Her Turn To Cry
CHRIS CURRAN

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Chris Curran 2016

Chris Curran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © JULY 2016 ISBN: 9780008196059

Version 2019-01-08

In memory of Jim and Bedelia Curran. Dad, who passed on his love of books, and Mum, who took me to the library every week to borrow them.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Author’s Note

If you enjoyed Her Turn to Cry, read on for an exclusive extract of the latest psychological thriller by Chris Curran.

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Chris Curran

About the Publisher

Chapter One
The Pier Theatre, Hastings, Sussex – August 1953

Joycie usually loves it when Dad takes her to work with him. But not today. She wants to stay at their lodgings in case Mum comes back. She keeps telling Dad she’s eleven now and old enough to be left on her own, but he won’t listen.

Sid Sergeant is already in the dressing room, a fag in the corner of his mouth, squinting at himself in the mirror through the swirls of smoke. Old Harry, a conjuror they call The Great Zarbo, stands facing the sink in the corner. Joycie can hear a splashing sound and, along with the usual smells of tobacco, make-up, and beer, there’s a pong of wee that makes her nose twitch.

Sid twists to look at them. ‘Cover up, Harry, will you,’ he says.

Harry turns on the tap and fiddles with his trousers, talking to Dad over his shoulder. ‘Sorry, Charlie. Didn’t know you were bringing the nipper. Someone’s been in the lav for ages.’ He waddles to the dressing table. ‘You gonna sit with me while your dad’s onstage, eh darling?’

Her dad raises his dark brows at Sid. ‘That’s OK, Harry; I’m going to ask Irene to mind her.’

As the star of the show, Irene Slade has her own tiny room. She’s doing her hair at the cluttered dressing table. ‘Hello sweetie pie.’ Irene pats the chair next to her and, looking at Charlie in the mirror, she points at a packet of chocolate cakes sitting on top of the mess of jewellery and sticks of make-up. ‘I must have known you’d bring her in tonight. Got her favourites.’

When Dad has gone Joycie eats her cake and watches as Irene gets dressed, trying not to think about Mum. Irene is lumpy and middle-aged in her street clothes, but crammed into shining satin and sparkling with sequins and fake diamonds she looks as glamorous as Rita Hayworth. People say that, once upon a time, Irene performed in front of the old king, George VI.

She catches Joycie looking, fluffs out her hair and kisses the air with glossy lips. ‘Not bad for an old girl, eh, lovey? Now be a darling and go ask your dad to get Sid off that stage on time tonight. I don’t want to be hanging about in the wings for half an hour again.’

Joycie stops between the two dressing rooms when she hears Sid’s voice: ‘So what’s wrong with Mary this time? You had another row?’

‘No.’ Her dad’s voice is so low she has to strain to hear him. ‘She saw Joycie off to bed, but she wasn’t there when I got back after the show last night. I looked in the wardrobe and all her best clothes are gone.’

But that’s not right because Joycie checked when Dad went out and Mum’s favourite blouse was still there and her new black shoes in their box under the bed. She would never have left without them.

And now Joycie’s thinking about what else she saw under the bed, but she doesn’t want to. Don’t think about that, don’t think.

Harry the conjuror is too far away for her to hear more than a mumble. Sid is loud enough, though: ‘You’re better off without her, Charlie. You know what she’s like. Found herself another fancy man I shouldn’t wonder.’

A rustle and a waft of scent as Irene touches Joycie’s shoulder. ‘Never mind them, darling. They’re talking rubbish. You come back in with me.’

There’s a funny lump in Joycie’s throat, but she bites her lip and sits at the dressing table again. Dad has come into the corridor and she can see him in the mirror, tall and handsome in his dinner jacket and bow tie. He peers in at her as he and Sid head for the stage, but she looks down and picks at the cake crumbs that have fallen into a little tray full of jewellery.

Irene sits beside her. ‘Don’t you worry, darling. I know Mary and she’ll be back soon. Couldn’t manage without you, could she?’

She pulls Joycie into her arms. Her bosom is soft and scented with powder that gets up Joycie’s nose, and her hard corset digs in lower down. Joycie wishes she could cry, but there’s just that awful, hurting lump she can’t swallow away.

Irene is top of the bill and on straight after Dad and Sid. When she heads for the wings Joycie creeps out to watch from the other side. It’s a full house with lots of laughter, but a few heckles too. Sid loves hecklers. Dressed in his trademark tweed suit and yellow tie he’s fat and red-faced, his shiny bald head fringed by greasy strands of bottle-brown hair.

Sid is the star, the comic, and her dad is just the stooge, but it’s her dad the girls crowd round for at the stage door. Everyone says he looks like Cary Grant. His real name is Charlie Todd, but he’s called Lord Toddy in the act.

‘I’m sorry, Lord Toddy, I didn’t catch that,’ Sid says as her dad mutters some nonsense no one can understand. At home he’s cockney, but onstage Sid tells stories about Lord Toddy’s family, who, he says, are filthy rich but brainless. When Sid asks a question Charlie’s answer comes out as a splutter of posh noises, which Sid pretends to understand and pass on to the audience.

As they come off stage and Irene’s music strikes up, Joycie steps further back into the whispering darkness.

‘Shouldn’t worry, Charlie boy,’ Sid is saying. ‘She’ll be back with her tail between her legs before long. And while she’s gone you might as well enjoy yourself. So what about getting Irene to take the kid tonight?’

Dad rubs his face and pulls off his bow tie. ‘I don’t know, Sid.’

‘Go on.’ He pats her dad’s shoulder. ‘A few drinks to cheer you up and you can come back to ours afterwards. I got a nice bottle of Scotch needs opening.’

Joycie waits until they’re gone. She hopes Dad does let her stay with Irene tonight. Irene will tell her stories and make her laugh. So she won’t have to think.

And she doesn’t want to think. About the noises she heard in the night. Or the box with Mum’s best shoes still there under the bed. Or what she found rolled up next to the box: the mat from the living room blotched all over with dark red stains that look like blood.

Chelsea, London – March 1965

Joycie kept telling herself it was all in the past, but the memories wouldn’t stop flooding in. Things she thought she had forgotten; things she had tried to blank out. It was Irene Slade’s death that had brought it all back, of course. Well the funeral was today so that would put an end to it.

Her face in the mirror was grey as the morning outside and the black dress didn’t help. She rubbed a touch of rouge onto her cheekbones.

As she ran downstairs she could hear the wireless burbling away in the kitchen. Marcus had switched to the Home Service and on the Today programme, Jack de Manio’s posh growl was saying something about snow showers forecast this morning. There was a smell of boiling milk and she stood in the kitchen doorway as Marcus made coffee. It was a squeeze to get in, even though they were both skinny, and dangerous to try when he was pouring scalding liquid.

He turned, holding the cups. ‘All right? You look a bit pale.’

She sat on one of the spindly metal chairs that had to go sideways so you didn’t bang your legs on the drop-down leaves of the Formica table. The latest Vogue was in front of her and the face that was and wasn’t hers smiled from the cover through a cloud of black hair. She tapped the magazine. ‘I’m not, top model Orchid today, just common old Joycie Todd. Don’t need the false eyelashes or lipstick.’

He kissed the top of her head. ‘You’re still beautiful.’

For some reason that made her want to cry, but she forced a laugh. ‘Shut up, you. It’s your camera that makes me look good, we both know that. Anyway I need to be ordinary at the funeral. Don’t want anyone to notice me.’

Marcus held out a plate of toast, but she shook her head. For once she wasn’t hungry. ‘Let’s get going,’ she said.

His old Morgan was parked outside, but a bitter wind whipped past them as they went down the stone steps of the house and, even with her coat clutched tight, Joycie was cold. Marcus drove along by the river, one hand on the wheel the other over her shoulder, rubbing her arm. She leaned into him, gritting her teeth, clamping her mind shut. Don’t think about it. It’s all in the past.

It had started to snow and she stared out of the misted window, watching a small boat chug through the filmy veil. Don’t think. On the towpath a herring gull dragged at a slice of bread that jerked about as if it was alive. That’s it, concentrate on something else.

But it was no good, her stomach churned and she realized it was a mistake to think she could cope with the funeral. Much better to visit the grave another day. She gripped Marcus’s arm. ‘I can’t do this. Will you take me back?’

He stopped the car and turned to look at her. ‘Come on, I’ll be there and you’ll never forgive yourself if you chicken out now.’

She climbed out and walked over to look into the river. The water was grey, rippling with glints of steel and chrome as it slid by on its way to the sea.

When she heard the familiar clicking of his camera she turned to face Marcus. ‘For God’s sake, not now.’

He came close, kissing her cheek, his lips very warm. ‘Sorry, couldn’t stop myself. You look so wonderful all in black with the snow falling round you. Like Anna Karenina.’ His head was to one side, a lock of blond hair falling across his eye, and he was wearing the naughty little boy expression that always made her laugh. She blew him a raspberry and climbed back in the car.

‘OK let’s get it over with.’

***

The stop had made them late to the church. Joycie had forgotten that Irene was Catholic and she hoped the service wouldn’t be too long because her legs felt weak and her stomach was still churning. By now the snow flurries had died away, and the sun was trying to come out, but a stiff breeze bothered the daffodils growing in a couple of stone pots beside the gate.

As the heavy door closed behind them Marcus took her arm and they stood for a moment, eyes adjusting to the dim glitter inside. Joycie could feel rather than see that the church was crowded, but one short pew, tucked in beside a pillar, was empty and they slid in to sit there.

Candles flickered everywhere. Tall white ones near the altar and dozens of tiny flames on black metal stands to each side. There were plaster statues of saints beside some of the columns, their red lips smirking, painted eyes cast heavenward. As Joycie’s eyes adjusted, she saw the priest in purple at the altar and a little boy in a white robe swinging an incense burner on a long chain. It sent a trail of blue vapour into the air. The sickly scent of it caught in her throat and as she watched the chain swinging to and fro, to and fro, she found herself swaying with it, until Marcus put his warm hand over hers and whispered, ‘OK?’

