The Pearl Locket (9 page)

There was only one way to find out. She needed to talk to Great-gran. She set off for home. Hopefully her mum would agree to take her to Great-gran’s the next day. Perhaps she could bake a lemon drizzle cake for her. She’d wear her forties dress, to help jog the old lady’s memory. And she’d take the photo of the three girls.

Gran was delighted with the cake when Ali arrived with Kelly at her care home, in the middle of the afternoon the following day. ‘Splendid! Did you make it, Kelly, dear? Gosh, what a pretty frock you’re wearing. I used to have something like that, a long, long time ago.’

‘Thank you, I love this style,’ said Kelly, as she leaned over to give her a kiss. Margaret was sitting in the residents’ communal lounge, beside a patio door that looked out over the garden. Although it was late in the year there was still much colour. A large cotoneaster festooned with red berries brightened up the scene. They had the lounge to themselves today. It was a good care home, and Ali was pleased with her choice. Gran was happy there, and that was the most important thing.

‘Really? I would have thought it too old-fashioned for young things like you. Must be fifty years ago or more that I had it. Longer. Probably just after the war, or maybe even earlier. I didn’t get many new clothes during the war of course; none of us did, although sometimes you could pick up a second-hand dress or cardigan at one of the WVS sales. Betty used to make her own things of course, but I never did. I was no good at sewing. Shall we ask for some tea, and I’ll cut this cake? It is teatime, isn’t it?’

‘Just about,’ said Ali, grinning at Gran’s fondness for sweet things. She never could wait to get her dentures sunk into cakes or cookies. ‘I’ll make the tea.’ There was a small kitchen area just off the lounge, with a sink, kettle and mugs, and tea and milk in a fridge. She went over to make a pot, leaving Kelly telling Gran how she’d bought the blue dress on eBay. It wasn’t an original; it was a forties replica made to appeal to retro-lovers. Like Kelly.

She brought three cups of tea over to Gran and Kelly, and then fetched plates and a knife to cut the cake.

‘Lemon drizzle, my favourite,’ Gran said, beaming. ‘My sister used to make this. Her lemon drizzle cakes were the best I ever tasted.’

‘Great-aunt Betty?’ Ali frowned. ‘I thought you’d always complained she lived on nothing but ready-meals and shop-bought cakes and puddings.’

‘Well, er, yes, but I’m talking about the past. A long time ago, when you had to make your own cakes if you wanted any. Come on, Alison. Cut me a slice. Don’t leave me here drooling like a puppy over it any longer.’

Ali laughed and cut a large slice for each of them. ‘Gran, did you know there was a cellar in the house? We were ripping out the old downstairs toilet and found the door to it, going down under the stairs.’

‘Oh yes, the cellar,’ Gran said. ‘In the war we used it as an air-raid shelter. I hated it. It was so dark and spooky down there, and you couldn’t stand up straight. No electrics in it in those days, only an old paraffin lantern Father used to take down. I had my torch, but it didn’t always have working batteries in it. Oh, I did hate air raids. You never knew how long you’d have to stay down there. Of course we were better off here than the poor people in London. They had it night after night for months, with no let up. I don’t think I could have put up with that, but of course, they had no choice.’

‘It must have been horrible,’ Ali said.

‘It was.’ Gran nodded.

‘There’s something we wanted to ask you about, Great-gran,’ said Kelly. ‘Mum found something down there. Look.’ She pulled the photograph of the three girls out from her shoulder bag. ‘That’s you, isn’t it, and that’s Betty, but who’s the third girl, the younger one?’

Gran took the photo, put her glasses that hung from a chain around her neck onto her nose, and peered at it for a moment. Then she laid it down in her lap and sighed. ‘Oh, she was such a pretty girl. The prettiest of the three of us. Such a shame.’

‘Who was she, Gran?’ asked Ali, gently. She could see tears brimming in the old lady’s eyes. Whoever the girl was, she’d been important to Gran, that was obvious.

Gran ignored the question and looked at Kelly. ‘Kelly, dear, in that dress you look so much like her, you know. When you walked in here today it was almost as though she’d come back to us. After all these years. Oh, you must ignore me. Silly, rambling old lady that I am.’ She smiled and passed the photo to Ali. ‘Now, Alison, cut me more of that cake. I’m not having just the one slice, you know.’

‘Please, Gran, can’t you tell us who the girl in the picture is?’ said Ali. ‘Was she a friend of yours, perhaps, someone you were at school with? She’s in the same uniform as you and Betty.’

