To The Grave (35 page)

“Can I ask how Mena died?” Eliza said.

Wells leant in on his elbows again.  “She had a cranial aneurism,” he said.  “That’s what the doctors told me.  Neither of us knew anything about it until it was too late.  It happened one night last March.  I managed to get her to hospital, but it was too severe - inoperable they said.  She passed away a few hours later and I was glad to have had the chance to say goodbye.  The last thing she said to me was that she was going to West Virginia.  She was smiling at me and talking about a river and a low valley, describing everything like she really could see it.  It gives me a great deal of comfort knowing that she at least believed it was true.”

Wells went on to recount Mena’s life from the day she came to live at Sutton Bassett.  They talked for an hour or more, eventually migrating to the garden where the pale sun had begun to slip towards the horizon.  Wells largely revealed those years that Mena had been with him through the photographs he’d taken of her and of the family that had embraced her into their lives, and Eliza had remarked that Mena looked happy in every single image, which seemed to lift her spirits.  Tayte was sorry to have missed Mena by so few months, but he was glad to learn that her life had found such kindness before its end.

When they came back into the house, Tayte felt his palms go clammy and it wasn’t because of the sudden change in air temperature.  It was because he had a question that he was compelled to ask and although his client appeared to be handling the emotional turmoil of both finding her birth mother and losing her again in such a short space of time, he knew it had to be difficult for her.

“I don’t wish to appear insensitive,” he said, addressing Wells, yet looking at Eliza initially. “But someone else has been trying to find Mena recently - I believe in connection with Danny Danielson.  I was wondering if you have any idea why that might be.”

Wells didn’t take any time to reply.  “Yes, I think I might,” he said.  “I was going to show you something before you left.  I’ll go and fetch it.”

They waited in the dining room and now that they were alone Tayte asked Eliza how she was.

“Oh, so-so,” Eliza said.  “I don’t really know how I feel to be honest.  I have no memories to look back on.  It’s not like I knew Mena, is it?  Only what you’ve told me.  But it upsets me to think that I never will.”

Tayte just nodded and wished he was better at this sort of thing.

“I should like to visit her grave before we go home,” Eliza added.

“Yes, of course,” Tayte said.  “We’ll go directly after we’ve finished here.  There should be enough light.”

Wells came back into the room.  He was carrying a brown jiffy bag.

“This arrived in the post a few weeks ago,” he said as he sat down.  “It was originally sent to Mena at Logan House and they sent it on.”

Edward Buckley
, Tayte thought, supposing that he had to have been the one who sent it.  Wells slipped the contents of the envelope out and Tayte took a closer look at the packaging.  The postmark told him it was from Hampshire, confirming his thoughts.

“It’s a bible,” Wells said, holding up a black book that had a large golden cross in the centre.  “There are some letters, too.”

Chapter Forty-Six

W
ells slipped two letters from the bible and laid them out on the table.  “I’ve read everything,” he said.  “And there’s a logical order to it.  You should read this introductory letter first.”

He slid a folded sheet of cream-coloured paper across the table.

“Shall I read it out?” Tayte asked Eliza.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Tayte unfolded the letter.  The paper was crisp - recently used.  “It’s dated December 14th,” he said.  “It’s signed by Edward Buckley.”

Dear Mena,

How can I ever begin to explain the things that I have waited so long to say?  And yet, now that Mary has at last found peace I feel that I can - that I must.  You may ask why I’ve waited all these years and I would answer that I have waited for Mary.  And yet, now that the time has arrived, my words and my actions feel entirely selfish, and while they will offer you no consolation I can only hope that if nothing else they will provide you with a degree of resolution.  Some things should not be taken to the grave.

Enclosed you will find Mary’s bible, sent to me shortly before she died, and an airmail letter.  Together they will explain everything, although no forgiveness on my part is sought, for I surely deserve none.

Your servant,

Edward Buckley.

Tayte handed the letter back to Wells.  “It arrived too late for Mena,” he said, thinking that it was perhaps a good thing for her sake given what he expected to find in the bible and the remaining letter.  He expected Wells to pass the other letter to him now, but he didn’t.

