‘It’s a den of iniquity and Alfie is the heavily tattooed, multi-pierced ringleader . . .’
‘In leafy Notting Hill?’ Anna observed Jonah with a wry smile as the Underground train sped through the darkness towards West London.
‘Ah, you mock, Anna, but think about it: where better to hide a house of ill repute than in the aspirational expensiveness of Richard Curtis country, hmm?’
She laughed. ‘Jonah, stop it! I asked you to come with me because I thought you were the most sensible of my friends.’
‘More fool you then,’ Jonah smirked. ‘Dafter than Bennett, I am. So,’ his eyes narrowed as if anticipating her answer before he’d asked his question, ‘they’ve started up again? The parcels?’
‘Looks like it.’ The return of the mystery packages had lifted her from the still-circulating speculation over the future of her employer, and she loved having something to smile about.
‘Was there still no indication of a name in the parcel?’
‘No clues at all. But I’m hoping this Alfie bloke knows something. The note says he’s expecting my visit, which means he must have met the person who sent the record. It could be a roundabout way of revealing their identity.’
‘You hope.’
‘I do.’
‘I still think Alfie will be a modern-day Bill Sikes. With his little white dog . . .’ He ducked as Anna threw a well-read copy of the Metro at him. ‘Okay, I’ll stop now.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for coming with me, Jonah. I don’t think I would have done it alone.’
‘My pleasure. I’m letting you buy me cake as my reward, of course. Just so you don’t think I’m a soft touch.’
‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’
They joined the slow-moving crowd of tourists spilling out of Notting Hill Gate Tube station and turned up Pembridge Road, where the shop fronts became brighter, the shops more bespoke and their offerings quirkier. Buildings painted in candy colours lined the street as the surroundings became more familiar, captured in famous films and a million and one tourist photographs. The palette of pastel shades on the vintage stucco-covered buildings reminded Anna of a school trip she once took to Dartmouth – to her mother’s utter disgust, over the border in neighbouring South Devon: ‘What kind of heresy are they teaching kids at that school?’ she had raged, on discovering the destination. ‘I’ve half a mind to pull you and Ruari out of there and teach you myself!’ Thankfully she had never made good her threat, which might have had more to do with a brief, ill-advised fling with the school’s married headmaster than any sensible rethink on her part.
They passed the sunflower-yellow exterior of The Sun in Splendour pub, which marked the beginning of Portobello Road, and watched most of the crowd around them heading off to sample the famous market’s many delights. Anna promised Jonah they would return via the market to pick up huge slices of cake from Jonah’s favourite stall. Cake could wait today; Anna’s mystery mission could not.
Walking on through the heart of the exclusive London district, they arrived at last at Cornwall Crescent, which appeared to consist mostly of gorgeous townhouses far out of the price range of the average city-dweller. Anna checked the map and directions again while Jonah raised a hand to shield his eyes from the Saturday-afternoon sun to stare up the street.
‘I suppose Alfie’s house must be one of those,’ Anna offered, feeling her stomach tighten. What if the address didn’t exist, or if Alfie wasn’t at home? There was no phone number to call ahead of her visit: how could the sender have been certain Alfie would be where he was supposed to be?
They wandered slowly around the crescent, stopping to peer at house numbers and then, just as Anna was about to give up, Jonah called out, ‘There it is!’
Anna followed his pointing finger to see a shop wrapped around the corner between the crescent and the head of St Mark’s Road. In contrast to the elegant residences on either side, the shop-front had been painted a deep burgundy, its windows filled with huge paper lanterns in bold primary colours and a selection of objects from the 1930s and 1940s. Outside, a couple of tables had been placed on the pavement, at which sat a man and a woman in impeccable Thirties outfits, the woman smoking a cigarette from a long, slender holder. It was as if a 1930s café had been transported through time to modern-day Notting Hill, coming to rest on the corner of two residential streets. Swing tunes drifted out from the shop and Anna couldn’t help smiling as she and Jonah approached. The man at the table, in wide slacks with braces, a baggy white shirt and half-loosened tie, tipped his tweed trilby hat when they reached him.
‘Lovely afternoon,’ he said.
‘It is . . .’ Butterflies began to flutter in Anna’s stomach. ‘We’re looking for Alfie?’
‘Alfie?’ The man exchanged a smile with his companion. ‘Is he expecting you?’
Anna caught Jonah’s smirk and discreetly elbowed him in the ribs. ‘I think so.’
