The Secret Keeper (33 page)

‘Let me think.’ Dolly tapped her lips thoughtfully as she forced her feet back into her shoes beneath the counter. ‘No, no I don’t think I have.’

‘What a shame. I’ve something for her, you see. She must have lost it last time she was here and I’ve been holding onto it ever since, hoping to run into her. She’s not been in for days though.’

‘Hasn’t she? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Not all week. I do hope nothing’s wrong.’

Dolly considered telling Mrs Hoskins that she’d seen Vivien daily, alive and well, from Lady Gwendolyn’s bedroom window, but decided it would raise more questions than it answered. ‘I’m sure she’s fine.’

‘I expect you’re right, as fine as any of us can hope to be in such testing times as these.’

‘Yes.’

‘Only, it is a bother. I’m going down to Cornwall to stay with my sister for a while and I had hoped to return the item to her before I left.’ Mrs Hoskins looked about uncertainly. ‘I suppose I shall have to—’ ‘Leave it here with me? Of course you shall.’ Dolly fixed her most winning smile in place. ‘And I’ll be certain to make sure she receives it.’ ‘Oh—’. Mrs Hoskins peered from behind her tidy spectacles. ‘I hadn’t thought to … I don’t know that I should just leave it.’

‘Mrs Hoskins, please. I’m only too happy to help. I’m bound to be seeing Vivien soon.’

The older woman drew a short, tidy breath, registering Dolly’s use of Vivien’s first name. ‘Well,’ she said, a new note of admiration creeping into her voice. If you’re sure—’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Thank you, Miss Smitham. Thank you, kindly. It certainly will lay my mind to rest. It’s quite a valuable little piece, I think.’ Mrs Hoskins opened her handbag and pulled out a small parcel of tissue paper. She passed it across the counter into Dolly’s waiting hand. ‘I’ve wrapped it up for safe keeping. Do be careful, dear—we wouldn’t want it falling into the wrong hands now, would we?’

Dolly didn’t unwrap the tissue until she was home. It took every bit of restraint she could summon not to tear it open the moment Mrs Hoskins’s back was turned, but she didn’t. She tucked the parcel in her handbag and there it remained through the rest of her canteen shift and the scurried journey home to Campden Grove.

By the time she closed her bedroom door behind her, Dolly’s curiosity was a physical ache. She leapt onto her bed, shoes and all, and dug the tissue paper from her bag. As she was un-wrapping it, something fell onto her lap. Dolly picked it up and turned it over in her fingers, a delicate oval-shaped locket on a fine rose-gold chain. One of the links, she noticed, had opened slightly, allowing its partner to slip free. She threaded the end of the open circle back through the other and then used the back of her thumbnail to force the link—ever so carefully—to close.

There—fixed. And very well, too; a person would be hard-pressed to see where the opening had been. Dolly smiled with satisfaction as she turned her attention back to the locket. It was the sort used to hold photographs, she realised, rubbing her thumb over the fine swirling pattern engraved on its pretty front. When Dolly finally managed to open it, she found a photograph of four children, two girls and two boys, sitting on a set of wooden stairs and squinting into bright sunshine. The image had been cut in half to fit the double-sided frame.

Dolly spotted Vivien instantly, the smaller of the girls, standing with one arm leant on the stair rail, her other hand resting on the shoulder of one of the boys, a small lad with a simple look about him. These were her siblings, Dolly realised, at home in Australia, the portrait obviously taken sometime before Vivien was sent to live in England. Before she met her long-lost uncle and grew to adulthood in a tower on her family’s grand estate, the very place where she would one day meet and marry handsome Henry Jenkins. Dolly shivered with pleasure. It was just like a fairy tale—just like Henry Jenkins’s book, in fact.

She smiled to see Vivien as a girl. ‘I wish I’d known you then,’ Dolly said softly, which was silly, because of course it was far better to know her now, to have the chance to be one half of Dolly and Viv of Camp- den Grove. She took in the little girl’s face, identifying the childish version of features she admired so much in the adult woman, and thought how strange it was that you could love someone so well when you’d only known them for a short time.

