Liam's Story Read online

  There was no answer to that. Banishing the question, he shook his head. The day was too new, too brilliant, to waste on impossibilities. Instead, he gave himself up to the pleasure of the journey: winter wheat, fresh and green, the dark richness of ploughed fields and pink blossom in gardens along the way. All a delight to eyes starved of such beauty for five long months.

  With the Minster towers in sight against the horizon, Stephen found himself thinking again of his grandmother and the forthcoming funeral. But not even that sadness could dent his joy as the taxi bore him into the city. All the familiar landmarks were there to greet him: Micklegate Bar, proud as ever, then left past the station and over the river. And suddenly there it was, up close and gleaming in the midday sun: the great west front of the Minster.

  He smiled. It was good to be home.

  Joan had recently called at the flat. Beside the mail stacked neatly at one end of the breakfast bar, was a note, telling him that electricity and water were turned on, fridge and freezer stocked with basic essentials. His heart warmed to her. Despite her grief, despite all other necessary arrangements, she had somehow found time to do what she always did, making his homecoming as smooth as possible.

  Stephen made himself some coffee, smoked a cigarette and spent a good five minutes deciding whether to defrost something in the microwave, or eat out. Ultimately, the thought of having to make conversation with anyone, even his favourite lunchtime barmaid, was too much. Instead he reached for the frying pan and cooked himself a satisfying English breakfast. Within an hour he was in bed, sleeping the sleep of the utterly exhausted.

  When the alarm rang at six, he was drowsily tempted to ignore it. The rest he had had was not enough, but would suffice for the time being. With mind still numbed and body sluggish, he forced himself out of bed and into the shower.

  Pulling on an old pair of jeans, Stephen went through into the sitting room, a towel still draped around his naked shoulders. He slipped a tape into the stereo, smiling as the music of Dire Straits, almost Spanish in its passionate cadences, swelled to fill the room. Beyond the window, Goodramgate’s black, uneven rooflines stood dramatically against the floodlit Minster. Its purity touched his soul as always, while the music stirred longings not entirely spiritual. He found himself remembering his last night at home, the strange light and sudden, swirling mist; and a girl, silhouetted against it. The memory was as clear as yesterday, but all that was long gone. The daffodils were in bloom again beneath the city walls, and it was time for him to pick up the threads of his other life.

  Pouring himself a drink, he sat down to flick through the collection of mail, immediately consigning a whole bundle of circulars to the waste-paper bin. Bank and fuel statements were pushed to one side for later perusal, leaving a few letters, mainly from friends abroad, which had arrived too late to be sent on to the ship. There was a note from the shipping company, querying his report on an injured seaman, which raised a muttered oath; and another, addressed in a neat, italic hand, which made him frown.

  The postmark was London, dated just after Christmas; and for a moment Stephen wondered why his aunt had neglected to forward it. Then he saw her message, scribbled in pencil on the back: ‘We had one of these, so no point in sending it on – Joan.’

  Intrigued, he extracted a single sheet of typescript from the already unsealed envelope. The message, from a London address, was photocopied:

  ‘As there are 52 Elliotts in the York phone book, and no gender indicated, I hope you will forgive the impersonal nature of this letter, and understand that it is prompted simply by my desire to know something about the family to whom I am related.

  ‘I am the great-grand-daughter of Letitia Mary Elliott, who was born in York in 1897, and died in Sussex in 1972. I understand that Letitia, whose nickname was Tisha, had two brothers, Robin and Liam, both of whom served in the First World War. I would like to make contact with anyone who might be descended from them.

  ‘Obviously this is very much a shot in the dark – not all the Elliotts in York will be related. But I sincerely hope that someone is – and that one of you will reply.’

  The signature was bold and clear – Zoe Clifford.

  Bemused, Stephen read it through again, and then a third time. Letitia Mary Elliott was a name that meant nothing to him, but his grandfather, Robert Elliott – known as Robin – had certainly served during the First World War. As had his brother, William Elliott. Known as Liam. Had to be the same family, Stephen decided, those names were not common.

  At first it struck him as very odd. Then he recalled a friend who was researching her family history, and realized this young woman was probably doing the same thing. Privately, he thought Zoe Clifford was wasting her time; apart from Liam, who had emigrated to Australia, the Elliotts had done nothing remarkable that he was aware of. No royal bastards, no fortunes in chancery, not even a poacher sentenced to be hanged.

  Turning the envelope over, scanning Joan’s message again, Stephen picked up the telephone. For perhaps half an hour they talked about his grandmother, about the long weeks in hospital and her peaceful end. Joan had been with her, and although she did not break down in the telling, Stephen could hear the rough emotion in her voice.

  Stephen offered to come over once he had eaten, but Joan put him off.

  ‘No, love, come tomorrow, have some lunch with me. We can talk then. The funeral’s eleven o’clock on Thursday – I did say, didn’t I? Pamela’s coming, of course, but there won’t be many others.’ Joan sighed. ‘A few friends of mine, that’s all.’

