Touching the Wire (17 page)

‘Thanks.’ She forced a
smile. ‘Come in.’

She made coffee and put the cakes
on a plate, and then showed Ted Walt’s birth certificate. He’d been born in
Wellingborough in 1913, the son of William Harold Blundell, shoemaker, and
Elizabeth Mary Blundell, formerly James.  

Ted fingered the
certificate. ‘Walt was obviously named for his father. You’ve tried the local
phone book, I suppose?’

‘Jennie rang all the
Blundells when he first went missing. They either weren’t related or didn’t
want to know. He may have married sisters though, and there’s his mother’s side
of the family. She came from Liverpool, originally.’

‘We can put a notice in the
Liverpool papers, stating his mother’s name. Other than that…’ He turned his
palms outwards in a gesture of unknowing. ‘I’ll go to the County Records Office
and look through the births, marriages and deaths. It could take a few days.’

‘They’ve found a body, Ted.
I don’t know if it is Walt yet. There still might not be a funeral, I just
thought...’

Ted avoided meeting her
eyes. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself.
It was an accident, you falling overboard. Walt was a foolish old man who
should have known better and Eric was drunk… Accidents happen… He’d had…’ She’d
been about to say a good life. That was the stock answer wasn’t it? He’d had a
good innings. She couldn’t even comfort herself or Ted with that thought. He’d
had a long life but he’d suffered. Since she’d known him, Walt had
suffered.                                               

***

Jane passed Ted a cup of tea. He didn’t seem in
any hurry to divulge his findings at the Records Office. ‘I wasn’t expecting
you back so soon. Did you not find any relatives?’

‘I found his parents’
marriage date, and checked all the Blundell births between then and Elizabeth
Mary’s death giving birth to her seventh child, Emily Maud.’

‘Elizabeth was Walt’s
mother.’

He took another sip. ‘She
died when Walt was five.’

‘He never said. Poor Walt.’

Ted put his cup in its
saucer. ‘Then I checked the electoral rolls. I found two brothers and two
sisters, all older than Walt, living in the family home with their widowed
father, but no mention of Walt. I couldn’t find any record of his father having
remarried.’

‘Walt and his family had a
falling out.’

‘I knew from the birth
records that Walt had another, younger brother, Sidney, who also wasn’t on the
electoral roll, so I checked the death register. He died aged seven.’

‘How much grief did poor
Walt have to suffer?’

‘Not as much as you might
think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There was another entry, a
week after Sidney’s. William Walter Blundell, died aged nine.’

‘But…’

‘Jane. I’m sure I haven’t
made a mistake. I went over and over it. I even had the woman in the Records
Office double-check the entries.

‘But…’

‘If William Walter Blundell died
in 1922, aged nine, who the hell was William Walter Blundell?’

‘But… Walt was Walt…’ The
family he hadn’t let her contact… They weren’t his? If Walt wasn’t Walt… ‘But…
I don’t understand. You knew him, Ted, before I did. Weren’t you at school
together?’

‘No. I met him when he got
an allotment near me and Eric...’

‘So, who was I married to?’

‘I don’t know, Jane. I’m
sorry, but I don’t know.’

‘If… Why did he lie to me,
Ted? Why didn’t he trust me? Why…’ He’d called out more than one name in his
sleep. She buried her face in a handkerchief. ‘Do you think he had another
family, somewhere? Was that why…’

Ted put his arm round her
shoulder. ‘Walt adored you, and Jennie and the twins. Whatever his reason, I’m
sure that wasn’t it.’

Jennie and the twins… She sniffed
back tears. Her decision was obvious. ‘Jennie mustn’t find out. Walt’s gone.
Let her and the twins grieve for the man they loved, the man they thought he
was.’

Ted nodded. ‘You’ll gain
nothing by telling them. I still can’t believe it. I’m gob-smacked.’

‘I loved him for forty
years, Ted, and I don’t know who he was. I feel…’

‘Betrayed?’

‘It’s like losing him all
over again.’

‘Look, you need time to come
to terms with this. I’ll call back later if you want and make sure you’re
okay.’

‘Thanks, Ted. I can’t think
at the moment. Thank you.’ The door clicked shut behind him; she cleared away
the cups and plates and took them into the kitchen. Walt had been a kind,
loving man… and he’d lied to her. She crashed the crockery into the sink, not
caring if it broke. How could he do this to her? Why hadn’t he trusted her? She
would have done anything
for him,
anything
.

