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By the time Toby had filled the petrol tank of the Morris, the morning sun had given way to a cold February drizzle. As he drove inland from the coast, he resolved to stop dreaming of Africa and to start thinking about the telegram from America.
He wondered how Mr. Harrigan had managed to find the stolen child and how he planned to take custody of her. Would he snatch her illegally from her supposed mother and father, or had he found some kind of proof that the long-vanished Vera Chapman and her soldier husband were not the parents of the little girl? He wondered how one could even prove such a thing. His own research had told him that a blood test was not definitive and would not stand up in court. A blood test might prove that someone was not the parent, but could not prove the opposite.
Toby had never visited the village of Rose Hill. His previous visit had been to Southwold Hall, and on that occasion, he had ignored the one-track road that led into the village itself. This time, he bypassed the Hall with its newly restored wrought iron gates and drove on through the cold winter rain, past muddy fields and leafless trees, until he came to the village green.
He parked the car outside the Rose Hill Post Office. The building apparently doubled as a general store and newsagent, advertising the availability of newspapers, sausages, and George VI commemorative postage stamps on rain-drenched posters.
Despite his best intentions, Toby let his mind wander from the huddled village and bare windblown gardens to the letter in his pocket that would take him to Africa and endless sunshine. He touched the envelope just to reassure himself, and then he climbed out of the car and ran into the post office to make his enquiries.
The bell above the door rattled as he entered the cluttered gloom of the one-room shop. His eyes, as always, were slow to adjust, and he stumbled as he tried to negotiate his way toward the dimly perceived wire cage protecting the actual post office portion of the premises. “Sorry,” he called out as a stack of children’s comics tumbled onto the floor.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” said a cheerful female voice from somewhere behind the counter. “Can’t see a thing in here myself.”
Toby looked up and found himself face to face with a young woman whose red hair seemed to light up the space around her. Flustered by the girl’s bright smile and mesmerized by the spray of freckles across her delightful nose, he gathered up a pile of School Friend and Boy’s Own comics and thrust them toward her.
“Sorry,” he said again.
“No problem,” said the girl. “They’ll be soaking wet anyway by the time they’re delivered. The boy doesn’t come in until after school, and he’s really careless about keeping the papers dry.” She laughed. “Now look what I’ve done. I suppose you’ve come to ask for newspaper delivery, and now I’ve gone and spoiled it. You won’t want your papers delivered by us now that you know what a mess we make.”
Toby was overcome by the effect of her freckles and her smile and could barely stammer, “Oh no, I’d love to have my papers delivered by you ... by your newspaper boy ... only, well, I don’t live here.”
“Sorry, I thought you might have come from the new houses they’re building out where the American barracks used to be. Oh well, never mind. What can I get you, stamps, newspaper, packet of crisps?
“I wasn’t going to buy anything ...”
“Really?” She arched her eyebrows and stared at him quizzically. “We are a shop, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“Then what can I do for you Mr. ...?”
“Whitby, Toby Whitby.”
“Carol Elliot,” she said.
“Well, Mrs. Elliot—”
“Miss Elliot.”
He was strangely pleased to find that she was unmarried.
“You can call me Carol,” she said.
“Well, Carol,” said Toby, “I need some information.”
“Oh yes, what kind of information?”
“I thought that as this is the post office, you might be able to supply me with directions. I’m trying to find 14 Rose Hill Lane.”
She was suddenly wary. Her smile faded. “Who are you looking for?”
“Mrs. Chapman. Mildred Chapman.”
Carol hesitated.
Toby shrugged his shoulders. “If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll go and ask someone else.” He looked out across the rain-swept village green. “I’m sure someone will tell me.”
“Why do you want to find her?”
“It’s a legal matter. I’m a solicitor.”
Toby waited. This was the post office. He was asking for directions. He couldn’t imagine why this could be a problem.
Carol seemed to be involved in an internal struggle. Finally she burst out with a question. “Is it bad news?”
“No,” said Toby, although he suspected that the suggestion that her daughter had stolen a baby might be very bad news indeed for Mrs. Chapman.
“That poor woman has had enough bad news.” Carol’s eyes were wide with sympathy. “There was the telegram, you know, when her husband died. Of course, that was at the beginning of the war. I was just a kid then. I wasn’t working here, but my mother was.”
“It’s not about her husband,” Toby assured her.
“And then her son, Terry. Well, we were all quite sure he wouldn’t come back. They died by the thousands, didn’t they, on the Burma Railway?”
“He was in Burma?”
“He was captured in Singapore and sent to Burma. We heard such dreadful things about how the POWs were treated. Everyone thought he was dead, and then the Red Cross found him, although sometimes you have to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if they’d never found him.”
Toby made a quick calculation. He had already told the girl that the news was not about Vera’s deceased father, but if he also told her that it was not about her prisoner of war son, she would know that it must be about Vera, and he was not at liberty to talk about Vera, not yet. Unfortunately, Carol was already ahead of him. She drew in a sudden sharp breath. “It’s not Vera, is it? Has something happened to Vera? We all thought she was so lucky, marrying her Yank and going to America. Has something happened to her?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Toby knew that by not saying, he had given Carol all the information she needed.
