Letters to the Lost (49 page)

‘But why . . . ?’ Jess shook her head in confusion. ‘Stella gave up . . .
everything
for Daisy. It makes no sense – why would she abandon her in a place like that?’

Will sighed heavily and slumped into the chair in front of the desk. His lips were oddly pale, his eyes black and unreadable. ‘It says it right there. It was a time when mental illness and learning disability carried huge stigma – even more so than they do now.’ He gave a scornful laugh. ‘Which believe me, is saying something.’

Her heart gave an almighty jolt, like it was trying to break out of her chest, as she began to understand. ‘Will . . . ?’

‘Sorry.’ He dropped his head into his hands for a second, then raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I should’ve told you, but it’s not the kind of thing you can easily slip into conversation. Not unless you actually want to make someone run away from you screaming, in which case announcing that you’re a former inmate of Readesmere Hospital for Complete Nut-Jobs is a rather neat way of doing it. Six months I was there, much to the horror and embarrassment of my parents. There is just no socially acceptable way of saying in the annual festive round-robin that your son has entirely lost the plot and is in a secure unit, medicated into oblivion and—’

He didn’t get any further. She got out of bed and went to him, taking his face between her hands and stopping the flow of words with her mouth. Her heart felt swollen with compassion, too big for her chest. She kissed him gently, emphatically, lovingly, again and again, until she felt the tension leave his body and his arms go around her.

‘I wouldn’t have run away. I won’t,’ she said fiercely. Her forehead was pressed against his and she looked into the dark, troubled pools of his eyes. ‘Come back to bed and tell me. Tell me everything.’

Neither of them spoke much as they drove home.

Earlier, the words had come spilling out of him as he’d told her how the shiny mirror of his life had cracked, then shattered into tiny, lethal fragments. About the laborious process of putting the pieces back together again. She had listened, holding him and stroking his hair until the well of words had run dry again. And then she’d shown him, with shivering tenderness, that what he’d just told her made no difference to how she felt about him, and that he was no longer alone.

When they finally surfaced and went to say goodbye to his parents he’d been able to do it without the symphony of negative emotions that was the usual signature tune to the end of his visits. But, as the Spitfire swallowed up the miles and London got closer he found himself trying to think of ways to make the journey last. There was so much he wanted to say to her, like ‘thank you for turning my potential worst nightmare into the best twenty-four hours of my life’, and ‘when can I see you again?’, but he couldn’t think of how to say any of them without sounding needy. Actually, he couldn’t really think of anything at all, because her hand was warm on his thigh.

‘I still don’t get it.’ Her face was turned away from him, her voice drowsy as she looked out at the featureless grass bank of the motorway. ‘Dan said Stella stayed with Charles because of the baby. She wouldn’t leave her, and yet, that’s exactly what she ended up doing. I can imagine that there was a stigma, but when you love someone that means nothing.
Nothing.
It doesn’t make sense.’

She turned towards him then, and their eyes met briefly before he had to tear his away and look back at the road. A motorway sign loomed suddenly in front of them, like – well, a sign. He flicked his indicator.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To Leyton Manor. I think we should have a look at the place where Daisy Thorne lived and died, don’t you?’

The hospital was on the outskirts of the town, signposted from the main road. All that remained of the original building was an imposing Victorian block, three storeys tall, with a bell tower in the centre which looked somehow sinister, even on a bright spring day with the daffodils in bloom and cherry trees like sticks of candyfloss in the landscaped gardens around it.

Will left the Spitfire in a little car park beneath a huge oak tree that must have stood there since a time when there was nothing but fields around it. They walked around the Victorian building, which had been renamed The Manor and converted into offices for a healthcare trust. Behind it were several single-storey buildings, which Will guessed was the new accommodation for former residents mentioned on the website. They looked neat and homely enough, if not exactly beautiful. Bird tables stood in their front gardens, and brightly coloured windmills spiralled in the brisk breeze. It wasn’t yet warm enough for people to be outside on a Sunday afternoon, but you could see that they would be, when the summer came.