The best thing she could do
for her family now was let them bury him. She left the dishes and stamped
upstairs. Walt’s shirts still lay crisply ironed and folded in his drawer. She
rifled through them, and drew one out the same colour and material as the piece
PC Cox had brought. She put the shirt into a carrier bag and went downstairs to
wait for the bus into town.

***

Jane closed the front door behind her, thankful
the ordeal at the police station was over. She went upstairs, put the shirt
back with the others and opened Walt’s personal drawer. She’d found his birth
certificate in an envelope in the front of it, but it hadn’t felt right,
prying.

Now, she needed to
understand why he’d lied: she needed to lay her anger to rest. She removed
socks, a couple of ties, a pile of neatly-folded hankies and a roll of belts.
She lifted out a box of memories: a tie pin the twins had saved their pocket
money for, the cufflinks she’d bought him when they were married, and the
fountain pen Jennie had given him one long-ago Christmas... or was it a
birthday? No, it was a souvenir of their trip to Coventry cathedral.

No letters from another
woman, no cards, nothing with a name or address to show a double life. Why had
he changed his name? Was he a wanted man? She shook her head. Walt was honest…
and that made his deception all the worse. A small, thin book lay in the bottom
of the drawer. She opened it and a piece of paper fell out.

Dear Jane,

Her heart thudded; her hands
shook.

Please believe me when I
tell you that I love you more than life. Everything I have done since I fell in
love with you has been to protect you and our family. I hid something, years
ago, evidence of crimes. I can name names. I have lived with the fear of
discovery and, that if I admitted these documents existed, the knowledge that
the backlash would harm you.

Recent events lead me to
believe that interest in these crimes, and the whereabouts of these documents,
may be stirring. My nightmares have become unbearable and I fear their
consequences. I have to leave to keep you safe and I don’t want to live without
you. I should have told you the truth at the beginning, but I was afraid I
would lose you. It was selfish and cowardly of me, and I beg your forgiveness.

The entries in this book
were written between spring 1944 and January 1945. It explains much. Please
keep it safe. It is a testament to the courage and suffering of Miriam Hofmann,
and millions like her. I have failed in my promise to tell her story, and the
story of the children, for fear of drawing attention to myself, and therefore
to you and our precious family. I leave this now in your safe hands. Whatever
you think of me, know that I have always acted out of love.

Your loving husband, Walt

Children? Whose children?
She put the letter down and opened the book. Walt’s copperplate handwriting
strode across the page.
Trains arrive several times a day with their cargo
of starving, parched souls. Poland has been all but cleared of Jews. Now, it is
the turn of the Jews from Hungary. The chimneys have belched flame and poured
black smoke for days.

Jews… Poland… She read on.

It is supposed to be a
secret that this is an extermination camp, that Hitler plans to cleanse Europe
of every Jew, but rumour spreads through the camp. The truth is so hideous that
the Jews don’t believe it, but I watch the old, the women and little children,
knowing they are being led to the gas chambers and it breaks my heart. The SS
lay on ambulances and a brass band… they promise medical help, food and
showers, and the innocents walk willingly to their deaths.

I save those I can. If I
can make them understand they must pass for at least sixteen and less than
forty-five. If they will say they are well and not pregnant, and if I can
persuade them to leave their babies, some will not be selected to die. If I do
more to resist the Nazi officers, I risk execution and who then would try to
save these innocents? Language is a constant problem. I communicate the best I
can for they are beaten if they don’t understand.

Dear God. Walt had survived
a Nazi extermination camp. She turned the page, dread tightening her grip, but the
dates and numbers on it meant nothing to her. She flicked through several
similar pages before the writing resumed.

Today I tricked a young
Jewish mother into leaving her baby with her grandmother. Her name was Miriam.
Will she thank me for saving her life when her child and grandmother will die?
I have no right to play God.

No wonder Walt had
nightmares. No wonder he retreated into long silences.

Miriam knelt all night in
the mud. I kept watch over her.

She bit her bottom lip and
read the next entry.

Miriam has agreed to
become a nurse in the infirmary. This way I can try to keep her safe and she
will have better rations, since there are always some who will not live to need
theirs. She is desperately weak, having been given nothing to eat or drink for
three days, but so courageous. I could not bear it if she died.

Jane dabbed her eyes with a
hankie, understanding at last the agony and loss in Walt’s voice when he’d
called out another woman’s name. She closed the book, unable to read more.

