The heat of the day had gone but the sun was still bright, so Kathryn found a shaded spot beside the lavender beds near the entrance and dialled Helen’s number.
Her best friend picked up straight away.
‘Hi, Hels, it’s me.’
‘Hello, me. I thought you were at the museum today?’
‘I am, but it just got a bit more complicated.’
‘How so?’
‘It seems that Gran was actually engaged to Jack—can you believe it?’
‘Really? Whoa, never figured your gran as such a dark horse.’
‘I know. I’m actually a bit nervous about what I’m going to find next—feels like anything could happen,’ she said as she absent-mindedly picked the heads of the lavender.
‘Maybe it’s time to get a private investigator, Kat. It will be a lot quicker. They handle this sort of thing all the time.’
Her friend was right; Kathryn was out of her comfort zone and wished that her mother could arrive sooner than the weekend. It felt like the right time to tell her about the recent discoveries but not by telephone—she would have to wait another two days.
‘I know, but Gran doesn’t want anyone else involved. She says it’s a family matter.’
‘Every family has its secrets, Kat. Look at mine.’
If Helen didn’t have a genetic medical condition, her parents might never have told her that she was descended from Scandinavian royalty. As it was, she hadn’t found out until she was at university.
‘Yes,’ said Kathryn, ‘I know, but it’s still a bit of a shock. And it makes me wonder…’
‘What?’
‘Well, maybe they were married, for all we know. Maybe Edward wasn’t her only husband.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Helen said with a laugh. ‘Why would that have been a secret.? It would be fascinating to find out what happened, though. I wish I could be there when you ask her about the engagement…’
Kathryn didn’t mind Helen being flippant, but as she was missing the point, Kathryn didn’t respond.
‘Look,’ Helen said after a short silence. ‘I know this is difficult for you but you just need to be practical. And I know it’s a funny thing to say, but try to think laterally, not get too emotionally involved.’
‘How can I do that?’
‘Well, you could always look at the best- and worst-case scenarios here.’
‘Which are?’ Kathryn asked as she watched schoolkids clambering over the cannons and taking pictures of each other.
‘Best case is that you find out what happened to Jack and he’s still alive. Your gran gets to see him and you find out what this is all about. Worst case is he’s dead or has severe dementia, or you can’t find him.’
‘And then what?’
‘Well, look on the bright side—at least you get to keep the painting.’
‘Thanks, Helen,’ she said flatly. ‘That was really helpful.’
A pause. ‘I’m sorry. I’m only trying to help.’
‘I know, just ignore me. I’m having a bit of a meltdown today. I thought I’d have time to think—even look at some schools for Oli, just in case—but this has been all-consuming.’
‘I know, I wish there was something more that I could do. Do you want me to come and meet you?’
‘No…yes. I mean, I’d love you to but I need to finish here. Maybe later…’
‘Is that if you haven’t had a nervous breakdown by then?’ Helen said, her voice trembling.
Kathryn was worried that she had upset her by putting her off again but then heard her friend’s barely concealed laughter.
‘Well, I’m glad I’m such a good source of amusement for you, anyway,’ she said, finally smiling.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just payback, you know that.’
‘Yes, it’s about time, hey!’
‘You know you can always rely on me for the truth.’
Kathryn hung up, feeling a little better and knowing that her best friend was right; something about being back in her homeland made her see things more clearly. It was as if when she was in Australia she had a free pass to live as a tourist, not registering anything as seriously as she should, taking things at face value. Maybe it really was time for her to come home.
Kathryn headed to the bookshop next to the train station and wandered in a daze through the new fiction titles. In another ten minutes, it would be a reasonable enough hour for her to call Chris. For the first time in what seemed like months, she really wanted to speak to him.
She bought a couple of books for Oli, who had recently become addicted to reading. Then she found the bookshop cafe and ordered a skinny flat white—politely explaining to the frowning barista exactly how it was different from a cappuccino or a latte—before setting up her laptop at the furthermost table. Hardly anyone was around, but the hard surfaces of the wooden floor made the sounds even harsher and she didn’t want to disturb anyone, or for her conversation to be overheard.
The familiar long Skype tones sounded for a few moments before Oliver picked up. He was in Simpsons pyjamas again, probably the same ones from earlier in the week, and his face was unusually red.
‘Why are you still in bed, darling?’ she asked lightly, trying to mask her concern.
‘I’ve got a cold.’
‘Oh dear. Have you got a temperature?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, hasn’t Dad taken it?’
