The midnight house, p.33
The Midnight House, page 33
‘So you said.’ Ellie had paused on the threshold, blocking the door.
‘Just off to Kenmare for a bite to eat.’
‘With?’
‘Bernie,’ Moira said quickly – too quickly – as she opened her handbag to look for something that wasn’t there.
‘Is there an occasion?’
Moira held her hand out for the car keys. ‘Sorry, love?’
‘Is there an occasion?’
‘Oh,’ she said, turning sideways to get past her daughter. ‘Bernie’s been . . . promoted.’
‘At the charity shop?’
‘Yes,’ said Moira carefully. ‘She doesn’t want anyone to know. But I thought it might be nice to celebrate.’
Ellie grinned. Stepped aside. ‘Have a lovely time.’
She thought back to her visit to the charity shop, the afternoon she’d been given the box of books. Bernie had been visibly horrified by the thought of a promotion. She’d implied that managing Threadbare was about as appealing to her as turned milk.
And Kenmare? A forty-five-minute drive for dinner. A town full of fine restaurants. No, this was not a date with Bernie.
Now Ellie took a sip of coffee and peered over her cup, appraising her mum. ‘Nice evening?’
Moira flushed. ‘Very nice, thank you.’
Ellie waited, but Moira left it at that. ‘What did you eat?’
Moira feigned interest in the back of the milk carton. ‘Fish.’
‘Fish? What kind?’
‘Monkfish. It was delicious.’ Before Ellie could ask more questions, Moira said, ‘Would you like some eggs?’
Ellie smiled. ‘Lovely.’ She reflected as she poured her coffee just how many secrets families held, and that no matter the intent, they could not stay buried for ever.
Ellie settled down into the comfy sofa at Procaffination. It had appeared since yesterday and was tucked into the back corner of the café, nestled between two towering indoor plants. ‘Delivered last night,’ said Nils. ‘The driver, he turned up late. Très late.’
Ellie laughed. Down here on the edge of the ocean, Kerry was often forgotten about. By Dubliners, by politicians, by delivery drivers. It could take a week to receive a parcel from the next county. Nils patted the sofa and waved to – Ellie assumed – the glorious autumn day beyond.
She turned.
And saw a familiar face.
The bell chimed as Milo pushed through the door; hurried steps, a creased brow. His mind in another place. Or time. And Ellie was hit with a sudden realisation that she desired to know where. Or when.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said, surprise chased away by the ghost of a smile. Nils’s eyes flicked between them and he left quickly to busy himself elsewhere.
‘Hi.’ Ellie was annoyed at the flush that crept up her neck. She was nervous, she reasoned, about telling Milo what she’d discovered.
He pointed to the sofa. ‘May I?’
She nodded.
As he sank down next to her, the give of the plump cushions leaned them together. Casually she pushed her unopened laptop to the side, using it as an excuse to reposition herself, legs crossed, elbow piercing the armrest. Friendly but aloof. Two new acquaintances passing the time of day.
‘How was Tabby?’ said Milo.
‘She was . . . formidable.’ Your great-aunt was pregnant. She wanted to say it but didn’t know how.
‘And her house?’
She shook her head. ‘Unexpected.’
‘Old on the outside, young on the inside.’
‘Like Tabby.’
He laughed. ‘Just like Tabby.’
Nils arrived with coffees, set them down with two macaroons, on the house.
Milo picked up his cup, cradled it for warmth. Or comfort.
‘They were lovers, of course,’ Ellie said. ‘Charlotte and Tomas.’
Was that satisfaction that crossed his face? Pleasure at having played a part in unravelling the mystery? ‘It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Love crossing boundaries?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ She hesitated. ‘But their love had consequences . . .’
He frowned, and it twisted her stomach in a knot. In her excitement at the afternoon’s discoveries, she’d tried to assume ownership over Charlotte’s memory, as though she alone had an interest in finding her. When in fact Charlotte wasn’t a possession to be found. Kept. She belonged to no one.