***

The day of Walt’s funeral arrived with rain and
wind, cold for late June. The hearse arrived on the dot of ten. Jane wore
black, as befitted a grieving widow. She opened the door and stepped into a
street dotted with friends and neighbours, bareheaded in the rain, paying their
last respects to a man who’d been well liked and had died a hero, saving Ted.
She nodded her gratitude. Whoever Walt was, she’d loved him and he’d loved her.
Whatever his past, it had broken his heart and she knew how that felt: she
couldn’t be jealous of his love for Miriam.

The hearse moved away and
their car followed at a respectful distance. Jennie reached across the twins to
put a hand on hers. She glanced at Charlotte and Lucy, who sat dry-eyed but
pale, holding hands. She sent up grateful thanks to the God Walt didn’t believe
in; they would have each other, no matter what happened to the men they fell in
love with. Behind them a queue of cars formed as they drove, first, to the
chapel and then, after a brief service, to the cemetery where the body was to
be interred.

Rain speckled the windows
forming tributaries of liquid light as the car passed through the cemetery
gates. A short drive, between stones that bore mute testimony to lost loves,
brought them to a new grave marked by a pile of earth fresh with grief. Ted
held open the car door: if it made him feel better… He accompanied her to the
graveside and stood a little to one side while the reverend spoke kindly about
the man none of them had really known. Eric’s family were there, too. She
looked away. Jennie and the twins were her priority now, and they could say a
final farewell to the father and grandfather they’d adored. 

The coffin was lowered…
ashes to ashes… Walt hadn’t wanted to be cremated. Walt had been Walt, hadn’t
he? Just her Walt.  He had his reasons, though it would always hurt that
he didn’t confide in her. She forgave him. She would have forgiven him
anything.

‘Mrs Blundell?’ The reverend
passed her a box of fine dry earth.

She cast her eyes to a
weeping sky. ‘Goodbye, love.’ She threw a single rose from their garden onto
the oak coffin, following it with a sprinkle of earth, and let her tears fall.
He was with Miriam now.

Though the
Heavens should Fall

Charlotte straightened from arranging flowers
and ran her fingers across the carved words.
                    

William Walter Blundell

October 4
^th
1913 –
February 1
^st
1985

Loving Husband, Father and

Grandfather.

Deeply missed
.

It had been almost a year
since she’d visited Grandpa’s grave. She tidied flower stalks and paper, and
sat on the marble edging that surrounded the grave, a gift from Ted and his
grateful family.

She brushed back her hair.
‘Sorry I haven’t been for a while, Grandpa. A lot’s happened. Gran and Mum are
moving to a bungalow tomorrow. Gran can’t manage the stairs, anymore. I’ll
bring her when she’s recovered from the chaos.’

She could almost hear
Grandpa’s voice in her head.
It was a happy house but life moves on.

‘Lucy and Grant had another
little boy. They’ve called him Duncan. Work’s hectic. Robin… I told you about
the new job and meeting Robin, the boss’s son… he asked me to marry him. We’ve
been married ten months. You should see our house, Grandpa. I never dreamt of
living in such a place. And you’d love the garden.’

But?

She adjusted a rosebud. ‘I…’
She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself. ‘Our backgrounds are so
different. I think he’s beginning to regret marrying me.’

He’s a fool, then,
sweetheart.
It was the sort of thing
Grandpa would have said.

‘He wants children, we both
do, but it isn’t happening. I’m nearly forty. What if I can’t give him a
family?’

If he loves you, not
having children won’t matter.

‘I know he blames me. A
child might save our marriage, but is that a good reason to bring new life into
the world?’

No.

She faced the truth that
worried her. ‘I had Chlamydia, at uni… suppose it’s made me infertile. He’d
never forgive me.’

He will if he loves you.

‘That’s the trouble. I think
he’s having an affair with Nadia Hodge, a girl at work.’

Do you love him?

Finally to the heart of the
matter. ‘I think so.’

If you truly love him,
you’ll fight for him. But life’s too short to waste on someone you only think you
love.

‘He’s changed, Grandpa. His
dad, Roy, said it was coming up for the thirtieth anniversary of his mum’s
death. Maybe that’s why he’s so moody. She was killed in a car crash,
apparently. He says I look like her. I can’t help thinking that’s what attracted
Robin.’

And why did you marry
him, if you only think you love him?
Confiding in Grandpa always made her ask herself hard questions.

