The Tailor's Girl Page 4

  ‘Has no one claimed them?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Smith, Green and Brown have already been returned to loving families.’

  ‘And Mr Jones?’

  ‘Completely lost. He has no memory of who he is.’ She blinked into the distance. ‘Funnily enough, he’s the one that I was thinking bore a curious echo to your dashing-looking friend.’ She smiled at the young woman who seemed pleased by the compliment. ‘Can I see that photo again, please?’

  Miss Aubrey-Finch handed her the photograph once more and Sister Bolton studied it before biting her lip. ‘You know, it could be him. Similar height, build . . .’

  Sister Bolton heard her visitor give a soft gasp of hope.

  She continued. ‘He has no memory since he regained consciousness. We believe he was hurt in late 1917 at Ypres, transferred to various places and institutions, finally coming to us a few months ago.’

  ‘He last wrote to me from Flanders! Lex is here?’ the young woman exclaimed, tears arriving helplessly. She clamped a hand to her masked mouth. ‘Really?’ she added in a tremulous voice.

  Sister Bolton straightened. ‘No, I am not sure about that at all, Miss Aubrey-Finch. Please do not get your hopes too high. But there’s something about this fellow in your photo. Mr Jones refuses to shave his beard for some reason. I spoke to him barely an hour ago. Let me find Nan, who knows him best. Wait here, dear. I don’t understand why he isn’t at the party.’ She turned back to the dining room and spied Nancy sipping a ginger beer and giggling with two of the patients.

  Sister Bolton strode over to the trio. ‘Excuse me. Nan, where is Mr Jones?’

  Nan’s expression clouded with bewilderment. Sister Bolton waited.

  ‘Er, I left him in the garden.’ Nan frowned. ‘He was dressed in good clothes,’ she continued, thinking back over her morning.

  ‘Yes, I spoke to him. He said he’d see me at the party.’

  Nancy’s expression lost its amusement. ‘Is he in his ward?’

  ‘Go check, quickly. I have a visitor with a photograph of someone who bears a resemblance. Let’s not miss an opportunity to find his family.’

  _______________

  While Sister Bolton returned to calm Penelope Aubrey-Finch’s rising hopes, Nan hurried back to the ward where Jonesy lived alone these days, and as her sinking heart suggested, she found it empty. He’d been in a slightly strange mood this morning – more of the bad dreams had disturbed his sleep and he had seemed curiously quiet, almost wistful, when she’d done her early rounds.

  He’d promised he’d shake a leg with her on the makeshift dance floor in the dining room if she played something bright on the gramophone. Had he deliberately misled her? She didn’t think he would lie to her face – didn’t think he’d lie at all. But why would he disappear today? What was so special about today that might prompt him to walk out of the hospital? She checked in all the bathrooms, spare rooms; even ducked out into the gardens in case he was moping in a drenched nook somewhere, but she came up wanting. Nancy returned to the waiting women with a haunted expression and hated the way the beautiful visitor’s expression brightened eagerly.

  ‘Well?’ Sister Bolton demanded.

  ‘I can’t find him anywhere, Sister. I think Jones may have left the hospital.’

  She watched Sister Bolton close her eyes momentarily with frustration. ‘The side gate. We kept it unlocked for small deliveries. It was so rarely used.’

  Nan nodded. ‘I think that’s exactly what’s happened, Sister. His ward windows look out that way. He’s been watching people come and go for months.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ their guest said, her gaze darting wildly between them. ‘He’s escaped?’

  ‘Escaped?’ Sister Bolton repeated and couldn’t fully mask the incredulity in her voice. ‘No, my dear. Our patients are not prisoners. I presume he has exercised his right to discharge himself and has chosen to make our lives more difficult by ignoring the paperwork.’

  ‘Where would he go?’

  Nan shook her head. ‘To my knowledge he’d never even looked beyond the privet hedge. He was traumatised, Miss, he had no memory, and was terribly haunted by nightmares. I would never have thought Jonesy . . . er, Mr Jones, would leave the hospital grounds without aid or encouragement.’ Or without saying goodbye, she thought forlornly, trying not to consider the small candle she carried for him.

