Family Records Centre. I didn't run because I was afraid. I was afraid because I ran. I could always buy a large battery radio; but that would seem like sacrilege. Or a mobile phone, but who could I call?
Alice. The only person in the world I wanted to talk to. The only person I wasn't allowed to-had promised not to-ring. I started up the slope towards East Heath Road with a strange sensation of vertigo. How could I have accepted Alice's terms for so long? Or felt so sure, so much of the time, that we would fall into each other's arms one day and live happily ever after? Madness. Obscured until now, one day at a time, by the cosy routines of the library, the daily dose of worry about my mother. Tonight I would ring the hospital and ask for Alice and say, you're not the only one capable of surprises.
THE NEW FAMILY RECORDS CENTRE IN CLERKENWELL WAS clean (except for the older registers, which stank even more than I remembered), spacious and, at opening time, relatively tranquil. The crowds built up as the morning wore on, but by then I had found most of the entries I wanted; and learned nothing, in essence, that I didn't already know from Miss Hamish's or Viola's letters.
Viola's shell-shocked son George-George Rupert Hatherley-had married Muriel Celia Hatherley, nee Wilson in the district of Marylebone in the third quarter of 1927. Anne Victoria Hatherley had been born in the first quarter of 1928, and Phyllis May (just to make certain, though I didn't know why I was bothering, unless I suspected my mother of forging her own birth certificate), in the second quarter of 1929. And then George and Muriel had died in the third quarter of 1930, in the district of Brighton. George had been thirty-eight years old, and Muriel just twenty- seven when the accident happened.
They had died the same way as Alice's parents, it struck me as I sat in the basement tea room amidst the roar of genealogical debate. Since our very first letters, Alice had insisted on writing as if she'd been born, rather than nearly dying, on the day of the crash. She rejected as too painful, or simply ignored, all my attempts to get her to talk about her family, until I gave up asking. Just as I had with my mother, which made Alice's attitude seem-if not normal then at least perfectly understandable. I didn't even know her exact birthdate, only that she had been born in March. We didn't do birthdays or Christmas, or send presents of any kind: all that had been left on hold, waiting for our life together to begin. Mad, mad, mad. But now I could find out.
I fought my way through the swelling mob in Births, from 1958 to 1970, without finding a single Alice Jessell.
Deaths weren't as popular as Births. It took less than twenty minutes to establish that no one called Jessell had died anywhere in England or Wales between 1964 (the year Alice ought to have been born) and the first quarter of 1978, when she first wrote to me.
Of course she could have been born-and the accident could have happened-in Scotland, which kept its own records.
At the counter they told me I could log on to the 'Scots Origins' website and run as many specific searches as my credit card would bear. I ordered my certificates and walked down Ex-mouth Market in brilliant sunshine until I found an internet cafe. But the Scottish system didn't allow searches later than 1924. I logged in my credit card number anyway and entered 'Jessell 1560-1924'. We have no records for this name.
I opened an email window to Alice but couldn't decide what to write. One of my favourite books, when I was about eight or nine, had been an old Puffin
I logged off without sending anything, finished my coffee and moved over to the payphone by the door. I had the number of the National Hospital for Neurology and Microsurgery in East Finchley in my notebook. It couldn't do any harm-could it?-to ring the desk and ask to speak to Alice Jessell. And ring off before she answered. But on the other hand… best leave it until this evening. Collect the photograph from the hotel, take a cab back to the house, start searching the library. Concentrate on the Hatherleys and try not to think about Jessells.
THE WINDOW OF THE CAB WOULDN'T OPEN. EVERY STRETCH of grass we passed on the way up was crammed with half-naked people soaking up the sunshine. I was dripping with sweat when I paid the driver at the entrance to the lane. Half-past one.
I had brought sandwiches, bottled water, a torch and spare batteries, three boxes of matches. But when the gate had closed behind me, there was plenty of light now that the sun was overhead. I tried again to swallow the sensation of something cold and metallic lodged in the centre of my chest, about where, I realised, my mental image of Alice habitually floated-an indistinct figure in dazzling white, glimpses of a face from several different angles, never quite in focus. As much a part of me as breathing. As
I took my photograph up to the study and set it beside the framed picture on Viola's cabinet. They were indeed the same, but I was no closer to knowing who she was. 'Greensleeves', 10 March 1949. Just four days after Anne's twenty-first birthday.
I couldn't see a connection with anything I knew about her. It couldn't be to do with the breaking of her engagement to Hugh Montfort, because that hadn't happened until the summer of 1949. Could someone have written a play based on the song? A play for which she had auditioned?
Once more I read through the pages from Violas letters, which I had left on the writing-desk. Something in the dusty-sweet smell of the paper reminded me again of that hot afternoon in my mother's room, where this had all started. Or so it felt. Were the missing papers crammed into some hiding-place I hadn't found, back in the house in Mawson? Of course I'd hardly begun to search this one; I hadn't even looked in the basement yet.
Hiding-places… the false floor in the top cupboard. Could my mother have got the idea from something in her bedroom here?
The house was completely still. I left the two pictures side by side on the cabinet and went on down the corridor.
EVEN WITH THE CURTAINS OPEN, THE LIGHT IN MY MOTHER'S room was unnervingly dim. I had already looked through the dressing-table and chest, but I searched them again by the light of the torch. I lifted the bookcase away from the wall, dragged the counterpane and bedding and then the mattress off the bed, stirring up a cloud of dust and several more heavy, slow-flying moths, deliberately postponing my last and best chance: the wall of built-in cupboards that divided this room from Anne's.
As I had noticed the day before, the beds in both rooms were centred against the common partition, with the space equally divided between the two, so that on either side of the partition there was fixed panelling to the right of the bed, a cupboard above the left-hand half of each bed-head, and then hanging space with a shelf above the rail. I shone the torch beam into the cupboard above Phyllis's bed. The gouges in the floor-long, wavering scars, about a foot apart-looked unnervingly fresh.
The shelf in the closet was indeed made up of two separate sheets of wood-I could feel them flexing-but both were solidly fixed. Silly idea in the first place. If it
Just so I could tell myself-and Miss Hamish-I had left nothing undone, I moved on to Anne's room and repeated the search, with no better result until I took the yellowing tennis dress off the rail to see if there was anything in the pocket. It didn't even have a pocket. As I hung it up again, the shelf above the rail rattled slightly. I climbed on to the bed to get a better view. In the torchlight, I saw a faint dark line around the nearest panel.
In the cavity beneath lay a dusty quarto notebook. Lined pages, handwritten. A diary.
25 MARCH 1949