“What? You have to tell me. We were friends, you know, not real close, but friends, only she never wrote.”
“Ah,” said Toby. “I was going to ask you if you had any idea where she is in America.”
Carol shook her head, and the dim light bounced off her red curls.
“No, I don’t know. She went on the boat to New York, but I don’t know where she went after that. She said Nick was from California. I suppose that’s where she went. I don’t know anything else.”
Toby hesitated, wondering what he could do to keep her talking, and tossing her curls.
“I don’t know anything,” she repeated. She drew a deep breath as if afraid to ask the next question. “Did something happen to her little girl?”
“Not that I know of,” said Toby cautiously. “I really can’t discuss it with you; my work requires absolute confidentiality.”
Carol stared at him with wide worried brown eyes. Red hair and brown eyes! He had no idea the combination would be so attractive. He didn’t know that he could be so drawn to a spray of freckles across a small upturned nose. Her skin was pale and creamy. He found himself wondering what would happen to such pale skin under the heat of African skies. Would the freckles spread? Would she be able to stand the sun?
Her question brought him back to reality. For heaven’s sake, he had just met the girl. They’d never had a date. They’d never really had a conversation. All he had done was upset her by asking for information. Why was she so easily upset? Was she really upset, or just very defensive? What was she defending?
“You’re sure nothing happened to the little girl?” Carol asked.
She looked so worried that Toby felt compelled to reassure her. “I’m quite sure.”
“Vera’s well out of it,” Carol said. “It would break her heart to see the way her brother is. He came back, but not really, if you know what I mean. Won’t talk to anyone, just sits there. When the weather is nice, he sits outside in the garden, but he might as well be one of the rosebushes for all he knows about what’s going on around him. I don’t know what they did to him, but it was something awful.”
“I’m sorry.” It was all he could think to say.
“She promised she’d write,” Carol said wistfully, “but she didn’t. I never heard a word. I suppose it’s better this way.”
“Why do you say that?”
“So she doesn’t know about her brother. She can’t do anything about it, so why upset her?”
“I see what you mean.”
Toby could think of no way to continue the conversation on a more personal level and returned to his original question. “If you could direct me to Mrs. Chapman’s house; number 14 Rose Hill Lane.”
“Yes. Yes. Sorry I was a bit hesitant. We all worry about Mrs. Chapman. I wouldn’t want to see anything else happen to her.”
“You can’t prevent it by refusing to tell people where she lives,” Toby said mildly.
“I know. I know. It’s just that you took me by surprise.”
And you took me by surprise, Toby thought, still reeling from the sudden shock of realizing that this was the girl he wanted to take to Africa.
“You can see the house from here,” Carol said. “Let me show you.”
He observed her as she walked ahead of him to the door, revealing a curved figure with a small waist, generous hips, and ample breasts, a perfect hourglass. She opened the door and stood beside him in the shelter of the doorway, looking out through the misty drizzle.
“You can walk from here. There’s nowhere to park a car on the lane. Nice car by the way ...”
“Thank you,” said Toby. “Perhaps you might ...”
She stared at him.
“I mean, if you’re interested in cars, I could take you for a ride sometime?”
She was silent. Of course she wasn’t interested in cars. What girl was interested in cars? What girl would be interested in a secondhand Morris Minor?
“It doesn’t have to be a ride,” he amended. “Perhaps we could go for a drink.”
“A drink?”
“Yes.”
Again he observed the internal conflict. She seemed to be two girls rolled into one. One was the bright, smiling, open-faced girl who had greeted him when he entered the shop. The other was suspicious and withdrawn, defending some hidden part of herself.
She smiled, and apparently the happy girl had won the contest. “Come back when you’ve finished talking to Vera’s mum. I’ll be ready to close by then, and you’ll be in need of a drink.”
“Is she difficult to talk to?”
“Impossible,” said Carol with a shrug of her shoulders.
Toby felt a small thrill of pleasure as she took hold of his arm and pointed him in the right direction.
“Just go across the village green. Mind you don’t fall into the bomb crater, don’t know when they are ever going to fill it in, and then you’ll be on the lane.”
Toby squinted to see where she was pointing and perceived the edge of the green dimly through the curtain of rain.
“It’s full of water now,” said Carol.
“What is?”
“The bomb crater.”
Carol’s voice held a hint of impatience. Perhaps he should have known about the bomb crater, but in a country pockmarked with bomb craters, the existence of one particular crater was easily overlooked.
“Right in the middle of the cricket pitch,” Carol explained.
“Well, the Germans weren’t planning to play cricket,” Toby said. It wasn’t much of a joke, but it made Carol laugh. He added a sense of humor to her growing list of attributes.
He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. “I’ll be careful,” he said.
“See you later,” Carol replied cheerfully. She went back inside the shop, the doorbell clanging as she closed the door behind her.