Vicky Norwood watched the little droplets of water trickling down the window, and beyond the leaves from the trees gently fluttering to earth.
She loved the autumn with its beautiful colours and sparkling dews in the morning sun, and the smell of garden bonfires. And this autumn of 1975 more than others, she was aware of the passing seasons.
She turned back from the window, her gaze taking in the furnishings that comprised the waiting room of Feldon, Rudge and Hollis, Solicitors.
Her appointment was with John Feldon who, as long as she could remember, had taken care of her Aunt Mary’s legal affairs.
But this would be the last time that the firm would act for her, because Vicky Norwood was there today for the reading of Aunt Mary’s will.
She plucked her handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. Ever since her parents had been killed in an air crash she had lived with her aunt – fifteen years to the eight with her parents.
Now, at twenty-three she was all alone in the world – at least family-wise. True, she was engaged to Clive Thorpe, but no date had been fixed for the marriage.
Somehow, Clive was in no hurry. He was very keen on local government politics, when he wasn’t at his dental practice. And Vicky was quite happy to let things slide into a comfortable understanding.
In a mirror she scrutinised her face – didn’t like what she saw. How pale she looked. At least it was understandable: the last few weeks had been harrowing – at the hospital, then arranging the funeral, and now this, the legal side.
The face looking back at her was oval, with high cheekbones, a fine aquiline nose, and a mouth that was perhaps a shade too generous. Her eyes were blue with light flecks that gave them a sparkling vitality. Her hair, that fell just to her shoulders, had the colour and fineness of drawn gold.
She brushed at the black linen of the jacket shoulder and lapels, wondering whether she should add a touch more lipstick to try and bring some colour to her wan features, so she didn’t hear the door open – only a discreet cough. Startled, she turned. In the doorway was John Feldon.
“Black suits you,” the old solicitor said.
It seemed a crass thing to say under the circumstances. Her business with him was the sad tidying up and closing of a dear and well-loved woman’s legal life.
Briefly, she smiled her thanks, then followed him to his room. He closed the door and moved to the chair in front of his desk, holding it for her as she sat down.
“I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible,” she said.
“Yes – of course.”
Feldon moved leisurely around his desk and began to sift slowly through some legal-looking documents. When it seemed it was going to take an age, Vicky glanced pointedly at her watch.
“I’ve an appointment with Clive at five o’clock,” she said somewhat brusquely. “A real one I mean – at the surgery.”
Feldon attempted to be complimentary again.
“Surely not a filling in that pretty young mouth of yours?”
Vicky winced. He had always sounded like an elderly uncle to her, and still acted as if she were six years old.
“No,” she answered wearily, “just my six monthly check-up.”
Feldon nodded. He remembered then that Vicky was going steady with her dentist. It was common knowledge that Clive Thorpe was the apple of his mother’s eye, and rarely did anything without first asking her permission.
And that probably included marriage.
Vicky might have to wait years if only she did but know it. Yet she seemed to be the only one who was unaware of the situation. Still, young people were starting to live openly together these days – though he noted she still had her own address.
At last, Feldon found the document he wanted.
“As you will have guessed, Vicky, you are the sole beneficiary of your aunt’s estate.”
She nodded. Aunt Mary had said she would inherit the house. There was nothing else really, as they had lived on a limited weekly budget. Her own salary from her job as receptionist at the Royal Minster Hotel paid for most of the running costs. And her aunt hadn’t bought any new clothes of consequence at all in the last few years.
Feldon cleared his throat, and began to read the lengthy preamble. Vicky’s mind drifted back to the happy childhood days of her life with her aunt, and when the solicitor came to the real part she heard the words without them sinking in.
“What did you say?”
Feldon stopped, looked up at her and smiled, nodding with elderly solemnity.
“I thought that would make you sit up.”
Vicky looked at him blankly, as Feldon repeated the last sentence.
“Six hundred thousand pounds, plus the house. Not to put too fine a point on it, you’ve done very well.”
