Silver Linings Read online

  As Annie looked down at her lap, Jess and Viv exchanged a glance, both fighting tears.

  Viv coughed, her voice wavering. ‘How long was you in the hospital?’

  ‘Ten days. Meg helped me express my milk for him to have in a bottle. I wasn’t allowed to do anything else but I could give him that. When Father came to pick me up he said I should put it all behind me. Adoption was best for the family, best for the baby, and that was an end to it.’

  ‘Weren’t you offered counselling?’ Claire asked, horrified.

  ‘C’mon, bird,’ Annie was brisk. ‘This was fifty years ago. I’d had sex outside marriage, fallen pregnant and shamed my family. No way would I get any sympathy.’

  Mor pressed a hanky to her mouth.

  ‘Mother had told her friends I’d gone away to a special college to improve my exam results so if anyone asked that’s what I should say. Father wanted me to go back to school and do ‘A’ levels.’

  Claire’s brows shot up. ‘After what you’d been through?’

  Annie shrugged. ‘He said that was the past and he was willing to draw a line under it.’

  ‘Big of him,’ Viv snarled, her eyes bright with tears. Jess patted her arm.

  ‘I went to see the Matron at City Hospital who told me I could do a pre-nursing course before starting the three years’ training for registration. Best thing was that as a student nurse I could live in the nurses’ home.’

  ‘What did your parents say?’ Gill asked.

  ‘They were surprised. But it showed them I was serious. Truth is I couldn’t bear being in the same house with them, and they were glad to see the back of me.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Annie,’ Claire whispered.

  Mor wiped her eyes. ‘Sorry. I got no right crying –’

  Once again Jess gave silent thanks for her grandparents who hadn’t hesitated, taking her in and bringing her up after her parents died. ‘Now I understand why you wanted to help Tegan.’

  ‘Annie Rogers,’ Claire said. ‘It’s a privilege knowing you.’

  ‘Don’t be so daft,’ Annie said roughly, batting away the compliment.

  Viv gave Annie a fierce hug then, head bent, began clearing up the plates and cups.

  ‘Leave them, Viv,’ Jess said, passing her a tissue from a box on the worktop. ‘I know you want to check on your mother before you go home.’

  Gill went to fetch her coat. ‘You walking down, Annie?’

  ‘No, you go ahead. I’m going next door to see Elsie and Tegan. She haven’t got long to go now.’

  ‘Come here, you.’ Claire gave Annie a hug. ‘You are a remarkable woman, and I meant what I said.’ She turned to help Mor with her coat.

  After Mor, Claire, Gill and Viv had gone, Jess closed the door. Adding another log to the glowing embers she sat down opposite Annie. ‘OK, Annie. Do you want me to find him?’

  Annie shook her head. ‘No need. He’ve found me.’ She pulled a much-creased folded envelope from her trouser pocket, leaned forward and offered it to Jess. Her hand was trembling. ‘This come a week ago. I don’t know what to do. When I opened the envelope – I never been one to faint, but everything went fuzzy and dark. Good job I was by a chair.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. What a shock.’

  ‘It was. But once I got my breath back and my head stopped whirling, the relief knowing he was alive – I can’t describe it. My heart felt like it would burst. Where should I meet him? What should I say?’ Remembered excitement quickly faded as anxiety deepened the groove between Annie’s brows.

  ‘Then it was like I crashed headlong into a wall. See, I was remembering my baby, the one quick look I’d had before he was taken away. But the letter – that was written by a middle-aged man, a stranger who’d grown up as someone else’s son. While I was expecting I thought about names, like you do. I chose Angela for a girl and Robin for a boy. Then Meg told me his new parents would choose a name for him. He’s Graham Richard Lawrence. That don’t mean a thing to me. How could it? Why do he want to see me? Is he mad with me for giving him away?’

  Jess could have wept. She fought it back. This was Annie’s tragedy, not hers. ‘Annie, you said it yourself, he’s a grown man. If his adoptive parents were told about your circumstances – how young you were and that you weren’t married – maybe they told him. If they didn’t, he must have guessed there was a reason you couldn’t keep him. He’s gone to all the trouble of finding you. Surely he wouldn’t have done that unless he really wanted to meet and get to know you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Anguish was raw on Annie’s face as her shaking fingers shredded a tissue.

