‘I’ve got my cane—I’ll be fine,’ Raymuttered, as he climbed out of the car. He stood still and gazed at thegreat expanse of grass around them, only sporadically dotted withheadstones. ‘Is this all unmarked graves around here, then?’ he asked.
Morton nodded. ‘People too poor to beremembered.’
Ray shook his head. ‘Was she thatpoor, then?’
‘The local authority paid for her funeralas they had no idea who she was apart from her name. All her worldlygoods were left behind in Canada.’
Ray looked at Morton with a mixture ofunderstanding and incomprehension.
Melissa, holding the flowers in one hand,linked her free arm with her father’s and followed Morton to a spot close tothe low wall.
‘Here it is,’ Morton said, solemnlypointing to a wooden stick, on which had been written ‘M. Stone. B87.’
Ray stood with his head bowed for a momentas he stared at the grave.
Melissa handed him the bunch ofroses. ‘Do you want to put these down, Dad?’ she whispered.
Ray took the flowers and set them down infront of the grave marker. In a tearful, quivering voice, he said, ‘I’vefound you at last, Aunt Mary.’
Morton smiled and mouthed to Melissa thathe would wait in the car. He walked back and sat in the driver’s seat,watching the pitiful old man hunched over the grave, his daughter’s hand gentlystroking his back. Ray said something to Melissa, then she too walkedover to the car.
‘He wants a few moments by himself,’ shesaid, as she sat in the Mini beside Morton. ‘You really don’t know howmuch this means to him, you know,’ Melissa said. ‘All my life I’ve heardof this mysterious woman and now it’s solved, thanks to you. You’ve madea dying man very happy.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ he answered.
‘So when did Mary die, then?’
Morton paused before opening up the folderto the last page: her death certificate. ‘Day of Edith’s funeral,’ hesaid quietly, knowing the reaction it would cause.
‘What?’ Melissa said. She lookeddown at the certificate. ‘Oh my God.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
25thDecember 1925
MaryMercer—living under her pseudonym of Martha Stone—sat by the warm, open fire inthe small front room of her cottage in Halifax, Nova Scotia. She wasrepairing the hem on her skirt, which she had snagged earlier on in the daywhilst cutting some flowers from her white rose beds. As she ran the finecotton through her dress, in an uneven running stitch, she thought of herprevious life as Mary. When she had first escaped to Canada in 1911, shehad put so much effort into detaching herself from her past that Mary now feltlike an entirely separate being—like a long-forgotten acquaintance. Shehad become so disconnected from her that she seldom thought of her old life inEngland. Strangely, thoughts of her previous existence seemed only tosurface when she performed perfunctory tasks, like sewing, that had dominatedher time at Blackfriars. At first, she had disallowed her mind to wanderback and would force herself to change the direction of her thoughts. Gradually, as her life in Canada developed to include friends that knew nothingof her former life, she would occasionally allow herself the indulgence of abrief recollection of happier moments. Over time, the choking blacknessthat had once dominated began to fade and she found herself able to cherry-pickfrom a handful of happy past memories.
Mary finished her sewing and placed it onthe floor by her feet. A blast of cold air tumbled down the chimney andshe pulled her cardigan tight. She stood up to draw the curtains. She tugged the first curtain across and was just about to reach across to the secondwhen she thought she saw something unusual in the street outside. Shestopped and pressed her face up to the window.
Mary shuddered and felt her body go limpas the blood drained from her face.
A shadowed figure stood pitifully in theblustery snow outside her door.
It couldn’t be…
The silhouette looked familiar. Likeit belonged to Edie.
But that couldn’t be…
She stared hard, trying to discern thefacial features.
It was her…without any doubt, it was her…
She had been found. The day that shehad feared and yet knew was inevitable, had arrived.
She stared at the motionless figure, snowsettling on her body as if she were a statue.
Mary began to shake as the past camethundering back into her head, like an unstoppable locomotive.
Trembling all over, Mary went to the frontdoor and pulled it open. She saw with certainty that it was indeed hertwin sister standing before her.
The past—with all the darkness thatencompassed it—had come to the present.
‘Edith,’ Mary said simply.
Edith suddenly lunged from the shadows andthrew her arms around her sister, as tears flowed from her eyes. ‘Oh,Mary! It is you! It’s been so long. I’ve missed you so much.’
Mary. It was the first time that anybody had called her thatin a long time. She tried to smile, she tried to reciprocate the embrace,but the deliberate fence that she had spent fourteen years building, refused toyield to the past.
Edith released her grip and Mary lookedher up and down. The time that had elapsed since their last meeting hadchanged her appearance little. The subtle make-up that she wore gave hera beauty that Mary hadn’t previously noticed.
Similar thoughts must have passed throughEdith’s mind. ‘Look at you, you’ve not changed much. Still got thatwild red hair!’
‘How did you find me here?’ Mary askedquietly.
Edith smiled. ‘It’s a very longstory. I’ve got so much to tell you and talk about!’
Mary nodded. ‘Come and sit down,’she said, leading Edith into the front room.
‘This is nice,’ Edith said, casting hereye around the room, which comprised two patterned armchairs, a coffee table,grandfather clock and a writing bureau. The only picture on the wall wasa painting of the Rye workhouse—a reminder of the life waiting for her if evershe returned home. A simply decorated Christmas tree close to the windowcompleted the room.
‘Thank you,’ Mary said, shiftinguncomfortably in the doorway. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Tea would be lovely.
