‘Did she come again?’
‘No, never saw her again. But I know she wrote to him.’
‘Really?’
‘A letter arrived a few weeks later. I saw it on the hall floor. Knew it was from her. Same perfume, same Penang postmark. I put two and two together.’
Laura felt sense of relief creeping over her. All these years she’d agonised about ruining his happiness, when perhaps what she had done had made no difference at all. He’d seen the woman who had written the letter, and she’d written to him again.
‘Perhaps there was someone else then,’ she said slowly. ‘He never told me anything about his life before the war. Did he ever say anything to you?’
‘Never. As far as I was concerned, his life before he met your mother was a closed book.’
‘Do you think he kept the letter?’
Marge shrugged. ‘You went through all his papers, didn’t you?’
‘Only official stuff in his desk. I didn’t have the heart to go through his bedroom. Couldn’t face it. I asked Ken to clear it out while I was away. You know, take the old clothes to the charity shop. I asked him if he found anything, but he didn’t.’
‘You could always have another look. You know what men are like. They often miss important things.’
Tentatively, she opened the door to her father’s room. All the memories came flooding back. Memories of her mother sitting up in bed and holding her arms open in the morning as Laura jumped on the bed between them. She remembered the warm glow of happiness she had felt as she snuggled down in the hollow between her mother and father. They would read her Beatrix Potter stories together: her father would do the voices of the male characters and her mother the female ones. She remembered how she would sit at the dressing table and try on her mother’s jewellery and make-up, smearing red lipstick onto her lips and pouting in the mirror just as her she had seen her mother do. Sometimes her mother would let her try on her high-heeled shoes, and she would stagger around the room, while her mother sat on the bed and watched her, laughing.
She stopped, swallowed hard and banished the ghosts. The room was bare and tidy; it smelled clean and fresh. The bed had been made, and the furniture polished.
She opened the drawers, one by one, but they were all empty. She felt round in the bottom of the wardrobe, found nothing, then stood on a chair and ran her hand along the top of it. She looked under the carpet, even checked the floor for loose boards.
She was leaving the room as she noticed the musical box. A memory surfaced of her mother lifting the lid and a display of toy fairies dancing on a mirror as it lifted. The box was locked.
She ran down to the kitchen and found an old screwdriver Dad had kept in the drawer for odd jobs. She knew it might ruin the box, but she had to find what was in there. She began to try and prise the lid open. She didn’t have to apply much pressure. It clicked open easily. Sure enough the dancing fairies sprang into life and moved to the tinny tune of the ‘Nutcracker Suite’.
She eased out the upper layer, and the music stopped.
There it was, nestled in the blue velvet lining. An envelope with a Penang post mark, dated February 1975.
She started when she saw the address: ‘High Tops House’. Her hands shook as she opened it. When she unfolded the letter, a lock of brown fluff fell out onto the bed. She read on:
‘My Dearest Tom,
It was wonderful to meet you last month and talk about the old times, after almost half a lifetime. I couldn’t have come to London and not looked you up. I’m glad I persisted even though my first letter went astray.
I had to tell you about the baby, although I knew it would sadden you to know that she died so soon after she was born. I’m sending you a lock of her hair as I promised I would. The treatment I had in London was good, but not good enough I’m afraid. I was keen to get back here to High Tops for my last days.
The lock of hair should be with you when I’m gone. Our baby was a little miracle. She brought James and me closer than ever before, close enough to conceive our own son who has been such joy and strength to me.
If you ever go to Penang, her ashes are scattered off the little bay where you and I used to walk. I brought them back from Australia when James and I returned to High Tops after the war. I often go there still and think of her, and think of you and the good times we had together.
Take care, Tom, and remember me.
Forever yours,
Millie.’
Stunned, Laura put the letter down and sat on the bed for a long time, thinking. She thought about the remote beach where David had taken her. He had said his mother had loved to go there. But he hadn’t mentioned a baby. She wondered if he knew.
She suddenly thought of the money that Jim Leech had left her. It could be just the injection of cash David would need to get the business on its feet. She had no real need of it for herself. She thought about telephoning David to tell him about the letter from Millie, and about the baby, but quickly decided it would be too difficult to explain over a crackly phone line. No, she would write instead. She could explain properly in a letter and at the same time mention the bequest.
The next morning, Laura went back to the Imperial War Museum to see if she could find out anything about Arthur Stone. The girl with glasses who had helped her before was sitting at the desk.