The woman stubbed out her cigarette. ‘You’ll find Alfie inside.’
Anna thanked them and, ignoring Jonah’s whispered comment of ‘Alfie is Al Capone! We’re walking into a scene straight out of The Untouchables!’, went up the steps at the entrance.
Inside, they found not only a café but a whole vintage store, filled with retro classics from huge Bakelite radios to furniture, stacks of old records, crockery and linens. Authentic clothes hung on wooden rails around the walls, which were papered with sheets of old newspapers and pages from vintage magazines. Behind a glass counter beside a bulbous Frigidaire stood a tall, gangly man with jet-black, Brylcreemed hair, dressed almost identically to the smiling customer outside. His sea-blue eyes sparkled as he raised a hand in greeting.
‘Hey, kids.’
‘Hi – um . . . Alfie?’ Anna held out her hand.
The man frowned. ‘Sorry?’
We’ve made a mistake. This isn’t him. Anna swallowed her rising panic and took another step towards the man, as Jonah followed suit. ‘Are you Alfie? I have directions to meet Alfie, and I understand he’s expecting me?’ She held up the Harry Richman 78, by way of explanation. ‘The man sitting outside said . . .’
The shop owner’s expression became one of amusement, quickly transforming into a hearty laugh. ‘Oh, so you’re the girl. Anna Browne, right?’
He knew her name? ‘Um, yes, but I don’t understand. Are you Alfie?’
‘Me? No, love, I’m Fred.’ He shook her hand and Jonah’s, and then reached across to pat the polished green-and-gold brass horn of a gramophone next to the glass food counter. ‘This is Alfie.’
Of course! Alfie would ‘help you hear the music’. It made perfect sense now.
Fred motioned for Anna to give him the record and placed it with great care on the antique gadget’s turntable. The gramophone crackled into life and the undulating strains of Harry Richman drifted into the shop. A customer browsing the racks of Forties dresses nodded appreciatively in time as ‘Ain’t She Sweet’ played.
‘Original, 1927 gramophone record,’ Fred said, his eyes misting over a little, the way Jonah’s did when talking about his latest bit of camera equipment. ‘Gorgeous sound. Can’t do that with an MP3 now, can you?’ He studied Anna for a while. ‘Know anything about this song, Anna?’
‘Only that my uncle used to sing it to my cousin and me, when we were little.’
‘Classic Tin Pan Alley tune. There’s a story that Milton Ager composed it, inspired by his daughter Shana, but you don’t want to believe everything Wikipedia tells you. It’s someone who’s proud of his girl and wants the world to agree. Sentiment like that never goes out of fashion.’ Fred laughed again. ‘Hark at me, eh? My wife would die laughing if she heard me getting all emotional over a song. I’d say my kids would disown me, too, if they knew, but they flew the nest years ago.’
He invited them to sit at one of the three tables in the shop while he made a pot of tea and brought over a plate of home-made scones with a jar of strawberry jam. ‘There you go. On the house, that is. I had a bet with my business partner that you’d never show.’
As Jonah quickly descended on the unexpected afternoon tea, Fred pulled up a chair and sat next to Anna, who took a fortifying sip of hot tea and broached the question she hoped with all her heart the retro-shop owner could answer.
‘Can I ask you about the person who told you to expect me? They’ve been incredibly kind to me, but I don’t know their name. Anything you can tell me would be a great help.’ She noticed that Jonah had put down the scone half he was eating, leaning forward a little to hear Fred’s reply.
Fred’s shoulders rose in a shrug. ‘Sorry, love. I never met the bloke.’
‘So, it’s definitely a man?’ Anna glanced at Jonah, who raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, I’m assuming it is, given the lyrics of that song.’
Anna felt the possibility of an answer slipping from her fingers. ‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘Ah, got you on a bit of wild goose chase, has he?’ Fred’s expression softened. ‘Look, all I know is that last Monday I got an email asking if the shop would be open this week and, if so, would I look out for a young woman called Anna Browne, who had an old 78 record she wanted Alfie to play. I replied to say that was fine, but never heard back. So Ernie – he owns this place with me – bet me fifty quid it was some idiot playing a prank.’
This amused Jonah no end. ‘You have email? Whatever would your customers think?’
The shop owner chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, we keep the computer well hidden. Fact is, without the blasted Internet we wouldn’t have any customers. It’s the irony of the vintage market today: your goods have to be authentic, but if you aren’t on the Internet or social media sites, people won’t find you.’
