The Secret Keeper (66 page)

She opened it and closed it, looking at the smiling young faces of her sisters and brother and herself, pictures she’d seen a hundred times before; and, as she did, she noticed that one of the pieces of oval glass had a chip in its side. Laurel frowned, running her thumb over the flaw. The edge of her nail caught it, and the glass shifted—it was looser than she’d thought—falling out onto Laurel’s lap. Without its seal, the fine photographic paper lost its tautness, lifting in the centre so that Laurel could glimpse beneath it. She looked closer, slid her finger under and pulled the photograph out.

It was as she’d thought. There was another photo beneath, of other children, children from longer ago. She checked the other side too, hurrying now, as she drove out the glass and pulled the picture of Iris and Rose free. Another old photo, two more children. Laurel looked at the four of them together and gasped: the era of the clothing they were wearing, the suggestion of immense heat in the way they were all squinting at the camera, the particular stubborn impatience on the lit- tlest girl’s face—Laurel knew who these children were. They were the Longmeyers of Tamborine Mountain, Ma’s brothers and sister, before they were lost in the terrible accident that saw her packed up on that ship to England, tucked beneath Katy Ellis’s wing.

Laurel was so distracted by her find, wondering how she could go about tracking down more information about this distant family she’d only just discovered, that she didn’t notice the car on the driveway until it was almost at the fence. They’d had visitors all day, popping in to pay respects, each of them offering up yet another story about Dorothy that made her children smile, and Rose cry even harder into the large supply of tissues they’d had to buy in specially. As Laurel watched the red car’s approach though, she saw this time it was the postman.

She walked over to greet him; he’d heard the news, of course, and passed on his condolences. Laurel thanked him and smiled as he told her a tale of Dorothy Nicolson’s surprising abilities with a hammer. ‘You wouldn’t have credited it,’ he said, ‘a pretty lady like her nailing fence palings into place, but she knew just what to do.’ Laurel shook her head along with his wonder, but her thoughts were with the onetime cedar-getters of Tamborine Mountain as she took the post back with her to the swing seat.

Among the mail, there was an electricity bill, a leaflet about a local council election, and another largish envelope besides. Laurel raised her eyebrows when she saw it was addressed to her. She couldn’t think there were many people who knew she was at Greenacres, only Claire, who never sent a letter when a phone call would do. She turned the envelope over and saw that the sender was Martin Metcalfe of 25 Camp- den Grove.

Intrigued, Laurel tore it open, pulling out the contents. It was a booklet, the official museum guide from his grandfather James Metcalfe’s exhibition at the V&A ten years before. ‘Thought you might like this. Regards, Martin,’ said the note pinned to its cover. ‘Come and see us next time you’re in London?’ Laurel had a good idea she might; she liked Karen and Marty and their kids, the little boy with the Lego plane and the faraway look in his eyes; they felt like family in a strange, muddled-up way; all of them joined together by those fateful events of 1941.

She flicked through the booklet, admiring once again the glorious talent of James Metcalfe, the way he’d succeeded somehow in capturing more than a mere image with his camera, managing to tell an entire story out of the disparate elements of a single moment. And such important stories, too—they were a record, these photographs, of a historical experience that would be almost inconceivable without them. She wondered if Jimmy had known that at the time; if, as he captured small instances of individual grief and loss on film, he’d realised the tremendous memorial he was sending forward into the future.

Laurel smiled at the photograph of Nella, and then paused when she came to a loose photo, pinned at the back, a copy of the one she’d noticed in Campden Grove, the picture of Ma. Laurel detached it, holding it close and taking in each of her mother’s beautiful features; she was putting it back, when she noticed the final photograph in the booklet, a self-portrait of James Metcalfe, taken, it said, in 1954.

It gave her a strange feeling, that picture, and at first she put it down to the crucial part Jimmy had played in her mother’s life; the things Ma had told her about his kindness and the way he’d made her happy when there was little other light in her life. But then, as she looked longer, Laurel became more certain that it was something else making her feel this way; something stronger; more personal.

And then, suddenly, she remembered.

Laurel fell back against the chair and gazed at the sky, a smile spreading wide and disbelieving across her face. Every-thing was illuminated.

She knew why the name ‘Vivien’ had struck her so strongly when she heard it from Rose in the hospital; she knew how Jimmy had known to send the anonymous thank-you card for Vivien to Dorothy Nicolson at Greenacres Farm; she knew why she’d been experiencing little jolts of deja vu every time she looked at that Coronation stamp.

God help her—Laurel couldn’t help but laugh—she even understood the riddle of the man at the stage door. The mysterious quote, so familiar yet impossible to place. It wasn’t from a play at all; that’s why she’d had so much trouble—she’d been racking the wrong part of her brain; the quote was from a long-ago day, a conversation she’d completely forgotten until now …

Thirty-four

Greenacres, 1953

THE BEST THING about being eight years old was that Laurel could finally turn proper cartwheels. She’d been doing them all summer long, and her record so far was three hundred and twenty-six in a row, all the way from the top of the driveway to where Daddy’s old tractor stood. This morning, though, she’d set herself a new challenge—she was going to see how many it took to go all the way around the house, and she was going to do it as quickly as she could.

The problem was the side gate. Every time she got to it (forty-seven -sometimes forty-eight—cartwheels in), she marked her spot in the dust where the hens had pecked away the grass, ran to pin it open and then hurried back to her mark. But by the time she raised her hands, preparing to turn herself over, the gate had creaked itself back shut. She thought about propping something against it, but the hens were a naughty bunch and would be just as likely to flap their way into the vegetable patch if she gave them half the chance.