The flower-covered coffin looked too small to carry buxom Irene, but maybe she’d lost weight before she died; the short obituary in The Times had mentioned something about a long illness. Joycie hadn’t seen her for more than a year. A pang of guilt turned the queasy feeling into something sharper.

Latin chanting – Pater noster, qui es in caeilis – and tiny bells ringing. Joycie pulled her silk scarf tighter round her head, the collar of her coat close to her face, hoping no one would recognize her; wishing she’d stayed away. Libera nos a malo.

It seemed to go on forever with kneelings, standings, and sittings. The wafting incense made the air shimmer, the candlelight waver. Joycie gripped the pew, breathing hard.

More tinkling bells and two lines of people moving up the aisle to kneel at the altar rails. Maybe they could get out now without being noticed. She could come back to visit the grave later on – Irene would have understood. She whispered, ‘Let’s go.’

But it was too late. Deirdre, Irene’s dresser and companion, was scuttling down the aisle towards them. She shuffled in to sit next to Joycie, her perfume clashing with the incense.

‘Oh, darling, I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you got my letter. Found your address in Irene’s handbag. I wish she’d told me she had it and I could have asked you to visit before she went. She’d have loved to see you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t you worry. She knew it was difficult for you. You will come back to the flat afterwards though, won’t you?’

‘Sorry, Deirdre, I can’t.’ She should have thought of an excuse.

But Deirdre gave her hand a clammy squeeze. ‘That’s all right, lovey, I understand.’ She rummaged in her bag. ‘I thought you might say that, so I brought this for you.’ She handed Joycie a padded envelope. ‘Just some things she wanted you to have.’ She kissed Joycie’s cheek.

The last people were walking back from the altar, hands clasped, eyes lowered.

Joycie stood. She had to get out. ‘I’m sorry, Deirdre, I promise I’ll be in touch, but I need some air now.’

Deirdre was such a sparrow of a woman it was easy to get past her and, thank God, the doors were already open. Outside Joycie took in a cool breath. Marcus was beside her and she leaned into him. He pulled down her scarf to kiss her ear, then patted the scarf into place again.

As they walked through the church gate a black Bentley was parking in front of the Morgan. Joycie stepped back, feeling the sharp ends of the freshly cut privet hedge pressing against her. Marcus was already unlocking the Morgan. So close it should have been easy to get in and speed away.

But she couldn’t move. Had to stand there as Sid Sergeant, bigger and redder-faced than ever, jumped out and crushed her to him. Irene’s envelope crackled between them. She smelled wool, tobacco, and booze and seemed to hear her dad’s voice singing that old song, ‘You been smokin’ and drinkin’ with mad, bad women’, the way he used to when Sid rolled in late and hung-over before a show.

She stayed still, not breathing, her face pressed into his tweedy bulk, until Sid pulled away, holding her at arm’s length.

‘Oh, Joycie, I was hoping you’d be here. How are you, my lovely?’

She wanted to look at Marcus, to make him rescue her, but she couldn’t. ‘All right, thanks.’ Her voice was a little girl’s again.

A movement, not Marcus but Cora, Sid’s manager and wife – in that order as she always said – getting out of the Bentley. ‘Hello, Joyce, or should we call you Orchid now?’ She looked older too, but good. Hair, still almost passing for platinum, black stilettos, black gloves, charm bracelet jangling at her wrist. There was a smudge of red lipstick on her teeth.

Marcus’s arm came round Joycie’s waist and made it possible to move back and talk like a grown-up. ‘Call me Joyce, Cora. Orchid’s just my modelling name.’

Sid grabbed her hand in both of his before she could think to put it in her pocket, moving it up and down in time with his words. ‘You’re a very naughty girl to lose touch like that. I know you’ve been busy, but old friends do matter, you know.’

She stepped back so he had to let go and he turned to Marcus. ‘And new friends too, of course. How do, Marcus. Don’t mind if I call you that, do you? We feel like we know you already. Been following our kid’s career. You’ve done well by her.’

Marcus squeezed her waist. ‘Good to meet you, sir.’

Cora gave a nicotine-coated chuckle. ‘Ooer, Joyce, he is posh, isn’t he? And handsome with it.’ She flapped the back of her hand against Marcus’s chest. ‘Don’t mind me, dear, I’m common as muck, but harmless.’

Marcus took the hand and brought it to his lips – ‘Charmed I’m sure’ – as Cora gave a scream of laughter.

‘Ooh, I say. You should hold on to this one, Joyce.’

Sid handed Marcus a card. ‘I’ll give this to you, son, because she’ll only throw it away. Try to persuade her to keep in touch. We miss her, don’t we, Cora?’

‘You can say that again. Like our own daughter she was for a while.’ Cora hadn’t looked at Joycie since Marcus had spoken.

Joycie made herself move. ‘We’d better be off.’

‘Not going to the grave? I don’t blame you.’ Sid gestured towards the church. ‘Can’t stand all that mumbo jumbo either, but I thought we should see old Irene into the ground, at least.’

As Joycie climbed into the Morgan Sid stepped in front of her door, keeping it open.

‘Don’t be a stranger, eh, darling.’ His hand was on her shoulder, squeezing hard, leaning close, smoky tweed filling her nostrils. ‘Your dad would have been so proud of you,’ he said, his voice a husky whisper. ‘What happened to him, what they did to him, was terrible, but that’s all in the past.’

She closed the door, and Marcus waved through the open window as he pulled the Morgan away. Cora returned the wave while Sid, hands in pockets, his paunch sticking out in front, watched them go.

Chapter Two

The envelope sat heavy on Joycie’s lap. The sun made the car too warm, and she untied her scarf and slipped off her coat, letting the envelope slide down beside the door. Marcus glanced over.

‘Not going to open that then?’

‘It won’t be anything much.’ It felt like jewellery, nothing to worry about, but she wished Deirdre had forgotten it. Wished she hadn’t gone to the funeral at all.

‘So that was Sid Sergeant, eh? He’s looking a lot older than his pictures. And the wife, Cora, you never mentioned her,’ Marcus said.

They stopped at traffic lights near a park, and she watched some ducks flapping about on a big pond. Three green drakes chasing a brown female. The female was trying to fly away, feet kicking the top of the water, but the males were all around her and she couldn’t get into the air. She skimmed to an island in the middle and scrambled up the bank.

Marcus touched her shoulder. ‘You all right?’

‘I should never have gone. Irene wouldn’t have minded.’

‘You didn’t look too pleased to see Sid.’

It’s all in the past. It’s all in the past. She pulled the envelope onto her lap and tore it open. A jet bracelet and two necklaces, one a double string of pearls and the other glittering with red stones. They were things Irene wore all the time. Joycie held them to her cheek, hearing Irene’s fruity chuckle so clearly she had to swallow down a sob. Marcus took his hand from the wheel and rubbed her knee.

‘Ah, that’s nice. Let’s take some pictures of you wearing them. You can send them to Deirdre.’

But Joycie was looking at the smaller envelope that had fallen out last of all, her breath catching in her throat. In place of an address was a line of writing: Dear Joycie, Irene asked me to get this to you. All my love Deirdre.

Marcus glanced over. ‘What’s that?’

‘A note from Irene, I suppose.’

‘Aren’t you going to read it?’

She pushed it back with the jewellery into the large envelope. ‘When we get home.’

***

Back at the house she ran up to her room. ‘I’m going to get changed.’ Closed the door and emptied the big envelope onto her dressing table. Then she took the smaller envelope over to the window and ripped it open. But instead of reading it she stood with the note pressed against her chest.

She loved this house. It was tall and thin with three floors. Her bedroom overlooked a long green garden, a bit unkempt but that was the way she and Marcus loved it. Today it was full of daffodils, clumps of late snowdrops lighting up the darker corners. The trees were covered with a haze of palest green buds.

A deep breath as she unfolded the note.

My darling Joycie,

We haven’t seen much of each other lately and I don’t blame you for wanting to put the past and everyone connected with it behind you. Of course I have been following your progress in the papers and your photographer friend seems to be a nice young man. So I really hope you have found happiness with him.

In that case you might decide to ignore this letter. However I can’t go to my grave without saying this. The last time we met I told you someone had dropped off an address at the theatre for me with a note asking me to get it to Mary Todd’s daughter. It was obviously someone who knew Mary and could maybe help you find out what really happened to your mum. You said you weren’t interested because she deserted you, but you know how fond I was of Mary and I never believed she meant to leave you forever. I feel so bad that I didn’t try to find her myself or make more effort to persuade you to look for her.

Anyway here’s the name and address. Susan Lomax, 44 Trenton St. Manchester. It’s up to you, but I really hope you decide to look into it.

I’m sorry I can’t leave you anything more than a few old paste jewels, but I remember how you liked dressing up in them when you were little. So I thought you might be glad to have them.

With fondest love,

Irene

The writing was wobbly, clearly written when Irene was ill, and her signature tailed off as if she was unable to keep hold of the pen. Joycie held the scrap of paper to her lips as hot tears welled from deep inside.

I never believed she meant to leave you forever. That was what Irene had always said and for the first few years Joycie had believed it too. But her mother didn’t come back, didn’t try to get in contact, and Joycie told herself she’d stopped wanting her to. Irene hadn’t seen the person who left the address so it could have been anyone and even if it was her mum or someone close to her, Joycie had decided it was too late. She didn’t want to listen to a load of excuses. But Irene had been so good to her and this was the only thing she’d ever asked from Joycie.

Your photographer friend seems to be a nice young man. I really hope you have found happiness with him. Irene was right about Marcus. He was more than nice and life without him was unthinkable. But as for finding happiness, well that was something else.

Marcus had declared his love for her not long after they met, but she said it was too soon. Still he asked her to move in. Said he couldn’t bear rattling around here on his own. It made sense too with them working together all the time and she needn’t worry, she could have her own room.

The house belonged to his parents, but they’d decamped to the country when his dad retired from the civil service. It always amazed her that people could own two houses. Her early life had been lived in theatrical lodgings in the towns and seaside resorts where Sid and her dad performed. A bedroom for her mum and dad, one for her, and another room for sitting and eating, with a tiny kitchenette if they were lucky. The bathroom was usually down the hall, shared with the rest of the tenants, and sometimes the toilet was outside. It was wonderful to have a whole house just for her and Marcus.

