The Tailor's Girl (32 page)

He toyed with the idea of asking young Jonathan Elton for assistance but the head tailor was a stickler for protocol and ran his shop like a military unit. ‘Um . . . no, look I’ll leave it, thank you, Elton. Tell Mr Fitch I’ll be up in London next week. Is Tuesday all right?’

‘Yes, Sir. He’s back for Monday but not taking appointments until the following day. Shall we say midday?’

‘Perfect. Thank you, Mr Elton. Have a good week.’

He put the phone down and bit his lip in consternation, aware that he had a flea in his ear now and wanted to do something constructive towards ridding himself of it. Alex took out the red handkerchief and smoothed it out on the desk, staring at it, urging it to give up its secrets.

He touched the hand-sewn edge of the heart, felt the soft bumps of the matching red thread and begged it to tell him whose hand had held the needle. Even to an untrained eye the sewing was immaculate: fine, regular, neat. He imagined a woman with needle and thread, sitting by a window to catch the best light, and could almost picture the handkerchief in her lap as she worked, watching make-believe fingers move around the cotton.

He wanted to know her! Wanted to look upon her!
Find me
, she called to him on the wind. Her heels walked away from him, leading him somewhere . . . somewhere safe and filled with love. Or was he simply imagining all this?

Alex suddenly snatched up the mutilated square of fabric, scrunched it into a loose ball and pushed it to his nose, inhaling. He wanted every clue he might glean from this tiny link to his past. This and the navy suit were his history. Alex closed his eyes, emptied his mind of the angst and smelled again, deeply this time, allowing his senses to let go and follow whichever path they chose.

Distantly teasing him came the softest waft of violets.

Was it the perfume his mother had spoken of? It didn’t matter if it was – but he at last had something of this elusive woman. She had to be young, he reasoned; no older woman would craft such an obvious object of passion. He would have to buy a bottle of the Yardley perfume his mother had mentioned.

So, was she my lover? A mistress?
Alex swallowed.
A wife?

_______________

Edie nodded at Sarah and though she could see the cloakroom assistant was wearing a deeply anxious expression, it was Edie who blushed.

‘Hello, Sarah. Do you remember me?’

‘I do, Miss.’ She glanced at Madeleine, who nodded. ‘Very well, actually.’

‘Come and sit down,’ Edie offered, gesturing at the love seat. ‘How is it that you remember me so well?’

Sarah perched on the edge of the bench, gloves clutched against the handles of an old but attractive bag. Edie could see that beneath a slightly old-fashioned-cut suit bristled a tall, slim woman with a firm young figure, desperate to unclothe and clamber into the finer garments about her, strewn on hangers, that she watched Sarah’s gaze drinking in.

‘Miss Valentine, I did not steal your sketches. I did not even look in the folder.’ It came out in such an earnest rush that Edie blinked.

‘I didn’t say you did,’ she replied.

Sarah took a deep breath. ‘I remember you well, because . . . because you are unforgettable,’ she half smiled, but coloured up with embarrassment. ‘I noticed how beautifully dressed you were that day. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that stole. One day . . . well, I love clothes, Miss Valentine.’ She shrugged.

Edie did look at Madeleine now, who was staring down from her full height, arms crossed with an expression that suggested she wanted to say to Edie:
So what have you got to say now?
Instead, she smiled at Sarah.

‘Sarah, tell Miss Valentine exactly what you told me.’

And as Edie listened, she paled in front of the two women and her heart began to drum loudly beneath her ribs.

_______________

His mind felt bruised and scattered. Alex pushed the handkerchief into his pocket, grabbed a thick jacket and scarf and let himself out quietly through the French windows of his study. Cold air hit him and made him gasp; it was like running into the sea off Brighton Beach.

The smell of smoke from grates around the property felt homely and comforting. Even more soothing was the aroma from Mrs Dear’s oven in full roar – the air was scented with plum puddings she was readying for Christmas.