Milo put aside his glass, the coffee half gone. ‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she?’
Ellie nodded, pleased that the words had been taken from her. Pleased that he’d come to the same conclusion as she. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call straight away. When I found out.’
He laughed, and Ellie felt the knot in her stomach unravel as though someone had tugged one end of it and, like a shoelace, it had fallen loose. ‘I don’t need daily reports, El. Don’t worry.’
She took a quick breath. Very few people called her that. El. It was intimate. But not unwelcome. She took a quick sip of her coffee to hide her confusion and . . . something else? Pleasure? ‘So we now know that Charlotte went to London, stayed with your grandmother. Then what?’
His eyes on his coffee, he said, ‘What did Tabby think?’
‘She didn’t know.’ Lulled by the warmth of the café and the sweet smell of baking bread, they settled back into the sofa to go over Charlotte’s story again. She was an aristocratic rebel who’d fallen in love with the gardener’s son. When she found out she was pregnant in 1940, her mother threatened to send her to a Magdalene Laundry. She was certain to lose her child. Tomas went to war, not by his own choice. And Charlotte saw her chance – a new identity, a new life, a child, and the intention to reunite with him once the war was over. She went to London. Sent letters back to Kerry. And then, one day, those letters simply stopped.
‘And,’ Ellie said, ‘there’s this.’ She took a photo from the back of her notebook. ‘The comb. She took it with her when she disappeared. But now it’s at Blackwater Hall. She must have returned it at some point.’
Milo frowned. ‘How do you know she took it?’
‘It was in the garda file.’
‘You’ve got the file?’
She was almost there, almost at the point when she would tell him about 1958. About the manslaughter. Ask him what he thought it meant. But she stopped herself. Thought back to Hattie. The woman knew what had happened; she’d been there and yet she’d said nothing.
‘I borrowed it,’ she said. ‘Charlotte also took a ruby ring and a necklace of pearls, found scattered near the lough.’
He almost smiled. ‘I know about those pearls.’ He nodded. ‘Grandma sold them to pay for Albert’s wedding. Hattie told me never to tell him. The horror he would have felt, money from one of Charlotte’s possessions . . .’
Ellie raised an eyebrow. ‘How much were they worth?’
‘A lot.’
Charlotte had sealed the deal by casting aside such a treasure; no one would guess that she would run away and leave behind an item that could set her up for a new life. ‘An expensive red herring.’
‘And not very subtle.’
‘No,’ said Ellie, ‘but then no one was looking for subtlety. A pregnant Charlotte – a great scandal if it had got out – was gone. And that was all that mattered.’
Milo looked into the middle distance. ‘You make my family sound rather cold.’ He cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to the clock on the far wall. ‘I have to go. House call. Tabby, would you believe?’ Ellie wondered whether it was social or professional; the two seemed as thick as thieves. When he stood, she felt an unexpected jolt of disappointment. ‘But I’d love to hear more,’ he added.
‘I’ll let you know when—’
‘Are you free tonight?’
She paused. She definitely was. But the thought of spending the evening with Milo – the thought of blurring boundaries – made her nervous. She laid her hand on her stomach, as she’d taken to doing. Let her mind linger. ‘No,’ she lied. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tonight. It’s . . .’ she grappled for a reason, ‘Mum’s birthday.’ I’m a terrible person.
‘Right,’ he said.
She flushed for the second time that day. ‘Erm . . .’
‘Not a problem.’ He smiled professionally. ‘Just an idea.’
She ventured, ‘Next time?’
‘Sure,’ he said in a way that made her wonder if there would be. But he added, ‘Say happy birthday to your mum for me.’
Moira had only met Milo once before, in passing, in the village. ‘I will,’ Ellie said with a little too much enthusiasm.
He started to go, then turned back. ‘I’m glad it’s you looking into the family history. Keep me posted.’
Guilt lay heavy in her stomach. ‘Of course.’
