The Forgotten Seamstress (28 page)

Retired Eastchester nurse Mrs Pearl Bacon, 86, who identified the patient only by her nickname of ‘Queenie’, says that the woman claimed to have worked for the royal family, but psychiatrists had always dismissed the claims as fantasies. After she was released into the community, her story was eventually proved to be true, Mrs Bacon says.

‘Queenie’ went to live with a friend who told staff that both of them had indeed worked at Buckingham Palace. Mrs Bacon declined to speculate about why the patient had originally been sectioned under the Mental Health Act. ‘It was all long before my time,’ she said.

The revelation echoes the recently revealed plight of two royal cousins, Nerissa and Katherine Bowes-Lyon, who were incarcerated in a mental institution for the whole of their lives because they had learning disabilities.

Eastchester Mental Health Trust said that they did not discuss individual cases because of patient confidentiality, and Buckingham Palace said it was not their policy to comment to the media.

The words skittered in front of my eyes as I struggled to make sense of them. Why would Pearl have told her story to the newspaper? Why now, after all these years?

There was only one person who could possibly have written the article.

I sat down heavily on one of the chairs, sick and dizzy at the enormity of this betrayal. What I had learned to love about Ben lately was his openness and apparent honesty. Surely he couldn’t have been planning this, all along? Getting to know me because he wanted to dig out the story behind the quilt? Had he wangled his way into my confidence – into my bed, too – all for a pathetic little page five story based on ancient hearsay about people who were long dead?

An unpleasant vision reared before my eyes: Ben’s large form perched on that hard chair in Pearl’s little 1940s parlour, notebook in hand, smiling in that sweet, confidential way of his, inveigling the vulnerable old woman to divulge the information he needed to confirm what the Kowalskis had told us. And she had finally given in, confirming the facts that she had concealed – or perhaps conveniently forgotten – on our first visit.

I shuddered, feeling dirty and used, and punched the shortcut key for Ben’s number, but it went to answerphone. I left an angry message, threw down the newspaper and ran out to the car. As I went to call him again, a text message was waiting in my inbox.

Please ring asap need to tell you something important. Ben x

I’d fucking tell
him
something, I swore to myself, starting the car and revving the engine unnecessarily. Not over the phone, either. I would go to his office and bawl him out, publicly and humiliatingly, in front of his colleagues. Driving off, too fast and part-blinded with a red mist of fury, I rehearsed a speech which included words like ‘underhand’ and ‘perfidious treachery’ as well as plenty of imaginative expletives. The message tone beeped again and again, till I grabbed my phone and turned it off.

By now it was rush hour and, as the procession of cars on the A12 slowed to walking pace, I cursed again and again, turning on the local BBC radio station in hopes of discovering whether it was an accident or just what they infuriatingly refer to as ‘sheer weight of traffic’. The presenter wittered on until I heard the news jingle and a new voice reading the bulletin which mostly seemed to consist of stories about corrupt local councillors and ‘nimby’ planning controversies.

‘And finally,’ she wrapped up in that time-honoured way, ‘royal officials have refused to comment on claims that a former Buckingham Palace servant was held involuntarily for decades at the now-closed Helena Hall Mental Hospital in Eastchester. Although doctors always claimed the woman was a fantasist, a former nurse has now come forward to confirm that the claims were true.’

A familiar, quavery voice came over the airwaves: Pearl’s: ‘We don’t know how she ended up in there in the first place, it was all long before my time, you know. But when she come to be released, the friend she went to live with said her stories were all true, poor old dear. They had both worked at the palace, long ago.’

The newsreader’s voice cut back in again: ‘The story follows recent revelations about two royal cousins with learning disabilities who were incarcerated for the whole of their lives. Neither Eastchester Mental Health Trust nor Buckingham Palace officials were prepared to comment.’

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ I slammed off the radio and whacked my palm against the steering wheel until it smarted. Of course, local news organisations all suckled off each other, repeating stories with only minor variations until they were wrung dry or … my head went hot at the thought … they made the national red tops. Please God, this wasn’t a strong enough story for the nationals? Surely not, with only the claims of an elderly lady to substantiate it?