“This comes next,” Wells said, handing Tayte the bible.”

It was heavier than it looked for its size: the pages thin and densely packed between the covers.  Tayte supposed from its worn, almost threadbare appearance in places that it must have been Mary’s for most of her life.

“If you look towards the back,” Wells said, “You’ll find two handwritten accounts.  One from Mary - the other from Edward.”

Tayte opened the bible and flicked to the further handwriting that was written at the back as though to attest to its whole truth and nothing but the truth: Mary’s and Edward’s sworn statements.  Mary’s came first and it was written in what appeared as a child-like scrawl, as though the writer was fighting to control the pen.  Tayte thought he would struggle to read it, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to from the countless old transcripts he was often faced with.  He cleared his throat and began to read Mary Lasseter’s words.

My dearest Mena,

What became of our youth?  Where did those happy days go?  I am trying to find my way back there now - to those innocent times before the war began, when we were sisters again, you and I.  But I cannot.  1944 is like a fog in my mind, so dense that neither eyes nor memory can penetrate it.  If I could find those days again, Mena, I would live so happily there with you forever.  But I am sorry to say that they are long gone now for both of us, and with such pain in my heart I must tell you why.

Towards the end of 1944 I received word from Edward that he would be in Paris for a short time, so I applied for overseas service and within a week I was transferred to SHAEF - the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force, which was based in Paris at the time.  I hadn’t seen Edward since he’d left for Holland two months earlier and after the fighting at Arnhem I knew I had to see him if I could.

A week or so before my transfer, I received a letter from home.  It was from Mother.  She was upset, saying that you intended to marry Danny and that you were going to live in America after the war.  Then I received another letter - this time from Joan Cartwright.  It was brief and to the point.  Joan wrote that Danny had raped you at St Peter’s church on your first date together.  She said that you had told her this yourself and it left me so confused.  I could not understand why you still wanted to see this man, let alone marry him and go off to live in America with him.  Joan said that she was writing to tell me this for your sake, Mena, adding that she thought someone in the family should know.  Naturally, I thought you were making a terrible mistake.

I didn’t tell Edward about the letters.  We shared five happy days and nights together in Paris and in all truth the whole matter could not have been further from my mind.  Then on our last evening together we were going out for a meal at
La Closerie des Lilas
in the Montparnasse district.  I remember it vividly.  But then how could I ever forget it?

November 1944.  Montparnasse District, Paris.

It had been raining hard all afternoon and apart from the few busy tables that sheltered beneath the restaurant canopy, the chairs outside
La Closerie des Lilas -
the pleasure-garden of the lilacs - were tipped in to allow the rain to run off.  It was early evening and the streets were as lively as ever since the liberation despite the inclement weather.

The damp had penetrated Mary Lasseter’s coat.  A shiver ran through her and she pulled harder at Edward’s arm as they skipped between the trees on the boulevard outside the restaurant, giggling as lovers might in the rain.  She wished she’d parked the staff-car closer, but she hadn’t wanted to risk getting into trouble over the misuse of army property - not that it mattered now.  They were almost there and the soft amber glow at the restaurant windows looked warm and inviting.

“Quickly!” Mary called.

She tugged Edward’s arm again and they made it to the canopy, still laughing as they removed their hats and coats and straightened their hair.  They were both in dress uniform and although Mary thought Edward looked as handsome as ever, she was sick of the olive drab and khaki she’d become too accustomed to wearing, even down to her underwear.

Edward held her back as she made to go inside.  “Wait,” he said.  “I’ve a surprise for you.”

Mary smiled.  “What?” she said.  “What is it?”

Edward grinned.  “Come with me,” he said, and he took her hand and pushed through the doors.  He stayed ahead of her as they fought their way through the crowd.

“Un moment, Monsieur.”  It was the maître d’ in a black suit and bow tie: a middle-aged man who, judging from his paunch, had eaten well during the occupation.  “Avez-vous une réservation?  Nous sommes très occupés ce soir.”