She knew he hoped for more, but decided not to think about that. Finally she told him she had a problem with closeness and it wasn’t fair to ask him to wait for her. What she didn’t say was how much she dreaded him finding another girl he felt serious about and who could love him properly. ‘I do love you, Marcus, but not in that way,’ she had told him. He must have guessed by then that the idea of loving anyone in that way made her skin crawl.

She had never admitted, because it wasn’t fair to lead him on, that sometimes when he touched her the shivers that went through her felt wonderful.

Manchester – April 1965

Marcus wanted to come to Manchester with her, but she wouldn’t let him. This way she could still change her mind. It was cold on the train and she felt very alone. At the station she went into the buffet to get warm, and to try and steady her nerves. She pulled up the collar of her black coat, although the woman behind the counter didn’t give her a second glance. People hardly ever recognized her. Without the make-up and glamorous clothes she was just a skinny pale-faced girl.

‘So you knew Irene had the address all along,’ Marcus had said.

‘Yeah, that was why she contacted me the last time I saw her. Must have been two or three years ago. Said someone left a note at the stage door asking if she was still in touch with Mary Todd’s daughter and could she give me that name and address.’

‘But you never went?’

‘Irene begged me to. Even offered to go with me, but I wouldn’t even take the details. Didn’t want to see or hear about my mum. She dumped us, Marcus. Me and Dad. Went off with one of her fancy men, so everyone said. I reckon she heard about me getting known as a model and thought I must have money.’

That had been when the nightmares started up again. They stopped after a few months, but with Irene’s death they’d come back and with them flashes of memory. Joycie knew she had to do more than pretend there was nothing wrong.

When her dad died she didn’t let herself cry. It was nearly three years after her mum went and they were fine, just the two of them. But he killed himself, leaving her all alone and without a word from him. So she told herself she didn’t care. There was no way to make that better, but perhaps Irene was right. If she could see her mum, or find out for sure what had happened to her, maybe she could get a bit of peace.

She asked the taxi driver to drop her at the end of Trenton Road and come back in an hour. It seemed like an area where a taxi might cause a stir and anyway she could take a look at the place before deciding what to do.

The street lights were already on in a damp dusk and the pavement gleamed under her feet. Terraced houses, front steps shining with red polish, a couple of clean milk bottles on the pavement beside each one.

She stopped opposite number 44. There was a glow from somewhere at the back, but the front room was dim and the net curtains meant she couldn’t see in.

A deep breath, collar pulled tighter at her throat, asking herself what was the point of this, what was she hoping to find? But she was outside the door now and tapping on it.

A child crying, the door opening, the woman looking back into the hallway saying, ‘Watch him, Carol. Don’t let him climb on the table.’

It was her mum, unchanged in all these years, just like her memories and the dog-eared photo in her bag. Joycie’s breath stopped. But when the woman turned, brushing reddish hair away from her face, she was different. Not Mum then, but definitely related.

She breathed again, trying to remember the words she’d planned. ‘I’m Joyce Todd, Mary Todd’s daughter. Someone left this address with Irene Slade wanting me to get in contact.’

Somehow she was inside the house, the narrow hall smelling of cabbage and bacon, and then in the front room sitting on a hard sofa. The room was cold and clean; probably kept for best. A tiny boy watched her from the hall doorway, thumb stuck in his mouth, until a little girl in a dress with a torn sleeve pulled at his arm.

‘Come on, Mikey, leave the lady alone.’

The woman’s voice: ‘That’s it, Carol. Put him in the high chair and feed him his tea while I’m talking.’

Then she was back, without her apron, touching her hair. ‘I’m Mary’s sister, your auntie Susan. Mary will have told you about me.’

Joycie tried to speak, but no words came. She bought time by undoing her coat and slipping it off. She was freezing, but it seemed rude to sit there all trussed up. Then she pushed back her own hair and met the woman’s eyes. Her aunt (how strange that sounded) smoothed her skirt and gave a little cough.

‘It’s ages since I left that note. Never expected anyone to turn up.’ Her voice was like Mum’s, the northern accent just a little stronger.

‘Irene has just died and your address was with the things she left me.’ She didn’t say she’d refused to take it in the first place.

Susan was looking hard at her, a little smile quirking the corners of her mouth. ‘You know you look a lot like that model, Orchid. Did anyone ever tell you?’

Joycie could feel her face flushing. ‘I am her. Orchid’s the name I use professionally.’

‘Well blow me down. I mean, you do look like her, like her photos, your photos, but …’ Her face was pink now too.

For some reason this made Joycie feel better and she was able to laugh. ‘It’s all right. Most people are surprised at how ordinary I am. It’s really all about the make-up and the way they dress me.’

‘No, you’re a lovely looking girl. Not much like your mam, if you don’t mind me saying, but you take after your dad. He’s a handsome fella.’

‘Yes, he was.’ A movement from Susan. ‘He died a long while ago.’

‘Oh, I am sorry about that. I knew he wasn’t with Sid Sergeant any more. ’Cos Sid was on the bill that time I sent the note to Irene Slade. That’s why I went. Hoped to see Charlie. But Sid didn’t have a stooge. And I thought that was odd because Charlie told Mam he owed everything to Sid and would never leave him. You know your dad was an orphan?’ Joycie nodded. ‘Apparently Sid took him on when he’d just come out of the Dr Barnardo’s home he grew up in. Charlie said Sid was the only family he’d ever known.’

‘So it wasn’t my mum who left the address?’

‘No, it was me. I was hoping Irene might put me in touch with both of you.’

Joycie’s breath stalled for a moment before she could get the words out. ‘How long is it since you’ve seen my mum?’

Susan’s eyes were cloudy. ‘A long time. Not since before you were born.’

Something heavy seemed to drop from her throat to her stomach and Joycie knew if she tried to speak, or even to breathe, she might cry. Stupid, stupid idiot. She’d actually convinced herself she had no hopes or expectations. How wrong she had been.

‘So why didn’t you ask Irene to give your address to Mum?’

‘I did. I asked her to get it to Mary Todd or her daughter.’

That wasn’t what Irene had told Joycie. Was that because she had misread the note or because she thought Joycie was more likely to go searching if she thought it might have come from Mary herself or from someone who knew her whereabouts? If so then it had worked.

Susan was talking on and she forced herself to listen.

‘I didn’t like to send the note to Sid in case he and your dad had fallen out and that’s why they weren’t together, but I remembered Mary mentioning in her letters that she was friendly with Irene Slade.’

It was anger Joycie heard in her own voice when she was able to speak. ‘My mother left us when I was eleven years old and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.’

Susan was suddenly on her feet, one hand at her mouth, muttering something about tea. Joycie heard her talking to the children in the kitchen, her voice too low to make out the words. Then clinking crockery and a wail from the little boy. Joycie rubbed her arms. There was just one thin rug covering the brown and blue patterned lino on the floor. The fireplace was swept clean and she wondered if they ever lit it. There were no pictures on the wall and, apart from the sofa and the two armchairs, the only furniture was a spindly legged coffee table and a glass-fronted cabinet with a few china ornaments. If they had a TV it must be in another room.

Her aunt came back carrying a tray with a teapot, cups and saucers, and milk jug. She put the tray on the coffee table and looked at Joycie. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk, please.’

‘I expect you’ve got to watch your figure?’

It wasn’t true, she could eat anything, but she just smiled. When Susan handed her the cup it rattled in its saucer and, looking at her, Joycie wondered if she’d been crying. She sipped the tea, strong and hot just the way she liked it, and cradled it in both hands, grateful for the warmth on her fingers.

Susan pulled a hankie from her sleeve and rubbed her nose. ‘So, your mam, you’ve never had no word?’

‘Nothing at all. When was the last time you heard from her?’

‘Must have been summer ’53 because it was just before I got married and I was excited to think she’d be here for that. And she was gonna bring you with her. Mam and me couldn’t wait to meet you for the first time.’

‘I didn’t even know she had a family.’

Susan put two spoonfuls of sugar in her tea and stirred. ‘When we found out she was expecting our Dad went mad. I was only a kid, but I can remember him screaming at her and her crying. He said she was no better than a common slut. And carrying on with someone like that made it even worse. He wouldn’t have no more to do with her. Said none of us would.’

‘Someone like what?’

‘You know, on the stage. He was religious, Dad, didn’t hold with that kind of thing.’ She was still stirring and stirring, the spoon clinking against her cup. ‘Mary left with your dad, but she used to write to Mam regular like. Dad was very strict and Mary knew he would destroy any letters so she sent them to our neighbour, who used to bring them round when Dad was at work.’

‘Did your mother write back?’

‘Now and then. When she could do it without Dad finding out, but it was difficult. Mary let us know when you were born and I begged Mam to take me to see you, but it was impossible.’ When Joycie shook her head, Susan did the same. ‘That’s how it was in those days. Dad made the rules.’ She smiled. ‘I can just imagine my hubby trying to lay down the law like that. I’d soon tell him where to get off. But Mam had to do as she was told. We all did. And to be fair to Dad there was no money for gallivanting around the country, especially as you kept moving.’

That probably explained why her mum never mentioned her family. If Joycie was unlikely ever to see them it would have been pointless.

The little girl had come to stand by the open door, staring in again, but the toddler staggered from behind her and crawled onto his mum’s lap. She spat on her hankie and rubbed it over his face, while he squirmed and whimpered. Then he took one look at Joycie and buried his head in Susan’s chest.

Joycie drained her cup. She couldn’t be too long, didn’t want to miss the last train and get marooned here. ‘But you didn’t see her in ’53?’

Susan was rocking the little boy back and forth, his eyes closed, thumb in his mouth. The girl made a sudden run to her side and leaned against her, huge brown eyes fixed on Joycie. ‘No, she just wrote and said she was fed up. Said things were happening that weren’t right. Hoped our dad would let her stay here till she got on her feet. But if not she’d get a place nearby. She never came though and we never saw her again.’

‘What about her bloke, the man she left us for. Did she say who he was?’

‘She didn’t mention anyone else. Just said she had to get away. And, like I said, she was going to bring you.’