Alex set off without purpose but nevertheless determined to walk away his mood of frustration. He skirted the orchards and pushed on, hands plunged deep into his pockets. He wished now he’d thought to bring gloves and he buried his chin into his scarf, breathing through the cashmere to ease the effect of the biting chill.

He found himself standing at the entrance to the Larksfell maze, which used to so enchant the Wynter children. He slipped into the northern end of the maze and, without having to think, made his way through the privet until he came to the stone bench at its heart. The bench felt like a block of ice through his trousers but he felt released to be alone and silent with only a robin for company.

‘Hello there, little friend,’ he murmured.

The robin surprised him by singing suddenly, and with that familiar sound came the memory of another robin on another day when he was seated on a different bench in a rose garden, searching for similar peace.

‘Of course, the hospital!’ he exclaimed, startling the robin. It flew off immediately and Alex leapt to his feet. He broke into a run, scurrying back through the corridors of tall privet hedge, vaguely marvelling that he hadn’t forgotten how to get out of the maze and yet couldn’t remember where he’d been a year ago. He burst from the northern entrance again and this time was running, hurtling past the orchard, rushing past the French doors of his study and moving around the building’s exterior until he hit the gravel drive. He slowed but not enough that he didn’t catch the attention of Bramson, who was deep in discussion with Clarrie outside the big house.

‘Everything all right, Mr Alex?’

‘Peachy, thank you,’ he said and although the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t be bothered bringing Bramson into the problem. He kept moving towards the northern side of Larksfell until he hit the garages, where, predictably, he found a man polishing one of the many in the fleet of Wynter motor cars.

‘Jones?’ he enquired, gusting steam from his deep breaths.

‘Yes, Sir!’ the man replied, straightening. ‘Er . . .’

Alex sniffed, was tempted to reach for the red handkerchief. ‘Sorry, I ran,’ he said, although he could see it explained nothing to the startled driver.

‘Can I help you, Sir?’

‘Yes . . .’ He grinned, dragging in a deep breath to calm himself. ‘I’m Alex Wynter,’ he began and noticed the man’s eyes widen. ‘Did Mr Bramson mention I was planning to go to London?’

‘He did, Sir. Tomorrow, I believe it is.’ Jones looked nervous and Alex was keen to defuse his anxiety.

‘Actually, Jones, how do you feel about a jaunt today? Not into central London; more like Middlesex.’

‘Today? Of course, Sir.’ He looked around at the clutter of buckets and sponges. ‘Er, when, Sir?’

‘How about now? We can take a flask, share a cuppa on the way.’ The suggestion didn’t appear to relax Mr Jones. Alex grinned. ‘Come on, Jones. Let’s live dangerously.’

A twitch of a smile ghosted across the man’s expression. ‘I’ll just clean up, Sir. Is twenty minutes all right?’

‘Take half an hour. I’ll organise that flask of tea,’ he said, lifting a hand. ‘Back soon.’

Alex was enjoying the smell of the rich, burgundy-coloured leather that had warmed around him in the car, although it was still necessary to be wrapped up in a heavy coat. His gloves made a squeaking sound as he rubbed at the condensation on the window so he could look out at the passing scenery as the rural landscape gave way to more built-up areas. It seemed frostier here in London than at Larksfell.

‘You know, Jones, your surname feels meaningful to me and it’s somehow linked with Edmonton Hospital,’ Alex remarked, as they rolled across what he realised was a bridge in their approach to the hospital in north Middlesex.

‘Is that right, Sir?’ Jones said over his shoulder. ‘I can’t imagine it – such a normal name as mine being important to you.’

‘Well, that’s it, you see. No doubt you’ve been told I lost my memory towards the end of the war, and apparently I ended up here at Edmonton – or so my fiancée assures me. They called me Mr Jones because they didn’t know my name and neither did I. I suppose they called other soldiers in a similar situation Mr Smith or Mr Green . . . easy names for us to remember and answer to.’ Alex felt a ripple of pleasure that he was at last in a position to explain some small aspect of his disappearance. Why hadn't he thought to contact the hospital? Even this felt like a triumph and he was determined today’s journey would throw more light on his puzzle.