At the front of the old hospital building a more formal garden had been laid out in a large rectangle. It was slightly sunken, and edged with thick, square hedges that provided shelter from the wind. Gravel paths ran between flowerbeds in which tulips swayed and staggered.

They came to a bench, beneath an arbour that in a few months would be smothered with roses, and sat down. The old hospital was straight ahead of them, a black shape against the clean spring sky.

‘It still looks bleak,’ Jess said, with a shudder. She was wearing a shirt of his, a checked one from his wardrobe at home, and she looked so clean and wholesome and beautiful that he felt his heart expand in his chest. ‘Can buildings absorb feelings, do you think? Like the house on Greenfields Lane. Even though it’s damp and neglected and full of Nancy’s stuff, it still feels happy somehow. And safe—’ She stopped as something behind him caught her attention. ‘Hello there. Are we sitting in your seat by any chance?’

Will turned to follow her gaze. A stout little figure had appeared from behind the hedge and was standing a small distance from them on the path, staring at them with bright, curious eyes. Her short grey hair put her at about fifty, he guessed, though there was something distinctly childlike about her open expression and the way she was shyly shifting from foot to foot.

She shook her head abruptly, darting out her tongue and running it over her lips. ‘Not my seat. Daisy’s.’

The words were spoken quickly and indistinctly, so that for a moment Will wasn’t sure he’d heard properly. But he felt the little tremor that passed through Jess’s body. She sat up, leaning forward.

‘Who’s Daisy? Is she your friend?’

Encouraged by the warmth in Jess’s voice the woman came closer, though she was still too shy to look directly at them. ‘She was my friend, a long time ago. She died.’

‘I’m really sorry to hear that.’

Staring down at the path, the woman nodded solemnly. ‘Mrs Daniels put the seat there, so we wouldn’t forget her. It’s got her name on it.’

Will and Jess turned to look. Neither of them had noticed the little plaque on the back of the bench that said:
In memory of Daisy Thorne, who loved flowers
.

‘Mrs Daniels?’ Will asked
.

‘Yes. She was Daisy’s mum, but she’s my friend now. She comes to see me on Monday afternoons. In the winter we go out to a café and have cake, but in the summer we sit here and have ice cream.’

Realization exploded inside Will’s head, dazzling him. Daniels
. Of course
. It was perfectly legal to call yourself what you liked without any kind of official paperwork being done. No wonder Stella Thorne hadn’t shown up in any of the usual places. It was all he could do not to let out a shout of triumph and astonishment, and to hold back the flood of questions, but beside him Jess’s voice was perfectly calm, her manner completely relaxed as she moved along to make room on the bench. ‘Which do you like best?’

‘Ice cream.’

‘Me too – especially if it has a flake in it. I’m Jess, by the way, and this is Will. What’s your name?’

‘Georgina.’

‘It’s very nice to meet you, Georgina. Do you want to sit down?’

The woman came forward, an expression of hesitant pleasure on her face. She sat in the space Jess had made between them, and smoothed her skirt over her knees, studying the buttons down its front intently.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Jess asked gently, ‘you’d happen to know if Mrs Daniels’s first name is Stella?’

Georgina looked up, bright-eyed. ‘Yes, Stella. Do you know her?’

Over her head Jess’s eyes met Will’s, and she smiled.

‘Not exactly. But I have a friend in America who knew her very well once, and he’s been trying to find her for a long, long time.’ She turned her sun-filled smile to the woman sitting between them. ‘I’m so glad that we met you, Georgina. Will you help us?’

39

As Jess rushed to get ready for work on Monday morning Jazz knocked on her door and handed her a letter.

‘Postman’s just been. Looks official. Maybe you’re being called to give evidence in the trial or somefink . . .’

When she’d got back late yesterday afternoon Jess had returned the red shoes and ended up drinking coffee in Jazz’s room until after dark. They’d sketched in for each other the outlines of their lives, the events that had brought them to the hostel. She’d told her about Dodge, and about the story she’d read in the newspaper. She looked down at the envelope.
Furnivall Ramsay Pemberton Solicitors
was stamped on the front, in red ink. With trembling hands she tore it open and scanned the contents of the letter quickly, while Jazz looked on.

