Private Sorrow, A (3 page)

Maisie climbed the stair to Mrs Jankowski’s flat. A large bell was situated by the side of the door and when she rang it, it emitted a shrill noise. It seemed ages until the door was opened but she heard loud mutterings long before the occupant appeared: ‘I come, I come. Wait till I come.’

When the occupant opened the door, Maisie saw an elderly woman leaning heavily on a thick walking stick. Maisie held out her card. ‘McQueen’s Agency cleaning service.’

The woman moved aside with difficulty. ‘Ah come in, come in. I expect you.’ Maisie was ushered into a large living room with a bay window which overlooked the street. Mrs Jankowski inspected the card. ‘Mrs Watson.’

‘Yes, Maisie Watson.’

Mrs Jankowski hobbled towards the window. ‘Now, Mrs Watson, I need these curtains down and clean curtains put up. You find small ladder in lobby cupboard.’ She pointed her stick in the direction of the lobby cupboard, which Maisie thought wasn’t needed as she had just passed through the lobby.

However, she wasn’t sure which door housed the cupboard. Mrs Jankowski hobbled towards one door and opened it. ‘Ah, here is ladder.’ Maisie pulled the stepladder from the deep depths of the cupboard, dislodging an assortment of household items and what looked like a collection of boxes that had been stuffed away.

‘Next week I get you to clean out this cupboard.’ Maisie, who usually wasn’t afraid of work, was dismayed but she carried the ladder to the window. The curtains were heavy brown chenille ones and they hung from a thick wooden rail. The minute Maisie touched them, a thick cloud of dust made her sneeze.

‘You have flu?’ asked Mrs Jankowski, looking a bit alarmed.

Maisie assured her she was well. ‘It’s just the dust from the curtains.’ This statement was borne out when the first curtain landed on the floor in a dusty pile, throwing up thousands of dust motes that hung in the light of the pale morning sun. After a great deal of pulling and tugging the hooks from the rings, the second one followed, which made things worse. Maisie noticed a thick film of dust on the windowsill and she realised the floor would be as bad.

Mrs Jankowski pushed one of the curtains with her stick. ‘I not know where all dust comes from. The curtains just up for two years.’

Maisie was astonished. ‘Two years?’ she said as she climbed down from the ladder.

Mrs Jankowski pointed her stick at the lobby cupboard again. ‘Clean curtains in there.’ Maisie hadn’t noticed any but Mrs Jankowski bent down to pull a brown paper parcel from the detritus around it. Maisie took some time to undo the string from the parcel but when it was finally opened she saw a carbon copy of the curtains she had just taken down. ‘I buy four pairs before war. They a bargain.’ Maisie groaned inwardly. Where were the other two pairs she wondered?

Still, after a bit of a struggle, the new curtains were up. Although they looked the same, they were at least clean.

‘I help you fold old ones up,’ said Mrs Jankowski.

When this was done, Maisie was instructed to put them in the brown paper and tie them up with the string. ‘Take to Stevenson’s dry cleaners on Hilltown.’

Maisie struggled down the stairs with her burden and she had to stand in a queue when she reached the dry cleaners. When it was her turn, the woman behind the counter smiled. ‘Ah, Mrs Jankowski’s famous curtains. Tell her they will be back in a week’s time.’ Maisie almost said it didn’t matter since they were to lie in the cupboard for the next two years.

When she got back, she had to clean up all the dust. As she was cleaning the windowsill, she thought what a great view there was of the Empire picture house. She said this to Mrs Jankowski. ‘Yes, I like to sit and watch people queuing and waiting for picture house to open. It helps me forget about my arthuritis. Now, Maisie, we have some tea and sandwiches and there will be some work in afternoon. I have my bridge club but when they come, you go.’

Maisie was getting used to her employer’s way of speaking. She had almost corrected the woman when she mispronounced arthritis but stopped in time. She was here to clean, not to teach Mrs Jankowski the English language. In the afternoon, when her bridge partners arrived, Maisie’s first stint in this new job would be successfully over. They sat in the kitchen with a large brown earthenware teapot and a plate of thick-cut sandwiches. Maisie took a bite from hers and almost choked on the pungent filling.

‘Polish sausage,’ said Mrs Jankowski. ‘I buy it from the shop on Victoria Road. Reminds me of home.’

Maisie nodded as she caught her breath. ‘Quite strong but tasty.’ This seemed to please her employer.

