The Tailor's Girl Page 3

  He folded the coin back into her gloved hand, shaking his head with a sad smile. ‘I shall be —’ The bus suddenly backfired loudly and accelerated towards the pavement. In that split second, Jones crouched and covered his arms over his head.

  Edie leaned down. ‘Mr Jones?’ He said nothing but she heard him groan; her pity went out to him. She grasped what the explosion had provoked. ‘I think you’d better come with me.’ At his look of mystification, she added, ‘Please. I can’t leave you here.’

  Jones allowed her to take his hand and lead him onto the bus. Even though she didn’t relish being open to the inclement weather, Edie presumed he wouldn’t want to be crowded by other passengers.

  ‘Upstairs all right?’

  He nodded, looking suddenly grey. Edie guided him up the stairs into the rain and to the back where they were alone.

  ‘Take some deep breaths,’ she urged when she noted his forehead looked damp from anxiety rather than rain.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured, staring at the seat in front. ‘I thought I was ready. I don’t even know what I’m scared of. My memory won’t tell me. I just reacted. Habit, I suppose.’

  The rain eased off to a drizzle and then stopped almost as fast as it had arrived.

  ‘It’s perfectly understandable,’ she assured as she shook out her umbrella and closed it. ‘And although I don’t know much about it, we’ve all heard how ugly it was in the trenches and on the front line. I imagine you were ducking for cover constantly. You have to give yourself time to heal, but also for your mind and body to accept we’re in peacetime now. Perhaps for a while every backfire, every loud crack or voice, will disturb you.’ She squeezed his arm, which was pushed against her. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ Edie soothed above the rumbling noise of the bus as it jerked forward.

  ‘I feel I have burdened you, Miss Valentine.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said, helplessly pinioned by his sad gaze, looking out from the darkest of blue eyes. She wondered what on earth she was going to do with him, but she knew now that she couldn’t just walk away from Mr Jones. She had to acknowledge that neither did she want to walk away from this handsome, somewhat helpless, fellow. ‘Does it help to talk?’

  ‘I don’t know. Talking is all I seem to do, but it’s all meaningless.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I’d give anything to talk to Daniel again. And there are people out there who must feel the same way about you. Please don’t lose heart.’

  He finally turned to look at her. ‘Thank you, Miss Valentine. I shan’t.’

  ‘Call me Edie.’

  ‘Then you must call me Jones.’

  They shared an amused glance.

  A notion occurred to Edie. ‘Don’t think about this too hard, but why don’t you just say the first man’s name that comes into your head?’

  He hesitated only for a heartbeat as he listened. ‘Thomas,’ he said, and then frowned.

  ‘Thomas?’ she repeated, as though testing it against him. ‘I wonder why.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You don’t look like a Thomas, but I think Tom might suit you.’

  ‘Tom,’ he repeated. ‘Why, yes, it sounds rather cheerful and I like it.’

  ‘Does it sound familiar?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sound? No.’ Edie let out a silent breath of disappointment. ‘But curiously, there’s something about it that feels vaguely familiar.’

  ‘Really?’ She brightened, beaming at him.

  ‘Yes. Although don’t ask me to explain it.’

  ‘Then Tom you shall be, unless formal introductions are called for, and maybe if we keep that name close, it may come back to you why it was your first choice. It’s a beginning, don’t you see?’

  ‘You are very good for me, Edie. Why didn’t the hospital suggest that?’

  ‘I’m no doctor.’ She leaned close to whisper. ‘But I do think women are more practical.’

  He smiled. ‘Where will you drop me off?’

  ‘I’m not going to drop you anywhere. I’m taking you home with me to meet my father.’ It had slipped out before she’d given herself time to consider it. Tom was like a lost, needy animal. If she didn’t help him, who would? And she had agreed to get him out of the hospital, after all.

  And why else? The question was posed in her mind in her father’s voice. She ignored it.

  Tom stared at her as though she’d suddenly broken out into a strange language. ‘But why?’

  She shrugged. ‘I feel responsible.’