‘Well?’

‘It’s not about Dodge. It’s about a house.’

The words pulsed meaninglessly before her eyes, and she started again from the beginning to try to make sense of them. There was a line at the top of the letter that was printed in bold.
Transfer of ownership of 4 Greenfields Lane, Church End
it said.

‘Whose house?’ Jazz demanded impatiently.

Jess finished reading, then looked up at her in disbelief.

‘Mine.’

At lunchtime she ran to the library. There was someone on her favourite computer by the window, so she went to the one at the opposite end of the row.

Hi Dan

I can’t believe it – there’s so much to say I don’t know where to start! First of all, a letter came this morning from a firm of solicitors, asking me to go to their offices to sign some papers. It’s something about transferring the house in Greenfields Lane from your name into mine. Is it a scam? My Gran always used to say that if something seemed too good to be true then it most likely was. The name of the firm was Furnivall Ramsay Pemberton. I’m going to look them up in a minute to find out if they’re even real and not just a name made up by some creepy geek in a bedsit to take advantage of daft people like me.

Anyway, even more importantly – are you actually ready for this? – I THINK WE MAY HAVE FOUND STELLA. I really don’t want to get your hopes up, and I wouldn’t say anything unless I was pretty sure, but we’ve definitely found out that she’s alive and well, and a regular visitor to a residential care centre for people with learning difficulties, just outside London. Stella’s daughter had been a patient there, years ago – it appeared on the death certificate that you ordered. When we went to check it out we met a friend of hers, someone she visits every week. It seems that Stella changed her surname after she cut her ties with her husband, which was why she’s been so hard to trace. Will left his mobile number with this friend, and a message to call.

I don’t think I told you about Will, did I?

She’d been typing quickly (as quickly as she could with two fingers and the necessary time taken up with correcting the multiple mistakes she made in every sentence) but she broke off there, feeling her heart lurch a little and her cheeks heat up. What could she say about Will that was suitable for a ninety-year-old to read, even one as wise and open-minded as Dan Rosinski?

I don’t know him that well, but I slept with him on Saturday night and it was the most incredible experience of my whole life
?
I’m nuts about him. I can’t think about anything else, and I’m worried sick that he’ll go off me now. Because he’s totally out of my league, in just about every way you could think of . . .

She stopped herself before her thoughts spiralled out of control again, as they had during the sleepless night. You could only beat yourself up so much about something you couldn’t actually regret because it was so good. She forced her fingers back to the keyboard.

Well, I don’t really know where to start with that either, so I’ll just say that he’s decent and kind and honourable, and definitely someone you’d want to have on your side for – well, for anything, really. He was the one who found me when I was ill, and he visited me in hospital. He discovered your letters back at the house and brought them in to me, so I told him about your search for Stella. It’s completely thanks to him that we’ve got this far.

Anyway, all we have to do now is wait and hope she calls. She will, I just feel it. I’ll let you know as soon as it happens.

Take care

Jess xx

P S. – I didn’t tell you what she changed her name to, did I? It’s Daniels. Stella Daniels. I wonder how she came up with that?!

It was only as she pressed ‘send’ that she felt a prickle of unease. Quickly she clicked back to her inbox. No new messages. She checked Sent Items, to make sure her last email had gone. It had, on Friday lunchtime.

In an instant her elation evaporated and her blood ran cold. Three days, and he hadn’t sent a reply. And she’d been so wrapped up in Will and the wedding and her own news that she hadn’t even noticed.

‘Please, no,’ she murmured aloud, then pressed her hand to her mouth and prayed silently instead, to whoever might be listening.
Please don’t let us have found Stella too late
.

*

The offices of Furnivall Ramsay Pemberton were in a building that looked old-fashioned from the front. Jess climbed the stone steps to a front door that looked exactly like the Prime Minister’s, but which opened into a space that was all bleached wood and glass walls.