The Tailor's Girl (2 page)

He immediately headed into the small garden outside his ward. Fresh air, he was sure, would lift his spirits and blow away the smell of the coal tar. It was milder weather today, possibly even planning to rain. Moody clouds were assembling like a gloomy council, but he stepped outside anyway, after ignoring his greatcoat on the hook near the door. He loathed that coat. It had been cleaned but still it stank of death. Instead he’d put on a woollen jumper beneath his jacket that one of the volunteers had knitted for him. He liked its mossy colour and hoped she’d see him wearing it at last.

He waved to one of the nurses passing in the near distance – she was older but he responded to her no-nonsense ways.

‘How are you feeling today, Mr Jones?’

‘Oh fine, fine,’ he said, giving the stock answer. ‘Looks like rain,’ he added, moving to the next stock item of conversation.

She looked up. ‘You’d better not linger out here.’

‘I shan’t. Everyone seems busy,’ he added, pleased he’d found something fresh to remark on.

‘It’s the Peace Party – we’ve finally got around to it. We can look forward to the happiest of Christmases.’

‘Plenty to celebrate this year,’ he agreed, and then regretted it because so many would be mourning precious family members.

‘Yes, too true,’ Sister Bolton replied, lifting a cheery hand in farewell. ‘See you at the party. There’s a new parcel of Tuxedo arrived from our American friends. By the way, a shave would be nice.’

He nodded as he waved; he could use a fresh supply of tobacco. Memories may desert you, he thought, but oddly, addictions don’t. He obviously needed to taste a cigarette right now because just talk of Tuxedo made him want some. He lit one of the last cigarettes he’d rolled, inhaled deeply and felt the nicotine hit the back of his throat, its earthy taste reminding him – just for a heartbeat – of being buried. But there was no point in chasing that strand; he’d learned it was pointless teasing at a notion and he forced himself to trust the doctors’ advice that his mind would yield its memories when it had healed.

‘It’s just like your leg wound, Jones. It needs time.’ One wit – Nancy, he realised it must have been – had suggested that another bump to his head might bring his memory back. He sighed at how easy that sounded, and considered asking Nan to bring in a hockey stick and see if her theory worked.

Being outside had begun to weave its magic. At least he was no longer upsetting himself. The doctors had assured him that memory loss was being seen in injured soldiers suffering from something they termed ‘shellshock’. He’d talked with a psychiatrist as part of his recuperation and Dr Vaughan had suggested that his devastating fracture of memory, though uncommon, was on the rise and not surprising given reports of what Allied soldiers had faced on the front lines.

So why had he been left feeling like some sort of malingerer? If he could remember, he would, damn it! He wasn’t looking for sympathy; he was sure he wouldn’t have used memory loss as a way out of the seeming hellhole they’d dragged him from. Well, he wasn’t going to spend another day in this place being mentally prodded and looked upon with pity, waiting to be recognised – to be found and claimed like lost luggage. It was time to make a decision.

As the notion slotted into place, a robin – perhaps the same one – began a melodious song, and in that instant, breaking cover from behind the bushes and surprising him, was the pretty woman of yesterday. He habitually reached for a fob watch which was no longer there, but he decided it had to be about the same time. Today she was dressed in grey but the traditionally sombre colour looked anything but gloomy on her; the suit was fashioned precisely, fitting her body perfectly. She wasn’t wearing the billowy war crinoline that most of the women he’d seen outside of uniform wore. Instead, clean lines prevailed on a skirt still long enough to be considered demure, with neat pleats to allow an open stride, but the fine styling made it possible for him to imagine the curve of her legs, which were neither especially long nor short. He wasn’t sure why he noticed her outfit so keenly or why he had concentrated sufficiently to remember yesterday’s navy ensemble. Perhaps he’d been involved with clothing or cloth before the war? Before the abyss, as he’d begun to think of it – the place into which all of his memories had been tipped and buried with the rest of the dead.

