Nana Joy woke up as we arrived at her bedside. Her pallor was perhaps a shade less grey than the day before, although her cheeks were still sunken and her eyelids could have been made of lead, the effort it took to keep them open.
‘Oh, hello, you’re with this one again, are you?’ she said, raising one spindly eyebrow. ‘I think you made the better choice.’
‘Henry gave me a lift, Nana. That’s all.’ I leant forwards to give her a kiss, hoping it would hide my furious blush. I’d spent a lifetime being teased about Henry, but now that I liked him, it was genuinely awkward.
We spent a few minutes chatting about nothing much, Nana Joy expressing her strident opinions on the other occupants of the ward, the hospital staff, and the ‘pig-swill’ they’d tried to pass off as lunch. Hearing her sounding almost back to normal, I decided to take a risk.
‘Nana Joy, I was reading that feature that was written about you, right before Dad was born. The one where the journalist shadowed you for a few weeks.’
No reply.
‘His name was Tony O’Dowd. He wrote a really lovely piece. He clearly admired you.’
‘Most people did. I was a star,’ she drawled, sounding positively bored by the topic.
‘Right. Only… I was wondering if it was more than that. There seemed to be sincere affection there. A friendship. Or… were you more than friends, at all?’
My grandmother pursed her lips and gave a disdainful jerk of her chin. ‘I cannot imagine what or who you’re talking about, Beatrice. You know how I feel about those word weevils. Constantly trying to burrow into my personal business. I’m very tired now. It’s been lovely to see you but I’m going back to sleep. Goodbye.’
She snapped her eyes closed, a fierce furrow creased between her brows.
‘Well, that told you,’ Henry mused as we took the stairs back down to the car park.
‘It told me that she definitely remembers him and has good reason for pretending she doesn’t.’
‘You’re sure you don’t want to let this go, at least while she’s still recovering?’
‘Of course I’m not sure!’ I groaned once we reached the main entrance. ‘Am I sure that I want to do everything I can, leave no stone unturned in trying to save Charis House? On the one hand it’s an obvious yes. But if it could break our family apart – then I’m not at all sure. Isn’t a family worth more than a house? Mum and Dad will find a way to keep the school going, even if they have to set up a marquee in the forest or hire a barn from a neighbouring farmer. Won’t they?’
‘It’d be a major feat, starting again after the devastation of losing the house.’
‘Their house, the charity. Mum’s history and identity. Let alone having to let all the students down.’ I was marching furiously towards the car, driven by agitation and anxiety. ‘Right. I’ve decided. We’re definitely going. If it’s a dead end, then I’ll know. If there’s any hope at all, then I can work it out when I come to it. One step at a time, right?’
‘Okay.’ Henry unlocked the car and we climbed in.
‘Unless… except… ugh. The look on Nana Joy’s face. Am I going to break her heart? She’s in hospital, for goodness’ sake! She’s eighty-seven!’ I leant forwards and buried my head in my hands. ‘I need to talk to Jed.’
‘How about we stop off halfway and get something to eat, then we can re-evaluate?’
I wanted to reach out and grab onto Henry’s calm and level-headed demeanour. Who was I kidding? Spiralling into panic, I wanted to reach out and grab onto Henry.
I looked up. ‘Make a list of the pros and cons?’
‘If you like. You also might want to figure out what you’re going to say when you reach this address.’
‘Crap.’ Another wave of alarm rushed up my chest. ‘Be honest: is this whole idea utterly absurd?’
Henry looked at me, his face serious, eyes gentle. ‘How many people in Hatherstone thought that opening an alternative provision school was absurd? Giving these lost kids a chance?’
I offered a rueful smile. ‘All of them apart from two. Oh, and your parents. Four.’
‘Are you joking? My parents thought the idea was catastrophic.’
‘You’re not serious? Do Mum and Dad know that?’
‘That scar that my dad has on his forehead?’
I nodded, my mouth half hanging open. ‘Dad didn’t punch him?’
Henry grinned. ‘Your mum cracked him on the skull with a cricket bat. She swears it was an accident, but you and I both know that your mum has better aim than a precision laser.’
‘So, what you’re saying is that madcap schemes run in the family?’
‘Or, I’m saying that sometimes it’s worth taking a huge risk for something that means so much to you, even if other people might consider it to be foolish and irresponsible.’
‘Do you think this is foolish and irresponsible?’
Henry kept his eyes firmly on the road. ‘Would I be driving you there if I did?’
The answer to that, I’d realised after spending the past week with him, was probably yes.
We opted for one of those ‘healthy’, home-made burger restaurants, a half-mile detour off the M1. I wanted quick, easy, yet not too grim, and a cranberry and chestnut burger on flatbread with sprout salad and parsnip fries was perfect.