Furious thoughts rampaged through my brain as the traffic crawled slowly forwards, and I cursed Ben, his wretched newspaper and the parasitical way that news spreads throughout the world until, finally, I reached the Eastchester exit.

On the way into the town I must have passed at least six newsagents, and each time my fury grew as I read their billboards proclaiming:

ROYAL RUMPUS OVER HELENA HALL

There’s no public parking outside the offices of the
Eastchester Star
, so I dumped the car in a loading bay and ran inside. Ahead of me at reception, a very large elderly man dithered about which photograph to order. ‘Do you think she would like this one …? Or perhaps that one is better …? Which one is best, do you think?’

With the anger still boiling inside me like a pressure cooker, it was impossible to wait quietly. After a few moments the receptionist, unable to ignore my frequent sharp sighs, peered around the old boy’s considerable bulk and said she would be with me shortly.

‘I need to speak to Ben Sweetman,’ I barked. ‘It’s urgent.’

‘Just give me one moment, please,’ she replied with well-trained composure. ‘I think he may be in a meeting.’

‘I don’t care about his bloody meeting,’ I snapped. ‘My car is in a loading bay and I need to speak to him. Now.’

The smile evaporated and her face pinched with annoyance. ‘Who may I say is waiting for him?’

‘Tell him it’s the woman he’s just betrayed. He’ll know who that is.’ Had I been in the mood, I might have found it quite comical. The old man turned and glanced at me curiously. ‘I think I’ll come back another time, dear,’ he said, quietly, giving her a sympathetic smile before wobbling his way out of the door.

I loomed over the poor girl as she dialled and spoke nervously into the phone, ‘Someone in reception for Ben Sweetman. Can you get him out of his meeting, please? I think it’s urgent.’ The person at the other end apparently sensed her anxiety and asked whether any help was needed. ‘No, I can handle it, I think,’ she replied, uncertainly. ‘Thanks, though. But send him down soon as you can, please.’

I was about to apologise for being so rude, when the double doors burst open and Ben was there, jacket off, a shirt button undone and hair awry.

When he saw me his cheeks flushed. With guilt, I assumed. ‘Caroline? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Your phone’s turned off.’

I grabbed a copy of the newspaper from the display and jabbed it at him, like a bayonet.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, writing such crap, betraying me and the Kowalskis and everyone else, worming your way into my life and then just using me … for this?’ I flapped the newspaper in his face. Behind her desk the receptionist stood up, ready to dash for help.

‘I wanted to explain …’ he said, properly red in the face now, but standing firm and unflinching.

‘No explanation needed, thank you Ben,’ I snapped, cutting him off. ‘This speaks for itself. You’re nothing but a small-town hack, exploiting people for stupid little stories that no one cares about which might, just might, sell a couple of extra newspapers.’

The blush disappeared in an instant and his face went grey as newsprint. ‘You’ve misunderstood. It wasn’t like that …’

In a blind fury now, I shouted over him. ‘Don’t waste your breath, Ben, I’m never going to believe a word you say. And I don’t want any more to do with you, ever.’

For a millisecond I entertained the idea of hitting him round the head with the newspaper, but instead threw it on the floor at his feet and stormed out into the street. A traffic warden was leaning over my windscreen, attaching a jiffy bag.

‘Oh, please, no,’ I pleaded. ‘I was unloading.’

‘Sorry, Miss,’ he said. ‘You’ve got no sign in your window, and I can’t rescind a notice once it’s written. It’s regulations.’

‘Sod your bloody regulations.’ I ripped the notice off the windscreen and threw it into the gutter, before letting myself into the car and slumping into the driver’s seat.

The warden knocked on the window, three times, waving the plastic envelope until I was forced to open it. ‘I think you ought to take this, Miss,’ he said. ‘Non-payment is only going to cost you more. Besides, you wouldn’t want me reporting you for abuse, would you now?’ He pushed the envelope onto the passenger seat and, as he stood back, Ben stepped forward, leaning his head through the window like a penitent in the confession box.

‘Caroline, please. Just give me a minute to explain.’

I pressed hard on the window button, and he pulled away just before it sliced through his neck. I started the car, crunched the gears, and pulled away so violently that it spun the wheels and, I truly hoped, would run over his foot, or at the very least leave him choking in a pall of exhaust fumes.