  ‘You said he was shellshocked. Is that the word you used, Sister Bolton?’ their visitor asked.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. He may not show visible wounds, but he’s injured nonetheless.’

  ‘He has a slight limp too,’ Nan added. ‘Shrapnel wound that’s healed but left its scar.’

  ‘But he could be anywhere!’ Miss Aubrey-Finch exclaimed, and they could see how hard she fought to retain her composure.

  ‘Come with me, dear. What we need is a cup of tea for your shock and then we’ll see what can be done.’ Sister Bolton led the finely dressed woman away and Nan was left feeling hollow. She didn’t even know if the weeping beauty was Jones’s wife but she had been right about one thing – the patient she’d fallen for had been no regular Tommy.

  3

  They alighted the bus at the terminus and set off in the direction of the town of Golders Green.

  ‘That’s a nice smell,’ Tom remarked, sniffing the air.

  ‘Bagels,’ Edie replied.

  ‘What is a bagel?’

  She laughed. ‘I suspect you’ll find out later. I’ll let it be a surprise.’ She pointed. ‘Down this way.’

  ‘Where’s your mother, Edie?’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Edie shrugged. ‘It’s all right. I never knew her so in a way I’m lucky that I don’t have to miss her as we do Daniel.’

  ‘You and your father sound very close.’

  ‘We are. And now we . . .’ She stopped whatever she was going to say. ‘We have to head across the High Street and then we’re home,’ she said.

  ‘Home?’ He looked surprised to be staring at a main street ahead, with mansion apartments above the stores.

  ‘It’s quite a large apartment above the shop.’

  Edie had begun walking but Tom lagged, still staring into the distance at the row of mansion apartments, when a lorry drove by through a large puddle. It kicked up a torrent and splashed the back of him. He yelped and Edie found it impossible not to explode into laughter.

  Tom grinned. ‘Not very heroic for a returned soldier, am I?’

  ‘We must hurry and get you out of those wet things. You really will freeze.’

  They scuttled along, holding on to each other once more as the clouds chose that moment to burst again. There was no point in opening an umbrella. With slitted eyes to the deluge, they ran, finally making it into the High Street that was bustling with people despite the inclement weather. She pushed into a dark shop and a bell rang distantly.

  ‘Abba?’

  A smallish, round man emerged from a doorway behind a counter. Silver-haired and with a luxuriant beard to match, he smiled at the arrival of his drenched daughter but his expression clouded as he caught sight of her companion. ‘We have a visitor?’

  Breathless, Edie hurried to kiss her father. ‘Abba, this is Mr Thomas Jones. He’s . . . er, he’s a returned serviceman from the front.’

  His manners overcame his reserve and he crossed the floor to shake hands. ‘Mr Jones. I am Abraham Valentine.’

  ‘Mr Valentine,’ Tom replied, bowing slightly as he shook his elder’s hand. He sensed the awkwardness immediately and needed to save Edie any tension with her father. ‘Forgive me, Sir. Your kind daughter took pity on a stray in the rain, I’m afraid. I promise I will not interrupt you longer than a few minutes to dry off slightly.’

  ‘Abba, I’ll explain. Let me get Mr Jones out of his wet clothes and —’

  Valentine’s bemused expression intensified. ‘Why don’t I help our visitor out of his wet things, Edie, my dear, and yo
u can perhaps make us a pot of tea?’

  ‘Of course,’ Edie said, cutting Tom a look of soft apology.

  ‘Come with me,’ the older man offered. Tom allowed himself to be led into the back of the shop, where patterns hung from pegs with names of people scrawled on them, and bolts of cloths and barrels of buttons were piled high. Threads and yarns and an assortment of odd-looking tools hung from hooks as did a range of huge scissors. He smelled wool and found it deeply comforting but didn’t know why. ‘Now, let me see. What can we find you?’ Valentine pointed. ‘Why don’t you shrug off those wet things over there, while I hunt down some garments? You’re a 34-inch waist normally, I suspect, but you look like you’ve got some pounds to put on yet to reach that. I’ll see if I have something in 32. And a jacket? Mmm, leave it with me.’ He disappeared around a corner and a door closed softly. Above, he heard floorboards creak as Edie presumably moved around in the family’s apartment.