Vicky gasped, and repeated – “Six hundred thousand pounds? I can’t believe it.”
Making a steeple of his hands, Feldon looked directly at her.
“We can arrange for you to receive proper financial counselling,” he said pompously, ”And, of course, you won’t have to worry about anything. Everything will be done for you. We mustn’t allow this little nest-egg to whittle away in spending sprees or clothes and the like, must we?”
Vicky recovered from the shock with a surge of irritation, her voice cutting across his with icy finality.
“Thank you, but I shall decide all in good time what I will do.” Still in disbelief she shook her head. “I’d no idea. It’s amazing. Where could she have got that sort of money from?”
Feldon tapped the document.
“It’s all in here. Apparently, your aunt had a part share in an artist. She helped him get started after the war and ever since has received a small percentage of his earnings. And he has been very successful indeed running his own business – something to do with some sort of popular prints sold worldwide. The money has never been touched, but remained invested all these years. The last cheque received only last week.”
Still in shock, Vicky shook her head.
“She never once said a word. It was most unlike her. Where does this man live?”
“In Italy. A village near Allassio.”
“Italy?” She was annoyed with herself for sounding so stupid, but the last few minutes had been shattering. “It’s incredible.”
“Yes,” Feldon continued, “the address we have is the Villa Sandoretti.”
“Just fancy that.” She sat back in her chair. “Who’d ever believe that Aunt Mary had done something like this? And what’s more, kept it secret for all these years? What’s this Italian’s name?”
Feldon gave her a sly grin.
“Who said he was Italian?”
Frowning, she asked –
“He’s English?”
Feldon shook his head.
“American actually.”
“American?”
There she went again, but Feldon appeared not to notice, as he began a systematic search through the folder, finally coming up with a letter.
“John McKinley. This letter contains references to the American Consulate in Genoa. They were instrumental in setting up the arrangements.”
Vicky shook her head in disbelief.
“How on earth did she meet him?”
“I’ve no idea,” Feldon said with a dismissive shrug.
Vicky left the solicitors and walked along the High Street, deep in thought, barely noticing the heavy traffic that passed down the main street. They were still waiting for the by-pass that had been promised before the war.
It was strange, she’d gone into Feldon’s office expecting only that she’d have a roof over her head; she had come out unexpectedly rich - rich beyond her wildest dreams.
And yet all she could think of now was her auntie’s mysterious relationship that she’d kept so utterly secret.
But why? There was nothing wrong in people knowing that she had once sponsored an artist, surely?
She ascended the stone steps of the Georgian portico that led into Clive Thorpe’s dental practice.
Vicky pushed open the door and entered the high-ceilinged hall, with its shiny wood block floor and bright clean white walls. The antiseptic aroma of the surgery assailed her nostrils. The receptionist smiled at her.
“He’s running a little late.”
They talked for a moment then Vicky entered the waiting room across the hall from the surgery.
From the polished table in the centre she picked up a magazine and sat down close to the bay window.
Vicky had to wait ten minutes, hearing the faint sound of the drill rising and falling like a wailing banshee, before she heard a patient being ushered out of the front door. She knew she was the last one in the appointment book.
She stood up and placed the magazine back on to the table, just as Clive entered. His blond hair looked even paler above his white Cossack-style clinical jacket.
“Hello darling,” he said, and bending forward gave her a peck on the cheek, the light reflecting off the glasses he always had to wear in surgery. “How did it go at the solicitors?”
Vicky shook her head.
“I’ve had something of a shock – although a nice one.”
Frowning, Clive led the way across the hallway and into his surgery in the other front room of the old house. At the sink he began to wash his hands.
Vicky sat down on the couch-like chair, and felt she would burst if she didn’t tell him straight away about the six hundred thousand pounds.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what it was?” she prompted.
Clive turned, picking up paper tissues from the rack, and beginning to dry his hands.
“You’re a woman,” he said smugly, “I’m sure you’ll get round to telling me – sooner or later.”
