Letters to the Lost (31 page)

‘Dan! Where are we?’

He kissed her neck and dropped his hands. ‘Home.’

23

2011

Somehow it was Thursday again.

This week the Bona Vacantia list was full of the kind of names that were a probate researcher’s nightmare – Evans, Thompson, Collins, Jones, Taylor. The sky in the gaps between the blind’s vertical slats was still dark when Ansell had his first epic meltdown of the day, and after that it just got worse. By nine o’clock Will had been given his first sacking threat and by eleven the list of insults that had been thrown his way included not only several instances of the standard ‘posh boy’ and ‘twerp’, but one ‘fucking fairy’ and one ‘inbred ponce’, which only came out on special occasions. And all before he’d finished his second cup of coffee.

The afternoon brought respite in the form of a trip to Harrow on the Hill to collect a birth certificate, but the release of pressure was brief. The certificate proved that the information upon which they’d spent all morning constructing a family tree was wrong and the case collapsed like a house of cards.

Finally, after the painful start, things began to come together towards the end of the afternoon. At five o’clock Will parked outside the address of the only definite potential heir they had, and rang the doorbell. Long minutes passed, during which he could hear the blood-curdling screams of small children and a woman’s voice shouting. He rang again. This time the door was answered almost immediately, by a blonde woman wearing a floral apron and a murderous expression.

‘Hi – Mrs Maynard? I’m Will Holt from a firm called Ansell Blake. We’re probate researchers, and it’s about an inheritance—’

He wasn’t quick – or maybe convincing – enough. Her face darkened, and in the bright light of the modern chandelier above her head her eyes had the sinister glitter of a woman on the edge. He took a step back.

‘An “
inheritance
” you say? Hurrah! That’s marvellous, but unless I’m going to inherit two slightly less dysfunctional children, a husband who – just for once before they reach the age of eighteen – might get home from the office in time to put them to bed, oh – and a very large bottle of gin, I have to say at this point that I really couldn’t give a toss. Nice to have met you, Will.’

The door shut.

There was an off-licence on the corner, although the term didn’t quite do justice to the array of products Will discovered inside. Weaving his way around displays of artisan olives, high-end patisserie and a mini designer florist counter he found his way to the booze aisle, where at least fifteen exclusive brands of gin jostled for shelf space beside the champagne. He almost had a panic attack as he handed over his credit card, but he calmed his private hysteria with the knowledge that thirty-eight pounds spent on posh gin today might just save him from losing his job tomorrow, and convince Bryony Maynard he wasn’t a cheap conman.

He rang the doorbell again. The screaming had died down now, and given way to a tired and miserable sobbing which increased in volume as the door opened. Before it could be shut in his face again he thrust the bottle into the gap.

‘I can’t make any firm promises about the children or the husband, but I can at least offer you the gin.’

An hour and a half later he had read two
Thomas the Tank Engine
stories, played one game of Connect Four and explained the family link between Louisa Evans and Bryony Maynard, which meant the latter was in line to inherit the bulk of the former’s estate. The house was quiet now, the children in bed, and Bryony was a good three-quarters of the way down her second large gin and tonic.

‘Great Aunt Louisa – gosh, I haven’t thought about her for years. She was a bit of a joke in our family. She wore a lot of tweed and couldn’t pronounce her Rs properly. Bwyony, she used to call me, which I thought was too hilarious. She had a friend who lived with her called Millicent. Oh gosh—’ Her eyes widened and she almost choked on her gin. ‘It never occurred to me until now that they were more than friends, but of course they must have been! Good old Aunt Louisa. She was always asking me what I wanted to do with my life and saying I must get out and see the world. I just wanted to paint my nails and listen to Spandau Ballet in my bedroom.’

Discreetly Will’s eyes slid back to the clock above the Aga. He’d followed the journey of the minute-hand pretty much every step of the way for the last hour, hiding his impatience with heroic effort. ‘Well, you’ll be able to get out and see the world now, with the money she’s left you. We’re not sure how much it’ll be yet, but now you’ve signed the paperwork we can get the claim moving.’ He began collecting his things together. ‘Talking of which, I should—’

He stood up. Bryony Maynard stayed where she was. Taking another swig of gin she stared at the wall, but in a dreamy way that suggested she wasn’t seeing the daubed finger paintings or messy collages. ‘A friend of mine went on a yoga retreat. To Ibiza. I’d like to do something like that . . . but maybe without the yoga.’