  Then he could make out muted voices: Edie’s sounding beseeching while her father’s sounded grave. It seemed he hadn’t been able to save Edie the interrogation.

  _______________

  Upstairs, Abraham Valentine regarded his daughter with amazement. ‘He’s a perfect stranger and you’re an engaged woman!’

  ‘He needed help, Abba,’ Edie appealed.

  ‘But he was in hospital. Worse, he’s a mental patient, I now learn!’

  ‘No, that’s not what I —’

  ‘Why would your help be best?’

  ‘He needed to escape.’ Edie knew that came out wrong. But it was too late. Her father’s gaze had already widened.

  ‘Escape?’

  ‘He was trapped in his loss of memory, I meant. He says he needs to find out about himself, perhaps start tracing where he came from, find his family.’

  ‘Which, presumably, a military hospital was already doing on his behalf!’

  ‘He’d been there five months with no news,’ she bleated, returning to making the tea, so her father might miss how upset she was. She wondered if Tom could hear what they were saying.

  ‘Daughter, what makes you think you can help where the whole military bureaucracy of Britain cannot . . . hmm?’

  She rounded on him but kept her expression even. Abba never responded well to exasperation. Calm was her only ally. Edie spoke softly. ‘I didn’t set out with the intention to help him trace his roots. I followed your creed that if someone asks for my help, I should give it. He asked. I simply allowed him to accompany me out of the hospital grounds.’

  She watched her father’s expression soften and hurried on.

  ‘It was raining. The bus backfired loudly,’ she said, remembering how traumatised Tom had looked; how his gaze had momentarily been so far away. ‘And I noticed how it upset him. You’ve heard of shellshock?’

  He nodded.

  ‘That’s what Tom is suffering from, I gather.’

  She saw her father’s eyebrow arch at the familiar use of their guest’s name.

  ‘And the bus backfiring disturbed him enough that I simply could not leave him where he cringed, drenched and forlorn. I suggested he come home because I thought you’d know what to do. I said you would help.’

  He nodded. ‘And so I will, as you knew I would. Set the tea tray in the sitting room. I shall bring him up.’

  She moved to hug her father. ‘Thank you. He’s terribly grateful and polite, Abba.’

  ‘They all are, my beloved,’ he murmured and kissed her head. She frowned as she watched him move down the hallway towards Daniel’s old room but didn’t linger, realising Tom had been left too long already.

  _______________

  Downstairs, feeling faintly ridiculous, Tom stood in his shirt, which the damp hadn’t reached, and socks and underwear provided by the hospital. Both were itchy. Finally Valentine arrived holding two suits.

  ‘They will both fit. Which do you prefer?’ he asked.

  Tom appeared taken aback by having the choice. ‘Er, the darker one, I think.’

  ‘You have good taste, Mr Jones. This is made from the finest merino wool that money can buy.’

  He assumed Valentine wanted him to appreciate this fact so he touched the sleeve and felt the soft, fine yarn. ‘It’s excellent. One hundred crimps per inch?’

  Valentine stared at him with astonishment and Tom shrugged. ‘I have absolutely no idea why I should ask such a question. Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘Not at all. In fact, it’s rather enlightening. Here, please try it on.’ He offered the suit.

  The trousers were a perfect fit, the length only a shade too short.

  ‘I’ll drop that hem in a few minutes for you, son. I’m told you’re recovering from war wounds,’ he remarked, twisting Tom gently to regard the seat of the trousers.

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘Well, these will fit your waist for now but they won’t as your health improves. Your chest size attests to that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Tom admitted, dipping an arm into the jacket sleeve that Valentine expertly slipped onto his shoulders, habitually drawing both hands across as if to straighten the cloth and remove any stray lint.

  ‘Yes, snug, as I presumed,’ Valentine remarked. ‘This was made for someone who had a 32-inch waist and a 37-inch chest. You are 34 and 40 for future reference.’

  ‘I am more than grateful to use it until my suit dries.’

  ‘I wish you to have it. Let us say it is a gift from a grateful family to a brave soldier who may even have fought alongside its favourite son.’