  ‘You shouldn’t. I coerced you. You’ve done enough.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t be happy to let you continue until you’ve acclimatised a little more to the – um – the outside world. Abba . . . my father, is a wise man. He’ll know what to do. Perhaps you need to be with friends at least for a night. He won’t mind.’

  ‘Friends. That sounds so nice and normal.’

  ‘You are normal, Tom. You’re just wounded. Your mind has been hurt in the same way that another soldier’s arm or leg has been.’

  The conductor arrived. ‘Afternoon.’ Then he frowned. ‘Is it afternoon? Who can tell with these grey skies?’

  ‘Two, please,’ Edie said, handing over her threepence.

  ‘Thanks, luv.’ The conductor’s gaze lingered on Edie as he handed her two tickets before he wandered off.

  ‘Should I punch him on the nose, do you think?’

  She smiled self-consciously. ‘Even a year ago that conductor would have been a woman. I’m sure women miss their roles, now that men have returned.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine they must have felt great freedom and now must return to their lives at home.’

  She nodded – he spoke the truth – but in her mind she heard the word ‘prison’ rather than ‘lives’.

  ‘He has the wasted and haunted look of a returned soldier,’ Tom continued.

  ‘How can you tell . . . I mean, without memory to clue you?’

  ‘A logical question. Perhaps it’s simply because his conductor’s uniform swamps him and I’m drawing a conclusion, right or wrong.’ He narrowed his gaze. ‘But didn’t you see that look in his eyes?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Desperate for companionship, but distant . . . somehow unsettled?’

  Edie shrugged. ‘I didn’t, I must admit.’

  ‘I believe I’ve seen that look a thousand times over, or so my gut tells me. I probably possess it too.’

  ‘You’re very handsome and not at all distant,’ she assured, and then felt her cheeks warm uncomfortably. He gave her a sideways glance but said nothing, turning instead to look at passing traffic, which was thickening as they skirted London central and then bypassed it.

  ‘Evening News, Schweppes Water, Oakey’s Knife Polish, Claymore Whisky, Iron Jelloids . . .’ he recited softly.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just reading the advertisements on the other buses. It’s hard to believe a war has just finished. It all looks so colourful and bright.’

  Edie didn’t believe much looked bright in the depths of November at all but perhaps everything would after the trenches. ‘Anything ring a bell?’

  ‘The whisky, maybe.’ He grinned disarmingly and Edie knew that even in the short time she’d spent with this man, his charm was infectious. There was something about his straight bearing, his careful, courteous manner and his quiet way of speaking that she found attractive.

  ‘Well, Golders Green is the end of the line, so just take in the sights. You never know.’

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  She smiled and shook her head as he reached into his pocket. ‘But my father might.’

  He struck a match and lit the cigarette he’d tapped out of a small packet. There was only one remaining. ‘I shall make this my last, then,’ he said, with no tone of regret.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘New beginnings. Everything about today feels new and I want to feel as though I’ve started a new life.’ He
took a final long drag before casually flicking it away.

  They travelled in near silence for the rest of the journey, although Edie became all too aware of the warmth that connected them, through his common carded wool flannel suit to her more expensively woven yarn suit. There was a burn like a Catherine wheel firework hissing between them, except this one was spinning and spitting invisible sparks inside her. It felt dangerously exciting.

  _______________

  A petite woman, striking in her deep crimson coat, alighted from a taxi outside Edmonton Hospital’s main gate and asked the driver to wait. As she approached the entrance, observers would have noticed that the visitor was as daring in her design as in colour, for the coat was actually a cape fastened with an oversized button on one side. A narrow, midnight-blue skirt emerged from beneath it to land above her ankles, and her gloved hand reached instinctively to her navy broad-brimmed hat as a gust of wind threatened to unseat it from Apollo-golden hair, which was neatly parted and pinned around both ears.

  At the hospital reception she was told that the Peace Party was underway for the patients. When she said she was seeking one in particular – a gentleman, one of the returned soldiers – she was asked to wait.