Then he said, so casually, so comfortably, ‘Thanks, El.’ And her heart leapt.
Ellie planned to search the UK parish databases for evidence of Tabby Deenihan. Deaths. Births. Marriages. Details. A woman couldn’t vanish into thin air; she had to leave a trace.
Caffeine was threading through her veins, focusing her mind. But her thoughts were also being pulled in other directions – how to reply to Dylan, what to do about Jeremy and Davy McCarthy – and, more surprisingly, the regret over declining a date with Milo. Or had it been a date? No. Just a catch-up between friends. Surely?
She opened her email. It was full of the usual junk, which she quickly selected, one after another, and mass-deleted. There were three messages left: one from Dylan, checking in; one from Jeremy, repeating his question (Any joy with the source?); and a third from a man called Les Mills, the head archivist at Greenwich Heritage Centre.
Ellie,
Thank you for your question regarding Tabby Deenihan. A bit of background for you:
Explosive munitions factories were split into those that made the material (manufacturing factories) and those that put the manufactured material into shell cases (filling factories). The filling factories tended to take a higher proportion of female workers, hence the large number of photographs of women in places such as the Royal Arsenal standing next to long lines of shell cases stretching far into the distance.
I can’t say for sure whether Tabby Deenihan worked there in 1940/41 without visiting the archives, but we are at present digitising thousands of images and I have run a search through the incomplete database. I hope you find the attached files useful.
She clicked on the first attachment. It was a black-and-white photo of six women standing outside a huge brick building. The vintage was immediately apparent by their Mary Jane shoes, their swing coats, the curl of their hair.
The woman at the centre of the picture held a cake with one hand, the other five gathered around her. One girl stood closer than the others. They were smiling and yet the sky behind them was grey and ominous and the ground beneath their feet dark speckled as though it had just begun to rain.
Ellie squinted and zoomed in on the image.
Behind the cake, the unmistakable swell of heavy pregnancy. And that face . . . so familiar. The high cheekbones, the tidy nose, that cheeky grin. And yes . . . there they were: dimples.
She felt a surge of adrenaline. Found you.
Although her hair was dark, the face was unmistakably that of Charlotte Rathmore.
And next to her, another familiar face.
Ellie opened the second file. It was a scan of the back of the photo.
Farewell party for Tabby Deenihan,
attended by colleagues, 29th December 1940
Back L–R: Mabel Hughes, Ivy Alexander, Jennifer Stary, Meredith McCarthy
Front L–R: Tabby Deenihan, Nancy Rathmore
She flicked back to the photo; there they were in black and white. A heavily pregnant Charlotte, and right beside her, the woman who had hidden her, the woman who’d helped her.
Her sister-in-law, Nancy Rathmore.
Chapter Fifty-One
Holborn, London
February 1941
As Nancy stepped out into the street, she didn’t know if the haze was inside or outside her head. Her mind was woolly, as if she had just woken. Or perhaps not woken at all.
Mrs McLaughlin had given her no time to understand as she’d pushed her out the door. ‘Time is of the essence, Nancy. You can save this baby. Don’t make the same mistake I did.’
Charlotte is dead.
Charlotte is dead.
Charlotte is dead.
The words echoed in Nancy’s head. They were written across her vision and she couldn’t blink them away. Couldn’t think them away.
The baby was motionless in her arms. She pulled the blanket tighter as she walked the streets, her torch off, her eyes adjusting to the dark. The ground was uneven, strewn with obstacles, and she tripped – tired and confused – through the night.
In the back of her throat, a sob caught. There was a pain deep in her chest, but she knew for certain that if she yielded to the grief, she would never make it to the hospital. She would lie down here on the cold street and the baby – this piece of Charlotte, this treasure – would simply slip away.
She focused on her feet. One in front of the other, her breathing laboured in the icy air. And then a familiar sound, high pitched. Immediately she paused, willed it away, wished it away, but it not only remained but grew louder, stronger.