‘No. He’s not here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He said he was just popping out, that he wouldn’t be long.’
She tried not to show how that worried her. ‘Is that what he said?’
‘Yes.’
Oliver did seem lethargic, and he was without his usual committee of toys and figurines.
‘Are you hot?’ she asked.
‘A bit.’
‘Take your top off. And have you had lots of water?’
‘My throat’s sore.’
‘Too sore to swallow?’
‘Yes.’ Then he suddenly looked more animated. ‘I liked the pictures you sent,’ he said. ‘I was up really early looking at them with Dad.’
‘Great, just stay there a second…’
She had dialled Chris on her mobile and was waiting for him to pick up, but it went straight to voicemail. How the hell could he go out and leave Oliver on his own when he was sick?
Oliver kept talking about the pictures. ‘I thought the one of London was really good too. Who was it by?’
‘What do you mean…? They’re Jack’s,’ Kathryn asked, her mind turning.
What had Oliver picked up on that she’d missed? She’d emailed photos of the 1942 diary to him and Chris from the library; she’d also sent a photo of the anniversary exhibition program.
Her son had always been so intuitive—one of her most precious memories of his early childhood was of when they were in the park at a five-year-old’s birthday party and he had asked her why the blackbird wouldn’t play with him.
‘No, it’s not. It’s definitely by a different artist,’ he told her now.
A door slammed and Oliver glanced over his shoulder. ‘Dad’s coming back.’
She could hear the footsteps across the hallway.
‘Oli,’ Chris called, ‘who are you talking to?’
‘It’s Mum.’
Christopher’s figure grew larger as he drew nearer, his whole face filling the screen when he leaned over Oliver’s shoulder. ‘Hi, Kat.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘To the pharmacy. To get Nurofen—the one in the cabinet was out of date.’
‘Oh…’
‘Yes, oh.’ But he didn’t sound angry. He just smiled and shook his head. ‘How are you?’
‘Good.’ She felt a twinge of irritation because she’d been worried. ‘It’s usually okay to use, though.’
‘Well, I wasn’t sure. Best to be safe, hey?’ He seemed mellow, more relaxed than he had been since she’d left for England.
‘So what’s up with Oli?’ she asked.
‘He came down with a cold yesterday, nothing serious, but I thought it best to keep him off school. I’ve arranged to work from home so I can keep an eye on you, haven’t I, mate?’ he said as he ruffled Oliver’s hair. ‘We’re going to have another look through the pictures you sent—Oli thinks he’s found something.’
‘It’s all part of the jigsaw puzzle, isn’t it, Mummy?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, thinking about their conversation just before her departure; Oliver had said he didn’t mind her going since it was to help Granny. ‘So what is it that you’ve found?’
‘Well,’ said Chris, ‘there’s a picture in the diary that doesn’t match the one in the anniversary program. See this one, The Bermondsey Rescue, July 1942—Oli says it’s not by the same person. It’s not Jack Valante’s work.’
Maybe her son was right, but why would that matter? Anything could have happened—the wrong name could have been used accidentally, or the wrong painting sent. It didn’t seem to help her. But she still opened the folder of photos on her laptop and scanned through them until she found the one that Oliver was referring to.
‘Can you see, Mummy? It looks different.’
‘I know, darling, but there’s no proof it’s not Jack’s.’
‘But doesn’t he write his diary in July?’
‘Yes, but…’ she said, realisation dawning.
‘Well, it can’t be him painting in Bermondsey then, can it?’ Oliver said.
‘No, I don’t suppose it can.’ She was unsure whether she was more pleased at Oliver’s cleverness or embarrassed by her own idiocy. She would put it down to jet lag and sleep deprivation on this occasion. ‘That’s great, Oli. Well done.’
‘So you can come back sooner then?’ Chris asked eagerly.
‘No, of course not,’ she said with impatience, although she was secretly pleased that he wanted her to return. ‘I still have to find out what happened to Jack. I do know one thing, though—Gran hasn’t been entirely honest with us. I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but it seems as if she and Jack were engaged.’
‘Really?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘Why didn’t she tell you?’
Kathryn just wasn’t sure, and now she suddenly had lots more questions. She wondered about the mystery surrounding the paintings. Did Stephen Aldridge know that his Jack Valante collection might not all be by the artist himself? And if Eleanor knew that Kathryn would find out about the engagement, was this all part of her plan for her granddaughter?
‘I don’t know, Chris,’ said Kathryn. ‘But I’m going to have to stay here until I find out.’