Maisie had almost finished cleaning the kitchen when the doorbell shrilled its strident note. Mrs Jankowski made her way to the door. ‘Ah come, come Vera, you are the first to be here.’

Five minutes later, two other women arrived. By this time, Maisie was carrying the plate of sandwiches through to the living room. The women obviously stopped for refreshments during their game.

Mrs Jankowski was perplexed by the newcomers. ‘Maria, good to see you.’ She glanced at the stranger who stood beside Maria.

Maria explained, ‘Teresa couldn’t come today so I brought my friend Anita.’

Mrs Jankowski ushered them into the room. ‘Thank you for coming, Anita. I am Gina and here is Vera.’ Vera was sitting by the fire but stood up when the women entered.

Anita smiled when she saw Vera. ‘It’s Mrs Barton, isn’t it?’

Vera looked cautiously at the stranger. ‘Yes, I’m Vera Barton.’

‘I don’t expect you remember me. I was living at 96 Hilltown many years ago and you were one of my neighbours.’

Vera said, ‘Ah, yes, I remember you. You were the young married woman who lived in the building in front of us. I can’t remember your married name.’

‘It’s Armstrong. My father-in-law owned a large hardware shop in Dundee but he branched out with another business in Glasgow. My husband went to manage it and we stayed there for years. We’ve come back to live here now and my new neighbour is Maria. I love playing bridge so she persuaded me to come along in place of Teresa.’

Mrs Jankowski was anxious to stop all these recollections and get on with the game. ‘All sit here,’ she said, leading them to the card table at the window.

But Anita wasn’t finished. ‘How is your husband Dave? And your daughter Etta will be grown-up and married. Perhaps you’re a grandmother?’

Vera went quiet and pale. ‘I …’ Suddenly she burst into tears, loud sobs that left her gasping for breath.

‘Maria, get Maisie from kitchen. Tell her to bring glass of water and make some hot sweet tea,’ said Mrs Jankowski. Anita stood dumbfounded, wishing she hadn’t mentioned Vera’s family. She had never learned to hold her tongue and was forever wading in with her constant chatter. Now look what she had done.

Maisie, who had been putting on her coat, hurried through with the water. She took in the dramatic scene but had no idea what had caused it. Surely they hadn’t fallen out over a game of cards, she thought. ‘I’ve put the kettle on and the tea won’t be a minute,’ she said, glancing over at the woman who was still crying, before scurrying back to the kitchen.

Vera had been helped to a chair by the fire and Maria was trying to comfort her by rubbing her hands and making soothing noises. Then Maisie arrived with the tea. ‘I’ve put three spoonfuls of sugar into it, Mrs Jankowski.’ She handed over the cup to Maria who tried to get Vera to take a sip. ‘Just a few sips, Vera. It’ll calm you down.’ Vera looked at Maisie who nodded encouragingly. ‘Drink up, love. You’ll feel better after it.’

After drinking the tea, Vera felt so embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry about spoiling the bridge afternoon but I want to go home.’

Maria and Anita jumped up and went to get their coats but Vera said she could manage. Maisie said she was going down the Hilltown and if Vera wanted, she could walk with her until she reached home. Vera nodded. ‘That will be fine.’ She turned to Mrs Jankowski. ‘I’ll see you next week, Gina, and I’m sorry for this awful scene.’ She said goodbye to the other two women and left with Maisie.

Anita, who had said sorry to Vera ten times, was now silent. Mrs Jankowski said, ‘Please get bottle of sherry out of sideboard cupboard, Maria. I think we all need a wee drink.’

Anita suddenly said, ‘What did I say that upset her so much?’

‘Vera’s husband Dave was killed in accident in 1930 but that’s not what brought on crying. It was mention of daughter Etta, who disappeared day after accident and not seen since,’ said Mrs Jankowski. ‘Vera spend years trying to trace her but there is no word. Not from that day till this.’ Anita and Maria were saddened but as Mrs Jankowski said, ‘It was all so long ago and you not know anything about it so not to feel upset.’

Anita twisted the stem of her sherry glass and felt more than upset. She felt devastated as she recalled Etta who would have been fifteen in 1929 – the year she and her husband had left 96 Hilltown to go to Glasgow.

