JT02 - To The Grave Read online

  “I thought we were best friends, Mena. You know you can tell me anything.”

  Mena wanted to tell, but she couldn’t. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks so fast she felt giddy. She shook her head, fighting her emotions as her eyes began to fill with tears. She tried to pull away again, but Joan wouldn’t let her. A horn tooted by the roadside. A light came on inside the house.

  “Mena. What is it? Tell me.”

  The door opened and Pop was there, puzzlement and alarm cutting chasms across his face. “Mena?” he said. “Whatever’s the matter?”

  Joan backed away then and Mena ran upstairs to her room.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mena didn’t see Joan again that month. She’d called at the house several times, but Mena couldn’t face her. She knew that if she did they would get around to talking about Danny and Joan wouldn’t be able to stop herself from asking about that night at St Peter’s again. And Mena knew she would have to tell her; tell her what a silly little girl she’d been and where it had got her. They were best friends after all. If she couldn’t tell Joan, whom could she tell?

  But how could she?

  Best friend or not, Mena knew Joan Cartwright well enough to know that she wouldn’t be able to help herself. She was such a gossip that Mena thought she might as well put a poster up in Mr Hendy’s shop window as to tell Joan such a thing. No, it would have to be her secret. Of course, she would tell her friend all about it someday - she knew that, too. Only not now. Not for a long time if she could help it.

  None of that was on her mind today though as she lay on her bed late one afternoon towards the end of July. Today, she had something far worse to concern herself with. She tried to shut reality from her mind as she lay there. She thought about Danny as she often did, and they were good thoughts, which helped. She had been on two proper dates with him since the dance. They went to the pictures as planned and sat high up at the back in the ‘kissing seats’, and she knew as soon as the picture started that she would have to go and see it again sometime to fill in everything she’d missed. They left the matinee in bright sunlight and they held hands and just walked until her feet were sore. They didn’t need anything more to do with their time than that. Mena recalled that they hardly even spoke.

  Danny couldn’t get out of camp every day. Sometimes he couldn’t get out all week, but they found ways to be together if only for half an hour at a time. Not all of the fence space around Camp Stoughton was in regular use by the soldiers and the local girls, so there were quiet spots to be found and Mena and Danny had theirs. When Mena wasn’t wheeling her books around the hospital wards she’d be out on her bicycle, heading for Shady Lane where she would wait for Danny.

  The other proper date was at the fish and chip shop in Wigston. You had to get in the queue early or the fish, which wasn’t on the ration but was in short supply, would run out, and it was appreciated if you took your own newspaper or any kind of paper you had, although newspaper was best. It surprised Mena how romantic something like that could be.

  “It’s where you eat it,” Danny had said, and he’d cycled back out of Wigston with Mena in his lap and the food in the basket until they came to a hay-meadow that was painted with wild flowers. He’d picked her a bunch and sat her down on his jacket. He had a candle for later and a couple of beers and they ate and just watched the sun go down.

  That and the dance at De Montfort Hall was the part of July she really liked to think about when she was feeling sad. The part she was trying to deal with now she didn’t like at all. She could still smell the wax polish that hung in the air as she sat in the dining room earlier. The polish tin had still been open at one end of the table and her mother was still wearing her cleaning apron. Mena could see Pop’s hands shaking on the table in front of her; see the determination in his watery eyes as he tried to still the tremor of his lips. She could see her mother sitting beside him with one hand clasped to her mouth, the other clenching her wooden crucifix, and she could still feel the anxiety that caused her mother’s head to shiver.

  And, no matter how hard Mena tried not to, she could still see the telegrams that a kind-faced boy in a smart navy-blue postal-service uniform had just delivered. No one was actually crying. She felt bad about that now, but it had only been a matter of time. Perhaps it took a while to sink in. Perhaps she’d needed to read those telegrams for herself to make the words real. Or Perhaps James and Michael had just been gone so long now that they were already part forgotten and the family had become used to the idea that they would never be coming home again.

  Mena didn’t think any of that was true.

  She could see her mother again, clearly now in her mind. She watched her rise from the table, scraping chair legs slowly back over the floorboards, and she never would forget that sound. She saw Pop stand with her, reaching out to comfort her. Then over and over again she saw her mother fall like an empty dress to the floor. Those things are not easy memories to misplace no matter how hard Mena tried.

  Life will never be quite the same, she supposed as she lay on her bed, still staring at the cracks on the ceiling. It goes on, she thought, but it’s a different life from the one you set out on. She imagined that hers and the rest of her family’s, especially her mother’s, would spend its remainder trying to get back to that time before. But of course, it never would.

  Two things were certain now in Mena’s mind. The first was that life is a fragile gift that could be taken back at any time and she promised herself never to let a single day slip through her fingers unaccounted for. The second was that her mother needed her and for now at least she wanted to stay. How could she go into the Land Army after this? And in little more than a month’s time? The whole idea seemed too hard on her mother to contemplate.

  And there was Danny.

