Still Waters (69 page)

She held out the second photograph and Tess took it and saw that the naughty, lively boy had become a handsome, lively young man with a gleam in his eye and hair slicked back, though you could see it was going to curl again just as soon as the camera clicked and moved on.

‘There’s another school one somewhere . . . it’s the class reunion one, if only I can find it. You see several of the children went from the village school into city schools – Ziggy got to the C.N.S. and your mother went to the High School – so they had this reunion each year. It must be here somewhere . . .’

A rattling on the front door knocker made her look up, frowning, and then get to her feet. She handed the box to Andy, who was nearest.

‘Here, you have a look, Mr Anderson. That’ll be the insurance man; never misses. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

She rustled out of the room and Andy, who had been sitting at one end of the sofa whilst Tess sat at the other, moved up so that they could both look at the box’s contents.

‘Wedding photos . . . gosh, that must be Mrs Yallop at her wedding, she was a lot older than Ziggy, almost old enough to be his mother, I should think . . . yes, he’s in the group photo, he looks about fourteen . . . and this one’s of another wedding . . . a studio portrait of a
very
plain girl . . . two babies in the usual baby-pose . . . what’s this?’

‘Certificates,’ Tess said, peering at the forms which Andy had pulled out from the bottom of the box. ‘Births, marriages, deaths, that sort of thing. Oh!’

‘Why “
oh
”?’ Andy said. ‘Whose is it?’

‘Ziggy’s. His name was Sigmund Freeman, incidentally, I’ve often wondered how he came by Ziggy, haven’t you? Oh, Ash, isn’t it sad? He was so young! He died in June, and he wasn’t eighteen till August.’

‘
Did
he? Does it occur to you, Tess . . .’

The door of the living-room opened and Mrs Yallop came in, closing a large black handbag. ‘There you are, all paid up for another month. Did you find that photograph?’

‘No, we didn’t, I’m afraid, and we turned the box inside out,’ Andy said cheerfully. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to ask Mrs Yallop, Tess?’ He turned to their hostess. ‘Tess’s father was killed at the beginning of the war, and no one else ever talks about Leonora,’ he said. ‘So you are her last hope, in a way.’

‘I see. Well, I’ll tell you all I can, but Leonora moved away from the village when she grew up, so I remember her best as a child, really. She had a difficult childhood, because Mr and Mrs Meadowes were elderly and didn’t understand the young – I used to say they were born middle-aged, because that was how they behaved. Leonora wasn’t allowed to take friends home and her parents didn’t like her playing with other children – did you know your grandparents at all, Miss Delamere?’

‘No, they disowned my mother before I was born, over some disagreement or other,’ Tess said rather uncomfortably. Did this little old lady know that her beloved baby brother had fathered a child before he died? If she did not, then Tess did not intend to enlighten her.

‘Oh, that!’ Unexpectedly, Mrs Yallop chuckled. ‘Well, that was typical of the Meadowes. They knew nothing about the young. Leonora had to be perfect, and when she wasn’t, instead of laying the blame where it belonged, they hit out at the child. But there, it was all a long time ago.’

‘And Leonora died young, didn’t she?’ Andy said gently. ‘She’s buried in the churchyard here. I suppose you don’t know how she died?’

‘Well, as to that . . . she was drowned, that I
do
know. But she wasn’t living in the village, then, and I’m not a one to listen to gossip.’

‘Ziggy died before her, didn’t he?’ Andy said, after a moment. ‘Did Leonora go to his funeral?’

‘Indeed she did! They were walking out . . . that was the expression then, though I dare say it’s put different, today . . . but we didn’t speak; I reckon we were both too upset for idle chat. And of course just before Christmas she got married and moved away, and I don’t think we set eyes on each other from that day on.’

‘I see,’ Tess said. ‘You mentioned gossip just now . . .’

‘That’s right. Said I didn’t attend to such things, and nor I do, nor did,’ Mrs Yallop said roundly. ‘No good ever came of listening to gossip.’

‘Oh I agree. I just wondered . . . you see I couldn’t ask my father much, he hatred talking about my mother’s death, but she’s buried a bit away from the other graves, and I did wonder . . . I mean . . .’

‘Oh, that! I always reckoned old Mr Meadowes had a hand in that,’ Mrs Yallop said surprisingly. ‘He was churchwarden, you know. Now if you’ll pass that box over here a minute, I’ll go through it one more time. I was
sure
I had another photograph in there somewhere.’