‘He’s nothing like you
really, Grandpa, but there’s something… I know Roy thinks he’s spoiled him,
trying to be a mother and father to him, but I can’t help thinking there’s more
to it. I’ve always wanted to try to heal wounds, and I think Robin needs
healing. The people at work think I married him for his money. I suppose, if
I’m honest, I saw him as my last chance to have a family. Robin agreed to go to
a fertility clinic with me. We’re waiting for the results.’

Are you sure a child with
Robin is what you want?

She tried to ignore the
question. She couldn’t voice her other worry: Robin’s moods had been getting
more violent and yesterday’s row had ended with him hitting her. He’d been
mortified, and she’d forgiven him, but they couldn’t go on like that. She got
to her feet. ‘Thanks for listening, Grandpa. Things always seem clearer after a
chat.’

Didn’t have much choice,
did I?
She could almost see his wry smile.

‘I wish you could have
talked to me… I mean properly, when I was a child. I hated it when you were
quiet and sad. I wanted to make you smile. I know there was something you
wanted to tell me, Grandpa. What was it?’

The voice in her head stayed
silent. She patted the top of the stone. ‘Talk to you soon, Grandpa. Love you.’

***

The brick floor of the workshop was swept
clean. A dark stain, where coal had heaped against the corner, was like
long-dried blood: the coal-hammer lay on the floor, the weapon of death. Not
needed now: Gran and Mum’s new bungalow had gas fires. On the walls only the
nails remained, once hung with tools, overalls,
a
tin
bath. This was where Charlotte belonged, where she’d always felt comfortable,
accepted, but her future lay elsewhere. She turned on her heel. Grandpa was
never coming back. Alone in the house where she’d grown up, she wandered from
room to room.

This was where Grandpa’s
chair stood. Here they’d played games and hunted for treasure on wet
afternoons. The larder still smelled of fresh bread, and the hearth in the back
room of cold ash, as the other rooms smelled of childhood. She unplugged the
vacuum and stood it by the front door. For this house life had ceased.

She jotted the meter
readings on the back of her hand. A box hid behind cobwebs on the shelf next to
the electricity meter. She eased it forward with one hand, sneezing from the
dust of years, and caught the box as it fell. It bore an address label though
she couldn’t read it. Gran would know what it was. She put it in the car with
the cleaning materials and closed the front door with a soft click of finality.

 The removal lorry was
still outside the bungalow when she arrived. She found Mum in the kitchen
filling a row of mugs. She held out her hand. ‘Meter readings.’

‘Thanks, love.’ Mum poured
her a mug of tea. ‘The removal men are on the last boxes now. Grant and Robin
have worked liked slaves.’

‘Where is Robin?’

‘Fetching fish and chips.’

Gran held out her arms for
Lucy’s baby. ‘It doesn’t seem five minutes since you were both Duncan’s age.
Walt was never happier than when he was playing with you two.’

‘I still miss him, Gran.’
She plumped a cushion.

Gran’s dimples deepened. She
patted a book that had escaped being packed with the others. ‘I found this old
library book…’

She picked it up.
Out of
Chaos: A Classical Treatise
. The date on the library flyleaf was January
1985… just before Grandpa’s death. ‘They won’t still be adding to the fines on
this. I’ll post it back to them if you like, but I expect they’ll only sell it
as obsolete.’

‘You’re probably right.’

She put the package on the
sofa beside Gran. ‘This was by the electricity meter.’

Gran frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘I thought you’d know.’

‘See what’s inside.’

She rubbed a finger over the
broken wax seal. ‘WWB… Grandpa’s mark, like the one on Dobbin. The post-office
franking stamp is 1978.’
Opened and officially resealed…
She slit the
post-office tape with a fingernail and pulled out something wrapped in yellowed
newspaper. It was a carving. It defied all the normal principles of design with
its oddly geometric base and writhing flames. Weird, confusing. She handed it
to Gran. ‘It’s… beautiful.’

Gran turned it in her hands.
‘Walt must have made it. It’s stood on that shelf for over thirty years.’ She
smiled. ‘Says something about my housework. Someone would have commissioned him
to carve it…’ She paused and her expression became thoughtful. ‘Or maybe it was
something he had to express… something he needed to get out. The war…’

Mum fidgeted. ‘The blitz…
memories of a fire? It looks like the flames of hell.’

'Lucy took it from Gran’s
outstretched hand. ‘It gives me the creeps.’

Gran’s thin lips made a
line, as if dredging long-forgotten memories. ‘He had burn scars on his arms
when I first met him. They faded, but the nightmares didn’t.’