‘Looks like the kind of thing your mum would make.’
I laughed. ‘This is my equivalent of childhood comfort food.’
‘Glad you’re feeling more comfortable.’
The truth was, that had a lot more to do with being with Henry than it did about the food. Although the festive atmosphere did help: the cosy booth we were sitting in was surrounded by groups of people laughing and chattering, Christmas lights twinkled, and a real fire provided a warm glow. An upbeat tune jingled in the background, and my feet couldn’t resist tapping along.
‘Ready to talk about where we’re headed?’ Henry had waited until I’d nearly finished eating before interrupting the good cheer with a blunt reminder of why we were here.
‘Not really. But I suppose I’ll end up regretting it if we don’t.’ I put the remains of my burger down, my appetite swiftly vanishing. ‘What do I say if he’s there?’
‘What do you want to say?’
‘I want to ask him whether he could be the father of Joy Papplewick’s child. Whether he knows that he is, and if so where the hell has he been? Everything else depends on his answer.’
Henry patiently waited while I spent the next few minutes going over my rambling thoughts, winding myself into a tighter and tighter knot until I was back on the brink of a full-on freak-out.
‘Hey,’ he interrupted eventually, his voice firm. ‘Take a breath.’
‘I can’t remember how,’ I rasped.
Henry got up from his chair and slid onto the bench beside me. He looked unsure about whether to hold my hand or give me a hug, but I solved that dilemma by practically launching myself up against his chest, burrowing my face into his ugly green jumper. His arms quickly wrapped around me, and for a merciful long moment I stopped thinking about anything apart from the feel of soft wool against my cheek, and his firm chin resting on the top of my head.
‘I’ve changed my mind. Can we just stay here instead?’ I mumbled, once I’d managed to suck some air back into my lungs.
‘As pleasant as this is, are you prepared to tell your parents that you ditched them to spend the evening in a restaurant with me?’
‘Oh, no. I hadn’t even thought of what to tell them.’ I pressed my forehead against his breastbone. ‘Are we going to have to say we had dinner together?’
‘We did have dinner together.’
‘Well, yes, but that was because we’re on a mission to save Charis House. It wasn’t because, well, because we…’
‘Because we like each other?’ Henry shifted position. ‘Speak for yourself. I’d happily spend the evening having dinner with you, purely on the basis that I enjoy your company.’
His voice was as calm as usual, but he couldn’t hide how his heart had started pounding against my cheek.
I wondered if he could feel mine, thudding in response.
I closed my eyes, hoping that might reduce the sudden static in the atmosphere, like the air before a storm.
If anything, shutting out the busy room around us only made the tension greater.
Then my phone pinged with a message. Fumbling out of Henry’s arms as quickly as possible, I knocked my phone onto the floor in my attempt to grab it.
Henry bent down and picked it up, freezing momentarily when he read the screen.
‘It’s not Jed,’ he said, his face snapping back to robo-Henry as he stood up, placing the phone on the table before brusquely plucking his coat from the back of his chair. ‘If you’ve finished eating, we’d better go.’
‘Yes, right. I’ll go and pay.’
‘I’ll pay for my half,’ Henry replied, a definite hint of frost in his voice.
‘No, you’re driving all the way down to Hertfordshire for me. Of course I’m going to pay.’
‘Beatrice, has it crossed your mind that if Charis House closes, I’m out of a job? The one I ditched my highly successful career for? It isn’t always all about you.’
And with that, he strode off, slapped a note on the bar before counting out what I presumed to be the exact change to cover his bill, along with a 10 per cent tip, then barrelled out of the door leaving me so shocked, it wasn’t until much later that I remembered to check what the message was.
We spent the final hour and a half of the journey in silence, with only the cacophony of improvised jazz to drown out Henry’s measured breathing and my confused thoughts about what just happened.
The first indication that this wouldn’t be the dream outcome I’d hoped for was the street we turned onto, which was a row of Victorian semi-detached houses towards the outskirts of a small commuter town. They were reasonably sized, well-presented properties but they certainly didn’t appear as if the owners would have a spare half a million pounds to give away.
It was nearly seven when Henry pulled up outside the address in the letter and turned off the engine, his eyes fixed on the dashboard.
‘I don’t know what I’ve done or said to make you angry with me, but is there any chance you can put it to one side until this is over with?’ I paused, trying to control the trembling in my voice. ‘I really need you with me.’
‘I am with you,’ he mumbled, one shoulder twitching.
‘No. I need you with me.’
He slowly turned towards me, although it took a good few seconds for his eyes to stop darting about. ‘I’m sorry. I’m with you.’
I met his gaze, and believed that he meant it.