Without permitting so much as a heartbeat to censor himself, he called out, ‘Er . . . excuse me, Miss?’ She paused, turned his way. Now he’d done it. ‘Pardon me for interrupting you.’

‘Yes?’ she asked. He liked her voice. It was slightly husky.

‘Er, do you have a light?’ he said, glad that his cigarette had gone out.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ No, it wasn’t husky, he thought. It’s smoky. He liked it even more now that he could see her mouth front on. It was generous, with clearly defined lips as precise as the cut of her suit.

He shrugged. ‘Do you have a minute to give me instead, then?’ The mouth he’d been admiring widened slightly into a small smile. ‘I don’t bite, I promise,’ he added.

‘How can I help you?’

‘Will you sit with me for a few moments?’

She held her head to one side, as if weighing up his request, then looked around, checking to see if anyone else was nearby. She was probably wondering whether he was sweet or just plain strange. Sweet obviously won out, because she approached. Either that or a wave of pity had swept through her.

‘I can stand with you for a few moments,’ she offered. ‘You have a lovely spot here amongst the rose bushes.’

‘It was a perfumed nook just a few months ago,’ he admitted. ‘But then I see myself as a man of winter, so perhaps the bare rose bushes suit me.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Jones,’ he said, feeling suddenly and for a rare moment grateful to be alive in the presence of luminous beauty.

Dark eyes, lamp-black in the glum light, nevertheless sparkled with internal amusement. She shook his hand gently. ‘Just Jones?’

Her clear complexion was neither pale nor olive – somewhere in between – and the cold had pinched her cheeks so they blushed attractively. Hair the colour of a moonless Flanders night was pinned behind her head, and she wore a hat tipped jauntily with a striped feather pointing backwards from the hatband.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said, desperate not to let go of her, but he did. ‘I say, I do like that rakish feather.’

She grinned. Its effect felt like he’d walked in from the cold to a warm hearth. ‘You’ve lost your name?’ she remarked with slight incredulity.

‘And my memory with it,’ he added and wished he hadn’t. He had wanted it to come out as a cheerful, plucky remark. Instead it sounded helpless.

‘Oh.’ Now she looked mortified. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —’

‘Please don’t apologise.’ He cringed. ‘I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me. I have everything to be thankful for,’ he said, lying to himself. But he decided in that single tick of his life that he shouldn’t lie to her. ‘Actually, that’s not quite true. I don’t feel all that grateful but I do feel glad in this instant that I survived.’

She nodded, as though immediately understanding his dilemma, and joined him at a modest distance on the bench they now shared, which pleased him. ‘My brother didn’t survive unfortunately.’

‘So I hear.’

‘Pardon me?’

He flicked the ash from his cigarette and in what appeared to be another habitual motion he put the barely smoked cigarette back into his pocket, carefully saving it for later. ‘One of the nurses heard you talking about your brother in the tearoom.’

She blinked. ‘His name was Daniel.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I am too. I miss him terribly and my father misses his son desperately. I’m not sure I’m enough.’

‘Oh, I can’t believe that. You would be for me.’

She gave him a startled glance.

‘I’m sorry again. I don’t know why I said that. I’ve clearly been a long time out of the company of beautiful young women, or my injuries have scrambled my filters . . .’

His admission made her smile again and he saw it warm up her gaze. Her eyes were the darkest chocolate, he noted, not nearly black as he’d originally assumed. ‘So, what is to be done with you?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I have only a nickname, and no clues to where I hail from, which company I fought with, or even where I was fighting. I gather my uniform jacket was missing when I was discovered or they’d have some clue. I just keep hoping that some family is going to walk up and gasp with joy that they’ve found me.’

‘And you have nothing at all to go on?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what I used to be. I don’t even know how old I am. I do remember a dog, though – a fox terrier, I think.’

‘Well, there’s a start,’ she said, her tone brightening.

‘I’m told I could be recalling the cigarette dog that roamed the trenches or even the ratters we were apparently all grateful for, so it’s not really a clue to my background.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said, and for some reason – probably awkwardness, he thought – his explanation made them both chuckle. ‘Any other options?’

