The Tailor's Girl (3 page)

‘Evening News, Schweppes Water, Oakey’s Knife Polish, Claymore Whisky, Iron Jelloids . . .’ he recited softly.

‘Pardon me?’

He shook his head. ‘Just reading the advertisements on the other buses. It’s hard to believe a war has just finished. It all looks so colourful and bright.’

Edie didn’t believe much looked bright in the depths of November at all but perhaps everything would after the trenches. ‘Anything ring a bell?’

‘The whisky, maybe.’ He grinned disarmingly and Edie knew that even in the short time she’d spent with this man, his charm was infectious. There was something about his straight bearing, his careful, courteous manner and his quiet way of speaking that she found attractive.

‘Well, Golders Green is the end of the line, so just take in the sights. You never know.’

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

She smiled and shook her head as he reached into his pocket. ‘But my father might.’

He struck a match and lit the cigarette he’d tapped out of a small packet. There was only one remaining. ‘I shall make this my last, then,’ he said, with no tone of regret.

‘Why?’

‘New beginnings. Everything about today feels new and I want to feel as though I’ve started a new life.’ He took a final long drag before casually flicking it away.

They travelled in near silence for the rest of the journey, although Edie became all too aware of the warmth that connected them, through his common carded wool flannel suit to her more expensively woven yarn suit. There was a burn like a Catherine wheel firework hissing between them, except this one was spinning and spitting invisible sparks inside her. It felt dangerously exciting.

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A petite woman, striking in her deep crimson coat, alighted from a taxi outside Edmonton Hospital’s main gate and asked the driver to wait. As she approached the entrance, observers would have noticed that the visitor was as daring in her design as in colour, for the coat was actually a cape fastened with an oversized button on one side. A narrow, midnight-blue skirt emerged from beneath it to land above her ankles, and her gloved hand reached instinctively to her navy broad-brimmed hat as a gust of wind threatened to unseat it from Apollo-golden hair, which was neatly parted and pinned around both ears.

At the hospital reception she was told that the Peace Party was underway for the patients. When she said she was seeking one in particular – a gentleman, one of the returned soldiers – she was asked to wait.

Sister Bolton was just tipping a beaker of warmed elder cordial to her lips when she was called to the nurses’ station. She tried not to roll her eyes.

‘Who wants me?’

‘I was asked by Miss Fairview to find you.’

‘Why?’

The girl looked ready to shrug but caught herself in time. ‘I’m not sure, Sister. I think she might have mentioned an important visitor.’

‘Very well. Run along, Smith.’

Bolton strode towards reception, her lips helplessly pursed at being pulled away from the celebrations she hoped would breathe some happiness into the depressed lives of her returned soldiers as they healed, convalesced and tried to forget what they had experienced on the battlefields of Europe. So many were still recovering from serious injuries, and most were facing the worse battle of trying to recover from much deeper scars, which even her determined team and its care might never heal.

She arrived in the main lobby to be introduced to a young woman who smelled of exquisite spiced floral perfume and was dressed so expensively she was almost convinced a curtsey might be due.

‘Oh, hello, Sister Bolton,’ the woman said and her effortless greeting persuaded Sister that the visitor cared not about social status. ‘I was told you were the person I should talk to.’ The beam of the visitor’s smile warmed up the frost that had settled about Emilia Bolton. ‘I’m Penelope Aubrey-Finch.’

‘Miss Aubrey-Finch.’ Sister Bolton nodded, and shook the navy-gloved hand, feeling the caress of softest kid against her skin. ‘How can I help?’ Her gaze flicked to a young man who’d lost the best part of both legs, amputated at a field hospital during the Battle of the Somme. She watched her patient being pushed in a wheelchair to join the party before returning her attention to Miss Aubrey-Finch, mindful of not letting it rudely wander again.

‘. . . and I’ve been searching all the military hospitals and establishments where returning injured soldiers have been brought,’ she said.

Sister Bolton understood. ‘Of course. Your father? Brother?’ she said.

‘Neither, actually. An extremely distant cousin,’ she said, then added, ‘So distant as to be more like a friend than blood . . . um, a very special friend.’

The elder woman found an encouraging smile for her, understanding immediately the toll that these sorts of searches took on the families. So much hope, yet potential despair waiting at every turn.