‘Well she obviously changed her mind. Decided to go somewhere else and leave me with my dad.’

‘See, I can’t believe that. Like I said, our dad was a difficult man so we always thought she changed her mind about coming here. Scared he would still be angry with her. But she loved you so much, said so all the time in her letters. I just can’t see her leaving you.’

‘Did you try to locate her when she didn’t turn up?’

‘Mam wrote to the last address we had for her, but it was Charlie who wrote back.’

Joycie leaned forward. He hadn’t told her about this. ‘What did he say?’

‘Just that he was sorry, but Mary had left him and he had no idea where she was. He didn’t mention you so we thought she’d taken you with her. And soon after that Mam got ill and died. Then Dad’s mind began to go so …’ She sniffed and rubbed her nose. ‘I had to look after him for the next few years and by the time he died I was too busy with the kids to worry about anything else for a while. But my husband’s got a big family and I started to miss Mary again because she’s all I’ve got. And I wanted my kids to meet their auntie and their cousin.’

She put down her cup. ‘I’ve just thought, there’s a photo.’ When she stood and headed for the door the little boy still clung to her and a forgotten memory came to Joycie. Her mum, lifting her and spinning her round, then clutching her close and dancing to the gramophone playing some old dance tune. Joycie’s feet dangling in the air as she pressed her cheek to Mum’s soft face, the powdery scent of her, an earring tickling.

While Susan and her son were out of the room the little girl stayed, staring at Joycie with those big brown eyes: so still it was unnerving.

‘Hello,’ Joycie said. ‘Your name’s Carol, is it?’ A nod, the child’s eyes still fixed on her. ‘Mine’s Joycie.’

When her mother came back Carol clutched her skirt, but Susan pulled her hand away as she sat down and laughed. ‘Don’t pretend you’re shy now.’ She looked at Joycie. ‘Can’t shut her up normally.’ She handed a silver photo frame to the little girl. ‘Go on, give that to Joyce.’ Carol ran at her, thrust the frame into her hand and rushed back to her mum. ‘That’s me and Mary, only picture I’ve got.’

Two girls, one a slender teenager the other much younger, still a little girl, but the likeness was obvious.

‘That was taken the summer your mam met Charlie, just before the war. 1939 it was. Last holiday we had together,’ Susan said. ‘Mary would have been sixteen and I was eight.’

The photo was a holiday snap taken on the prom at Blackpool. Mary and Susan smiling in the sunshine, but holding onto their hats as their skirts swirled in the sea breeze. Joycie touched the glass that covered her mother’s face. She looked so young and pretty.

Susan was still talking. ‘Sid and Charlie were in a show there. We wanted to go, but our dad wouldn’t hear of it. Then we were on the pier, just me and Mary, and Charlie was there too. He started chatting to us and bought me a candyfloss.’ She smiled at Joycie. ‘I expect that was to keep me quiet so he could talk to Mary. We were only there for a week, but they saw each other every day. Dad would probably have taken her straight home if he’d known.’

‘But they didn’t get together properly till ’41 when Dad was in the army, did they?’

‘They’d been writing to each other all that time. I remember thinking it were so romantic. She had a picture of Charlie in his uniform. He looked like a film star to me, although he would only have been nineteen or so. He came to see her when he was on leave and Mam took a real shine to him. But they kept it quiet from Dad.’

‘And then I happened.’

‘Yeah, and, of course, she had to tell Dad she was having a baby. But Charlie wanted to marry her and was getting compassionate leave so they could do it right away. She was still only eighteen, though, and Dad refused his consent. That was when she ran away. And we never saw her again.’

They were both silent. Joycie praying that Susan might say something that would explain it all. Instead she shook her head. ‘I just can’t understand her leaving you as well as Charlie. Or why she’s never been in touch.’

All Joycie could say was, ‘Nor me, but I’m going to try to find out what I can, and if there’s anything you think of that might help …’ She looked at her watch and pulled on her coat. ‘I’m sorry, I need to go or I’ll miss my train. Can I leave you my address and phone number?’

Her aunt followed her into the hallway and scrabbled in the drawer of a little table, handing Joycie a notepad and biro. ‘There are letters from Mary to Mam in the attic. I’ll send them to you.’

Joycie scribbled her details. ‘Thank you. It’s been good to meet you.’

In the doorway Susan moved towards her then back with a tiny cough. She was smiling, a smile that was so like Joycie’s memory of her mum’s it sent a charge through her. As another memory tugged, Joycie’s eyes filled and she had to rub her hand over her face.

Susan touched her elbow. ‘Look, Joyce, whatever happened with Mary she loved you, really loved you, and I know she would never have left you unless she had no choice.’

After they said goodbye Susan stayed in her open doorway with the little boy, Joycie’s cousin, clinging to her leg and Joycie could feel their eyes on her as she walked away down the silent street.

Chapter Three

Checking her watch for the umpteenth time Joycie paced up and down by the bus stop. This was definitely where she’d asked the taxi to pick her up and she’d given him a big enough tip that he surely wouldn’t let her down. But if he didn’t get here soon she’d miss her train.

She moved closer to the kerb as she heard an engine approaching, but it was only a kid on a moped. He stopped right next to her and she stepped back to lean on the wall of the terraced house, looking at her watch again and then into the distance, pretending she hadn’t noticed him.

He climbed off the bike. ‘Hello, darlin’ you’re outta luck you know.’ His accent was so strong it was difficult to make out the words. She didn’t look at him. ‘No bus due for ages,’ he said.

‘I know.’ She brushed at her coat, still avoiding his eye.

‘I can give you a lift if you like. Plenty of room for a skinny bird like you on the back.’ He let out a wobbly laugh, as if his voice had not long broken.

‘No thank you, I’m waiting for someone.’ But now with a rush of air she seemed to be surrounded by boys on pushbikes.

‘Eh, Sammy, got a new girlfriend, have ya?’ A heavyset lad bumped his bike onto the pavement, coming so close she could feel the heat steaming from him.

‘Yeah, and she’s dead posh.’ Moped boy leaned over and pushed Joycie’s arm. ‘Go on, doll, say something for him.’

Joycie felt rather than saw a net curtain twitch in the house behind her. This was ridiculous, they were just kids. ‘Look, go away and leave me alone, will you? I’m waiting for someone.’

A shriek from moped boy. ‘Ooer, hark at it. Told you she were posh.’

The others joined in with honks of laughter and the nearest boy came even closer, looking round at his mates then back at her. ‘How’s about a kiss then, darling. Bet you’re not too la de da for that.’ She shoved him away and his face changed. ‘Don’t you push me, you tart.’

Loud clicking footsteps and the boys turned as a man of about forty, tall and thin in a camel coat and black trousers, rounded the corner. He stopped and looked at her. ‘These lads bothering you, miss?’ His accent was London, not Manchester.

The boy nearest Joycie said, ‘Nah, mister, just having a chat, weren’t we?’ He looked at his friends, but they were getting ready to ride away. He moved his bike back onto the road. The man stared at him, arms folded over his chest, his hard gaze shifting from him to moped boy, who started his engine and rode off. The other lad followed fast, shouting, ‘Bye, darling, see ya,’ as he went.

Joycie looked at the man. ‘Thank you.’

‘Waiting for a taxi are you?’ he said, his voice low and polite.

‘Yes, it should be here by now.’ Silly to feel scared, he was trying to help her.

A piercing whistle and there was her taxi. Almost as if it had been waiting for his signal. She reached for the door but he was there first, holding it open and giving a tiny bow as she climbed in. His hair was short and greased down, his face shiny and newly shaved. He had very pale grey eyes.

‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’ She tried to close the door, but he held onto it.

‘Station is it?’

‘Yes.’

He leaned towards the driver and she caught a whiff of aftershave. ‘Better hurry if she wants the London train.’ She reached for the door again, but he held on. ‘You shouldn’t be hanging around street corners in a place like this, you know. And it’s just as well those lads didn’t recognize you.’

As the taxi pulled away he gave her a small wave and a little nod and turned away, shiny black shoes gleaming under the street lights.

Hastings – September 1953

Joycie and her dad have got into the habit of having their tea at the Italian café on the front before walking to the theatre. He always lets her have ice cream for afters and today it’s her favourite: banana split. He smokes and sips his coffee while she eats; the ice cream cold on her lips.

When he screws up his eyes and hands her a paper napkin she scrubs at her face and he gives a little laugh. ‘Your mum would have my guts for garters if she could see you.’

It’s almost the first time he’s mentioned Mum since she went and Joycie swallows hard and puts down her spoon, biting her lip to stop from crying.

Dad rubs her shoulder. ‘Sorry, darlin’, didn’t mean to upset you.’

His voice sounds thick and Joycie feels bad because it’s her fault. She starts to eat again even though her throat feels all clogged up.

‘You mustn’t blame your mum for going, Joycie. She’s a great girl and I didn’t deserve her. Never was much of a husband. But she loves you to bits and I bet she’ll be in touch one day soon.’ When Joycie looks up he’s smiling at her, but his blue eyes are bright with tears. So she gives him a wobbly grin and he sniffs, rubs his eyes and says, ‘And we’re all right for now aren’t we?’

She finishes her banana split and holds his hand as they walk along by the sea in the late sunshine. People look at her dad as they pass, probably recognizing him from the show, but she can see that some of the women look because he’s so handsome. She’s proud to be holding his hand and to know he’s her dad. And she’s not going to think about that stained mat any more.

And anyway she looked for it when she got back from Irene’s the day after Mum left and, although the black shoes were still in their box under the bed, she couldn’t find the mat.

Chelsea – April 1965

Joycie woke to Radio Caroline playing The Moody Blues’ ‘Go Now’ in the kitchen. Marcus was back then. He hadn’t come home last night, no doubt staying with some girl he’d met. She was grateful that he never brought anyone back here when she was at home. She had no right to expect even that of him, but it always upset her to think of him with someone else.

A tap on the bedroom door, and he was there, holding a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich. He sat on the bed, handing her the cup. ‘All right? How did it go?’