‘Obviously I don’t wait for anyone to come looking,’ he said with a sardonic grin. She waited. ‘May I ask a favour of you?’ he added, again without giving himself time to lose his courage.

‘It depends what it is.’

‘Would you help me escape?’

Alarm was back in her expression now, her gaze shrouding with worry. ‘Surely you should —’

‘They have no idea what to do with me. I’ve been here nearly five months and no one has been able to find even a remote connection for me.’

‘It’s early days. The war is only just —’

He shook his head. ‘I think I really will go mad if I have to stay another night here. I’ve made a decision to leave. I’m going today, come what may. But I have no idea of where I’m going. I don’t even think I know how to catch a bus or a train. I certainly have no money to do so.’

‘But what can I do?’

‘Just point me in the right direction. If you can get me even a few miles from here, I shall be fine. I simply need to get out of the hospital’s reach so it can forget about me – another casualty of the war.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Jones, I really don’t think —’

‘Please.’ It was embarrassing to beg. ‘I doubt I’ll ever have a better chance than today.’

He saw her resolve give behind those kind eyes. Maybe she was thinking of Daniel.

‘I’m a fully grown adult, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ he added, and it broke the tension. She looked at her gloved hands, but he caught the grin as she lowered her head. ‘I’m sure I was perfectly capable of looking after myself before the war, so I shall just learn to do so again. I know I’m not helpless. But in here I certainly feel that way.’

She regarded him again and it wasn’t pity he saw. Instead he sensed her own ambition and strength, and perhaps she felt it was right that he was allowed to be independent.

‘All right. I can’t see how it is a crime to help a war veteran.’

‘Really?’

She nodded. ‘How do we do this?’

‘It’s the Peace Party today.’

She nodded, waiting for instructions.

‘You see, everyone will be distracted once the festivities begin. Just take my arm and walk me out of the compound. I will not trouble you beyond the end of this path. If you could tell me in which direction to head, I should also be grateful.’ His attention was caught by a glint of gold amongst the bushes. A wind was gusting up and had blown some leaves away. ‘Hang on a moment,’ he said, rising and limping across the lawn, realising it was a coin that had rolled against a naked, thorny rose bush.

‘Aha!’ he said, triumph in his voice. ‘A half sovereign. Now I have means. It was meant to be.’ He returned. ‘I know someone is missing this, but they say what goes around comes around.’

She gave him a wry glance.

‘And in the same spirit, one day I will pay you back for your kindness. If you make my dream come true, I’ll do the same for you one day . . . I promise.’

She shook her head, amused by his whimsy, but held out her hand. ‘It’s a deal. I’m Eden. Eden Valentine.’

Even her name was lovely. ‘Thank you, Miss Valentine,’ he murmured and kissed the soft suede of her glove.

Edie Valentine was moving in amused bewilderment that a stranger – with no memory, no name – had recently taken her by the arm and accompanied her down the path towards a side gate of the hospital.

‘We should be in conversation, I suspect,’ he murmured. ‘It distracts people, reassures them we are meant to be walking together in this direction.’

‘What shall we talk about?’ she managed to say through her bemusement.

‘Well,’ he said, sounding cheerful, ‘how about you tell me why you’re visiting the hospital? That should get us to the hedge and then soon you can be rid of me.’ He smiled his encouragement, even patted her hand as though they were extremely good friends.

‘All right,’ Edie said. ‘Yesterday I was here to collect some money and today I made a delivery to the director of the hospital.’

‘And what were you delivering?’ He gestured politely for her to go first as the path narrowed.

Edie relaxed slightly, charmed by his manners. ‘It was a suit. The director is . . . well, my father’s a tailor and Mr Donegal likes how my father styles for him.’ She cleared her throat and pointed. ‘Mr Donegal has been too busy to . . . um . . . it’s not far now.’