‘They didn’t give a name? In the email, I mean.’ She knew she was grasping at straws, but this was the closest she had come to meeting someone who’d had actual contact with the mystery gift-giver.
‘Not apart from yours, love.’
The wind left Anna’s sails as the last scraps of promise drifted away like a kite string let go in the breeze. She had been so sure that Alfie – or, as it turned out, Fred – would be able to give her more information on the parcel-sender. But now she had nothing more than another tantalising detail that meant nothing on its own. And then, as the stylus came to a scratching halt in the centre of the record, a tiny ray of hope emerged from the clouds in Anna’s mind.
‘Wait – could I see the email?’
‘No problem. Follow me.’
Fred led Anna through the beaded curtain behind the counter to a small storeroom where a shiny aluminium laptop looked incredibly out of place amid boxes of vintage stock. He fiddled with the keys until the email screen appeared, stepping back to let Anna see. The email read as he’d described, and Anna scrolled upwards to the last place she could hope to find a clue: the sender line.
Her heart dropped like a rock in the sea:
Sender2006@me.mail.com
What kind of email address was that? Fighting the urge to cry, she thanked Fred and hurried back through to Jonah, who was enjoying a second cup of tea.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, taking the record from the gramophone and slipping it back into its sleeve, not daring to look him in the eyes.
‘What’s up?’
Now she was pulling at his elbow, lifting his arm and his cup away from his lips. ‘Please, Jonah . . .’
‘Can a chap not finish his tea?’ he complained, but Anna was already urging him out of the shop and onto the street.
All she wanted to do was run home as soon as she could, hurt and disappointment crowding in on her as she hurried down Cornwall Crescent, away from the shop and the owner and the stupid old gramophone . . . Who names a gramophone ‘Alfie’, anyway?
It was only when Jonah caught her sleeve, yanking her to a halt, that Anna turned to look at him, burgeoning tears on the verge of completing her embarrassment.
‘Anna, stop! What happened in there? Did he do something to you? If he did, I’ll—’
‘No, it wasn’t anything like that. It’s – nothing . . .’ How could she explain to Jonah how she felt? None of it made sense. It was nothing, when you looked at it. She had hung her hopes on a possibility so gossamer thin that it would never have held any weight. It mattered to her to know who the sender was, and what had just happened confirmed that beyond doubt. How was she ever going to know, if even the most promising clues led to dead-ends?
Jonah’s hand was warm on her arm, eyes full of concern. ‘Something obviously upset you. Talk to me. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s up.’
‘You can’t help, Jonah.’ Her sigh echoed around the elegant stillness of the street. ‘I hoped the email address on the message would give me a name.’
Jonah frowned. ‘And?’
‘ . . . “Sender2006 at me-dot-mail-dot-com.” It’s hopeless!’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I thought Alfie could help me. He couldn’t – because he was an inanimate object and I’m an idiot for not guessing that. I thought the shop owner would know who sent me the parcel, but he didn’t know anything. And even the stupid email address was no help to me. I don’t have a name. I don’t know who’s sending me things. So tell me, why isn’t this whole thing hopeless?’
Jonah moved his hand from Anna’s elbow, raising it to brush a tear from her cheek. It was a small, deliberate movement that instantly brought Morwenna’s hands to Anna’s mind and opened the floodgates. As she crumpled against her friend’s broad chest, his heart beating comfortingly against her ear, she finally let go of the frustration that had been steadily building with the lack of – and the sudden return of – the parcels.
Jonah held her until her tears began to subside and her breathing returned to normal. Then, as she stepped back from him, flushed from the display of emotion and unexpected physical contact, she saw his hesitant smile.
‘It isn’t hopeless, Anna. You have a contact now. You can email whoever it is and say thank you – ask your questions, demand a name. If . . . if that’s what you want?’
Anna stared up at the Yorkshireman’s soothing grey eyes. ‘It is.’
‘Only I thought you said you weren’t interested in finding out who they are? That the gifts were more important than who sent them.’
I did say that, didn’t I, in the beginning?
So much had changed since the initial surprise of the gifts. Now she cared about who it was – because she wanted to know why. ‘It’s different. Now I want to know: who they are, why they chose me, what they hoped the parcels would achieve – all of it.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It matters to me.’
‘Then send them an email. And demand answers.’
I will, Anna promised herself as she and Jonah wandered back towards Portobello Road, her friend unusually quiet as he walked by her side. I’ll do it tonight.