  Sister Bolton was just tipping a beaker of warmed elder cordial to her lips when she was called to the nurses’ station. She tried not to roll her eyes.

  ‘Who wants me?’

  ‘I was asked by Miss Fairview to find you.’

  ‘Why?’

  The girl looked ready to shrug but caught herself in time. ‘I’m not sure, Sister. I think she might have mentioned an important visitor.’

  ‘Very well. Run along, Smith.’

  Bolton strode towards reception, her lips helplessly pursed at being pulled away from the celebrations she hoped would breathe some happiness into the depressed lives of her returned soldiers as they healed, convalesced and tried to forget what they had ex­perienced on the battlefields of Europe. So many were still recovering from serious injuries, and most were facing the worse battle of trying to recover from much deeper scars, which even her determined team and its care might never heal.

  She arrived in the main lobby to be introduced to a young woman who smelled of exquisite spiced floral perfume and was dressed so expensively she was almost convinced a curtsey might be due.

  ‘Oh, hello, Sister Bolton,’ the woman said and her effortless greeting persuaded Sister that the visitor cared not about social status. ‘I was told you were the person I should talk to.’ The beam of the visitor’s smile warmed up the frost that had settled about Emilia Bolton. ‘I’m Penelope Aubrey-Finch.’

  ‘Miss Aubrey-Finch.’ Sister Bolton nodded, and shook the navy-gloved hand, feeling the caress of softest kid against her skin. ‘How can I help?’ Her gaze flicked to a young man who’d lost the best part of both legs, amputated at a field hospital during the Battle of the Somme. She watched her patient being pushed in a wheelchair to join the party before returning her attention to Miss Aubrey-Finch, mindful of not letting it rudely wander again.

  ‘. . . and I’ve been searching all the military hospitals and establishments where returning injured soldiers have been brought,’ she said.

  Sister Bolton understood. ‘Of course. Your father? Brother?’ she said.

  ‘Neither, actually. An extremely distant cousin,’ she said, then added, ‘So distant as to be more like a friend than blood . . . um, a very special friend.’

  The elder woman found an encouraging smile for her, understanding immediately the toll that these sorts of searches took on the families. So much hope, yet potential despair waiting at every turn.

  ‘And clearly an important one if you have taken so much care in hunting him down.’ She watched the young woman falter. Penelope Aubrey-Finch struck her as exquisitely beautiful – like a fragile butterfly – and it occurred to Sister Bolton to wonder why such a young woman was here alone on this mission. ‘Did anyone accompany you?’

  Miss Aubrey-Finch smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I’ve taken it upon myself to find cousin Lex. I have a car waiting.’

  ‘Lex?’ She frowned. ‘You can leave your umbrella here to dry off. Come with me.’ She called by the reception to request a mask, which she handed to her wealthy visitor. ‘It’s a precaution only, but may I suggest you wear this? Influenza is rife and we do suggest it for all our visitors.’

  The woman nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m getting quite used to covering my face,’ she said, impressively unperturbed by the caution.

  ‘You’d make a fine nurse,’ Sister Bolton remarked as she gestured for her guest to follow.

  Penelope Aubrey-Finch fell in step and as they walked the corridors they discussed her journey from Belgravia, where her parents were spending the festive season. ‘My family home is in York but I schooled in London and Switzerland, and I guess I feel more comfortable in the south.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sister Bolton replied, imagining the privileged life of this young woman who could barely be past twenty, but Miss Aubrey-Finch and her heady fragrance, immaculate clothes, fine manners and especially her bright, engaging way was extremely hard to dislike.

  ‘. . . given up, except me. I believe with all of my heart that he’s still alive, perhaps injured.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She led her visitor into the ‘dining room’ – as the nurses called it – which had become the main undercover venue for the Peace Party, although it was thinning out now that the rain had stopped and people had headed into the gardens to spot the freedom balloons that had been released.

  ‘Here, my dear. All but the sickest of our soldiers are gathered. Do you recognise your cousin? I have to warn you, though, we have no one here called Lex.’

