En route to Dublin
September 2019
Ellie waved at Moira, who insisted on waiting on the platform as the train pulled out of Killarney. A day trip to Dublin, Ellie had decided, was the best option for getting in and out of the city with her nerves and mind intact.
The afternoon before, she’d returned Jeremy’s missed calls. He was surprised – pleased? – to finally hear from her. There was news, he said, about Davy McCarthy. She’d cut him off, said she’d come up to the city, discuss it in person. And if that was to be the case, The Irish Times could foot the train fare. He’d agreed – with a very suspicious ‘if you’d prefer’ – and she’d hung up without an iota of guilt. Well, perhaps just a little.
Her expenses taken care of, her finger had hovered over Dylan’s name. She longed to press call. Longed to hear his voice, longed for him to say those words: I’m so sorry. But she hesitated.
If he wanted to see her, that was fine. She would travel to Dublin. But not for him.
For Charlotte.
I can see you in Dublin tomorrow. Midday, she’d messaged. His reply came back: Yes. Lunch at the Westbury?
Okay.
Immediately she’d turned off her phone. Didn’t want to backtrack, didn’t want to change her mind. But wanted to change it all the same.
To Moira, she’d said simply: ‘There’s something I need to check. About Charlotte.’ Moira had been delighted at the news, but as she waved her away, the creases that crossed her features told Ellie her mum knew she was, once again, hiding something.
She had dressed for the city – sleek clothes and dark heels – but in her handbag she carried a pair of flats. She’d made an appointment for a blow-dry and planned to look glossy when she met Dylan, another version of the person who now sat on the train, stomach heaving with anxiety.
And now, as they paused at another tiny station, her phone rang.
‘Morning.’ It was Jules. ‘I did a little digging into Lord Hawley.’
‘Oh.’ She sat up straight. Realised with a flush of guilt that she hadn’t called him after her visit to Wynn’s Castle.
‘Big fellow.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Found a photo of him. Rotund, is what I’ll say. A spiritualist, bizarrely, and more than a quarter of a century older than Charlotte.’ He paused, and Ellie pulled Charlotte’s photo from the back of her notebook: those doe-like eyes, that far-off look. Was she already planning her escape? A woman who hated the aristocracy destined to marry a lord.
Jules continued, ‘In April 1940, he was posted to Norway, just before German occupation. He was still there when the Norwegians surrendered a couple of months later. A fascinating story, really. He hid near Bergen with a wealthy family, tucked away in a barn apparently.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He escaped and took the daughter of the house with him. Married her and all her money. Their children litter Surrey.’
‘So their engagement – he and Charlotte – came to nothing?’
‘It appears so.’
When Jules hung up, Ellie shut her eyes. Her hands rested on her closed laptop, and despite the rocking of the train, or perhaps because of it, she fell towards sleep.
Her phone vibrated. She ignored it. Now that she’d asked for Jules’s help, he would be intolerable. She twisted in her seat, laid her head against the cool of the window. He would have to wait.
Again the vibration.
She groaned and opened her eyes. The train had stopped at Mallow, the first specks of rain turning the pavement grey. Her phone sat on the tray table.
An unknown number.
She let it ring out, then tapped it into Google. Scrolled through the hits. No warnings of nuisance calls. No scam alerts. But there, on page 2, a link to a Kildare community newsletter from twelve months previously. She opened it.
The Men’s Shed is now back on its winter schedule with meetings on Thursdays at 7 p.m. This week’s talk: Mental Health and Divorce, From the Inside, by Dr Rathmore.
From the back of the notebook she took out a slip of paper. Albert’s scrawled handwriting. And there it was, the same number, only the last digit wasn’t a three as she’d thought, it was an eight. Squeezed up against the zero before it. She glanced out of the window as the near-empty train pulled away, the grey morning throwing back a shadow of her reflection.
He answered on the third ring. ‘Ellie, it’s Milo. Thanks for calling back.’ She started to speak, but he continued. ‘I heard you’re on your way to Dublin?’ Christ, thought Ellie. Her mum had clearly picked up the morning paper. ‘While you’re up there—’ He was interrupted by a muffled voice.
‘Sorry?’ said Ellie.
Then he was back. ‘Would you like to meet my aunt?’
‘Harriet?’ Her heart leapt.
‘You can ask her about Charlotte. I’ve told her about the letter.’
Ellie opened her notebook. Slipped in the back was the letter, protected in its white envelope. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘actually, I’d love to.’
‘Hang on . . .’ chatter in the background, ‘look, I’ve got to go. She’ll be working at the Pickled Oyster around lunchtime. I’ll let her know you’re coming.’
She cleared her throat. ‘The Pickled Oyster?’
Milo had hung up. Ellie stared at her phone for a moment before selecting ‘Create New Contact’ and typing Dr Rathmore.
Then she deleted it and wrote, simply, Milo.