She closed the locket and noticed something had been en-graved on the back. ‘Isabel’—she read the elaborate script aloud—a name. Vivien’s mother’s, perhaps? Dolly couldn’t think that she knew Vivien’s mother’s name, but it made sense. It seemed the sort of photograph a mother would keep close to her heart, her whole brood bundled up together, smiling for the travelling photographer. Dolly was far too young yet to think about children of her own, but she knew that when she did have them she’d carry a picture just like this one.

One thing was certain, this locket must be terribly important to Vivien if it had once belonged to her mother. Dolly was going to have to guard it with her life. She thought for a moment, and then a smile broke wide across her face—why, she would keep it in the safest place she knew. Dolly unhooked the clasp and threaded the chain beneath her hair, fiddling the snib to fasten it round her own neck. She sighed with satisfaction, with glad-ness, too, as the locket slipped below the line of her blouse and its cold metal met her warm skin.

Dolly pulled off her shoes, tossed her hat onto the window seat, collapsing back against her pillows with her feet crossed at the ankles. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings at the ceiling, imagining how thrilled Vivien was going to be when she delivered the locket back to her. She’d probably take Dolly into her arms, and hug her and call her ‘dearest’, and her lovely dark eyes would well with tears. She’d draw Dolly in to sit down beside her on the sofa and they’d talk about all sorts of things. Dolly had a feeling Vivien might even tell her about the fellow, her doctor friend, once they finally had some time together.

She drew the locket from between her breasts and looked down at its pretty swirly surface. Poor Vivien must be devastated thinking that she’d lost it forever. Dolly wondered whether she ought to let her know immediately that the necklace was safe—perhaps a letter dropped through the front door slot—but she decided quickly against it. She hadn’t any writing paper of her own, not without Lady Gwendolyn’s monogram on it, and that hardly seemed proper. Better to go in person, anyway. The real question was what she ought to wear.

Dolly flopped over onto her stomach and pulled her Book of Ideas from where she kept it hidden beneath the bed. Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management had been of no interest to Dolly when her mother gave it to her, but paper was worth its weight in gold these days and the book’s pages had proven themselves the perfect repository for all her favourite pictures from The Lady. Dolly had been cutting them out and gluing them over the top of Mrs Beeton’s rules and recipes for well over a year. She flicked through now, taking careful note of what all the very best women were wearing, comparing the pictures with items she’d noticed in the dressing room upstairs. She stopped when she came to a recent one. It was Vivien, photographed at a fundraising afternoon at the Ritz, glorious in a delicate dress of fine silk. Dolly traced her finger thoughtfully along the outline of the bodice and skirt—there was one just like it upstairs; with a few modifications, it would be perfect. She smiled to herself as she imagined how well she’d look, dashing across the street, at her earliest convenience, to take tea with Vivien Jenkins; she wondered, too, how long she’d have to wait.

Three days later, in an uncharacteristically obliging turn, Lady Gwendolyn tossed down her bag of boiled sweets and demanded Dolly draw the blackouts and leave her alone to nap. It was almost three in the afternoon and Dolly didn’t wait to be told twice. She saw the old woman safely into slumber, changed into the yellow dress she’d had hanging in her room in readiness, and skipped across the road.

As she stood on the tiled top step, preparing to ring the bell, Dolly pictured Vivien’s face when she opened the door and saw her standing there; the grateful smile of relief when they sat down to tea together and the locket was produced. She could have danced with anticipation.

Pausing a second to give her hair a final primp, savouring the moment as her heart quickened, Dolly rang the doorbell.

She waited, listening for the telltale rustling on the other side, and then the door swung inwards and a voice said, ‘Hello there, darl—’ Dolly couldn’t help but take a step backwards. Henry Jenkins was standing in front of her, taller up close than he’d seemed from a distance, dashing in the way of all powerful men. There was something almost brutal in his bearing, but it dissipated quickly and she decided it was probably just her own surprise colouring things. Certainly, in all her many imaginings, she’d never envisaged this. Henry Jenkins had an important job with the Ministry of Information and was rarely home during the day. She opened her mouth and closed it again; she felt intimidated by his presence, by his size and the darkness of his expression.