‘And clearly an important one if you have taken so much care in hunting him down.’ She watched the young woman falter. Penelope Aubrey-Finch struck her as exquisitely beautiful – like a fragile butterfly – and it occurred to Sister Bolton to wonder why such a young woman was here alone on this mission. ‘Did anyone accompany you?’

Miss Aubrey-Finch smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I’ve taken it upon myself to find cousin Lex. I have a car waiting.’

‘Lex?’ She frowned. ‘You can leave your umbrella here to dry off. Come with me.’ She called by the reception to request a mask, which she handed to her wealthy visitor. ‘It’s a precaution only, but may I suggest you wear this? Influenza is rife and we do suggest it for all our visitors.’

The woman nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m getting quite used to covering my face,’ she said, impressively unperturbed by the caution.

‘You’d make a fine nurse,’ Sister Bolton remarked as she gestured for her guest to follow.

Penelope Aubrey-Finch fell in step and as they walked the corridors they discussed her journey from Belgravia, where her parents were spending the festive season. ‘My family home is in York but I schooled in London and Switzerland, and I guess I feel more comfortable in the south.’

‘Of course,’ Sister Bolton replied, imagining the privileged life of this young woman who could barely be past twenty, but Miss Aubrey-Finch and her heady fragrance, immaculate clothes, fine manners and especially her bright, engaging way was extremely hard to dislike.

‘. . . given up, except me. I believe with all of my heart that he’s still alive, perhaps injured.’

‘I understand.’

She led her visitor into the ‘dining room’ – as the nurses called it – which had become the main undercover venue for the Peace Party, although it was thinning out now that the rain had stopped and people had headed into the gardens to spot the freedom balloons that had been released.

‘Here, my dear. All but the sickest of our soldiers are gathered. Do you recognise your cousin? I have to warn you, though, we have no one here called Lex.’

Miss Aubrey-Finch paused carefully before each of the men, and shared a kind word or two before she moved on to the next. Sister Bolton was impressed by the young woman’s composure but especially how magnanimous she seemed in making sure her friendliness fell upon each soldier, some with legs in bandages or arms in slings, others with their heads still wrapped in linens or eyes covered with patches. She noticed their visitor didn’t flinch as she met each and all the patients. The men were left grinning as their visitor returned to the nurse with a shrug. Yes, indeed, a fine nurse this one would make.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Sister Bolton said when it was obvious the distant cousin was not amongst the men.

‘Don’t be. You’ve been so kind to allow me to interrupt a special day,’ Miss Aubrey-Finch replied, her eyes misty but her voice steady. She pulled away her mask.

‘Believe me, dear, we don’t mind interruptions such as yours. If I could send any one of these men home today with you, it would be my best Christmas present ever.’

Her companion smiled. ‘Thank you. I wish I could take them all home and see them laughing again.’

‘We can visit the ward next. There are two . . . er, no, three other men, too unwell to attend the party.’

Miss Aubrey-Finch brightened. ‘Thank you.’ She slipped her mask back on as she followed Sister Bolton.

More disappointment followed as the three patients predictably were not the cousin she sought. ‘Sincere thanks, all the same,’ she said and shook Sister Bolton’s hand again, this time without gloves, and the older woman noticed her companion’s hand was soft and unmarked, her nails perfectly kept and buffed until they shone.

‘I do wish I could have brought joy to your family’s Christmas, Miss Aubrey-Finch.’

Penelope gave a sad smile. ‘The perfect Christmas gift.’

‘Don’t get disheartened. I applaud your determination. If he’s alive, you will find him.’ She had to ask. ‘Is he your fiancé?’

Penelope Aubrey-Finch shook her head. ‘No, Sister, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t hope for that to be the case.’ The older woman noticed a shadow ghost across the young woman’s open face. ‘There’s never been anyone else for me.’

‘Well, perhaps leave a description and a photograph or a —’

‘Oh, heavens! I brought one. I quite forgot.’ She rummaged in a satin side pocket within the small, navy leather bag where she’d slung her gloves. ‘Here,’ she said with a sigh. ‘That’s him.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a few years old now, and Lex always loathed having a photo taken —’

Sister Bolton took the photo and stared at the figure her companion pointed to. She blinked and frowned, then shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, but . . .’ She hesitated.

‘What is it? Do you know him?’ her companion pleaded.