‘I see, Sir,’ Jones said, glancing into the rear-vision mirror and nodding. ‘Makes sense. Do you recall any of this scenery, Mr Wynter? This is the Lea Valley Bridge we’ve just crossed, and now into Angel Road.’

‘Afraid not, old chap. Although – wait a minute,’ he murmured, his gaze narrowing as a vast red-brick structure came into view. He sat forward to look out of the front window while he strained to grab on to a thought. ‘There is something familiar about that building.’

‘That’s the hospital, Sir. It was used by the military during the war.’

Alex shook his head in wonder as fragile tendrils of memory seemed to reach around his mind and take vague purchase. He felt sure that if he fed the images, then his memory might be nourished and those tendrils would grow stronger, just as Dr Cavendish had warned might happen over time.

Time is against me, though!
he thought with fresh frustration, suddenly seeing himself standing by the altar filled with doubt as the wedding march was striking up and Penelope Aubrey-Finch was walking slowly down the aisle. He had to be sure about this other woman who roamed his senses – her clicking heels, her perfume and her red handkerchief.

‘Why, Sir?’

Alex hadn’t realised he’d aired his worry about lack of time aloud. ‘Well, I feel I must fill in the blanks of my life quickly, or I shall go mad, Jones.’

‘I can understand that, Sir.’

Alex was convinced that Jones would like to tell him to be grateful, that he was one of England’s richest industrialists, and to stop his bleating. There was some truth in this sentiment, of course, but still the ghosts of his past nagged.

_______________

Edie’s pounding heartbeat had been replaced by a new energy. She hoped the others could not see her shaking. And if they could, she certainly hoped it would not be interpreted as anything but the fury she was experiencing. She took a few moments to gather her wits, moving over to an ensemble she was working on for her newest client.

‘What do you think of this, Sarah?’

The girl blinked, unnerved.

‘It’s lovely.’

‘Oh, come on. You can do better than that. Could you improve it, if you were given the opportunity? Be honest. I shan’t be offended.’

Sarah approached the wax mannequin, staring nervously at the dress while Edie studied her. She was quite sure that Sarah was so modest she had little conception of how pretty she was with her sweet, neat profile and button-shaped nose. When Sarah turned to regard her, Edie was treated to a front view of soulful brown eyes that seemed an odd match to the brightly golden hair that was worn short near her dimpled chin. Edie remembered how captivating the young woman’s smile and warm chocolate eyes had been on the first occasion they’d met at the restaurant.

‘I . . . I would consider turning it into a matching dress and coat,’ Sarah said.

Edie turned to look at her design, presently only modelled up in bleached calico.

‘Lightweight coat,’ Sarah continued, surprising Edie as she suddenly sounded more confident. ‘In a soft but daring colour for spring.’

‘Which colour?’
Don’t say pink, Sarah. Surprise me
, Edie urged privately.

‘Oh, it has to be a brilliantly light, bright blue,’ came the reply. ‘Like the first thaw of spring . . . like the pictures of a glacier I saw in a magazine.’

Edie felt her heart lighten. ‘Sarah?’

‘Yes?’

‘I want to apologise unreservedly for putting your honesty into question. Will you forgive any misunderstanding?’

‘Of course. I’m glad we cleared it up, Miss Valentine.’

‘But very importantly, I want to say why don’t you come and work for me? We could so use a new assistant. We’re advertising for one right now. I need someone to be my eyes and ears out here. Can you sew?’

Sarah nodded; she looked stunned.

‘Well, think about it. Perhaps you —’

‘I don’t have to!’ Sarah gushed. ‘Think about it, I mean. Yes, Miss Valentine. Yes, please!’ Sarah’s expression changed from guarded as she unleashed a smile that sparkled through the depths of those dark eyes to glisten within happy tears. ‘I’d work here for free!’

Edie was touched, felt the heat of Sarah’s pleasure warm the frostiness that the girl’s explanation had set inside Edie. She would confront that later.