  Jess yearned to help the woman whose choice of career had brought aid and comfort to others while constantly reminding her of her own loss. But Annie would have to reach her own decision.

  ‘Half of me want to meet him, see what he looks like, how he sounds. But the other half – why couldn’t he have left well alone? I wish he’d never sent that letter. Why now? Why wait all this time?’

  Jess gave a helpless shrug. ‘Maybe he didn’t want to hurt the people he thought of as his parents? Maybe he didn’t find out he was adopted until recently.’

  Annie turned her head away, quiet for several moments. ‘Father had left instructions that after the baby was born I wasn’t to be allowed into the nursery. He wasn’t a cruel man. I know now he meant it for the best.’

  Jess bit hard on the soft inner flesh of her bottom lip. It hurt but the pain helped her not to cry.

  Annie looked up. ‘But all these years of not knowing, worrying if his new parents were looking after him proper ... I had carried him for nine months, felt him grow and kick. I was all those hours in labour. Then he was gone. I wasn’t even allowed to talk about it, about him, my little Robin. At least if he’d died I’d have known where he was. That sounds terrible. I don’t mean I wanted –’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Jess laid her hand on Annie’s. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘I could have mourned him. I would never have forgotten, but I could have let him go. Instead I grieved for what I never had. My baby was out there somewhere with another woman seeing his first smile, holding his little hands while he took his first steps –’

  ‘Annie, don’t.’ The lump in Jess’s throat was painful.

  ‘I had this great hollow ache. It never went away. But I got used to it. You have to. I knew I’d never marry. Men want children, a family, and I couldn’t – not after –’ She breathed in deeply. ‘I made a life for myself. I like to think I been useful. I wasn’t afraid to stand for they that didn’t have anyone to fight for them. But now –’ She raised anguished eyes. ‘I feel like I been ripped open. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide right this minute.’ Jess felt Annie’s thin strong fingers tighten on hers, holding on as if in fear of being swept away. ‘Surely he’ll realise what a shock it will have been for you, hearing from him after all these years? He won’t be expecting an immediate reply. Give yourself time.’

  Annie looked up, her wry smile heartbreaking. ‘That’s only putting it off.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Tidn no good. I can’t not reply, can I? I’ll write and thank him for his letter. See how we go from there.’ She stood up, tugging her jumper down. ‘Thanks, my bird.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘You listened.’

  ‘Anytime.’ Jess gave her a quick hug. ‘I mean it. Shall I make a fresh pot?’

  ‘No, my lover. Like I said, I promised to stop in next door and see how Tegan’s going on. Elsie will have the kettle boiling before I’m over the step.’

  ‘Given them my love.’

  ‘You seen they necklaces and bracelets Tegan been making?’ Annie pushed her arms into her coat. ‘Some pretty they are.’

  Jess recognised Annie’s need to distance herself – if only for a little while - from the emotional upheaval the letter had unleashed. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘they’d sell really well at the Rally. Keith and Sean
have planned for stalls all round the parade ring. They’re asking ten pounds each to go for charity. I did mention it to Elsie, but that was a few weeks back. If you get a chance, will you remind her? Tell her not to worry about a table. If all the ones from the chapel school room are spoken for, I’ll ask Jase Honey for the loan of his paste table.’

  ‘I’ll tell her. ‘Annie opened the door. ‘Night, Jess.’

  ‘Night, Annie.’

  Shortly after two on Thursday afternoon Jess was tackling a pile of ironing – her own this time – when Tom rang.

  ‘All right, my lover? Listen, I got the ledgers down. Six tea chests, three wooden crates and half a dozen large cardboard cartons, all packed full. One thing Father did, dear of ‘n, was write the years on each of them. Tell you what else I found, an old wooden box full of photos. I’d say come round but ‘tis a bit of a mess here.’