By the time I got back to London, my anger had cooled into queasy bitterness, fuelled by a deep sense of humiliation.

I poured a super-sized glass of wine and slumped onto the sofa, close to tears. Beyond my fury lay a feeling of emptiness, of desolation. How could I have been so stupid as to trust someone so implicitly? It was only a pathetic little local story, not even important enough to make the front page. It would probably disappear without trace, but that wasn’t the point. The point was Ben’s betrayal of our friendship. We hadn’t known each other long, but I’d grown to trust him.

We’d spent a great weekend together and, just yesterday evening when the time had come for him to head home to Eastchester, we’d been reluctant to part. I’d liked him, a lot. I fancied him, a lot. I had even begun to entertain the notion that we might be on the brink of something serious, that I might be falling a little bit in love with him.

How could I have got it all so wrong?

I poured another glass but my head was still jangling with angry thoughts. To calm down, I went out for some fresh air. A chilly wind whipped up a vortex of discarded plastic bags and the park opposite the house, usually so lively with dogs and children during the daytime, was deserted and creepy in the gloomy orange light of the streetlamps.

I turned back up the stairs, poured myself a third large glass of wine, turned on the television and started watching a mindless reality show. When the doorbell rang, I ignored it. It rang again, and then continuously.

‘Okay, okay, you can stop now,’ I shouted into the intercom. ‘Who is it? If you’re a cold caller or religious fanatic you can sod off.’

‘It’s me.’ A distant, crackly voice. Ben? At my front door? I could scarcely believe my ears; the nerve of the man. Had he driven all this way, well over an hour, to explain away his betrayal in an attempt to wheedle his way back into my affections?

‘Will you stop bloody stalking me?’ I shouted. ‘Just go away will you?’

‘If you won’t come with me, I’ll go on my own.’

‘You can go where you effing like,’ I said, failing to understand, in my fury, what he was saying. ‘And don’t bother coming back.’

‘Okay. If Dennis is prepared to give up the quilt I’ll come back later.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I yelled, livid now.

‘Arun phoned. From the night shelter. Hasn’t he got hold of you yet? He said your phone kept going to voicemail, so he called me instead. Dennis is there, right now! He’ll disappear again tomorrow morning, hence Arun was so keen to track you down. You still wouldn’t answer your phone, so I just got in the car and drove.’

I let go of the intercom button, leaned my forehead against the cool plaster of the wall and took several deep breaths, trying to make sense of this latest twist. My phone is
never
turned off, ever. And yet tonight, of all nights, it was. And Ben – who had so bitterly betrayed me – had now driven all the way from Eastchester to tell me about Dennis. It didn’t make any sense.

The bell rang again, even more insistently than before.

I pushed the buzzer. ‘Oh for God’s sake, come in, will you?’

As I opened the door he was already there, pale, dishevelled and exhausted-looking.

‘If you’re just after another pathetic story for the newspaper …’ I started.

‘Are you going to the night shelter, or shall I?’ He turned to leave. ‘My car’s on a yellow line. I can just as easily turn round and go home again.’

‘Hang on a second. You said Dennis is at the shelter?’

‘That’s what I’ve driven all this ruddy way to tell you,’ Ben said wearily, leaning on the door jamb. ‘That’s why Arun was trying to get hold of you.’

I was about to retort that I would go on my own, thank you very much, when I remembered the three large glasses of wine that I’d downed.

‘Can you give me a lift?’ I asked, tentatively.

He tipped his head a fraction.

‘Just let me grab my stuff, and I’ll be with you.’

As Ben navigated the tortuous route to Tottenham Court Road I had little choice but to listen to his explanation: what he’d been trying to tell me before, as he put it more mildly than I deserved, I flew off the handle.

His story was that, over the weekend, Pearl Bacon and her daughter Julie had attended the funeral of her old friend, the former Helena Hall matron. At the wake, they found themselves reminiscing with the woman’s son, and Pearl had mentioned the conversation that we’d had with her about Queenie, just a few weeks ago.

‘It was the royal connection that stuck in the son’s memory,’ Ben said, slowing down to let an ambulance go by. ‘The matron had apparently let slip that Maria’s story about working at the palace turned out to be true, after everyone had thought for years she was a liar.’