Music struck up suddenly as a gramophone wheezed into life and this was clearly the cue for the merrymaking to start in earnest, because voices began to drift into their hearing, carried on the breeze. A woman’s laughter erupted.

‘She sounds like a hen that’s busy laying an egg,’ he remarked.

Edie chuckled as more clucking laughter followed and she enjoyed a mental image of the hospital henhouse. ‘It’s lovely to hear happy voices,’ she admitted, not meaning to sound quite as wistful as she did.

‘You’re doing awfully well, Miss Valentine,’ he assured her in such a gentle tone she cut him an equally tender smile.

‘I’m not used to intrigue. You seem comfy enough with it.’

‘Well, maybe I was a spy during the war,’ he said, giving her a wink.

‘Oh. Do you think so?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. What is your father’s name?’

‘Abraham. Abe.’

‘Does he have a shop?’

‘Yes. It’s called Valentine & Son. Oh, look!’ Edie gushed, delighted that London’s grey sky was now polka-dotted by brightly coloured orbs, rising above the hospital rooftop as one. Gradually, individual balloons broke from the pack to ride a pocket of wind to unknown destinies. She was aware that her companion had followed her line of sight but that he had swiftly dropped his head as someone appeared from around the nearby hedge leading a bicycle.

She felt instantly guilty and her stomach clenched that a delivery boy – a grocer – might suddenly take an interest in her new career as an escape accomplice. Edie reminded herself that Mr Jones was not a criminal. She met the young man’s appreciative gaze with a bright salutation. ‘Look at the balloons,’ she said, diverting his eyes upwards from her, hoping he would not remember the man by her side. ‘It’s for the party. There’s cake,’ she grinned.

They passed the youngster, who touched his cap politely.

‘And son?’ Mr Jones continued conversationally.

She blinked, tracking back in her mind to what they’d been talking about. Edie nodded with a shrug.

‘Forgive me, I don’t mean to —’

‘No, that’s all right. Daniel had been groomed since childhood for the trade. My father always wanted him to continue the business.’

‘Of course. And have you learned the family trade as well?’

She sighed gently. ‘I am a seamstress, yes.’

‘Can you cut and sew a suit for a man?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, wishing she didn’t sound quite so defiant.

He paused, allowing her to go first through the opening in the barrier between the world outside and the grounds of the hospital. Light traffic sounds instantly impacted but still it was mainly the cheer from the party that clung around them.

‘Then the business is safe, surely?’ he frowned, following her.

Edie shrugged. It was a moot point. ‘We are here, Mr Jones,’ she said as they emerged from beneath a small arched gate, nearly hidden by the tall privet hedge, and onto the pavement.

She watched his face relax in wonder; it must seem like a whole new world after his time at the hospital.

‘It does,’ he agreed, and Edie was momentarily embarrassed to realise she’d offered this thought aloud.

The jolly dance music felt distant now that the hedge provided a solid barrier but she experienced a fleeting thought of wishing Mr Jones had asked her to dance. She’d heard of whole neighbourhoods taking to the streets to celebrate the sheer joy of having peace again and no more young braves giving up their lives so hopelessly. She shook the notion away, allowing her attention to be captured by the colourful patriotic bunting that hung between lampposts on the street at the side of the hospital.

‘How do you feel?’ she asked, as it suddenly occurred to her that she might have just helped a sick man escape.

‘Free,’ he admitted. ‘Just like one of your colourful balloons.’ He looked up briefly and then returned her gaze, amused, and she couldn’t help but wish she could see that same slightly boyish grin without the beard that she was sure he hid beneath. ‘Thank you, Miss Valentine. I haven’t forgotten my promise. I am in your debt.’

She smiled, cleared her throat of the small dam of confusing emotion that had invisibly clogged it. He was a stranger; she shouldn’t feel such a connection to him. ‘So, in which direction will you go?’

He shrugged. ‘As far from here as possible; where do you suggest?’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you sound as though you’re from the south. But while I wouldn’t suggest you head for London, maybe you could start a journey with a village close to London in mind.’