She felt indignation rising up within her. Clive could be so bloody pompous at times. Well, now he would have to wait.
The nurse fixed the plastic bib around her as Clive pulled the instrument tray that the nurse had swung across nearer to him. He sat down on his stool.
The chair whirred as she was lowered and laid flat.
“So what is this great shock?” he drawled, using his legs to roll the stool into position beside her head.
She snuggled back in the chair and grinned.
“Take me out to dinner tonight – and I might tell you.”
Further conversation was suspended as the mirror and probe penetrated her mouth. Vicky felt the apprehension rise inside her.
“Can’t do that tonight, darling,” Clive’s disembodied voice murmured in her ear. “Mother wants me to take that old Edwardian sideboard down to the auction rooms.”
Vicky all but choked, had to wait until he’d finished examining her top jaw before she raised her hand on to his arm, pulling him out.
“Surely we can eat together afterwards, “It won’t take all night, will it?”
He pulled a face as he answered.
“I’m going on to a council meeting, so I promised mother we’d have supper with her. You don’t mind do you darling?”
Clive’s mother was elderly, and a widow. Vicky often wondered what his mother would do when Clive and she married. And he moved out. More likely, she thought, his mother would expect her to move in, but she knew she could never share a house with Mrs Thorpe.
She was too set in her ways, too demanding, and certainly too attached to her son to allow any other woman to usurp her place in his affections.
Imagine trying to cook in the same kitchen with her!
Clive inserted the mirror back into her mouth.
“Anyway,” he said, “you can tell both of us your news at the same time.”
Vicky moved her tongue out of the way of the probing instrument, worried again as she felt him pushing deep into her mouth.
“Rinse,” he ordered, quite suddenly.
Taking a tissue from the box offered by the nurse, she asked if the examination was over.
“Yes. You’ve a clean bill of health this time, didn’t even need a clean you are looking after them so well.”
She slid her legs out of the chair, conscious of his eyes sweeping up from her ankles to her knees. It made her feel good, for Clive was inclined to be a little too undemonstrative that way at the best of times.
She screwed up the used tissue into a ball and operated the waste-disposal lid with her toe, lobbing in the tissue.
“What time shall I come around then?” she asked.
“Won’t you come with me now and keep mother company while I go down to the saleroom?”
Vicky thought quickly.
“I need to get back home for an hour or so. There are some letters and papers of my aunt’s that I need to go through. Like to get it done as soon as possible.”
It wasn’t for legal reasons – she wanted to find out about John McKinley
She knew where she would have to look – the case her aunt always kept underneath the bed. Many a time Vicky had seen it when she had been cleaning and hoovering. Aunt Mary had said it was full of personal papers and letters – her little mementos, as she called them.
“All right, if you must.” Clive said petulantly. “But mother will be disappointed, She sees so few people nowadays.”
Vicky said nothing as she pulled on the grey quilted raincoat she had bought for herself just three weeks previous – on the last shopping trip she and her aunt had had together. She picked up her shoulder bag and smiled at him.
“When your mother hears my news tonight it might cheer her up.”
Vicky doubted that very much, but she wanted to tease him. And it worked.
“What is this mysterious news?” he drawled, trying to sound casual, his irritation barely concealed.
She went up on her toes and gave him a peck on his cheek. Her lips touched the leathery, prickly skin, and the faint taste of masculine after-shave, excited her.
“You’ll have to wait now,” she pouted.
“I should have made you tell me while you were at my mercy,” he growled.
She turned at the door, smiling wickedly.
“Maybe you should have,” she teased. “I’ll see you later then. Around eight o’clock. All right?”
He had no option but to nod.
“Eight o’clock will have to do. Don’t be late, as mother’s cooking something special.”
She would be, Vicky thought, almost bitterly.
The house was dark and empty, so unlike it used to be. Before, the porch light would have been on and through the window she would have seen the real fire flickering in the sitting room grate, now it yawned, black and lifeless.