  Miss Aubrey-Finch paused carefully before each of the men, and shared a kind word or two before she moved on to the next. Sister Bolton was impressed by the young woman’s composure but especially how magnanimous she seemed in making sure her friendliness fell upon each soldier, some with legs in bandages or arms in slings, others with their heads still wrapped in linens or eyes covered with patches. She noticed their visitor didn’t flinch as she met each and all the patients. The men were left grinning as their visitor returned to the nurse with a shrug. Yes, indeed, a fine nurse this one would make.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Sister Bolton said when it was obvious the distant cousin was not amongst the men.

  ‘Don’t be. You’ve been so kind to allow me to interrupt a special day,’ Miss Aubrey-Finch replied, her eyes misty but her voice steady. She pulled away her mask.

  ‘Believe me, dear, we don’t mind interruptions such as yours. If I could send any one of these men home today with you, it would be my best Christmas present ever.’

  Her companion smiled. ‘Thank you. I wish I could take them all home and see them laughing again.’

  ‘We can visit the ward next. There are two . . . er, no, three other men, too unwell to attend the party.’

  Miss Aubrey-Finch brightened. ‘Thank you.’ She slipped her mask back on as she followed Sister Bolton.

  More disappointment followed as the three patients predic­tably were not the cousin she sought. ‘Sincere thanks, all the same,’ she said and shook Sister Bolton’s hand again, this time without gloves, and the older woman noticed her companion’s hand was soft and unmarked, her nails perfectly kept and buffed until they shone.

  ‘I do wish I could have brought joy to your family’s Christmas, Miss Aubrey-Finch.’

  Penelope gave a sad smile. ‘The perfect Christmas gift.’

  ‘Don’t get disheartened. I applaud your determination. If he’s alive, you will find him.’ She had to ask. ‘Is he your fiancé?’

  Penelope Aubrey-Finch shook her head. ‘No, Sister, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t hope for that to be the case.’ The older woman noticed a shadow ghost across the young woman’s open face. ‘There’s never been anyone else for me.’

  ‘Well, perhaps leave a description and a photograph
or a —’

  ‘Oh, heavens! I brought one. I quite forgot.’ She rummaged in a satin side pocket within the small, navy leather bag where she’d slung her gloves. ‘Here,’ she said with a sigh. ‘That’s him.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a few years old now, and Lex always loathed having a photo taken —’

  Sister Bolton took the photo and stared at the figure her companion pointed to. She blinked and frowned, then shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, but . . .’ She hesitated.

  ‘What is it? Do you know him?’ her companion pleaded.

  The older woman’s expression became thoughtful before she shook her head in slight frustration. ‘I don’t recognise this man, I have to be honest . . . but there’s just something familiar about him. I don’t know what it is – the shape of his head or just the way he’s got it slightly cocked to one side like that. I . . .’ She gave a soft sigh. ‘I really can’t say.’

  Her visitor gave a small groan. ‘It’s not a great photo, I’ll admit, especially being a more distant group shot and everyone in tennis whites.’ She shrugged. ‘Happier times.’

  ‘You’ve tried all the military hospitals?’

  ‘Near enough. I have written to them all, though, and given a most detailed description of Lex.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly doing everything you can. Um . . . have you tried any of the mental institutions?’

  Miss Aubrey-Finch gave a small gasp. ‘No. Should I?’

  Sister Bolton lifted one shoulder. ‘So many of our soldiers came home wounded physically but also mentally. Take our Mr Jones, for example. That’s not his real name. It’s just what we call him.’

  Miss Aubrey-Finch regarded her in puzzlement. ‘Why?’

  ‘He is suffering from shellshock and remembers nothing, not even his name. Those with amnesia at Edmonton are arbitrarily given common surnames – we’ve had four. Mr Smith, Mr Green, Mr Brown and Mr Jones. It affects the soldiers in numerous ways. Some become moody, others completely withdraw. There are terrible night terrors and I’ve heard of some men, normally peaceful, gentle folk, turning violent without warning.’ She shook her head sadly.