He let himself out, promising to be in touch. It was half past seven. Visiting hours at the Royal Free were six until eight. If he hurried he might just make it.

There was nowhere to park. At ten to eight he abandoned the Spitfire on a kerb by some kind of loading bay and ran. In his hands he cradled the bunch of flowers he’d bought at the last minute from the posh shop at the end of Bryony Maynard’s road.

They were snowdrops. He’d noticed them when he paid for the gin, and all the time he’d been reading
Thomas the Tank Engine
and playing Connect Four and explaining to Bryony about her potential inheritance he’d thought of them. They were small and delicate. Fragile. And with their little white faces and their bowed heads they’d reminded him of her. Jess.

That was the only name he had for her; no surname, so it had taken him a full ten minutes of frustration, diplomacy and a little bit of creativity with the truth to find out which ward she was on. He’d rung the hospital from his mobile in his snatched lunch break, which had at least distracted him from the urge to buy chips, which was his default coping strategy on crap days in the office. At the end of the call he’d secured the information he needed. Ladies’ Medical.

He had to fight against the tide. Visiting time was almost over and people were beginning to flow out of the hospital. He found himself wasting valuable time holding a door open for streams of people who didn’t even acknowledge him. It went against the grain to push through himself, but eventually he did it. A large clock, of the kind you saw in stations and Bryony Maynard’s kitchen, hung over the corridor and as he passed beneath it he saw the minute-hand flicker to the vertical position. He started to run.

He was breathless and sweating when he arrived at the ward. There was no need to ring the buzzer; the door was open for people to leave. He slipped through them and went straight to the nurses’ station.

‘I’ve come to see Jess—’

‘Visiting time’s just finished, I’m afraid.’

She must have seen his face fall. She must have taken in his heaving chest and red face and his handful of snowdrops and felt sorry for him because her expression softened and she put a hand on his arm. ‘Not to worry, she’s asleep – has been on and off all day since she came up from ICU. You wouldn’t have got much out of her this evening anyway.’

‘ICU.?’

‘Intensive care. She’s much better now, responding nicely to the antibiotics. Come back tomorrow and I’m sure she’ll be much brighter. What pretty flowers – I’ll find something to put them in and take them for her, shall I? She’ll be sorry she missed you. She’s been asking for you, even though she’s not even properly awake. You are Dan, aren’t you?’

‘Oh . . .’ Will stepped back, caught between acute embarrassment and utter, wretched foolishness. ‘No, actually, I’m . . .’ He shook his head, suddenly defeated. ‘It doesn’t matter. Thanks anyway.’

He walked away, leaving the nurse holding the snowdrops. Their stems were crushed where he’d held them too tightly and their silken petals were starting to wilt.

The invitation arrived on Saturday morning, while Will was having breakfast.

Mr and Mrs Hugo Ogilvie

Request the pleasure of your company

at the marriage of their daughter

Marina Rosamunde

To

Simon Richard Alexander Holt

On Saturday 17th April 2011 at 11.30 a.m.

At St Mary’s Church, Deeping Marsh,

and afterwards at Deeping Hall

RSVP

It was plain white card, stiff and smooth, edged in gold. No embossed doves or gilded horseshoes for Marina and Simon; everything was impeccably correct and aggressively tasteful. Opening it, Will’s fried egg sandwich had turned to ashes in his mouth.

April 17th. Shit. The Save the Date card had arrived months ago – long enough for the wedding itself to seem remote and unreal. He’d binned it immediately, preferring to remain in a state of happy denial about the entire event, but there was no avoiding it now. Still in the t-shirt and boxer shorts he’d slept in, he abandoned the half-eaten fried egg sandwich and stood in front of the mirrored door of the wardrobe.