Outside the cottage in the chilly morning air, Andy took Tess’s arm and turned her in the direction of the village.

‘Shame there isn’t somewhere for a cuppa, but the King’s Head will be open, and it’ll be a lot warmer than hanging around at the bus stop. Shall we compare notes?’

‘What notes?’ Tess said, falling into step beside him. ‘She was nice, but not a lot of help, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Dear heaven, girl, don’t you use those eyes of yours? Remember, you’re a detective – surely you picked up the most blatant clue ever to stare Sherlock Anderson in the face?’

‘No-oo. Everything she told us we’d either known or guessed. Hadn’t we?’

‘What about everything we
saw
?’ Andy asked. ‘Why, you actually commented – I can’t believe you didn’t realise the significance!’

‘What? Andy, you are the most aggravating . . .’

They reached the King’s Head and went inside. Andy settled Tess in a corner seat by the window and went to the bar. He came back with the drinks and set them down on a small table.

‘The chap’s going to do us some cheese and pickle sandwiches,’ he said. ‘It’s fifteen minutes before the next bus so we’ll have time to eat them if we’re quick. Now, where was I?’

‘Clues. Which I’m blowed if I saw.’

‘Ziggy’s death certificate,’ Andy said quietly. ‘The date, little bean-brain, the date!’

‘Gosh, I don’t think I noticed, but I can’t see . . .’

‘He died in June, Tess,
in June
!’

‘So?’

‘Your birthday’s in June.’

‘So?’

‘Your birthday’s in June.’

‘So?’ Tess said again. ‘I don’t see that that proves anything!’

‘No? Well, I know folk say first babies are always late, but I don’t remember anyone ever talking about a twelve-month pregnancy. So if Ziggy really was your father then your mother ought to have been in the record books.’

Tess felt her mouth drop open and dragged it closed. For a moment she just couldn’t take it in, then she felt a huge smile spread across her face.

‘Oh, Andy, then Daddy really
was
my father! But what was all the secrecy in aid of, then? Why did Daddy try to keep me in the dark about things?’

Andy shook his head sadly, then took both Tess’s hands and stared into her eyes. ‘For an intelligent girl, Tess, you’re awfully slow, sometimes. Your parents were married just before Christmas according to Mrs Yallop. And you were born . . .’

‘In June!’ Tess squeaked. ‘Oh, Andy, do you mean to tell me that all poor Daddy was trying to hide was that he and my mother had . . . had jumped the gun? Why on earth didn’t he tell me? I wouldn’t have thought any the less of them. What an idiot I am, though, never to have thought of looking at their marriage certificate. I’ve got it at the farm, somewhere, with all the other bits and pieces which Marianne and Cherie didn’t want.’

‘How is your little sister?’ Andy said. ‘Ah, here come our sandwiches. Eat up, Tess, we don’t want to miss the bus!’

After their eventful morning in Blofield, Andy decided that a quiet visit to the flicks would be a good idea, so they went up to the flat which Marianne had leased until such time as she either married or moved back to the Old House, and arranged for Tess to spend the night in the spare bed in Cherie’s room. Then they walked round to the Regent Cinema, on Prince of Wales Road, made their way into the circle, and sat down to watch the main feature. At least Andy may have watched, but Tess was totally unaware of what was happening on the screen. She kept her eyes fixed on the movements of the cast, but the screen could have been blank for all the impact the film made on her. Her mind was far away, buzzing with speculation, interest and excitement.

Peter was her father, which meant that Cherie was her real half-sister! What a fool I was to take everything Ashley said at face value, she told herself. And all Daddy was trying to hide was that I was conceived out of wedlock. Of course it’s rather shocking, but it’s nothing like I feared. Why, my parents were safely married by the time I was born, after all.

And she had worried and fretted about her mother, whether she had committed suicide or not, when suicide hadn’t apparently even entered the equation. Now, what Mrs Yallop had said about Leonora’s father being a churchwarden and having something to do with the position of the grave in the churchyard made sense! Leonora had been pregnant when she married and she had married a young man of whom her stern – and probably horrible – father disapproved. So he had used his influence to get the grave put away from the others, near the woods and wild grasses at the bottom of the churchyard. That was all there was to it, after all!

When the big picture was coming to an end Andy whispered: ‘Want to sit through the second feature? It’s a gangster thing.’