‘It’s Joan, isn’t it, Great-gran?’

Margaret stared at Kelly. ‘Where did you hear that name?’

Kelly stared back. ‘I know it’s her.’

Gran went white, her hand shaking. Ali quickly took the cup of tea out of her hand and put it down. ‘Kelly, shh, you’re upsetting her.’

‘Poor, dear Joanie.’ She leaned back in her chair, her gaze still firmly directed at Kelly. ‘I’ve not heard that name for such a long time.’

‘Who was she?’ Ali asked again.

‘She—she was the youngest of us. Dear, beloved little Joanie.’ Gran wiped away a tear.

‘The youngest of you?’ repeated Ali. She was confused. Or perhaps it was Gran who was confused?

‘There were three of us,’ Gran went on. ‘Betty, Joanie and me. Betty was too stuck up to have much to do with us. Father’s favourite, she was, and she knew it. But Joanie and I had each other. We were sisters, but we were best friends as well.’ Gran looked at Kelly. ‘You look so much like her. Same colour hair and eyes, and your pretty face, just like hers. And—oh! Round your neck—that’s Joanie’s locket. Where did you find that?’

‘It was in the cellar, in a box along with the photo,’ Ali said.

Gran shook her head sadly. ‘She was such a good person. The dog, she went next door for the dog when no one else would. She could have died then but she saved the dog. The children—they loved her. The little tots all gathered around her for stories and she was the only one who would get on the floor and play with them properly, for hours on end. Such a lively girl, too. The only one of us who’d stand up to our father, even when he was at his most fierce. He was a bully, of course, but she wouldn’t put up with it, even if she did get punished for it. Oh, dear Joanie. How I miss her still, after all these long years!’ Tears ran down her face, and she fumbled with the sleeve of her jumper, pulling out a tissue she’d tucked up there.

Ali took hold of Gran’s hand, and stroked her paper-thin skin. ‘So, let me get this straight; you had another sister? You and Betty, another sister, this Joanie?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Little Joanie. Her birthday was January the first and she was two years younger than me. She was a dear thing. We were so close, right from when she was very little and I mended her teddy’s arm. She looked up to me then. She thought I could mend everything that went wrong for her. I wish I could’ve.’ She dabbed at her eyes with the sodden tissue.

‘Why have you never mentioned her before?’ asked Ali.

‘My father said we were never to speak of her again. And Betty did whatever he said. She would get cross if I mentioned Joanie’s name, even when Father wasn’t there, even after he was dead and gone. So I stopped talking about her. I never forgot her, though. Not for a minute. I’ve thought of her every day.’

‘What happened to her?’

Gran sniffed and shook her head. ‘I don’t want to talk about that. Not today. I want to remember her how she was, when we all lived together, and when she was young and lively and happy. She was so
very
happy, after she met her young man.’

‘Jack,’ said Kelly.

‘Yes, that was his name. I don’t know how you knew it,’ said Gran, with a suspicious look at Kelly.

Ali told her about the writing on Kelly’s bedroom wall.

‘Of course. That room was Joanie’s. Funny that you should put Kelly in the same room Joanie had. Father didn’t approve of Jack, of course. Well, he never approved of anything poor Joanie did. She might have won a Nobel Prize and he’d not have approved. She couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t see the good in her—the way she rescued that dog when the bomb fell so close, the way she was with the children, and all the baking she did. Mother never made cakes; it was always Joanie. She was a whiz at it. Even with all the limitations from rationing, she could turn out the best cakes and biscuits you ever tasted. Her lemon drizzle—oh I remember to this day how it wonderful it was. As good as this one. Kelly, you’re so like her. I’d never noticed before but with your hair like that, and in that dress, you’re the spit of her. Funny how that happens.’ She shook her head and lapsed into silence.

Kelly smiled. ‘Tell us more about Joanie. She sounds a lovely person.’

‘She was. A real darling girl. She worked with little children. The WVS set up a playgroup, so the mothers could queue in the shops without having to worry about their little ones, and Joanie ended up running it. This was in the last year or so of the war. She was too young to have a job before then. Father didn’t like it, of course. He thought the children were too common for her to mix with. Some of them didn’t have decent, clean clothes. We collected unwanted clothing and gave it to any families in real need. I used to help with sorting out the donations. These days it’s all throwaway fashion, isn’t it? Shocking, really, when you think of it.’ Gran stopped talking and gazed into space. She suddenly looked worn out, and her eyes began to close. ‘I’m sorry, Alison, remembering Joanie has quite tired me out. I feel ready for a little nap now.’

