d hired to come in and do the laundry was a farm girl, and she’d persuaded her father to keep them supplied with fresh milk and eggs. The meadow had been turned into a vegetable plot.

Julia had many feelers out for sponsorship, including most of her father’s friends. She was shameless about using his name and reminding them of his former friendship with them.

She looked up from the article. A few minutes earlier, two smartly dressed women had been talking together not far from the window. The younger one carried a child in a blue cape, bonnet, leggings and booties.

When the figure of a man strode towards them and wrapped his arms around them so they stood in a huddle, Julia had wished she’d had someone to meet. Despite her busy life she felt lonely.

Now the man took the infant from the younger woman and kissed him. The child looked like Martin.

They began to walk in her direction and she froze. It
was
Martin! ‘Oh, my God!’ she breathed. Biting down on her tongue to stop herself from crying out she felt the tears begin to gather and congeal like a cold slab of lard in her stomach. Martin had married, and was now a father. His wife was petite and pretty. Jealousy filled her.

But she mustn’t think like that,
she mustn’t!
She loved Martin to pieces, and wanted him to be happy. He’d been through a lot, and it would be uncharitable of her to think any less of him for seeking a secure home life. If that meant him being happy with someone else, so be it.

He looked well. His eyes sparkled with the happiness he felt at seeing his family. She longed to speak to him.

‘Martin . . . my love,’ she whispered.

He couldn’t have possibly heard her yet he glanced her way. She held her breath when he seemed to gaze into her eyes. But the windows were partially steamed up, and she lifted the newspaper to shield her face.

She caught a glimpse of the baby as he turned away, the quick flash of dark-blue eyes, the wisp of a dark curl escaping from the bonnet. The boy bore a strong resemblance to Ben, the son Martin didn’t know about.

Her heart cracked open like an eggshell when they turned and walked off towards the entrance where the taxi rank was situated, laughing and chatting familiarly together. Martin turned, looking back for a moment, then he was gone.

When they went out of sight Julia felt empty, though her heart was pumping in a most agonizing fashion, as if the joy of seeing him was being wrung out of her by the thought that this might be the last time she did.

But she had Martin’s child to love, she thought. And she had Latham and Irene’s daughter, as well. It was her responsibility to bring them up to feel loved and wanted, so they’d become responsible adults – more responsible than the majority of their parents, perhaps.

Yes, Irene, I know I’m being prissy again, she thought, and choked back a laugh.

On top of that, none of her small family would ever have to go without – not like some of the poor little waifs coming into her home. She was blessed indeed.

Shaken by the near encounter, Julia waited until ten minutes had passed, then left the dingy, sooty-smelling surrounds of the station on foot.

Her car was still at the hotel garage. One of the staff brought it round while she paid her bill, and she made her way out of London and headed for Kent, thinking of Martin.

A small smile played around her mouth – she was glad he’d looked so happy.

‘Stay that way always, my love,’ she said.

It had been wonderful seeing his mother. They talked honestly.

‘I wrote to you every birthday,’ she said. ‘My letters were never returned so I hoped you’d read them. Then your father sent them back to me all at once in a little parcel. They hadn’t been opened.’

A rather cruel gesture on his father’s part, Martin thought, but he didn’t intend to take sides now. He’d learned that dwelling negatively on the past could be a painful process, and a useless pastime as well. ‘I’d rather we moved forward than looked back.’

A surprised expression touched her mother’s face. ‘Yes, I suppose you would, and so would I. I don’t blame him, you know. Your father found it hard to express emotion and bottled things up. I fell in love with somebody else. If you ever come to Scotland you’ll meet my husband. He’s an accountant. I know what I did was wrong, but I didn’t dream that your father would be so . . . well, that he would have denied me so completely. He took you from my arms, and I never saw you again.’