‘No, I’d just as soon leave,’ Tess whispered back. ‘Do you know, Andy, I’ve not taken in anything about the big picture at all because I’ve been mulling over what we’ve found out. I’m just so thankful, and so grateful to you for making me actually do something, instead of simply wailing and gnashing my teeth.’

‘Just remind me; what made you think that Peter wasn’t your father? Was it that dream, or something more concrete?’

Tess hesitated. She didn’t want to get Ashley into Andy’s bad books, but it had been he who had repeated the rumour as gospel truth, though he’d not known he was talking about her parents when he’d repeated the story. She thought about making something up, then remembered that, if it had not been for Andy, she would not know the truth, might never have known it.

‘Well, it happened when I first found my mother’s grave . . .’

‘Shhh, shhhh,’ came sibilantly from around them. Andy got to his feet.

‘Come on, we’ll go up to the café and have sausage and chips. Then we won’t disturb people.’

They pushed past knees, stumbled darkly up the aisle, and made their way via the luxuriously carpeted stairs to the café.

‘Now!’ Andy said when they were seated, with cups of tea before them and their meal ordered. ‘Tell me from the beginning.’

‘So that was how it all came about,’ Tess ended. ‘Honestly, Ashley would never have said what he did if he’d known Leonora was my mother. And he believed it was true. As for the suicide bit, Daddy actually said that there had been some doubt because an old fellow on the beach saw my mother stand up in the boat.’ She hesitated. ‘I really think Daddy may have half believed it as well,’ she finished unhappily.

‘Yes, it’s possible,’ Andy said. ‘But you’ve got to unbelieve it, Tess, really you have. There are no real grounds for thinking that Leonora killed herself, you know.’

‘But there are, Andy,’ Tess said urgently. ‘The sea wasn’t rough enough to overturn a sturdy little rowing boat, from what Daddy said. And no one seems to have doubted that Leonora stood up – I ask you, why on earth should a woman, alone in a small boat, stand up? Unless she meant to swim for the shore, which seems unlikely, to say the least!’

‘She could have stood up for a thousand reasons,’ Andy said crossly. ‘She could have seen something in the water, or on the beach . . . but I’m sure, I’ve always been sure, that she didn’t mean to kill herself.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Tess said. ‘I just wish we could prove it, though. If only I could remember a bit more about that boy, the one in my dream.’

‘Oh, you and your dreams,’ Andy said affectionately. ‘The trouble with Walcott is that not a lot of those bungalows are occupied all year round. And now I suppose people aren’t allowed to go wandering around there asking questions in case someone thinks they’re German spies. But when the war’s over you’ll have to see if you can look into that side of the story.’

‘I don’t see how I can,’ Tess said dubiously. ‘I don’t know anything about the boy except that he was in Walcott around the end of April 1922. And I imagine he was six or seven because he seemed very old to me.’

‘Well, there you are, you’ve cut the field down already,’ Andy pointed out. ‘April isn’t a month when school holidays happen, so he wasn’t on holiday. He probably lived there; a fisherman’s son? Something like that?’

‘Ye-es, possibly. Only he was a bit bossy to be a fisherman’s son – I mean they wouldn’t bother with a kid not quite three, would they? Oh, thanks very much, that looks delicious.’

They waited until the waitress had left and then Tess reached for the vinegar bottle.

‘I hadn’t realised how hungry I was – sandwiches fill a gap but they don’t really satisfy, like a hot meal. So you think that, after the war, I might find that chap?’

‘I think you might. It’s worth giving it a go, anyway. Because you’re quite right, a seven-year-old boy notices all sorts of things. But in the meantime, Tess, be content with what you’ve suddenly gained – your father, your half-sister, and a reasonable explanation for why Leonora’s buried further down the churchyard than most.’

‘I am content,’ Tess said thickly, through chips. ‘Daddy was the best, and Cherie’s turned out to be a darling. And think what a lot I’ll have to tell Mal, when he gets home!’

‘Yes, a real saga,’ agreed Andy. ‘And Tess, I was furious with Ashley when you told me what he’d said about your parents, but . . . I shouldn’t have been. Ashley’s been a good friend to you, better than I have. Neither of us should blame him for what he said all those years ago.’

‘I don’t. I never did, really,’ Tess said. ‘For a start, I believed him, and now, even though I realise he was just repeating lies, it was scarcely his fault that I never checked up on what he’d said. And you’re right, he has been a good friend, even though he irritates the hell out of me half the time. He’s always there you see. And . . . and you and Mal aren’t.’