  Tom blinked.

  ‘It can set you on your way forward so you look spruce and ready for the challenges ahead. Now, come, my daughter is laying out some tea for us.’

  Tom, surprised by the generosity but not game to argue, duly followed Valentine upstairs and emerged into a dim but not in­elegant sitting room, where Edie looked up from laying out items from a tray. Her expression changed from a welcome smile to surprise and he realised it was because of his new clothes.

  ‘Abba . . . are you sure?’ she said, cutting an anxious glance at her father, who was already seating himself.

  ‘Daniel has no further need for it,’ he replied. ‘Now, I’m guessing Jones is not your real name,’ he said, inviting him with a wave to make himself comfortable.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Edie has told me what she can about your situation, but why don’t you explain?’ he said, eyes genial but not fully able to disguise his suspicion. He gestured to Edie and as she began to pour the tea, Tom had no choice but to tell Valentine his life story, which consisted of only five months of dull routine, all of its dreary nights spent in a hospital bed anguishing over lost memories.

  4

  Valentine had sat silent, listening to the man who was interrupting an otherwise uneventful life that Abe had deliberately carved, minute by terrible minute, since that dark day four years ago when news had reached them of Daniel’s death. His beautiful, bright, intelligent son, who hurt no one and yet felt it was his duty to take up arms and defend the country that had given his family a home two generations earlier.

  Sir. It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office notifying the death of . . . He hadn’t read on. He had left the pale-eyed lad who had delivered the telegram with Edie. His daughter and the telegram boy stood on either side of the door watching him turn his back on them.

  He recalled now how he’d been so unable – no doubt unwilling – to absorb the enormity of what he’d read in that opening sentence that he’d shocked Edie by wordlessly going straight into the backroom to begin cutting a pattern. If he could lose himself in the comforting sound of the shears slicing through good cloth, kicking up the chalk as he followed the soothing white lines of his work, maybe he could lose the truth of that telegram. Those markings never let him down – they always guided him; they were dependable. And then a small voice had spoken to him. They can be rubbed away, it said. Like Daniel.

  Daniel
had been as reliable and solid as Abe’s white chalk and yet he’d been equally vulnerable, when a German bullet from a strafing machine gun had caught him in the neck, they later learned. On the days when Abe felt bright he rationalised that Daniel was lucky to suffer instant death: no pain, no limbs cut away, no shock of blood loss or mates comforting him with hollow words as he slipped away. One moment his boy had been vital, full of life; the next his son was gone, his body an empty vessel like the spent cartridges that littered the death fields.

  ‘Hmm?’ he said, looking up from his saucer, roused from his memories.

  ‘Abba. Are you listening?’ Edie repeated, frowning with concern.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course,’ he replied. He sipped the dregs of his tea and as he placed his cup and saucer back down on the small side table next to his armchair he plucked a tea leaf from his tongue. Right away, he wished he hadn’t. His long-dead wife, Nina, had maintained such a thing was an omen. Apparently her eldest aunt had possessed the ‘sight’ and one of her notions was that to remove a tea leaf from one’s mouth should prompt a forewarning. He remembered Nina’s whimsical remark that followed: ‘Esther would say that whoever has come into your life or whatever you are doing at that moment has important resonance. Don’t ignore it.’

  Why had he plucked that tea leaf off his tongue? Now he felt obliged to pay more notice to the mysterious Tom or defy Nina. And one never defied Nina. But why now, my love? he pleaded silently. Why with this gentile stranger whom his soon-to-be-married daughter clearly found as irresistible as a homeless puppy?

  ‘Why were you not in the Friern Barnet Mental Asylum?’ Abe suddenly piped up.

  He knew his daughter bristled at the query but watched their guest smile without, apparently, taking offence and begin explaining in the softly spoken way he had. Abe stared at the man seated opposite. He was taller than Daniel, who was an inch shy of six feet. Although Jones claimed to have no memory, he was not without self-possession. He sat straight-backed but to some degree relaxed, as if not intimidated by this audience. He was respectful but Abe decided that this respect was being accorded simply to his elder rather than to someone he considered his superior.