Madeleine gave a lazy smile that was all approval. ‘Well, you’d better go hand in your notice to the restaurant, Sarah.’ She turned to Edie. ‘Does she begin tomorrow?’

‘Why not make it the day after? Then I can run up a beautiful black shift for you to wear as a uniform. Do you have some black heels, Sarah?’ Three pairs of eyes glanced down at Sarah’s feet. Edie noted the shoes were polished but old enough to be sagging, the creases testimony to years of hard wear of a person on their feet all day. ‘Madeleine, give Sarah two pounds, please.’

Both women stared, slightly flabbergasted, at her but Madeleine moved towards the back office and the salon’s kitty. Edie gave Sarah a reassuring smile.

‘Spend tomorrow looking for a pair of black shoes with a T-bar and buttonhole ankle strap.’

Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, Miss Valentine, I’ve seen exactly those in Peter Jones! I don’t know what to say.’

‘If you’re going to work here, you must look the part, so there’s nothing you need to say. Consider this not only part of my apology but also necessary to help you fulfill your role. Gradually we’ll build you an appropriate wardrobe but those shoes will go with everything through winter, early spring and autumn. We’ll need to take some quick measurements but I want you to enjoy your shopping day. Oh, and Sarah?’

She turned. ‘Yes?’

‘Don’t say anything to anyone yet about where you’re working . . . just until the day you start here. Then you can tell everyone.’

Sarah beamed. ‘Our secret.’

_______________

Alex stood at the front of the imposing triple-storey building. From a distance, in the car, it had triggered a memory, but now, from the drive in front of the main entrance, the hopsital felt meaningless.

‘You look disappointed, Sir,’ Jones said as he opened the door.

He gave a low sigh and it had nothing to do with the soft drizzle of rain that had arrived. ‘I had hoped it would trigger a flood of memories, but there’s nothing.’

The man closed the door gently behind Alex. ‘Maybe you don’t remember this entrance, Mr Wynter. If you weren’t well, Sir, you were probably brought in without seeing much at all anyway.’ He gave a cheer-up grin. ‘Once inside it may seem more familiar.’

‘Thank you, Jones,’ Alex said and nodded at him to ensure the man knew he meant it. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘Good luck, Sir,’ he said, touching his cap. ‘I’ll be waiting right here.’

Alex walked up the few steps into the cavernous lobby and was aware of his footsteps echoing on the hard floor. This reception area connected various corridors leading off to different wings of the hospital, but nothing struck him as familiar, except for the smell of strong disinfectant and carbolic soap.

‘Can I help you?’ the petite nurse behind the counter asked. She was one of three busy women in uniform behind the desk; not the prettiest of the trio, but he liked the welcome in her voice immediately.

Alex detailed his situation succinctly and her expression began to ease into surprise. She offered a smile that he was sure would ease many a sick soldier’s heart. ‘Oh, Mr Wynter, that’s such a happy ending.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ he said.

‘I’m afraid I transferred to Edmonton only a few months ago,’ she continued, ‘but I’ll see if I can find someone who may have been around when you were here. Do you remember anyone at all?’

He shrugged. ‘A void, I regret to say.’

‘Well, don’t you worry. My father returned from the war a bit fuzzy,’ she said, tapping her temple. ‘He’s much better now.’

He gave her an indulgent smile and wondered how nurses managed to stay so damn bubbly without being nauseating.

‘So, now, let me just go and ask around for you. Would you like to take a seat?’

‘Er, may I ask your name please?’

She grinned. ‘It’s Betty.’

‘Well, Betty, I don’t suppose I’m allowed to stroll around, see if anything bubbles up in my memory?’

She frowned. ‘Er, I’m not permitted to let you do that, Mr Wynter,’ but he heard hesitation. That probably meant that his ‘disarming smile’ was working its charm.

‘Go on, Betty. How about I accompany you? Could you perhaps walk me through to where the soldiers recuperated?’

‘Oh, very well, then. Can’t hurt. Our job is to heal, isn’t it?’

‘Well said, Betty. I’ll bet you’re a favourite with the patients.’