  Recognising hope in the pause, Jess grinned. ‘Why don’t you bring them here instead? Not all of them,’ she added quickly.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, bird. Anyhow, most will be gone. I rang Christine over the Records Office. She said they’d be willing to have a look so I’m dropping them off tomorrow afternoon. I kept back the ledgers from 1940 to 1943 like you asked.’

  ‘Come any time after six tomorrow and you can eat with me.’

  ‘Best offer I’ve had all week. I’ll see you then.’

  Jess was smiling as she rang off. She picked up the iron again, her thoughts drawn back to Annie’s dilemma.

  That evening she made herself a mug of hot chocolate, carried it to the table and opened her laptop. The phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me,’ Viv said. ‘Jimmy’s in the front room watching TV. You remember I told you his mum is being courted by Gary Hichens, my dad’s younger brother?’

  ‘I remember. He’s Brianna’s grandfather, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s some upset about what she done. Anyhow, Jimmy asked Pauline – that’s his mum – about Frances’s mother, Mollie. Pauline remembered the scandal about Frank Nichols. When Mollie and Frances left the village they went to Mollie’s brother, Edwin Roberts, over on Scilly. He had a flower farm on St Mary’s. Edwin’s wife, Mabel, hadn’t long died and he needed help in the house. But why I’ve rung, Pauline said she remembered reading something about Edwin’s war service in the local paper a few years back. There was a pull-out spread about local men doing undercover work they wasn’t allowed to talk about. They kept it secret for over forty years. P’rhaps you could find something about it on the internet?’

  ‘Viv, you’re a gem. I’ve just sat down to go online.’

  Checking a pre-war trade directory for St Mary’s she found Edwin’s flower farm. When she and Viv were cleaning Frances’s bungalow, there were two framed photos on the mantelpiece in the sitting room. One was of a young Frances in a white wedding gown smiling shyly at her bridegroom. The other was a black-and-white snapshot, now faded to sepia, of a woman Jess guessed to be Mollie, Frances’s mother, holding a basket filled with daffodil buds. Mollie’s brother, Edwin Roberts, had grown flowers for mainland markets.

  The directory also mentioned him running a ferry service between the islands. It was possible he made regular trips to Cornwall either for business or for regattas. With Tom’s father running a boatyard and building boats, and Edwin relying on water transport, might the two men have known each other?

  Making notes, she also jotted down further questions so she wouldn’t forget, then headed up to bed. Next morning she hurried through her chores, then logged on and continued her research. With a short break for a sandwich lunch, then a cup of tea and slice of cake at three, she worked on until six. Printing out all the notes she had made, she logged off, closed her laptop and arched her back, hearing clicks and creaks as she stretched.

  In the kitchen she filled the kettle and switched it on, still thinking about what she had learned.

  From the British Newspaper Archive she had followed directions to the article Viv had mentioned. It featured Edwin talking about SIS operations run from Falmouth. The French fishing boats they used had arrived in England after the fall of Paris in 1940 and been painted wartime grey. But to transfer agents and saboteurs to the French coast, even in the dark, a boat would have to blend in with the French trawler fleet. That meant repainting it in traditional colours.

  This was done in secret in a quiet cove on Edwin’s land. But with materials scarce in France, a boat arriving freshly painted would have been an immediate giveaway. Edwin had come up with an ingenious solution. He threw handfuls of iron filings onto the fresh wet paint then hosed it down with seawater. In a few days not only was the recently applied paint was streaked with rust, it also looked old and dull.

  The article concluded that by early summer of 1943 the SIS, Secret Intelligence Service, and SOE, Special Operations Executive, had set aside their differences. Working together out of Helford, this ‘private navy’ had taken delivery of two new vessels built to resemble Breton fishing boats but containing powerful engines. With fewer hours of darkness their speed was vital, and they took over from the slower trawlers.

  Was this a reference to the fishermen who brought escaping Frenchmen over to Cornwall? Men who responded to De Gaulle’s rallying cry then, having received new papers, were secretly ferried back to France to work as agents for his Free French army?

  Will Olds had told her his grandfather’s memories of Frenchmen boarding a boat in the dark and leaving quietly from the small building on the old stone quay at the marina. Whose boat? Who had carried them?