Throughout school and university he’d rowed and played cricket and rugby, which had kept him effortlessly in shape. Now, without the daily training, the twice weekly matches, once-rigid muscle had softened and his lean silhouette had filled out. In some rational part of his brain he knew that he was still a normal, healthy weight, but the trouble was in his family, normal wasn’t the benchmark. Simon was. Simon, who played squash and ran marathons and spent his holidays skiing and scuba diving; who ordered in sushi instead of Indian takeaways and would never scoff a whole packet of M&Ms without even noticing. Will sighed. If he gave up carbs and refused Bex’s well-intentioned lattes would that stop people choking on their canapés when they discovered he was Simon’s brother?

But the physical comparisons were only part of the problem. He rehearsed a conversation with his reflection in the mirror.
Me? Oh no, I’m not a barrister. Or a historian. No, I’m a sort of failed-historian turned third-rate probate researcher. Well, it’s like a door-to-door insurance salesman. No, I’m not married myself, and unlikely to be since the last girlfriend I had was in the second year at university and she dumped me while I was in the psychiatric unit. I know, I can’t think why either! I’m such a catch!

The pasted-on smile slipped and he turned away from the mirror.

In the therapy he’d had in the hospital they used to say that every challenge was an opportunity. Back in the kitchen he threw the sandwich into the bin and put the invitation on the front of the fridge, secured with a magnet bearing the telephone number of the local pizza takeaway. He would look on it, not as total freaking nightmare, but an opportunity. To turn his entire life around. In six weeks.

*

It was warm in the hospital. The bed was firm and crisply clean. The world outside felt like a different planet.

Jess floated through the hours in a daze. Her mind felt as white and blank and clean as the sheets. She didn’t want to think; about what had gone before or what would come after, about what would happen when she was well enough to leave or where she would go. She slept a lot. And in the space halfway between sleeping and waking she thought about Dan and Stella, reliving their story.

And when she was awake she looked at the snowdrops in the glass on her bedside locker and she thought of Will Holt. His strong hand holding hers, his dark eyes and his sad, sweet smile.

And she wished for him to come back.

After lunch (a joyless quinoa salad with reduced-calorie dressing bought from the local posh supermarket) Will set off to visit Mr Greaves. The unexpected turn of events of last time had meant he hadn’t had a chance to have a proper look around Nancy’s house, and because the electricity was turned off it made sense to go during the day rather than in the evening after work. This time, determined not to be shaken in his new resolve, he took with him not cake, but fruit: a small pineapple, a pomegranate, grapes and blueberries.

The old man was dozing when Will arrived. He could see him through the net curtains, tipped over to one side in his big armchair, as though the dead weight of his arm was pulling him downwards. Will was just retreating to wait in the car for half an hour when Mr Greaves’s eyes shot open and he sat up, gesticulating for Will to go around to the back door.

A narrow alleyway ran up the side of the first cottage, the one with the window box of herbs, and along the back of the row of gardens. At the far end it was swallowed up by towering weeds and overgrown shrubbery spilling over the hedge of number four. By contrast Mr Greaves’s garden was neat and sparse, its few plants confined to pots standing at the edges of the crazy paving like sullen teenagers at a disco.

The back door was unlocked. Will let himself in and went through to the front room. Mr Greaves was sitting upright in his chair with an air of eager anticipation.

‘You thought I was asleep but I spotted you! It’s being on them bleeding convoys, I tell you – learned to sleep with one eye open, we did.’ He looked at the supermarket carrier bag in Will’s hand. ‘What you got there then?’

‘Fruit. Pineapple and blueberries, and a pomegranate—’

Mr Greaves’s face fell. ‘Oh well. Not to worry, there’s some of them cakes left from last time. Cherry Bakewells – my favourite. Why don’t you put the kettle on and we’ll have one with a cup of tea before you go and carry on at Nancy’s.’

After the cosy clutter of Mr Greaves’s house, number four seemed cold and bleak. Will wasn’t quite sure where to start looking for clues to Nancy Price’s past. He wandered through the small rooms, trying to imagine what the house must have once been like, before the damp seeped in, stippling the walls with florid patterns of mould.