She took a big gulp. ‘It was my aunt. I never even knew she existed, can you believe that? She seems really nice, but she hasn’t seen Mum since she left us and doesn’t know anything about this bloke she’s supposed to have run off with.’

‘So what does she think happened?’

‘She has no idea, although they did contact my dad just after Mum left.’

‘And what did he say?’

Joycie took a huge bite of her sandwich to give herself time to think, waving her hand so he knew he’d have to wait. He smiled and folded his arms as if prepared to sit in silence for as long as it took.

When she could stand it no longer, she spoke through the food still in her mouth, and Marcus handed her a tissue from the bedside cabinet, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘The same thing he told me: that she left him, and he didn’t know where she was.’

‘So what do you think now?’ When Joycie shrugged and carried on chewing he said, ‘I mean, if she left him for another man, who was the guy?’

‘I’ve no idea. Over the years I realized she had other men, but it didn’t affect me and never seemed to bother Dad either. I don’t remember anyone being around at that time, but he must have been special if she left us for him.’

Marcus went over to the window and pulled the curtain so that the sun streamed in, making a bright halo of his hair. ‘You think it was something else, though, don’t you?’ She didn’t answer, her heart beating hard, as if by telling him it could make what she dreaded true. He faced her, half sitting on the dressing table. ‘Come on, Joycie, whatever you say I can tell you don’t really believe she deserted you.’

She put the plate down and began pleating the crumpled sheet between her fingers. ‘I couldn’t, not for a long time, even though everyone said so. Eventually I just learned to accept it because there seemed to be no other explanation. But my aunt, she’s called Susan, says Mum really loved me. She doesn’t think she would have left without me for any reason. But who knows, perhaps this bloke wouldn’t let her bring me, and she had to make a choice.’

‘What did your dad tell you?’

‘That he was a rubbish husband, and he didn’t blame her for going. He always said Mum left me with him because she couldn’t provide for me, and because she knew it would have broken his heart to lose me too.’ She rubbed her nose with the tissue Marcus had given her, but it was greasy and smelled of bacon, and she scrabbled in the box for another.

Marcus came back to sit on the bed and pulled her into his arms. They sat for a while, her head against his chest as she breathed in his lovely, familiar smell and listened to the steady beat of his heart. He smoothed her hair until she moved her head so that it rested in the curve of his warm palm, and he kissed her forehead.

‘I’m scared, Marcus,’ she said. ‘But I can’t leave it alone now.’

‘I know,’ he whispered.

Then they kissed properly; a long soft kiss. His heart began to thump faster against her thin nightdress. Her own heart was speeding too, and when his lips pressed harder and his fingers twined into her hair she felt a throb of longing for him.

‘Little cock-teaser, that’s what you are, just like your mum.’

The words echoed in her head along with the memory of cloying Brylcreem and smoke-clogged tweed, and Joycie flinched back. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she managed to gasp, turning away to hide her face in the wall, gulping down the bile, afraid he would guess how she felt. For a few moments she had wanted him so much. But that voice was in her head again, and she knew she could never let go with any man, even with Marcus.

He hadn’t moved, and after what seemed an age she felt his hand touch her shoulder. It stayed there for a moment before sliding down her arm. When he reached her hand he gripped her fingers. ‘It’s fine, come on, sit up and look at me, Joycie. It’s only me.’

She grabbed more tissues and scrubbed at her face saying sorry over and over. When she was finally able to look at him, he smiled, and she longed to hold him again and tell him she loved him and one day it might work between them. But that was impossible.

‘This’, he made a gesture that seemed to take in her tear-stained face, the crumple of tissues on the bed, and even himself, ‘is all because of what happened to your mum, isn’t it?’

She met his eyes. ‘I used to think someone, or something, might have forced her to go away.’

‘This guy she was having it off with, you mean?’

A flicker of memory. ‘Or someone else. I just don’t know.’ He squeezed her forearm and for a moment she longed to lean into him again. Instead she climbed out of bed.

‘You’re not going to leave it at that, though, are you?’ he said. ‘You’ll see this aunt again?’

‘She’s sending me some letters they got from Mum.’

‘Good, and in the meantime why don’t we try to find out if there was another guy and have a go at tracking him down? I’ve got Sid Sergeant’s phone number, so we could get in touch with him. He and your parents were close so I bet he’ll have some idea.’

Her dressing gown was on the end of the bed, and she pulled it round her, swallowing to get rid of the sick feeling in her throat. ‘No, I don’t want anything to do with him, with either of them.’

Her voice came out louder than she meant, and Marcus raised his palms in front of him. ‘Fine, fine, no need to scream at me.’ She fastened the dressing gown, her fingers fumbling on the buttons, as he went on, ‘I wish you’d tell me everything, Joycie, it might even help you. It’s not just your mum, is it? Something happened to you as well.’

She went to sit at the dressing table, wincing at her reflection. God, she looked awful.

‘Sid is obviously a lecherous old bastard, and it doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud to see you can’t stand to be near him,’ Marcus said.

With her hands in her hair she stared at herself in the mirror, trying to see the whole truth in her own face. Brylcreem, stale beer, and rough tweed smelling of sweat and wee. ‘There’s things from when I was a kid I just can’t remember and other things that …’

‘You don’t want to remember or even think about?’

A deep breath, pushing her hair back and meeting his eyes in the mirror. ‘Please, Marcus, let it be for now. I think if I can find what really happened to my mum the rest might sort itself out.’

He picked up the empty cup and plate. ‘OK.’ At the door he turned. ‘What about talking to Deirdre then? She and Irene were your mum’s friends.’

Joycie had lived with Irene and Deirdre after her dad died: shell-shocked by what had happened to him. And although Irene was full of stories about her life in the theatre, they rarely mentioned either of her parents.

‘We could take those photos of you wearing the jewellery Irene left you. I’m sure Deirdre would love that.’

‘Yes, let’s. I should go and see her anyway. I ought to have visited her and Irene more often. They were so good to me. But, Marcus, please throw away the card Sid gave you. I want to forget all about him.’

***

Marcus handed Deirdre the brown envelope with the photos of Joycie wearing Irene’s necklaces. As she looked at them Deirdre’s tiny hands shook and her eyes, when she raised them, were full of tears. ‘Oh, Joycie, you look lovely. Irene would have been so pleased to see them on you. She always loved them, and she loved you too, sweetheart.’ She reached over and gripped Joycie’s hands. Her own were cool, the skin stretched paper-thin over the bones.

Joycie looked around at the room. It hadn’t changed at all, still too warm and too crowded. Little tables covered with knick-knacks, empty candlesticks, and photo frames. More pictures on the upright piano, which was still open with some sheet music propped on it. Deirdre couldn’t play, but Joycie could see she’d kept everything as it was when Irene was alive.

The time when Joycie lived here after her dad died was mostly a blur of misery, but Irene with her stories and songs, and Deirdre with her fry-ups and stodgy puddings had made it a bit more bearable. Irene had paid for Joycie to go to secretarial college in Chelsea. When she was spotted by Marcus and started earning as a model she repaid the tuition money, but she visited Irene and Deirdre less and less, telling herself she was too busy, but knowing it was because they were part of a past she wanted to forget.

She sipped her sweet Cinzano. In Irene’s day it would have had a big slug of gin added. She hoped Deirdre was all right for money.

Deirdre was holding out one of the photos and a pen. ‘You will both sign them, won’t you, to join the collection?’ She waved her hand at the pictures all around. Joycie recognized the old ones like Charlie Chester and Dame Myra Hess, but there were some more recent photos too: Helen Shapiro, all bouffant hair and big smile, and Marty Wilde in a leather jacket attempting an Elvis lip curl.

She put her name on the photos opposite Marcus’s adding: with all my love to dearest Deirdre XXX. The signatures would make the photos worth some money, but Deirdre wouldn’t want to part with them so Joycie decided she’d send her another batch telling her to do what she wanted with them. If Deirdre sold them no one need know, and it would be a way of helping out without hurting her pride.

Leaning back in her chair she was aware that Marcus was watching her, waiting for her to say what they’d come for. Deirdre refilled her own glass and waved the bottle first at Marcus and then at Joycie, who shook her head. ‘Deirdre?’ she paused feeling a tremor deep inside, but forcing herself on. ‘I was wondering if you knew anything about that bloke my mum ran away with. I’ve met her sister, you see, and she said Mum never mentioned anyone.’

Deirdre put down her glass. ‘So she’s seen Mary, has she, the sister?’

‘No, but she seems to doubt there was a man in ’53.’

‘Well, I’m only going by what everyone said. They all seemed sure there was someone. Your mum was a lovely girl, of course, but we all knew things weren’t quite right between her and your dad even though you could tell they really loved each other.’

Marcus leaned forward. ‘So Irene never said anything to you about a man when Mary disappeared?’

‘No, and she just couldn’t understand it.’ She turned towards Joycie. ‘You should ask Sid’s wife, Cora. I’m sure she mentioned a fancy man, but I don’t think we ever heard his name.’

Deirdre insisted they stay for sandwiches and cake, and they promised not to be strangers, but when they were outside in the Morgan again Joycie said, ‘Well that’s it: another dead end.’

Marcus put the keys in the ignition. ‘Look, I know you don’t want to see Sid, but why not try to speak to Cora? I could see her if you like. I think she took a shine to me.’

Joycie managed a small laugh. ‘You noticed that, did you? OK, but make sure she doesn’t get the idea we want to be friends.’

A rap on the driver’s window, and when Marcus rolled it down a male voice said: ‘It’s Marcus and Orchid isn’t it? Wonder if I could beg an autograph. Name’s Bill, if you wouldn’t mind putting that too.’ There was something familiar about the voice, but it wasn’t until Marcus had signed and passed the brand new autograph book over to her that she saw the man’s face as he bent his tall frame down by the window and smiled in at her.

She scribbled her signature, aware that he was moving round the front of the car to get to her side. Then she had no option but to roll down her own window and pass the book to him, trying to avoid his eyes.

He pressed her fingers for a moment as he took the book, his own hand very cold as if he’d been standing outside for some time. She felt his breath against her cheek. ‘Keep bumping into each other, don’t we, Orchid?’ he said. ‘Glad you got home safe the other day. Take care of yourself, won’t you.’