  The Land Army would have taken her away from home for a relatively short time, whereas Danny could take her away forever. And she would happily go - Mrs Mena Danielson. She liked the sound of that and besides, she had no idea how long Danny would remain in Oadby. His unit could be off into battle again at the drop of a hat and she wanted to be with him for as long as possible. She thought about those telegrams for the umpteenth time and the reservoir of tears she thought had long since run dry, flooded open again when she pictured herself reading such a telegram with Danny’s name on it.

  I must see Joan, she thought. She was keen to tell her that she wasn’t going away now after all; desperate just to talk to her if she still wanted to after the way she’d treated her. Mary would come straight home as soon as the news reached her, of course she would, and Eddie was still in Leicestershire. She wished Peter could come home too and she thought perhaps he might be allowed to under the circumstances.

  Pop had said that they often split family members up to reduce the odds of more than one being killed in action at the same time. James and Michael had been no exception to that rule, but there had been so much fighting in Europe recently and so many casualties pouring into the hospitals that it was perhaps not such great odds that they should both be killed within a few days of each other. At least, that was Pop’s rationale. Not that it lessened the pain in their hearts.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tayte had been staring out the car window since Jonathan had picked him up from his hotel, trying to get an idea where they were going. It was a quiet Sunday morning and having passed through a few sleepy villages, which afforded him no clue whatsoever, he was still none the wiser.

  “I managed to do some research into Danny Danielson after I left you last night,” he said.

  “How did it go?”

  Tayte scrunched his face. “Mixed at best. I checked with the US National Archives and Records Administration. I went into the US army enlistment records for World War II and I found several entries for people called Danny Danielson. I took some notes and started looking in the civilian records using the information I’d found.” He shook his head.

  “No good?” Jonathan said. />
  “No good at all,” Tayte replied. “It’s just too common a name. Until I can find out more about him I’d just be chasing my tail. I checked with the American Battle Monuments Commission in Washington, too. They keep records of American soldiers buried overseas and they were able to confirm that there’s no Danny Danielson listed, and there’s nothing on the Rosters of the Dead either, so there’s every chance he survived the war at least. He might still be alive.”

  “That would be something,” Jonathan said.

  “Yes, it would,” Tayte agreed.

  The car was amidst the wintry countryside now - cold and naked farmland to either side of them. It made Tayte wonder all the more where they were going and he was about to ask when they turned into a muddy lane on their right where he saw two distinct ‘H’ shaped goal posts in the field ahead.

  “He coaches junior rugby,” Jonathan said. “Under sixteens. His boy plays.”

  “Great,” Tayte said. “I’m a big American football fan myself. Washington Redskins.”

  “I wouldn’t mention that,” Jonathan said. “He doesn’t get the whole padding and armour thing. He’ll tell you that Rugby’s a real man’s game and we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  They came to a busy car park and a low club building that carried the team’s name, ‘Leicester Cubs RFC’.

  “He’s been divorced a few years now,” Jonathan said, continuing the character profile as they got out of the car. “Bit messy by all accounts, but he gets to spend plenty of time with his son, Josh, particularly during the season.”

  It was still raining, light but cold in the breeze; the sky like concrete. As they headed towards the activity and the confused shouts from the playing field grew, Tayte had to admire the young players’ determination to get out there in the cold, wet mud on a Sunday morning. He pulled his collar up and wished he had a waterproof coat like Jonathan’s and a hot cup of coffee in his hands.

  They found the man they were looking for amidst an animated gathering of people standing at the edge of the pitch.

  “That’s him there,” Jonathan said. “In the long black sports coat and bucket hat on the right. His name’s Alan. Alan Driscoll.”

  He was a stocky man and well dressed for the occasion, Tayte thought. His own coat barely reached the hem of his suit jacket and his tan trousers and loafers were already spattered with mud.

  “Alan!” Jonathan called and the man turned towards them, confusion meeting Jonathan’s smile. “I thought I’d find you here,” he added as they approached and Driscoll came to meet them.

  “Morning Jonathan,” Driscoll said, glancing at Tayte. “Something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Jonathan said. “I’ve brought someone to meet you, that’s all.” He turned to Tayte. “This is Jefferson Tayte. He’s a family historian from America.”

  “JT,” Tayte said, smiling as he offered out his hand. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask a few questions about the family.”

  Driscoll shook Tayte’s hand and the furrows on his brow deepened. “I’m pretty busy,” he said, indicating the playing field. “What is it you want?”

  “I’m trying to find out about a relative of yours no one seems to have seen since the war years - Jonathan’s aunt, Philomena. Jonathan tells me she went by the name of Mena. She was your maternal grandmother’s sister.”

  “Mary-Grace,” Jonathan interjected.

  Driscoll was quick to reply, one eye on Tayte, the other on the game. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anyone called Mena. What’s your interest?”

  “She had a daughter she gave up for adoption towards the end of the war. I’m trying to find out what I can about her for my client - locate her if I can.”

  Unexpectedly, Driscoll wheeled towards the playing field, cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, “Tackle him, Jones! Don’t tickle him!” He turned back to Tayte. “Like I said. I’ve never heard of her. But then we’re not exactly what you’d call a close-knit family.” He glanced knowingly at Jonathan.