Mum glanced at Gran but
didn’t comment. She held up a slip of paper. ‘This note was in the box. It says
the carving is on loan for ninety-nine years, to honour the memory of the victims
of war. It’s to be returned to Harris, Harris and Mason in Northampton then, or
before that if they aren’t able to display it.’

Gran frowned. ‘Never heard
of them. Does it say where it was supposed to be displayed?’

Lucy brushed dust from the
label. ‘The writing’s illegible.’

‘Would one of you girls like
to have it?’

It was a link to Grandpa.
‘I’ll take it if Lucy doesn’t want it.’ 

Lucy handed it to her.
‘You’re welcome to it.’ 

‘You must write it into your
will, Charlotte,’ Gran said. ‘I wouldn’t like it to go to strangers.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She placed
it back in its box; Mum had described it perfectly… The Flames of Hell.

***

Charlotte stared at the blank screen. She’d
lost the lot… hours of work. ‘Damn, bugger, f…’

‘Isn’t it time you went
home, Charlotte?’ Roy’s hand on her shoulder prevented her from further
obscenities. ‘Is this new software still giving you trouble?’

‘No… I’m getting the hang of
it.’

He frowned. ‘You’re pushing
yourself too hard. Robin’s right. This account is too much for you.’

‘I’m tired, that’s all. It
was a hectic weekend. I can do this…’

Roy tapped his fingers on
the desk. ‘So convince me.’

‘I can see the potential of
this software. Matthew Peters wants basic graphics for his starter homes, but I
have my eyes on his proposed executive development. I can give him 3D interiors
with rotatable views and walk-throughs, programme in a choice of garden plans,
room lay-outs, flooring options, designer kitchens and bathrooms, colour
schemes… all for people to customise on-line with a few clicks of the mouse.’

‘They can turn a house into
a home…’

‘I can even park a virtual
Porsche in every driveway, put a cot in the nursery, and drape a blazer bearing
the badge of the best school over the back of a dining chair.’

‘Selling the dream always
was your forte.’ Roy laughed. ‘Okay, give it a go. Now get off home to your
husband and don’t come in too early in the morning.’

She smiled at his wink. ‘I
know… there are more important things than Peters and Partners. So Robin keeps
telling me.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

‘See you, Roy.’ Working all
hours and worrying about test results from the clinic had taken its toll. Her
head thumped. She stopped to pick up a takeaway: Robin would have to make do
with fish and chips for once.

His car straddled the drive.
She could hear the row before it started.
How much longer is this contract
going to take?  It isn’t men who run out of time…
Tonight, she was too
tired to care.  The house was silent. ‘Robin?’ No answer.

She poured a vodka and
tonic. Judging by the half-empty bottle of red wine on the counter, Robin was
celebrating a successful meeting with his afternoon client: hopefully, he’d be
in a good mood.

She took her drink into the
lounge. Robin’s lanky frame slumped on the sofa, his dark hair ruffled, tie askew,
and a half-empty whisky bottle on the table beside him. She plucked his suit
jacket from the floor and sat beside him. This was more than the result of a
bad meeting.

She pushed aside her own
exhaustion. ‘Do you want to talk about her?’

He avoided eye contact.

‘Roy told me it was this
time of year.’

‘Leave it.’

She reached for his hand.
‘Thirty years is a long time, but I understand about your
mum.
I still miss Grandpa. They’d want us to be happy, Robin. Maybe we should both
learn to let go.’

His dark eyes burned. ‘Let
go? It was my fault. Don’t you understand that? I killed her and Simon.’

‘Simon?’

‘My baby brother ‘

‘I didn’t know you had a
brother. I’m sorry.’

‘Dad doesn’t talk about
them.’

‘He said it was a car
accident. Accidents happen. You can’t blame yourself.’

He poured another drink and
downed it in one.

‘Drinking won’t make it go
away, Robin. Talk to me... please.’

‘Why? Can you make me nine
again so I can put things right?’ He got up from the sofa and steadied himself
with a hand on the mantelpiece. ‘Did Dad tell you he doesn’t blame me? Of
course he blames me. I see it every time he looks at me.’

‘He didn’t say. You need to
speak to him about this. He needs to talk too.’ She stood in front of him,
trying to tread on eggshells… wearing hobnail boots. ‘You have to look to the
future. Think about the son we might have, or a daughter, maybe both.’

He gripped her wrist and
thrust her away, making her fall against the sofa. He glared down at her. ‘I
went to see Dr Rogers for the test results. We can’t have children, Charlotte.’