“Naturellement,” Buckley replied.  He winked at Mary and said, “Apparently they’re very busy this evening.  Good job I booked.”  He turned back to the maître d’.  “C'est Buckley.  Une table pour trois.”

The maître d’ checked his reservation list, running a firm finger down the page.  He smiled.  “Oui, naturellement, Capitaine Buckley,” he said.  He collected two menus from a side table.  “Veuillez me suivre.”

“He wants us to follow him,” Buckley said, and they moved through the restaurant, passing a barman in a white shirt and apron who was tending a crowded, well-stocked bar laden with bottles that were stacked three shelves high.  “At least
Jerry
didn’t leave the place dry,” Buckley added.

The restaurant furnishings were rich mahogany and red leather and the tables were neat with starched white cloths.  At a glance, Mary thought they all looked to be taken.  She wondered where the maître d’ would fit them in.

“Did you say table for three just now?” she asked.

Edward looked over his shoulder, still holding her hand as he followed the maître d’.  “What was that?”

“I said,” Mary began, raising her voice, but she trailed off.  The place was too lively now they were amidst the hubbub, with conversation and laughter spilling from every closely bunched table.  She couldn’t even see where she was going beyond Edward and the maître d' as they moved in tight single-file between the tables.  It wasn’t quite what she had in mind for their last evening in Paris.

“Votre table, Monsieur,” the maître d’ said, handing Edward one of the menus.  He smiled at Mary - still partially blocking her view of the corner table he’d brought them to.  “Mademoiselle,” he added as he offered her the other menu.

Mary wondered what Edward was so excited about.  Then as he moved to one side and the maître d’ moved to the other, she saw him.  There was Danny Danielson, wearing his Class A uniform and a bright-toothed smile, full of eagerness and a sense of occasion.  She watched him run a hand over his short blonde hair as he stood up.

“Mary!” he said, like they were good old friends; like he imagined she had no idea what he’d done to her sister.

“See,” Buckley said.  “What a surprise!”

Danny moved out from behind the table so Mary could squeeze in between them.  “It’s swell to see you again, Mary,” he said.  “How’s Mena?  Have you heard from her lately?”

Mary didn’t return his smile.  At least, the expression on her face didn’t feel much like a smile, however it might have looked.  She sat down, suddenly without appetite.  “Mena’s quite well,” she said.  “Getting on with things.  You know how it is.”  She opened her cotton-canvas shoulder bag and took out a packet of cigarettes.

Edward was there with a light from the complimentary matchbook on the table before the cigarette reached her lips.  “I got in touch with Danny after Holland,” he said.  “I had some time on my hands and I found out he was taking it easy in Reims.”  He threw Danny a cheeky grin. 

“Mighty caring of you, Ed,” Danny said, grinning back.

“Nonsense.  I was just checking up on you for Mena’s sake.  Well, I said I was coming to Paris for a spell before heading back to Blighty and Danny said he was waiting on a pass.  Before we knew it we’d arranged to meet up.”

“And I had to lie to my buddies about it,” Danny said, “or they’d have insisted on coming along with me!”

Edward laughed.  He reached across and held Mary’s hand, pulling it up onto the table.  “You didn’t mind my little game did you, darling?”

She gave no answer.  She wasn’t smiling or laughing.

“Mary?”

She turned to Edward suddenly, like she’d just snapped out of a daydream.  “No, of course not,” she said, rushing the words.  She blew a line of smoke out from the corner of her mouth.  “How are you, Danny?” she added without so much as glancing at him.

“I’m missing Mena all the more for seeing you two love-birds,” he said.  “That’s some knot you’ve tied there.”

They let go of each other’s hands immediately and Danny burst out laughing.

“I’m just messing,” he said.  “You go right ahead and canoodle all you want.”  He fidgeted in his seat.  “Say, I guess you’ve heard the news, haven’t you?  I’d have liked to ask Mena in person, but I guess a yes is a yes whichever way it comes.”

“Of course we’ve heard, haven’t we, Mary?” Edward said.  “Congratulations, old boy.”