Maisie saw Vera to the end of her close but she had said she was feeling better and would manage fine. Later, as Vera sat in the darkness of her kitchen, she racked her brains to remember where she had seen the logo on Maisie’s overalls. McQueen’s Agency. Then, at two o’clock in the morning, she remembered. It was that case in the papers last year when Molly McQueen had been involved in that mystery. Before she fell asleep, she made a mental note to visit the agency the next morning.

Vera was waiting for the office to open. Molly came downstairs and was surprised to have a customer so early in the morning.

‘I want to thank Maisie for helping me yesterday,’ said Vera. She explained the incident and Molly was pleased that one of her staff had made such a good impression, especially on her first job.

Vera sat in Molly’s chair, quietly twisting the handle of her handbag. The office door opened and Jean arrived. She glanced at Molly and Vera but made straight for her desk just as the phone rang. Vera seemed ill at ease as Jean quietly dealt with the inquiry.

‘I wonder if you can come to see me later today at my house?’ She wrote down her address and Molly said she would come at one o’clock.

‘I have work to do this morning but I’ll see you then.’

Vera made her way home. Her mind was so totally confused that she passed a couple of her neighbours without noticing them or hearing their greeting.

Later, Molly made her way to the house. Maisie had put her in the picture when she had turned up for work but Molly had no idea what Vera wanted her to do. 96 Hilltown was more of a pend than a close and she passed a few buildings before coming to the last tenements, which faced a grassy area bordered by a wall. Vera lived on the top floor. There were three houses on the plattie and Vera’s had a colourful striped canvas curtain to protect the woodwork from the warm sun, but now it was pulled to one side. A window box filled with a few withered pansies was a reminder of the summer.

Vera must have been looking out of her window because the door opened before Molly could knock. She was shown into a cosy kitchen, which had a brightly lit fire warming the room.

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Vera, ushering her visitor into one of the chairs that flanked the fireplace. A kettle began whistling on the gas cooker but Molly declined a cup of tea. Vera moved swiftly over and switched the kettle off, leaving the room with a quiet hush.

Suddenly she spoke, her words tumbling out as if she had to let the whole story out in case she forgot any of it. ‘My husband died in an accident in October 1930 and the next day my daughter Etta disappeared. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.’ Vera’s voice broke but she continued. ‘I would like you to take on this case and look for her.’

Molly was taken aback. ‘Oh, I’m sorry Mrs Barton but I only take on secretarial and domestic work. Don’t you think you should get the police to try and trace her?’

Vera shook her head. ‘They investigated Etta’s disappearance at the time but because she was sixteen they said she was an adult and had probably ran off with some boyfriend. They did question some of her friends but nothing came of it and they just dropped the case.’

‘But it was so long ago. I wouldn’t know where to begin,’ said Molly. ‘What made you come to me instead of the police?’

‘I saw your picture in the paper last year when you solved that mystery and I thought you could help me find Etta.’ She looked at Molly as she wiped away tears. ‘I’m not getting any younger and this is my last chance to find out what happened to my daughter.’ She went over to the sideboard and returned with a cardboard folder and a large photo frame, which she handed over to Molly. ‘This is our wedding photo taken in 1914. I was only seventeen and Dave was eighteen.’

Molly looked at the photo, which showed a very young couple standing with their backs to a picturesque scene of snow-covered mountains. The bride was dressed in a simple shift dress with a huge fox fur around her shoulders and an even larger bouquet of flowers and trailing ivy, while the groom, who looked like a schoolboy, wore his army uniform with pride.

‘We only spent two weeks together before Dave was shipped off to France. He knew I was expecting a child but she was five years old when he finally came home. In 1915, I got word that he was missing presumed dead and it was a dreadful time in my life. I had no money but my family tried to help me out and I managed to get some part-time jobs. I also took in a lodger to help with the bills. Then, in 1919, Dave reappeared. He had been injured, he said, at the Battle of Loos and had been taken prisoner. He was then taken to a German military hospital before being sent to a prisoner-of-war camp.’ Vera opened the folder. It held a few newspaper cuttings and another photo. ‘This is the only photo I have of Dave and Etta. It was taken not long after he came home.’

She handed the folder to Molly. The man in the photo looked much older than in the previous one, but then he had just experienced a dreadful war. Molly gazed with interest at Etta. A plain looking child with large ribbon bows in her hair. Both figures posed for the camera with serious expressions and Molly suddenly felt sad at the loss of Mrs Barton’s entire family.