He released her hand and stood back, his trousers as sharply creased, shoes as well-polished as they’d been when she’d seen him in Manchester.

Chapter Four

On the way home Marcus kept asking her what was wrong, but she couldn’t tell him until they were safe inside. He made some tea, and when he was sitting opposite her at the tiny kitchen table he lit a cigarette and blew three smoke rings, which usually got her smiling. But not today.

‘That man, the one with the autograph book, he was in Manchester at the corner of my aunt’s street. He spoke to me, obviously knew who I was.’

‘Well that’s peculiar. Any idea who he might be?’

‘I’ve never set eyes on him before.’

Marcus leaned back, staring up at the smoke rising to the ceiling. ‘Most likely a journalist. Unless it’s one of your fans. He looked a bit old for that, but you never can tell.’

That was as likely an explanation as any. It was disturbing to think of people becoming obsessed with her, but it had happened before. As for journalists, her fear was always that they’d get wind of her father’s suicide and, of course, what led to it – his arrest and imprisonment.

When she first started modelling that was one reason she’d changed her name. They’d given out the story that she was an orphan, which had been good enough so far. And the journalists were more interested in the romance between her and Marcus than poking into her background. The received wisdom was that she adored him, but he wouldn’t commit himself and was still playing the field. It wasn’t fair on Marcus because it was she who wouldn’t – couldn’t – commit, but he laughed it off, saying he didn’t mind people thinking he was a bit of a Casanova.

‘Shall we report him to the police?’ Marcus said.

‘What for? He hasn’t done anything, and both times he’s been very nice to me. It just doesn’t feel right.’

Marcus swallowed back his tea and jumped up. ‘OK, go and get your glad rags on. Let’s have some dinner and get drunk. Forget about all this for a while. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow doing that shoot for Cecil Beaton.’

‘Oh God, I can’t believe I’ve forgotten about Beaton. I’ve been nervous about that for weeks. Should really stay in and get a good sleep.’

Marcus came behind her chair and pulled it back. ‘Oh no, you need to be distracted, and I don’t want you too gorgeous for darling Cecil. He may be an old queen, but if he makes you look wonderful you might decide to dump me.’ He kissed the side of her neck and as she headed for the stairs reached out to slap her bum. She managed to evade his hand, charging up two steps at a time, and thanking God yet again for letting her meet him.

Clacton-on-Sea – May 1954

It’s a lovely sunny morning, but Dad was late home last night so he’s still in bed. Joycie is making some tea because he likes to wake up to a cuppa and a fag. There’s a knock on the door and it’s Sid. He walks straight in, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey, Charlie boy,’ before he slumps into a chair next to the table, pulling an ashtray towards him. ‘Any tea in the pot, Joycie love?’

Sid lights up, and Joycie puts a cup in front of him as Dad comes out of the bedroom, rubbing his face. His hair has no Brylcreem on yet and is falling over his face. ‘Crikey, Sid, give a bloke a chance to come round.’

Joycie turns back to the little kitchenette, taking some bacon slices wrapped in greaseproof paper from the wooden meat safe, and trying to close it gently so the thin metal grill on the front doesn’t rattle. Sid is talking about the act and she listens in. When she hears her own name she listens harder.

‘We need to sharpen up a bit and I’ve been thinking. I know you don’t like leaving Joycie at home on her own.’

‘I don’t, but it’s not fair making her hang about at the theatre every night either. It’s all right when Irene’s on the bill, but now she’s away I worry about Joycie when we’re onstage.’ Joycie can’t see his expression, but she can imagine him raising his eyebrows at Sid. She knows he doesn’t trust some of the men in the show.

‘Well what about this then?’ Sid pulls a floppy tweed cap with a big curved peak from his pocket and gestures for her to come over to him. ‘Try this on, love.’ When she looks at her dad, Sid laughs. ‘Go on, darlin’ make an old man happy, eh? It won’t bite you.’

Her dad nods although his forehead is creased, and he gives Sid a sidelong glance. Joycie feels silly, but she puts on the cap and obeys the directions from Sid’s waving cigarette to push her hair up into it.

Sid turns to her dad. ‘She’s got so tall lately and with trousers and a jacket she’d look just like a boy. A second stooge, see, that’s something a bit different, which is what we need. There’d be some pocket money in it for her too, if it works out.’

He’s grinning at Joycie, and her heart does a little flip at the thought of being onstage. She loves the show and hates staying at their lodgings all on her own.

‘So how do you fancy it, love? Being part of the act with me and your dad? You’d like that wouldn’t you?’

Her face is throbbing with heat as she pulls off the cap, and all she can do is nod.

Chelsea – April 1965

Joycie arrived home exhausted. Cecil Beaton had been kindly and old-school courteous, his voice reminding her of actors in pre-war films. It had been clear however that he didn’t think much of her looks, and he had spent ages rooting through boxes of scarves, fur hats, and wigs, obviously trying to find some way to disguise her flaws. Then he’d posed and reposed her until she could hardly stand.

After they finished he made her a gin and It, served without ice in a champagne bowl that made her think of the glasses Irene had let her drink Babycham from when she was sixteen.

She made herself some tea, slipped off her shoes and sat with her feet curled under her in front of the telly. There was nothing worth watching this early in the evening, just a boring programme showing bits of news too dull or silly for the main bulletin. But at least it distracted her enough to calm her thoughts.

Marcus was seeing Cora right now. He’d called Joycie at Beaton’s house, much to the old gent’s annoyance. ‘I rang her office, and when I told the secretary it was a private matter she put me straight through. I asked Cora if we could meet and that I’d prefer if she didn’t mention it to Sid.’

‘I can imagine what she thought.’

‘Well, let’s just say she agreed pretty smartish, and we’re meeting at a pub where she says Sid never goes. I’ll see you about eight. If not send out the search parties.’

It was ten past eight when the Morgan pulled up outside, and she had to force herself not to rush to the door. But he wasn’t alone. She heard him talking loudly as he rattled his key in the door, obviously trying to warn her. ‘As I said, Cora, I’m not sure if Joycie will be in.’

She jumped up, pushing her feet back into her shoes and was in the kitchen with the door closed before they came into the hall. Feeling ridiculous to be hiding like this she listened as Marcus got Cora settled on the sofa with a sherry: ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll just check if Joycie’s upstairs.’

When he came into the kitchen he pulled a face and whispered, ‘Sorry I had no choice. She says she’ll only speak to you.’

Joycie didn’t bother to pretend she’d been upstairs, just walked into the sitting room and plonked herself on the armchair opposite Cora. She was looking even more tarted up than usual: for Marcus’s benefit Joycie guessed. Her legs were surprisingly slender for such a well-upholstered woman, and she stretched them in front of her, glancing down with a tiny smile at her sheer black nylons and patent stilettos.

‘Hello Joyce, darling, I’m sorry to crash in on you two lovebirds like this, but Marcus tells me you have questions you want answering about your mum, and I thought it was only right to come and see you.’

‘Thank you.’ Joycie knew it was probably just an excuse to nose into their lives.

Cora opened her handbag and brought out a gold lighter and a pack of cigarettes. They waited as she lit up and took a long drag and a dainty sip of sherry, leaving a smear of lipstick on the rim of the glass. Joycie guessed she would have preferred a port and lemon.

When Cora spoke it was in an exaggerated whisper. ‘Joyce, dear, I’m wondering if you wouldn’t rather we talked on our own.’ She turned to Marcus with a brilliant smile and a flutter of lashes. ‘No offence, sweetheart.’

Before he could speak, Joycie said, ‘It’s fine, Cora, Marcus and I don’t have secrets.’ If only that were true. She kept secrets even from herself. Marcus moved back to the window seat, making it clear he was giving them space.

‘You were wondering about the chap your mum ran off with, were you?’

‘If there was one. I’ve spoken to my aunt.’ Cora raised her eyebrows at that, but said nothing. ‘She’s sure Mum was coming to them on her own and bringing me with her. My aunt is convinced there was no other man. But Deirdre says you seemed sure about it and that you knew the bloke.’

Cora picked a tiny fleck of something from her tight black skirt, inspecting it as she spoke. ‘You have been busy, haven’t you?’

Joycie leaned forward. ‘I need to know.’

‘Well I’m sure it’s no news to you that your mum usually had a boyfriend somewhere on the scene, so when Charlie said she’d run off with the latest we didn’t question it.’

‘But Deirdre said it was you who told everyone.’

A shrug. ‘My darling, Sid and I just wanted to make things as easy as possible for you and your dad so we were happy to spread the word.’

Her heart was drumming so hard she could barely speak. ‘So who was he?’

Cora leaned back on the sofa with a shrug. ‘Search me.’

A fierce spurt of rage. ‘If you don’t know anything, why the hell did you insist on seeing me?’

‘I must say, Joyce, I never expected gratitude from you, but there’s no need to be rude. Your young man,’ she gestured towards Marcus, ‘said you were tearing yourself apart about it, and I thought I might be able to help.’

Marcus coughed in the background, but Joycie didn’t look at him, just stood and said. ‘I need help to find out what happened to my mum and if you can’t do that then there’s no point in us talking.’

She walked to the door, but Cora didn’t move, just raised her empty glass to Marcus. ‘Wouldn’t mind a fill-up, darling. And then, if you don’t mind, me and Joyce need a minute alone.’

He poured her another drink, squeezed Joycie’s shoulder, saying, ‘I’ll be in the darkroom. Give me a shout when you’re finished,’ and went out, closing the door behind him.

Cora eased off one of her shoes and rubbed her foot, then did the same with the other and looked up at Joycie still standing by the door, her hands clenched. ‘Look, darling, I can see what it must be like, not knowing, but sometimes it’s best to leave things be.’ She waved her hand to take in the room. ‘You’ve got a good life now, and there’s no call to go upsetting yourself by raking up the past.’

‘Please, Cora, just tell me everything you know.’

Cora patted the sofa, and Joycie sat next to her, breathing in a fog of Chanel No. 5. ‘All right, you win.’ Cora didn’t quite say the words, you asked for it, but her expression did. ‘Don’t get me wrong, no one could blame your mum for wanting some male company.’ A little pat on Joycie’s knee. ‘Your dad obviously wasn’t interested any more, if you know what I mean.’