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I’d better get on with it, then, as I suspect it’s going to rain.’

‘Here,’ she said, digging into a cloth bag she carried. ‘Take my umbrella.’

‘It will rain on you as much as me, Miss Valentine.’

‘But I don’t have so far to travel.’

‘Where are you headed?’

‘Golders Green.’ She could see it meant nothing to him.

‘May I walk you to the bus stop?’

Edie looked up as she felt the first raindrop splash on her shoulder with a dull plop. She pushed up her umbrella. ‘Why not, and then we can share this.’ She ignored the guilty pleasure at staying in his company for a few more minutes. ‘Pity about the party revellers.’

He unselfconsciously took her arm again, pulling their bodies closer to get beneath the umbrella as the raindrops began to fall heavily and insistently. They laughed and ran together, arriving slightly breathlessly into the shelter.

‘Didn’t do us much good,’ Edie grinned, brushing water from her jacket.

‘But here comes a bus,’ he said, nodding at the slow vehicle lumbering towards them in the distance. The motorbus had an open top and the hardy couple upstairs were drenched, as was the driver down below who was equally open to the elements. Unlike his passengers, however, he was covered head to toe in waxed coveralls. ‘So your timing is impeccable,’ Jones replied. ‘I presume this is yours?’

‘It is,’ she said, frowning. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘I have my lucky half sovereign.’

‘Oh, wait, please,’ she said, digging again into her bag and finding her purse. ‘I meant to say that you should not use that half sovereign.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s too much. Here,’ she said, pushing a silver threepence into his hand. ‘Save your lucky coin. You’re going to need it.’

‘I couldn’t possibly accept your money —’

‘Please, take it. I cannot in all good conscience leave you without it. Anyway, you were the one who said what goes around comes around. I’m sure someone will do me a good turn. Besides, if Daniel had . . .’ She stopped, shook her head. She didn’t want to keep mentioning Daniel. It had been four years now. Time to let the dead rest.

He folded the coin back into her gloved hand, shaking his head with a sad smile. ‘I shall be —’ The bus suddenly backfired loudly and accelerated towards the pavement. In that split second, Jones crouched and covered his arms over his head.

Edie leaned down. ‘Mr Jones?’ He said nothing but she heard him groan; her pity went out to him. She grasped what the explosion had provoked. ‘I think you’d better come with me.’ At his look of mystification, she added, ‘Please. I can’t leave you here.’

Jones allowed her to take his hand and lead him onto the bus. Even though she didn’t relish being open to the inclement weather, Edie presumed he wouldn’t want to be crowded by other passengers.

‘Upstairs all right?’

He nodded, looking suddenly grey. Edie guided him up the stairs into the rain and to the back where they were alone.

‘Take some deep breaths,’ she urged when she noted his forehead looked damp from anxiety rather than rain.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured, staring at the seat in front. ‘I thought I was ready. I don’t even know what I’m scared of. My memory won’t tell me. I just reacted. Habit, I suppose.’

The rain eased off to a drizzle and then stopped almost as fast as it had arrived.

‘It’s perfectly understandable,’ she assured as she shook out her umbrella and closed it. ‘And although I don’t know much about it, we’ve all heard how ugly it was in the trenches and on the front line. I imagine you were ducking for cover constantly. You have to give yourself time to heal, but also for your mind and body to accept we’re in peacetime now. Perhaps for a while every backfire, every loud crack or voice, will disturb you.’ She squeezed his arm, which was pushed against her. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ Edie soothed above the rumbling noise of the bus as it jerked forward.

‘I feel I have burdened you, Miss Valentine.’

‘Not at all,’ she said, helplessly pinioned by his sad gaze, looking out from the darkest of blue eyes. She wondered what on earth she was going to do with him, but she knew now that she couldn’t just walk away from Mr Jones. She had to acknowledge that neither did she want to walk away from this handsome, somewhat helpless, fellow. ‘Does it help to talk?’