The older woman’s expression became thoughtful before she shook her head in slight frustration. ‘I don’t recognise this man, I have to be honest . . . but there’s just something familiar about him. I don’t know what it is – the shape of his head or just the way he’s got it slightly cocked to one side like that. I . . .’ She gave a soft sigh. ‘I really can’t say.’

Her visitor gave a small groan. ‘It’s not a great photo, I’ll admit, especially being a more distant group shot and everyone in tennis whites.’ She shrugged. ‘Happier times.’

‘You’ve tried all the military hospitals?’

‘Near enough. I have written to them all, though, and given a most detailed description of Lex.’

‘Well, you’re certainly doing everything you can. Um . . . have you tried any of the mental institutions?’

Miss Aubrey-Finch gave a small gasp. ‘No. Should I?’

Sister Bolton lifted one shoulder. ‘So many of our soldiers came home wounded physically but also mentally. Take our Mr Jones, for example. That’s not his real name. It’s just what we call him.’

Miss Aubrey-Finch regarded her in puzzlement. ‘Why?’

‘He is suffering from shellshock and remembers nothing, not even his name. Those with amnesia at Edmonton are arbitrarily given common surnames – we’ve had four. Mr Smith, Mr Green, Mr Brown and Mr Jones. It affects the soldiers in numerous ways. Some become moody, others completely withdraw. There are terrible night terrors and I’ve heard of some men, normally peaceful, gentle folk, turning violent without warning.’ She shook her head sadly.

‘Has no one claimed them?’

‘Oh, indeed. Smith, Green and Brown have already been returned to loving families.’

‘And Mr Jones?’

‘Completely lost. He has no memory of who he is.’ She blinked into the distance. ‘Funnily enough, he’s the one that I was thinking bore a curious echo to your dashing-looking friend.’ She smiled at the young woman who seemed pleased by the compliment. ‘Can I see that photo again, please?’

Miss Aubrey-Finch handed her the photograph once more and Sister Bolton studied it before biting her lip. ‘You know, it could be him. Similar height, build . . .’

Sister Bolton heard her visitor give a soft gasp of hope.

She continued. ‘He has no memory since he regained consciousness. We believe he was hurt in late 1917 at Ypres, transferred to various places and institutions, finally coming to us a few months ago.’

‘He last wrote to me from Flanders! Lex is here?’ the young woman exclaimed, tears arriving helplessly. She clamped a hand to her masked mouth. ‘Really?’ she added in a tremulous voice.

Sister Bolton straightened. ‘No, I am not sure about that at all, Miss Aubrey-Finch. Please do not get your hopes too high. But there’s something about this fellow in your photo. Mr Jones refuses to shave his beard for some reason. I spoke to him barely an hour ago. Let me find Nan, who knows him best. Wait here, dear. I don’t understand why he isn’t at the party.’ She turned back to the dining room and spied Nancy sipping a ginger beer and giggling with two of the patients.

Sister Bolton strode over to the trio. ‘Excuse me. Nan, where is Mr Jones?’

Nan’s expression clouded with bewilderment. Sister Bolton waited.

‘Er, I left him in the garden.’ Nan frowned. ‘He was dressed in good clothes,’ she continued, thinking back over her morning.

‘Yes, I spoke to him. He said he’d see me at the party.’

Nancy’s expression lost its amusement. ‘Is he in his ward?’

‘Go check, quickly. I have a visitor with a photograph of someone who bears a resemblance. Let’s not miss an opportunity to find his family.’

_______________

While Sister Bolton returned to calm Penelope Aubrey-Finch’s rising hopes, Nan hurried back to the ward where Jonesy lived alone these days, and as her sinking heart suggested, she found it empty. He’d been in a slightly strange mood this morning – more of the bad dreams had disturbed his sleep and he had seemed curiously quiet, almost wistful, when she’d done her early rounds.

He’d promised he’d shake a leg with her on the makeshift dance floor in the dining room if she played something bright on the gramophone. Had he deliberately misled her? She didn’t think he would lie to her face – didn’t think he’d lie at all. But why would he disappear today? What was so special about today that might prompt him to walk out of the hospital? She checked in all the bathrooms, spare rooms; even ducked out into the gardens in case he was moping in a drenched nook somewhere, but she came up wanting. Nancy returned to the waiting women with a haunted expression and hated the way the beautiful visitor’s expression brightened eagerly.