‘Yes?’ he said. There was a flush to his complexion and it crossed Dolly’s mind that he’d been drinking. ‘Is it scrap fabrics you’re after? Because we’ve already given all we have to spare.’

Dolly found her voice. ‘No. No, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not here about fabrics. I’ve come to see Vivien—Mrs Jenkins.’ There now, her metier was returning. She smiled at him. ‘I’m a friend to your wife.’

‘I see.’ His surprise was obvious. ‘A friend to my wife. And what might my wife’s friend’s name be?’

‘Dolly—I mean, Dorothy. Dorothy Smitham.’

‘Well then, Dorothy Smitham, I expect you’d better come in-side, hadn’t you?’ He stepped backwards and gestured with his hand.

It occurred to Dolly, as she stepped through the doorway into Vivien’s home, that in all the time she’d lived on Campden Grove, it was the first time she’d set foot inside number 25. From what she could tell, it was laid out much the same as her place, an entrance hall with a flight of stairs leading up to the first floor and a doorway on the left-hand wall. As she followed Henry Jenkins into the sitting room, however, she saw that the similarities ended there. The decorating of number 25 had evidently been done this century, and in contrast to Lady Gwendolyn’s heavy, curved mahogany furniture and cluttered walls, this place was all light and sharp angles.

It was magnificent: the floor was parquet and a set of tubular chandeliers in frosted glass hung from the ceiling. Dramatic photographs featuring contemporary architecture were arranged along each wall, and the lime-green sofa had a zebra skin draped across one arm. So elegant, so modern—Dolly had to take care to keep her mouth from catching flies as she took it all in.

‘Sit. Please,’ said Henry Jenkins, indicating a shell-shaped armchair by the window. Dolly sat, straightening the hem of her dress before crossing her legs. She felt embarrassed, suddenly, by what she was wearing. It was becoming enough, for its time, but sitting here, in this splendid room, it felt like a museum piece. She’d thought herself so elegant in Lady Gwendolyn’s dressing room, turning this way and that before the mirror; now, all she could see were the old-fashioned trims and flounces—so different really (why hadn’t she noticed before?) to the clean lines of Vivien’s dress.

‘I’d offer you tea,’ said Henry Jenkins, dabbing the ends of his moustache in an embarrassed way that was also rather charming, ‘but we lost our maid this week. Quite a disappointment—the girl was caught stealing.’

He was looking, Dolly realised with a flush of excitement, at her own crossed legs. She smiled, a little uncomfortable—he was Vivien’s husband, after all—but flattered, too. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and then she remembered something she’d heard Lady Gwendolyn say. ‘It’s terribly difficult to find good staff these days, isn’t it?’

‘It is indeed.’ Henry Jenkins was standing by the rather marvellous fireplace, tiled like a chessboard in black and white. He regarded Dolly quizzically and said, ‘Tell me, how is it you know my wife?’

‘We met through the Women’s Voluntary Service, and it turns out we’ve a lot in common.’

‘Such hours you ladies keep.’ He smiled, but not easily, and his pause, the way he was looking at her, gave Dolly the distinct feeling there was something he wanted to know, something more he wanted her to say. She couldn’t think what it might be, so she returned his smile and said nothing. Henry Jenkins glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Take today for instance. At breakfast, my wife told me she’d be finished her meeting at two. I came home early to surprise her, but now it’s a quarter past three and there’s still no sign. I can only imagine she’s been caught up, but a fellow worries.’

Irritation coloured his voice and Dolly could understand why—he was an important man who’d taken time away from essential war work only to be left cooling his heels while his wife flitted about town.

‘Had you an arrangement to meet my wife?’ he asked suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him that Dolly, too, was being inconvenienced by Vivien’s tardiness.