‘I don’t know. Talking is all I seem to do, but it’s all meaningless.’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I’d give anything to talk to Daniel again. And there are people out there who must feel the same way about you. Please don’t lose heart.’

He finally turned to look at her. ‘Thank you, Miss Valentine. I shan’t.’

‘Call me Edie.’

‘Then you must call me Jones.’

They shared an amused glance.

A notion occurred to Edie. ‘Don’t think about this too hard, but why don’t you just say the first man’s name that comes into your head?’

He hesitated only for a heartbeat as he listened. ‘Thomas,’ he said, and then frowned.

‘Thomas?’ she repeated, as though testing it against him. ‘I wonder why.’

He shrugged.

‘You don’t look like a Thomas, but I think Tom might suit you.’

‘Tom,’ he repeated. ‘Why, yes, it sounds rather cheerful and I like it.’

‘Does it sound familiar?’

He shook his head. ‘Sound? No.’ Edie let out a silent breath of disappointment. ‘But curiously, there’s something about it that
feels
vaguely familiar.’

‘Really?’ She brightened, beaming at him.

‘Yes. Although don’t ask me to explain it.’

‘Then Tom you shall be, unless formal introductions are called for, and maybe if we keep that name close, it may come back to you why it was your first choice. It’s a beginning, don’t you see?’

‘You are very good for me, Edie. Why didn’t the hospital suggest that?’

‘I’m no doctor.’ She leaned close to whisper. ‘But I do think women are more practical.’

He smiled. ‘Where will you drop me off?’

‘I’m not going to drop you anywhere. I’m taking you home with me to meet my father.’ It had slipped out before she’d given herself time to consider it. Tom was like a lost, needy animal. If she didn’t help him, who would? And she had agreed to get him out of the hospital, after all.

And why else?
The question was posed in her mind in her father’s voice. She ignored it.

Tom stared at her as though she’d suddenly broken out into a strange language. ‘But why?’

She shrugged. ‘I feel responsible.’

‘You shouldn’t. I coerced you. You’ve done enough.’

‘No, I wouldn’t be happy to let you continue until you’ve acclimatised a little more to the – um – the outside world. Abba . . . my father, is a wise man. He’ll know what to do. Perhaps you need to be with friends at least for a night. He won’t mind.’

‘Friends. That sounds so nice and normal.’

‘You are normal, Tom. You’re just wounded. Your mind has been hurt in the same way that another soldier’s arm or leg has been.’

The conductor arrived. ‘Afternoon.’ Then he frowned. ‘Is it afternoon? Who can tell with these grey skies?’

‘Two, please,’ Edie said, handing over her threepence.

‘Thanks, luv.’ The conductor’s gaze lingered on Edie as he handed her two tickets before he wandered off.

‘Should I punch him on the nose, do you think?’

She smiled self-consciously. ‘Even a year ago that conductor would have been a woman. I’m sure women miss their roles, now that men have returned.’

‘Yes, I imagine they must have felt great freedom and now must return to their lives at home.’

She nodded – he spoke the truth – but in her mind she heard the word ‘prison’ rather than ‘lives’.

‘He has the wasted and haunted look of a returned soldier,’ Tom continued.

‘How can you tell . . . I mean, without memory to clue you?’

‘A logical question. Perhaps it’s simply because his conductor’s uniform swamps him and I’m drawing a conclusion, right or wrong.’ He narrowed his gaze. ‘But didn’t you see that look in his eyes?’

She shook her head.

‘Desperate for companionship, but distant . . . somehow unsettled?’

Edie shrugged. ‘I didn’t, I must admit.’

‘I believe I’ve seen that look a thousand times over, or so my gut tells me. I probably possess it too.’

‘You’re very handsome and not at all distant,’ she assured, and then felt her cheeks warm uncomfortably. He gave her a sideways glance but said nothing, turning instead to look at passing traffic, which was thickening as they skirted London central and then bypassed it.