‘I’m not angry with you, either.’
I raised an eyebrow in response.
‘I didn’t say I wasn’t angry. But it’s not you.’
‘Okay.’ I took a couple of deep breaths. ‘The longer I sit here, the worse it’ll get. Let’s do this.’
Then, before I’d even realised that my feet were moving, I was knocking on the navy front door.
The woman who answered appeared to be in her seventies, which was a positive sign. The way her lips narrowed when I asked if I could speak with Tony O’Dowd was not.
‘He died in 2004.’
I took an involuntary step backwards, the words – no matter how hard I’d tried to prepare myself for them – hit me like a physical blow.
‘Tony O’Dowd, the journalist?’ Henry asked, placing a reassuring hand on my back.
‘Yes. Are there many others?’
‘But he did live here? You knew him?’ I managed to ask, fighting hard to recover my composure.
‘We were married.’ She scanned me up and down. ‘Why are you here?’
‘He knew my grandmother, Joy Papplewick.’ That produced a definite flicker of interest, so I pressed on. ‘Our family are trying to piece together some of the missing chapters in her early life, and we knew she’d become friends with Tony when he spent time with her gathering information for an article.’
‘When was this?’
‘In 1961.’
‘Before I’d met him. He was probably engaged to his first wife, Eliza, around then.’
‘I’d love to hear more about him, if you had time to chat for a few minutes?’ I asked, plastering on my best TV smile and looking hopefully at the corridor behind her. ‘We’ve come quite a long way.’
She pursed her lips, considering this until Henry interjected with a brainwave: ‘I’m sure Joy would be extremely grateful. We’ll be sure to tell her how helpful you were.’
‘I suppose you’d better come in, then. I’m not making a drink, though. I don’t touch the kettle after six.’
‘Thank you so much. I’m Bea, and this is Henry.’
‘Pat. Please wipe your feet on the mat and take your shoes off.’
She waited while we did just that, then showed us into a modest-sized living room. I wasn’t quite sure why I’d asked to come in. Pat clearly didn’t know anything about Nana Joy or her baby. Only – if Tony had known he was the father, there was a chance he’d told his wife. Even if he’d merely had a love affair with Joy, wasn’t that the kind of memory people would share at some point?
‘Did he never talk about Joy, or mention that he knew her?’ I asked, taking a seat on the threadbare sofa.
‘He was a showbiz journalist. He knew a lot of famous people. I can’t remember him specifically mentioning her, though.’
Could that be significant, that he didn’t mention her when he’d spent all that time in her company? It didn’t feel like an appropriate question to ask his widow, however.
‘Was Tony the kind of person who kept hold of items from his past? We found this house because Joy has a letter he wrote her. Maybe she wrote back?’
‘Even if he had kept them, after all these years there’s nothing left of his now.’
Rather than sitting down, Henry had been ambling about the living room. He stopped now, and pointed at a photograph on a side table. ‘Is this him?’
Pat glanced up. ‘No. That’s my brother.’
‘Do you have any photographs we could look at?’
‘And then we’ll get out of your way,’ I added, hoping that would work as an incentive.
‘The old ones are in there.’ She nodded at a sturdy sideboard, directing Henry to one of the cupboards where he found a neat stack of photograph albums.
‘The green one at the bottom. There might be something in there.’
Henry started flicking through, carefully scanning each page. I knew he’d found something when he paused, his entire body going still.
‘Is this him?’ he asked, moving across to show Pat a picture.
‘That was when we were first dating, back in the early seventies. If you keep going there’s wedding photos.’
Henry moved across to show me the page.
It was as if the air had been sucked out of every cell in my body. I had to blink to stop my vision dancing before taking a second look, because on the first glance, I’d have sworn I was looking at a photograph of my dad.
‘A handsome man,’ I choked out, and I wasn’t lying.
‘He certainly used to be.’ It was clear from Pat’s sour expression that she wasn’t remembering her late husband with fondness, or grief. More like irritation.
‘Do you have any children, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I don’t.’ She shrugged. ‘Tony wasn’t interested.’
‘You mentioned a first wife. Had he any children from before you were married?’
‘He wasn’t married more than a year or so. A disaster from the start, from what I gathered. So, no.’
‘Is it all right if I take a photo of this picture? I’m sure Joy would love to see it.’
‘Take it, if you want. I’ve plenty more.’
‘If you’re sure?’ My hand shook so hard Henry had to gently prise the photo out of the album for me. He also had the presence of mind to ask for her phone number, in case we had any further questions, which she reluctantly provided with the proviso that we didn’t contact her after six p.m.
‘Now, if you don’t mind, Corrie’s about to start.’
‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.’
‘If you say so.’
She had no idea.