Still, she couldn’t think that there was any other way she was going to complete her cartwheel lap. She cleared her throat like her teacher Miss Plimpton did whenever she had a grave announcement to make, and said, ‘Now, listen here, you lot—’ pointing her finger for good mea- sure—‘I’m going to leave this gate open, but only for a minute. If any of you has any bright ideas about sneaking out when I turn my back, especially into Daddy’s garden, I’d like to remind you that Mummy’s making Coronation Chicken this afternoon and may be looking for volunteers.’

Mummy wouldn’t have dreamed of putting any of her girls in the pot—hens were all guaranteed death from old age when they had the good fortune of being born onto the Nicolson farm—but Laurel saw no reason to tell them that.

She fetched Daddy’s work boots from beside the front door, and carried them over, leaning them one by one against the open gate. Constable the cat, who’d been watching proceedings from the front doorstep, miaowed now to register reservations with the plan, but Laurel pretended not to notice. Satisfied that the gate would stay put, she reiterated her warning to the hens and, with a final check of her watch, waited for the second hand to hit the twelve, shouted, ‘Go!’ and started turning cartwheels.

The plan worked a treat. Round and round she went, long plaits dragging in the dust and then flicking against her back like a horse’s tail: across the hen enclosure, through the open gate (hurrah!) and back to where she’d started. Eighty-nine cartwheels, three minutes and four seconds exactly.

Laurel felt triumphant—right up until she noticed those naughty girls had done exactly what she told them not to. They were running amok now in her father’s vegetable patch, pulling down the heads of corn and pecking like they didn’t get a good three square meals a day.

‘Hey!’ Laurel shouted. ‘You lot, get back in your pen.’

They ignored her, and she marched over, waving her arms and stomping her feet, being met with nothing but continued disdain.

Laurel didn’t see the man at first. Not until he said, ‘Hi there,’ and she looked up and saw him standing near where Daddy’s Morris was usually parked.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘You look a little cross.’

‘I am cross. The girls have escaped and they’re eating all my daddy’s corn and I’m going to get the blame.’

‘Goodness,’ he said. ‘That sounds serious.’

‘It is.’ Her bottom lip threatened to quiver, but she didn’t let it.

‘Well now—it’s a little known fact, but I happen to speak hen rather well. Why don’t we just see what we can do to get them back?’

Laurel agreed, and together they chased the hens all around the patch, the man making clucking noises, and Laurel watching over her shoulder with wonder. When every last bird was present and accounted for, safely shut behind the gate, he even helped her remove the evidence from Daddy’s corn stems.

‘Are you here to see my parents?’ said Laurel, suddenly realising that the man might have a purpose other than to help her.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I used to know your mother, a long time ago. We were friends.’ He smiled, the sort of smile that made Laurel think that she liked him, and not just because of the hens.

The realisation made her a little shy, and she said, ‘You can come inside and wait if you like. I’m supposed to be tidying up.’

‘OK.’ He followed her into the house, slipping off his hat when they went through the door. He glanced around the room, noticing, Laurel was sure, the brand-new coat of paint Daddy had given the walls. ‘Your parents aren’t home?’

‘Daddy’s down in the field, and Mummy’s gone to borrow a television set for the coronation.’

‘Ah. Of course. Well, I should be fine here, if you need to get on with that tidying.’

Laurel nodded but she didn’t move. ‘I’m going to be an actress, you know.’ She was overcome by a sudden urge to tell the man all about herself.

‘Are you now?’

She nodded.

‘Well then, I’m going to have to look out for you. Will you play the London theatres do you think?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Laurel, nodding in that considering way grown-ups did. ‘I should say that I probably will.’

The man had been smiling but his face changed then, and at first Laurel thought it was something she’d said or done. But then she realised that he wasn’t looking at her any more, he was staring beyond her at the wedding photograph of Mummy and Daddy, the one they kept on the hall table.

‘Do you like it?’ she said.

He didn’t answer. He’d gone to the table and was holding the frame now, staring at it as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. ‘Vivien,’ he said softly, touching Mummy’s face.

Laurel frowned, wondering what he meant. ‘That’s my Mum-my,’ she said. ‘Her name’s Dorothy.’

The man looked at Laurel and his mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but he didn’t. It closed again and a smile came on his face, a funny smile as if he’d just worked out the answer to a puzzle and what he’d found made him happy and sad all at the same time. He put his hat back on his head and Laurel saw that he was going to leave.

‘Mummy won’t be long,’ she said, confused. ‘She’s only gone to the next village.’

He didn’t change his mind, though, walking back to the door and stepping out into the bright sunshine beneath the wisteria arbour. He held out his hand and said to Laurel, ‘Well, fellow hen-wrangler. It’s been lovely to meet you. Enjoy the coronation won’t you?’

‘I will.’

‘My name’s Jimmy, by the way, and I’m going to look out for you on those London stages.’

‘I’m Laurel,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘And I’ll see you there.’

He laughed, ‘I’ve little doubt of that. You strike me as just the sort who knows how to listen with her ears, her eyes, her heart all at once.’ Laurel nodded importantly.

The man had started to leave when he stopped mid-pace and turned back one last time. ‘Before I go, Laurel. Can you tell me—your mum and dad, are they happy?’

Laurel wrinkled her nose, not sure what he meant.

He said, ‘Do they make jokes together, and laugh and dance and play?’

Laurel rolled her eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘always.’

‘And is your daddy kind?’