  She switched on the grill and, while waiting for it to heat, lightly toasted two slices of bread then topped them with sliced tomatoes and grated cheese as she thought it through. Any boat making that trip regularly would need a skipper who knew the coves and currents along the Brittany coast. So it was likely he’d be Breton and his boat a Breton trawler sailing with the fleet out of Concarneau. But as mate he’d want a Cornishman with matching knowledge of this coast. How many crew would a boat like that need?

  Leaving the grill pan on the worktop she picked up the phone and pressed the keypad. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Hello, my lovely.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out about boats that carried agents to Brittany and picked up those who needed to get back here. In 1943 the SIS were using a Breton trawler fitted with powerful engines. But before then people were being brought out by trawlers working under sail. How many crew would they have?’ She could hear him breathing as he thought.

  ‘I reck’n six, plus the skipper. There might be something in Father’s ledgers. I know Breton boats used to come over for regattas, and our boats went over to Concarneau. Still do. They did have engines, but only as back-up.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom. That’s –’

  ‘There’d have to be two boats, mind,’ he broke in. ‘The trawler would be hiding in among the fleet. But you’d need another smaller boat coming downriver carrying whoever needed to get out. Either the escaper would be dropped off from the river boat in a quiet cove ready for the trawler to send a dinghy ashore to pick ’n up. Or the river boat would wait till dark then bring the man out to the trawler. There’d be two or three crew on the river boat.’

  ‘Tom, that’s such a help. Thanks so much. I’ll see you tomorrow. Beef casserole?’

  ‘With dumplings? I dearly love your dumplings.’

  ‘Course you do.’

  ‘Here, keep it clean.’ The laughter in his voice warmed her.

  ‘Bye.’ Still smiling she slid the pan under the grill.

  Dishes done, she made coffee then reopened her laptop. Deciding to leave any further investigation into secret crossings until Tom brought the ledgers, and curious to learn if Frank Nichols had returned to Cornwall after his release from prison, she navigated to the GRO Index of deaths.

  She sat back. Frank Nichols had died in Exeter prison in January 1947 and was buried in the prison graveyard. The cause of death was given as suicide by hanging.
She wondered if Frances knew. She would have still been very young. If she found out later it would have been yet another blow because until 1961 suicide was still classed as a crime. Jess remembered from another investigation that since 1882 suicides could legally be buried in a churchyard though not with the approved funeral service. But as no alternative service had been provided, clergy, and presumably that included the prison chaplain, had to improvise or use the usual service despite it being in breach of canon law.

  With his grave unreachable, all that remained to mark his existence and his passing was the lingering anguish he had caused his wife and daughter.

  Chapter Eight.

  At six the following evening Jess checked the small suet dumplings had fluffed up in the simmering casserole, replaced the lid and returned the dish to the oven. Recognising Tom’s knock, she called, ‘Come in,’ glad she’d taken time to clean her teeth, apply lip gloss and run a comb through her hair.

  ‘All right, my lovely?’ He smiled as he hauled in a large cardboard box with a small wooden box balanced on top. ‘Something smells ‘andsome.’ He closed the door, took off his jacket and, hanging it over the newel post, opened his arms.

  She went to him and he held her close. It felt right. He didn’t want anyone else, nor did she. If Annie was brave enough to face up to the pain of her past, Jess knew she had no excuse.

  Resting her hands on his broad shoulders she kissed him, tasting toothpaste as she breathed in the fragrance of citrus soap. ‘It’s you. You smell like lemons.’ His hair was still damp from the shower and he had changed his work clothes for clean jeans, a pale blue polo shirt and navy sweater. She kissed him lightly once more then eased away. He let her go and she returned to the kitchen. ‘How’s Chris?’

  ‘Over the moon.’ He followed her, leaning against the worktop as she took the casserole out of the oven, drained the runner beans, and removed plates that had been warming under the grill. ‘Jimmy got a nice little Peugeot for him. You’d never guess who it belonged to.’

  Jess glanced round. ‘Who?’