Joycie moved away from her touch. ‘Not really, Cora.’ Why make it easy for her?

Cora pressed her fingers to her lips and gave a delicate cough. ‘You know why they put Charlie in prison, don’t you?’

‘I’ve worked it out over the years, yes. They found love letters from another man.’

‘Sid has always said it was the army that did for Charlie. You know, turned him queer, if you’ll pardon my French. When he came back after the war he was different somehow, and I don’t think things were ever the same with your mum. So, like I said, who could blame her?’

She took a sip of her sherry, dabbing her mouth with a hanky she pulled from her sleeve, then gestured with her head towards the hallway. ‘Does Marcus know about Charlie?’

‘I told you, we don’t have secrets.’

‘That’s nice.’ Cora was gazing towards the dark window, her eyes misty. ‘Me and Sid now, I can’t deny we’ve both strayed, but our marriage has always had that special something.’

Joycie waited, gritting her teeth.

‘Anyway, the day your mum disappeared Sid tried to cheer Charlie up. Took him out for a drink after the show. You were staying with Irene if I remember right.’

‘Yes, I expect Sid had a couple of girls lined up as usual.’

It was unkind, but if Cora was upset she didn’t show it, just gave a small chuckle and another of those annoying pats on Joycie’s knee. ‘See, you probably know more than I do. I used to tell Sid to watch out for you: little vessels, big ears, I used to say. Sure you didn’t hear anything the night your mum disappeared?’

If she wanted Cora to tell her everything she had to be as honest as she could. ‘I woke up thinking something was wrong, or not normal anyway. There were voices and bumping sounds, and I was scared, but then the wireless came on again, and I fell asleep. Mum always had music playing.’

Cora took her hand, the red talons scraping lightly on her palm, and seemed to think for a moment. Then she took a deep breath. ‘OK, here’s what I know. Sid brought Charlie back to ours very late. Charlie was absolutely paralytic. I’ve never seen him like that, and he was crying and raving on about your mum.’

Joycie swallowed, feeling sick. ‘Is that all?’ Cora was staring into space, or maybe at the sherry bottle. ‘I’m going to find out anyway,’ Joycie said. ‘There’s plenty of other people I can ask if you won’t tell me.’ It wasn’t true, but she had to push for everything now.

Cora seemed to shake herself then spread her hands on her knees. ‘Next morning, your dad was still not fit to get out of bed, and Sid asked me to go round to your lodgings. He was worried about some of the things Charlie had said. We got his keys from his jacket and I went.’

Was it possible not to breathe for this long and still be conscious? ‘And?’

‘Everything seemed all right. I checked the wardrobe, and she had taken most of her clothes, like Charlie said. But Sid had told me to have a good nose.’

‘And?’

‘Well I looked under the bed.’

Please don’t say it.

Cora took both her hands, squeezing hard, and Joycie made herself endure the touch. ‘Darling, this might be nothing, but I found a mat with some stains that looked to me like blood.’

She could only whisper, but somehow she got the words out. ‘What did you do?’

‘It wasn’t a big mat so I just rolled it up and walked out with it. Dropped it on a bit of waste ground on my way home.’

‘And said nothing about it?’

‘That’s right. I reckoned that was best. Didn’t even tell Sid.’ She dropped Joycie’s hands and leaned back. ‘Wouldn’t have told you except you seemed so sure you needed to know everything. And that is everything. So if I was you I’d leave it now. Your dad’s dead and gone, and I wouldn’t be surprised if your mum was too.’

It felt as if a chunk of rock was lodged deep inside her. She wanted to scream at Cora to tell her more, but she knew there was no point. Not yet anyway. She managed to stand and say, ‘Thank you.’

This time Cora brushed ash from her skirt, put away her lighter and cigarettes, clicked her bag shut, and followed her to the front door.

Marcus bounded along the hall. ‘I’ll drop you, shall I?’

‘Just take me to the tube station, please love.’ Cora leaned forward and kissed the air beside Joycie’s cheek. ‘All right, darling? Hope I haven’t upset you.’

‘I’m OK, and you’re right; I need to put it behind me.’ Marcus glanced at her, but she avoided his eye.

When she closed the door she leaned against it, her jaw clenched. So that bloodstained mat was a real memory. There one day and gone the next. And Cora got rid of it. It all fitted. But she was certain of one thing. What Cora had told her wasn’t the whole truth, and she couldn’t rest until she found out what that was.

She had been bluffing when she said there were other people she could ask, but, of course, there must be. People who had no reason to hide the truth. Joycie just had to do what she’d avoided all these years: to allow herself to remember.

Acton, London – January 1951

Joycie is nine and a bit too old to cry so she’s trying to keep her chin from wobbling. She’s in the school playground all alone, or, at least, there are kids around her, but she can’t see them because the smog is so bad. They’re playing what they call ‘Hide and Seek in the Fog’ but is more like Blind Man’s Buff. Her friends are shouting her name and saying, ‘Cooee, come and get me.’ Now and then one of them taps her on the shoulder or screams close to her ear then disappears back into the surrounding mist.

She feels bad, her throat hurts, and she’s hot in her thick coat. The smog smells awful, smothering her in a wet blanket. She doesn’t want to play any more, and when the whistle goes she breathes again and heads for school. But she can’t tell which way to go. She turns round and round on the spot. And big sobs are coming out, making her ashamed to be such a cowardy custard.

‘Joyce Todd, what on earth are you doing out here?’

It’s Miss Hendry, and she grabs Joycie’s collar and pulls her along. And there are the lights and almost at once they’re inside school. She must be in trouble, but she doesn’t care, just wants to lie down on the cool floor of the corridor. Instead she leans against the wall and closes her eyes.

Then she feels Miss Hendry’s cold hand on her forehead. ‘Joyce, dear, where do you live?’

She parrots the address. At least this one in Acton is easy to remember because they stay in these digs every winter.

‘Ah, just down the road, that’s good. And Mummy will be home, I expect?’

She nods and Miss takes her hand again, and they are back in the playground. At the school gate Miss stops and points at the orange haloes of light gleaming through the fog.

‘Just keep on the pavement and follow the lampposts. Tell Mummy to put you to bed with a warm drink. And you’re to stay home tomorrow.’

Joycie’s legs are moving, one foot floating after the other over the shiny pavement. She can see the lamppost in front of her, its light a wavering orange moon. When she reaches it she holds the post for a moment then pushes on towards the next one.

Mrs McDonald, the landlady, opens the door at her knock. ‘You’re early, ducks, what’s up?’

‘Sent me home.’

Mrs McDonald’s hand rough on her cheek. ‘No wonder. You’re burning up. Well your mum’s in, so up you go.’ A laugh that’s more like a bark. ‘She’ll be pleased to see you so early, my love. I think she gets lonely on her own all day.’ Then she’s gone, back to the kitchen, laughing at something as she goes. She must have a funny programme on the wireless.

The stairs rear in front like a mountain, but Joycie pulls herself up by the banisters. At the door to their rooms she taps and taps, then calls her mum, but quietly because they mustn’t annoy Mrs McDonald or wake up Mr Grant next door, who does night work.

But her mum doesn’t come, and Joycie is too hot and tired to knock again. She pulls off the thick coat and spreads it on the floor so she can lie on it and rest her head on the cool lino.

‘Bloody hell, Mary, it’s your nipper.’

Mr Grant’s voice, but coming from their own doorway. A sickening feeling as the world lurches and she’s up in the air, held over Mr Grant’s shoulder. Hot skin against hers and stinky sweat.

Mum’s voice: ‘Bring her in. And for God’s sake be quiet, will you. I bet old McDonald’s down there earwigging again. Then you’d better go.’

She’s in bed, and Mum’s giving her warm milk, but it tastes bad, and Mum smells funny too: a bit like Mr Grant. And it’s all wrong anyway, because Mum is only wearing her slip, even though it’s the middle of the day.

Chapter Five
Westminster Bridge – May 1965

‘Concentrate now, Orchid baby.’ Marcus always called her Orchid in public. He had been so pleased with the pictures he’d taken on the way to Irene’s funeral that he’d decided to do their next shoot by the river too. So she was standing on Westminster Bridge in a red silk evening gown with the Houses of Parliament behind her.

It was very early on a morning that promised to be warm, but the ground was still shining with dew, and the mist on the water sent wafts of chill air around her feet. She wore strappy silver sandals and no underwear – nothing to spoil the line of the dress – and the black feather boa the magazine had sent to go with it gave no warmth. Marcus gestured for her to stretch out one leg to emphasize the fall of shining silk.

Joycie still remembered Mrs McDonald’s address because her dad had rented the same digs every winter until her mum disappeared, so Marcus was going to drive them there after the shoot. The landlady had seemed like an old woman when Joycie was a little girl, but thinking about it now she was probably only in her forties. So there was a good chance she might still be living in the same house.

Marcus came forward and teased out locks of black hair to tumble round her face.

‘Fantastic, baby.’

But she knew it wasn’t much good. All she could think of was getting to Acton. It was likely Mrs McDonald could tell her something about Mr Grant. He was certainly living there the last time they stayed in the March before her mum’s disappearance.

Joycie wondered for a moment when she had started to think of Mum as disappearing rather than leaving them.

Marcus must have realized he was wasting his time, and in any case the milky light he loved was more or less gone, and the bridge was getting busier with commuters, hurrying along, tut-tutting as they stepped between Joycie and Marcus. He took a few snaps as a couple of bowler-hatted gents wove past, then gave up. ‘OK, let’s go.’

She struggled after him in her flimsy shoes, the red silk twisting around her legs. As he drove she grabbed her big bag from the back seat, pulling a sweater on top of the dress, wriggling into jeans, and shoving the red silk down into the waistband. The magazine would complain that the dress was creased and grubby, but sod ’em.

‘So you think this Mr Grant might have been your mum’s boyfriend?’ Marcus said.