She giggled, blushing slightly. ‘I do my best, Mr Wynter. Doesn’t cost much to be cheerful or kind.’

‘Amen to that,’ he said and fell into step alongside her.

As they strolled through the wing of the hospital he was disappointed to realise that the hollow feeling of his arrival was deepening; he recognised nothing and no one.

Betty – or Bet, as she’d since suggested he call her – looked as crestfallen as he felt. ‘There have been so many changes since you were here, Mr Wynter.’

‘Who is the oldest nurse . . . or, better still, a matron?’

That seemed to prompt a fresh idea. ‘Sister Bolton! She’s been here for centuries. But she’s not in this part of the hospital. She looks after the sanatorium wing.’ Bet appeared to lower her voice in the last few words.

‘What happens there?’ He frowned.

‘Well, as I understand it, right now it’s for people who are incurable and for patients who have dementia. I don’t know how it was used during and directly after the war, though.’

‘Can we find out?’

‘Of course. I’ll just let my colleague know that I’m taking you through.’

As Alex accompanied Bet into what began to feel like a more dilapidated area of the hospital, he also began to sense the first awareness of vague familiarity.

‘Any bells ringing?’

He didn’t want to say they weren’t just ringing but clanging, so he nodded. ‘Hopefully we’re on the right track here,’ he remarked.

Bet stopped a redhead with a jaunty walk who was tying a dark cape at her neck. Alex guessed she had perhaps a decade on Betty. Something trilled deep inside him when the nurse turned front on and regarded them both. ‘Oh, Nancy,’ Betty began. ‘Excuse me. I wondered if I could ask if —’

‘Jonesy!’ the new nurse exclaimed.

Alex’s insides felt as though they were somersaulting. ‘Do you recognise me?’
Nancy . . . Nancy
, he repeated in his mind, and then suddenly it was as if curtains were drawn back in his thoughts . . . 
Nan
? That’s all he had. A name. But it felt right and it had resonance, he was sure.

Her face filled with delight, reddish golden curls escaping from her hat. ‘Yes, yes, of course I do! I wouldn’t forget that rakish smile anywhere.’ Then her eyes narrowed. ‘You didn’t half cause a panic for us, Jonesy, the way you walked out on us on the day of the Peace Party. Can you remember that?’

He stared back at her blankly but she didn’t seem to want his reply. ‘Got me into so much trouble with Matron, you did.’ She gave him a playful slap and it was in that touch that a fresh memory triggered.

‘Nurse Nancy,’ he murmured and distractedly rubbed his chin.

‘I see you shaved at long, long last. Wow, but you’re a looker, Jonesy . . . but then I’m obviously not that fussy because I always fancied you with your beard.’ She giggled and nudged him. ‘My, my, but you look fine and well.’

Betty, he could see, felt overwhelmed by Nancy’s response and made a gracious escape.

‘Thank you, Betty,’ he said as she began saying her farewell and made a mental note to send her something with his thanks for her kindness. He returned full attention to the redhead. ‘Nancy, I need your help.’

‘Ooh, the hide! After all the trouble and heartache you put me through?’

He could tell she was still teasing him. ‘My name is Alex Wynter. I found my family.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ He could tell she meant it and realised suddenly, feeling instantly foolish, that not everyone read the London business pages. Nancy recognised him in a blink without his beard so maybe he should have put out a photo and request into
The Evening News
, which he knew had close on a million readers. Little yellow vans delivered it to the paperboys and everyday people read its eight pages – people from Golders Green to even here in Middlesex. It seemed so obvious now. Perhaps he still could, but visions of his mother and fiancée with sour looks shut down that option.

Nancy’s expression was filled with relief for him. ‘Mr Wynter,’ she repeated as she stood back to get a better look at him. ‘You wear it well. So I suppose that beautiful young woman found you at last, eh? Oh, what’s her name? I can’t remember but she had been up and down the country searching for you. She was so distressed when we couldn’t locate you and of course the hospital was very embarrassed that it had lost you.’