She paused in the shelter of a doorway, switched on her torch and set it lamp-first in the snow. Kneeling down, she pulled the blanket back, gazed at the pale face. She removed a glove, brushed a tiny cheek. It was cold.
‘No. No. No,’ she cried quietly. ‘No, no, no.’ She bounced the bundle gently, mimicking Mrs McLaughlin’s movements. The baby’s eyes opened and she laughed out loud, a sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. On the other side of the street, a shadow flickered. Someone disappearing in the opposite direction.
It was too cold, far too cold, to carry a newborn like this outside in the snow. She looked at her watch. It would take twenty minutes, if not more, to reach Great Ormond Street Hospital. Did they have that long before the bombs fell?
She turned and focused her attention eastward. No low hum, nothing on the horizon but inky blackness. Pressing back into the doorway, she opened her coat, reached beneath her sweater. The cold air hit her skin like the slap of a thousand rubber bands. She unwrapped the still bundle and placed the naked baby under her blouse. She was fire against the cool body. She pulled her sweater back down, thinking how scratchy it was compared to the place from which the newborn had just come.
She took a deep breath, buttoned up her coat and stepped back out onto the street. She looked heavenward, flakes of snow landing on her eyelashes. ‘I’ll protect the child,’ she whispered, as she moved now with new purpose, her arm around the precious bundle.
She was only five streets from the hospital when it began.
A sound. Growing from a hum to a drone to a roar. A swarm of bees with a single purpose. After five months, Nancy knew it well. The Luftwaffe was coming. And the bombs would too. She quickened her pace, slipped once, twice, falling to her knees.
Four streets.
But then ahead of her a familiar orange glow, a halo that spread from the skyline to blend with the grey haze of the night.
Three streets.
And the thunderous sound of a hundred bombs. A thousand, perhaps. The ground trembled beneath her feet. And above her, darkness.
Nancy stopped and looked up.
Then saw no more.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Blackwater Hall, County Kerry
April 1958
Tomas recoiled as if struck. His voice was loud, broken. ‘She had my baby?’
Mama sidestepped along the wall, moving behind the sofa. She rested her hands on its back. ‘Yes, but she died. In childbirth.’
Covering his face with his hands, he gave a cry like a wounded animal. He turned his back to Mama, and Hattie shrank back from her position at the door. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I was there.’
The energy in the room changed, from a wildness to a calm stillness, only the roar of heavy rain to fill the silence. He dropped his hands by his sides and took a deep breath. ‘You were there?’
Mama’s voice was small. ‘Yes.’
Down the corridor a door slammed, footsteps stopped in the hallway. Hattie heard the rustling of clothes. Someone removing a coat, most likely sodden from the deluge outside.
‘When she came to me in London, she was so afraid. She begged me to keep it a secret. Tomas’ – Mama’s voice was full of comfort, but her body was rigid and alert – ‘she was planning to return to you, when the war was over. But when she didn’t hear from you, I assumed you had abandoned her. Had your fun . . .’
‘My fun?’
‘When we came here, though, when I saw you by the lake . . . I hadn’t understood that you cared for her.’
‘Cared for her?’
‘And now I see that it was a mistake not to tell you. But it felt . . . too late. It was the past. Over. Finished.’ She spoke in a soft voice as she moved from behind the sofa to stand in front of him.
Hattie dared not move. An angry gust of wind licked down the chimney, sparks flying from the fire. Tomas’s left hand flexed and opened, his right brushed the back of his neck, massaging the muscles beneath his shirt collar.
‘And our baby? Was it a girl?’ He said this with near-forgotten longing.
Mama shook her head.
‘She died?’
One tear after another began to drop on Mama’s white blouse, large grey marks blossoming where they fell. ‘No. It was a boy.’
‘A boy?’ His right hand dropped heavily by his side.
‘He was early, tiny. I’m sorry, but he didn’t—’