Ali nodded. ‘We’d probably better go, then. We’ll leave the rest of the cake with you, perhaps you can have some more tomorrow for your tea.’

‘They never wanted her mentioned again. Poor Joanie.’ Gran’s eyes had closed, and her voice trailed away.

Ali looked at Kelly. ‘You’ll have to ask her some more next time. Come on, let’s leave her in peace.’

They kissed her gently goodbye, and went out to the car.

‘So, Mum, what do you think happened to Joan? Why did Great-gran’s father never let them speak of her again?’ Kelly fiddled with the locket as she spoke. ‘I knew this was hers, you know. I just knew it.’

‘I’ve no idea. There must have been some sort of scandal. Gran has always said her father was very strict, with Victorian morals. She said he absolutely ruled the household and wouldn’t allow anyone to contradict him. Poor Joan must have done something to upset him badly. Though once they were adults, Gran could have ignored her father and stayed in touch with her sister. Her father needn’t have known.’ Ali opened the car and got in. It was strange. If Gran had been so close to her little sister, why hadn’t she stayed in touch with her?

Kelly got in and slammed the car door. ‘You’re assuming, Mum, that Joan lived. I don’t think she did. I think she died young.’

Chapter Eight

January 1944

Joan shook herself free of her father’s grip as soon as they were in the house. What had she done that was so bad? Just walked a short way arm in arm with a good, decent boy who had only wanted to see her safely home. Why did Father have to be so draconian? She was seventeen, for goodness’ sake. Old enough to look after herself. Her mother had been seventeen when she married Father.

‘When you’ve taken your coat off and changed your shoes I want to see you in my study.’ Father wagged his finger at her and left her standing dazed in the hallway.

So she was going to get a lecture. She shrugged herself out of her coat and hung it up in the under-stairs cupboard. Well, she would have to grin and bear it. She knew her father’s ways. He would raise his voice enough so that the whole household could hear him. He would threaten to take a belt to her but he never did. All his snobbery and bigotries would come out. And if she so much as said a single word in defence the whole thing would take twice as long, at twice the volume.

She kicked off her shoes, found her slippers, took a deep breath and knocked on the study door. Mags, who’d seen them come in and was keeping out of the way in the kitchen, grimaced at her and pointed upstairs. Yes, she would go and tell Mags all about it. Whenever either of them got into trouble with Father they always used each other as a sounding board afterwards.

‘Come in.’ Father’s voice sounded particularly stern. Joan turned the doorknob and stepped inside, keeping her head slightly bowed. She stood beside his desk with her hands neatly clasped in front of her. There. Nothing he could complain about regarding her demeanour.

‘Who was that boy you were with?’

‘Father, his name is Jack McBride.’

‘And where did you meet him?’

Time for the lies, or at least economical truths, to start. If Father found out she’d gone to the dance she’d be in even bigger trouble. ‘At the WVS. He came in with a message for someone.’ It was almost true. She’d met him today at the WVS, and he was delivering a message, albeit one for her.

‘And then?’

‘We chatted for a short while. He invited me out for a cup of tea when my shift ended.’ Best to be truthful about this part.

‘And you agreed? You’d only met him for five minutes and you went out with him?’ Father’s voice was increasing in volume. Soon he would stand, thump his desk, and then specks of spit would appear in the corners of his mouth. When he sat down again she would know the shouting was almost at an end.

‘I liked him. I’m sorry, Father. I know it was wrong.’ Now she really was lying.

‘Anything could have happened to you! Going out alone with a boy like that? You are so young and naïve, Joan. You have no idea what could have happened.’ Joan thought back to the Canadian airman, Freddie. She had far too good an idea of what could happen when you made a poor judgement call about a man. But she knew she was right about Jack. He had proved himself, beyond any doubt.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she repeated.

He stood up. The desk-thumping couldn’t be far off now. ‘And by the look of that boy, he’s clearly working class. He’s not even had the guts to join up. We’re better than that, young lady! Better, I tell you.’ He struck the desk each time he said ‘better’. A pot of paperclips jumped into the air and spilt its contents over the desk and floor. Joan focussed on the patterns they’d made. One little jumble of clips had fallen vaguely into the shape of a Spitfire.