She let herself in, feeling nervous in the dark until her hand found the light switch. She took off her coat and popped it on the banister post at the foot of the stairs, and made straight for the small kitchen. With the kettle on, Vicky ran upstairs to her aunt’s room.
She couldn’t help it, but as she sank down to her knees beside the bed, her eyes flicked upwards to the empty, untouched pillow.
Her hand searched the floor beneath the bed until it came upon the edge of the suitcase. She dragged it out to discover, to her surprise, that the brown, old-fashioned case wasn’t locked.
As she lifted the lid, Vicky somehow felt that she was trespassing into the past – into a very special person’s private past.
What would she find?
On top was a photograph, had been black and white, but had faded into brown.
Vicky slowly picked it up, staring down at the young fresh-faced man in American Air Force uniform with leather flying jacket and peaked cap.
The ink scrawl at the bottom was now almost colourless, and she had to angle it in the poor light to be able to make it out at all.
She read aloud, as if hearing it would in some way make it clearer – more real.
Love you. Johnnie. August 1945.
Love?
Vicky digested the word. It was not totally unexpected – or was it? As she had made her way home from the surgery, she had had time to think about it all. So, her aunt had been in love? Why was that so unbelievable?
She looked down at the old photograph in her cupped hands, a photograph that was from another time – another place. She peered at the man. His dark eyes bored back into hers from under firm brows. His lips were parted in a smile showing even white teeth.
Vicky found herself thinking how attractive he was.
She laid the photograph aside, and regarded the next item. It was an old dress, carefully and neatly folded. She held it up. It was – or rather had been – green in colour with a thin belt of the same colour, and shoulder pads.
She felt a lump come into her throat. That dress hadn’t seen the light of day since those far-off youthful times of her aunt.
Next, from the case, she took a piece of plywood some nine inches by five inches. She turned it over, and sucked in her breath.
It was an oil painting of a woman. Painted with bold, confident strokes, it caught completely the vivacious beauty of a girl in her late teens.
It was a younger version of her Aunt Mary, languidly lying back on an old iron bedstead, one arm behind her head, the other across her stomach.
But it was not that which made her take a quick intake of breath –
It was the fact that it was a nude study, and there was an enigmatic smile playing on the face of the young Mary, one that made Vicky sense that the woman was not only in love, but had just been made love to.
She found herself blushing. Yet, she had to admire the beauty – both of her aunt as a young woman, and the work of the artist. There were initials in the bottom right hand corner.
She already knew what they would be even as she lifted the painting nearer for examination.
J.M.= John McKinley
She propped the portrait against the bed and sat on the floor staring at it for an age, trying afresh to comprehend the emerging sensual life of a woman she thought of as a comfortable, quiet spinster.
Finally, she dragged her eyes from the painting back to the suitcase. There was one item left. Tied up in red ribbon was a bundle of letters.
Hesitantly, she picked them up, noticing as she did the old-fashioned stamps on the two top overlapping envelopes, and the strong, bold, masculine writing addressed to her aunt.
Vicky’s hand held the ribbon and began to pull – then stopped. Somehow she felt she shouldn’t invade this last privacy – couldn’t examine the letters which she knew without any doubt would release the most intimate sentiments expressed between two people – in love.
These were old-fashioned honest-to-God love letters.
She went downstairs in summons to the whistling kettle, made a cup of tea, and turned on the coal-effect fire in the back room. As she sat nursing the hot mug and staring into the flickering flames she recollected all the wonderful times she had had in this house.
Aunt Mary had shared everything with her – enriching Vicky’s own life as she had grown from a girl into a young woman – everything, that is, except her past. Should she now invade that last, very private citadel?
As she sipped her tea, she made up her mind, albeit sadly.
Aunt Mary was gone – had become history. Whether Vicky opened the letters now, ten years from now, or twenty, it would make no difference.
She slipped back upstairs, picked up the letters, and pulled at the red ribbon.