  “That’s right,” Tayte said, keen to understand what Mary and her daughter had quarrelled about. “Jonathan told me your mother moved to England after she fell out with Mary over something. Did your mother ever say what it was about?”

  “Not really,” Driscoll said. “Some silly argument. You know what mothers and daughters can be like.” He turned away again and shouted, “Pass the bloody thing, Reynolds! You’ve got twelve other players out there!” To Tayte and Jonathan, he added, “Christ! Everyone wants to be Jonny Wilkinson.”

  “You said, not really?” Tayte said, hanging onto the hope that he might be able to offer a little information. “Was there something? Anything?”

  Driscoll’s shoulders dropped. “Look, I don’t know. Mum never said why. All I do know is that they fell out and Mum came to England. Her brother got everything and we got nothing.”

  “Mary disowned your mother because she left home?” Tayte said.

  “I guess you could say that. My parents struggled all their lives and they died the same way. No one from that side of the family ever gave a toss. We never had any help from them.” He stepped closer to Tayte and Tayte could see that his face had reddened. “See that lad out there in the number nine shirt? The blue one?”

  Tayte looked and nodded.

  “That’s my boy, Josh. He means the world to me and he deserves better, but I can’t give it to him. I’ve been living in a one-bed flat since my divorce, struggling just like they did. Not much to show after forty-three years, is it?”

  Tayte swallowed the lump that had risen and stuck in his throat while Driscoll was talking more at him than to him.

  Driscoll wasn’t finished. He gave a small, sardonic laugh. “Talk about how the other half live,” he said. “I suppose you’re going to see them, too?”

  Jonathan answered. “I’m trying to set something up.” To Tayte, he added. “I called to speak to Christopher first thing this morning. Left a message with one of the staff.”

  Driscoll snorted. “Staff,” he said. “See what I mean?” He spun away and shouted at one of the players. “Watch your flank! How many more times?”

  Tayte had decided that he wasn’t going to get anything useful from Alan Driscoll, who seemed to know little or nothing about Mena and was clearly preoccupied with the bad run of cards fate had dealt him. Tayte had encountered many such family divisions on other assignments and he wasn’t surprised that Driscoll felt bitter.

  “Well, thanks for your time, Mr Driscoll.” Tayte said. He handed him a business card and added, “If anything comes to mind, please call me. I’ll be at the Marriott hotel most of the week.”

  Driscoll took the card without looking at it or saying a word.

  “We’ll leave you to it then,” Tayte said, glancing at Jonathan.

  “Yes, thanks Alan,” Jonathan said. “Drop in whenever you like.”

  Driscoll just nodded and went back to his spot on the sidelines.

  “That was intense,” Tayte said as they walked back to the car.

  “Yes, and I’m sorry it wasn’t more useful to you.”

  “It was worth a shot and I’m sure he knows something about why his mother fell out with the rest of the family. He changed the subject pretty quick, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, I suppose he did.”

  Tayte checked his watch. “Plenty of time before you have to be back for lunch,” he said. “Let me get you a hot drink back at the hotel.”

  As he got into the car and the engine started up, he’d already begun to think ahead to Joan Cartwright. He hoped the afternoon would prove more fruitful.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Joan Cartwright’s address in Hertfordshire was easy to find, courtesy of the satnav in the silver Vauxhall that had been waiting for Tayte in the hotel car park when he and Jonathan returned from the rugby club. Once they had parted company, Tayte took advantage of the all day dining in the hotel’s Atrium Lounge and then he was on his way. It stopp
ed raining soon after he set out and it wasn’t a long journey, taking little more than an hour door to door in the easy Sunday lunchtime traffic - a sneeze compared to the long interstate drives he was used to back home.

  It had been easier to persuade Joan to see him than he’d expected. Mena’s library book and the story of how he came by it had played their part, but when he told Joan he had a photograph from the old days of the two of them together, Joan had wanted to see it. Tayte thought Jonathan’s telephone number would seal it as he gave it to her over the intercom at the gates, but she hadn’t used it. His story and the photograph had been enough.

  They were sitting in easy chairs in the conservatory drinking pineapple juice, Joan in a red-and-gold embroidered housecoat and slippers, hair tied back. The chairs were set at angles to one another, looking out onto well kept gardens and what looked like a small woodland that Tayte imagined was part of the grounds. They appeared so extensive that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a line of deer stroll past the window.

  It was a cool room, which was how Joan had said she liked it, despite the advice from her live-in help who were always telling her she should keep warm at her age. They were a married couple that had been with her for years, she’d said, adding that they always fussed too much. Tayte had his notepad out and his calling card was on the low glass table in front of them, briefcase open beside him. Joan had the copy of Madame Bovary in one hand and the photograph in the other. She seemed to lose herself in it.

  “I know you,” she said to the image as she adjusted her glasses.

  Tayte couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at Mena or the much younger version of herself as she spoke, but he figured the latter. He sipped his pineapple juice and set it back on the table. “There’s plenty I want to ask you about Mena,” he said, interrupting her memories.