‘I know there was something between them for a while, at least, and we stayed in Mrs McDonald’s every winter, so it could have gone on for years. Dad and Sid used to work the summer season at the seaside, but London was a good base the rest of the time. They did lots of pantos at the Chiswick Empire, so Acton was convenient.’

‘Were you living there when they arrested your dad?’

Two men smelling of sweat fill the tiny living room. They wear heavy suits, not uniforms, although they say they’re the police. One of them goes into her dad’s bedroom and comes out waving a bundle of open envelopes in the air. He grins at Dad. ‘Nice love letters from your nancy-boy pal. Charming turn of phrase he’s got.’ He chuckles, but Joycie can tell he isn’t joking.

The other man pushes Dad from behind. ‘Right, duckie, you’re coming with us.’

Dad stares at Joycie, his eyes wide, she’s never seen him scared before and she can’t breathe. He sounds like he can hardly breathe either, looking from her to the men and back again. ‘My daughter?’

They turn to Joycie as if they’ve forgotten her and one of them says, ‘We’ll get the landlady to look after her for now.’ Then he shakes his head and mutters, ‘Poor kid.’

The other man looks down at the letters he’s holding, and says, ‘Disgusting.’ She feels her armpits prickle and smells her own sweat – does he mean she’s disgusting?

‘Joycie?’ Marcus touched her knee. ‘I said, were you in Acton when your dad was arrested?’

‘Oh no, we never went back to those digs after Mum disappeared.’

‘It was disgusting …’ Marcus said. How strange to hear him echoing the policeman’s word. ‘… the witch-hunt they ran against homosexuals in the ’50s. No one could be more conventional than my father, but apparently when he was at the Ministry he met the journalist who was involved in the Lord Montagu case.’ He lowered his voice to a posh growl. ‘He said, “Seemed a decent chap. Couldn’t help the way he was made.” And decent chap was high praise from Dad. It’s ridiculous that it’s still illegal even now, but at least they don’t persecute them the way they did then.’

‘It was a while before I even realized what my dad was supposed to have done,’ she said. ‘Some of the guys in the shows were very camp, and one or two of them were obviously friendly with Dad, but I was so green I didn’t guess. And, like I told you, Dad was really popular with the girls too.’

They were passing the iron gates of a school, the playground full of children just arriving, and Marcus slowed to a crawl as a small boy in grey shorts charged across the road in front of them. As he pulled away again he said, ‘From what your aunt told you your parents were in love at the start.’

‘And they seemed to love each other when I was a kid.’ A lump filled her throat. ‘But then I thought they loved me.’

Marcus reached out and rubbed her knee, and once again she saw her dad looking back at her as the police led him away. He did love her. She couldn’t imagine what he went through in jail, but it must have been terrible to make him commit suicide, knowing it would leave her alone.

‘Did you ever find out who turned your dad in?’

She twisted to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well you said the only evidence they had was the letters.’ He changed gear as he turned the car into a narrow street, but he must have heard her breath catch. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

‘The police. When they came to our lodgings they didn’t really have to search. They seemed to know exactly what to look for and where to find them.’

‘So whoever tipped them off was someone he knew.’

‘Someone he must have known really well.’

***

You could have knocked Mrs McDonald down with a feather when she realized she had Marcus Blake and Orchid on her doorstep. She was even more astonished when Joycie explained she was Charlie and Mary Todd’s daughter.

‘Come in, come in.’

The landlady was almost quivering with excitement as she bustled ahead of them into her overheated kitchen: somewhere little Joycie had only glimpsed through a half-open door. Over tea and custard cream biscuits she told them Mr Grant – George – had been a long-term lodger until he left to get married. ‘Ooh, that must have been five years ago now. She was a widow with a bit of money and they moved out to Surrey, but he still sends me a Christmas card every year.’

‘So he was living here for some time after we stopped coming.’

‘Yes, it would have been ’59 or ’60 when he left.’

‘My mum and he were close for a while, weren’t they?’

Mrs McDonald chuckled. ‘That’s one way of putting it, darling. George was a real ladies’ man, and your mum wasn’t the only one by a long chalk, but it was never serious with him. Not until his rich widow came along.’

‘Was Mum serious about him?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Only doing it to make your dad jealous, I thought.’ She looked suddenly suspicious. ‘This isn’t a divorce thing, is it? I wouldn’t want to get George in any trouble.’

‘Oh no, my dad’s dead.’

Mrs McDonald reached a hand towards Joycie, but then put it to her mouth. ‘Poor Charlie, that’s terrible, he was no age.’

‘But Mum left us in ’53, just after the last time we stayed here, and I wondered if she went off with Mr Grant.’

‘No, darling, George was just a bit of comfort for her. She was a lovely girl, and what with Charlie being the way he was …’ She looked at Marcus as if for help, and when he nodded she let out a heavy breath. ‘He was a theatrical, wasn’t he? And like a lot of them he was light on his feet, as they say. Probably should never have married, but then your mum was a slim little thing, boyish like, and they must have been very young when they got together. But they were still fond of each other, you could tell that.’

Marcus leaned forward. ‘Do you think Charlie knew about the affair?’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised, but she would never have left him for George, and George wouldn’t have asked her to.’

They managed to avoid more tea and said their goodbyes, but on the doorstep Joycie said: ‘So you knew my dad was homosexual?’ Mrs McDonald pursed her lips, as if the word was too rude to respond to, and crossed her arms over her acreage of bosom, but Joycie carried on. ‘It’s just … I wondered if you ever mentioned it to the police?’

Mrs McDonald squeezed her bosom tighter, hands high in her armpits. ‘Certainly not. Apart from a couple of commercial travellers, like Mr Grant, I’ve always had theatricals staying here. If I reported everyone who was that way inclined the place would soon be empty. Anyway, live and let live is my motto.’

Joycie touched her beefy forearm. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’

They thanked her and turned to go, but she said, ‘Why do you want to know all this after so long?’

‘My aunt just got in touch with me hoping to trace Mum.’

‘Only I was wondering. Because someone else was asking after your mum and dad a week or so ago. I thought he was a debt collector, but perhaps it was your uncle?’

A chill down her back. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Smart chap, fortyish, and as I say looked like a debt collector to me. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, if you know what I mean. Lovely shiny shoes, though.’

***

‘It was the same man – the one from Manchester – the one with the autograph book,’ Joycie said.

‘Surely not.’

‘The way she described him, I just know it’s him.’

‘But why would he be calling on your old landlady?’

‘I don’t know, but it scares me.’

‘Do you want to go to the police then?’

‘They’d just laugh at me, you know that,’ she said.

They were both quiet for the rest of the journey, but when she got out of the car and was climbing the steps to the house Joycie found herself looking up and down the sunny street. Marcus put his arm round her as he slotted in his key. ‘Relax, there’s no one there.’

There was the usual pile of post on the hall floor, and Joycie put it on the little table and began to look through it, trying to calm herself.

‘There you are – Fort Knox,’ Marcus said, attaching the chain to the front door and slapping the heavy wooden frame. ‘And we could get a dog, if you like. I wouldn’t mind an Afghan or something.’

Joycie only half-heard him because she was opening a big brown envelope, her heart beating hard.

Dear Joyce,

These are the letters from Mary to our mam or all the ones Mam kept anyway. It was lovely to see you and the kids haven’t stopped talking about you. It would be nice if you could come for a proper visit sometime.

Your loving aunt,

Susan

Marcus came behind her and rested his warm hand on her shoulder. She put her head against his cheek. ‘You’ll want to read those on your own I expect?’ he said. When she nodded he rubbed her arm. ‘I’ll be in the darkroom. Call me if you need to talk.’

It was sunny outside now so she made a cup of Earl Grey and took the bundle of letters into the garden. Marcus had dragged a couple of old wicker chairs out from the shed the other day, and she put the brown envelope on one and sat on the other. A deep breath, a gulp of tea, then with her cup carefully placed on the grass beside her she took out the letters.

They were in no particular order. One from ’43, another from ’52 and one from ’49, all signed: Your loving daughter Mary. The careful handwriting wasn’t familiar, but then she’d only ever seen a shopping list or two scribbled by her mum. Odd phrases jumped out at her as she tried to organize the letters by date.

The postal order is for Susie’s birthday. Please buy something nice for her.

Joycie is walking really well and is into everything.

Charlie and Sid are doing the summer season in Clacton …

… in Margate,

… in Blackpool. Perhaps you could try to get over sometime while we’re there. If you drop a note at the box office I can arrange to meet you. I’d love you to see Joycie. She’s so pretty and she never stops talking.

Joycie held the crinkled paper to her lips, looking down the garden. Most of the daffodil flowers had gone now, leaving just their spikes of green to catch the sun, but the tree in the middle danced with pink blossom. The date on this letter was 1947: her mum hadn’t seen her family for six years.

She took a breath and carried on organizing the bundle by date. This must be one of the first: August 1941, not long before her own birth.

I don’t know when Charlie will get his next leave, but I’m not on my own because I’m staying with a friend of his, Irene Slade. She’s very kind, but I do miss you all.

Just before Christmas that year:

We’re calling her Joyce after Grandma. Charlie hasn’t seen her yet. I’m still staying with Irene and I’ve put her address above. I know it must be difficult, but if you could get down here it would be lovely to see you.

December ’45: Charlie’s home and we’re so happy, but Joycie is still not sure of him!

She skimmed through them all, but could find no mention of Mr Grant or any other man. There were only two from that last year: 1953. The first was just chit-chat about them going to Hastings for the summer season and the new shoes she’d bought for Joycie. She remembered those: they were red patent leather, and she’d worn them till they were so tight her toes began to bleed. You should see her in them. I think she might turn into a dancer one day.

Then what must be the last, sent in August 1953.

I’m coming back home. Please tell Dad I only need to stay for a day or so until I find somewhere permanent. Charlie won’t be with me, just Joycie (something scribbled out here that was impossible to read). Please, Mam, something has happened and I have to get away from here and to get Joycie away too.

Joycie pressed her hand to her throat where a lump of ice seemed to be stuck. For a moment she thought she could hear the ice cracking, but it was only the breeze catching at the tree’s thin twigs and whipping a whirl of pink blossoms onto the grass.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.