  The service at All Saints Goodramgate was short, followed by an interment at the old cemetery, much overgrown since his visits as a child. Stephen had never known his grandfather, but he knew Robin Elliott’s grave. As the new coffin was lowered, he was thinking of his parents, grieving more for them than for his grandmother; and so, it seemed was Pamela, for she was suddenly clinging to his arm.

  ‘Awful, isn’t it?’ she whispered, wiping away a tear. ‘I’m glad Mum and Dad were cremated.’

  He sighed, not sure he agreed. ‘Well, at least their ashes are here.’

  Dry-eyed, Joan scattered some earth and then turned to Stephen. ‘They’re together again,’ she said sadly. ‘It was what she always wanted.’

  Back at the house, Joan had prepared sandwiches and a plain cake. There were more guests than Stephen had expected – three ladies, friends of Joan, and two men of similar age. Old soldiers, from their conversation. They made small-talk at first and then relaxed under the influence of sherry and whisky into reminiscence. The war, the ‘thirties, the ‘fifties – he caught Pamela’s polite smile and realized she was keen to be off. She nodded to her husband, and Stephen saw him glance at his watch.

  ‘Chris has to get back to work, I’m afraid – and I must be home for the children…’

  They made their apologies to Joan, who frowned and said she was sorry they had to go. Stephen heard her say that there were things she’d been hoping to discuss with them; but Pamela promised to come again soon.

  ‘One Saturday, Aunt Joan, we’ll bring the children over. But why don’t you come to us?’ she added brightly. ‘It will be a change for you…’

  And maybe Joan would go, Stephen thought, but not without a definite arrangement.

  An hour later, the other guests were also leaving, and it seemed to Stephen that his aunt was glad to see them away. He was about to fetch his coat when she stayed him with a gesture.

  ‘Let’s have a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘I’m exhausted.’

  Stephen made the tea, and they settled down before the fire.

  ‘I was hoping Pam would stay a while. But as soon as I saw Christopher, I knew they’d have to dash off. It was good of him to come, but I wish…’ She shook her head. ‘I wanted to talk to you both.’

  ‘What is it?’ he prompted.

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, so don’t say I’m rushing things. If I don’t do it now, I never will.’ Sh
e took a deep breath and leaned towards him. ‘I’ve decided to buy a flat, Stephen. Never could abide this place, and now Mother’s gone, I can’t wait to get out. The sooner the better.’

  He was taken aback. ‘Are you sure? It’s very sudden. Shouldn’t you wait a while?’

  ‘I’ve waited for years, love. Tried to persuade your Gran, but she wouldn’t have it. This was her home, she said, she’d lived here since she was married, and she intended to die here. Well,’ Joan added, ‘she didn’t quite get her wish, but near enough.’ Again, a deep sigh and that regretful shake of the head. ‘I knew, once she went into hospital, she wouldn’t come home…’

  He saw the glint of tears and was very much afraid that this decision was too soon. She dismissed his protests with a wave of the hand.

  ‘I want something small and easy to clean – and above all, Stephen – warm. My arthritis isn’t getting any better, you know, and so much wants doing here. Quite frankly, love, I can’t afford the maintenance, not on one pension. So I’ve taken advice and I’m selling. Buying a nice little one-bedroomed affair off Walmgate.’

  ‘Walmgate?’

  ‘Oh, don’t sound so snobbish,’ she said, suddenly brisk. ‘Those new flats are lovely – central heating, double-glazing, fitted kitchen, the lot. Nearly as smart as yours,’ she added archly.

  Stephen laughed. ‘Listen, you don’t have to sell it to me. You’re the one who’s always been so disparaging about Walmgate.’

  ‘Well,’ she conceded, ‘it was dreadful before the war. But it’s come up in the world since then, you know — and with the price of property the way it is, beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Suspecting his aunt was in a far from beggarly situation, he smiled. ‘Well, this house should fetch a decent price. I know it needs a lot of work doing, but even so…’

  It was a pleasant late-Victorian house, with deep bay windows on a quiet street just outside the city walls. Apart from a first-floor bathroom installed during the early 1950s, and a kitchen of roughly the same era, the house had barely changed from the day it was built. Fireplaces and picture-rails were all intact, together with door knobs, cast-iron coat pegs in the hall, fancy floor tiles and stained glass in the porch door. For someone with sympathy and plenty of money to spend on re-wiring and a damp-proof course, the place would be a delight. If he could bear to give up his view of the Minster, Stephen thought, he might be half-tempted himself...

  ‘It won’t happen overnight, I know, but I shall have to prepare. So if there’s anything you or Pamela would like, I want you to say so. I’ll keep my favourite items, but most of the furniture’s going to the salerooms – I want something new and bright to cheer me up.’

  ‘And you deserve it,’ he said, squeezing her hand. Never married, his aunt had devoted her life to caring for other people. Perhaps it did seem sudden, this desire for change, but he felt Joan Elliott was entitled to it. ‘Whatever you decide – or should I say, whenever – I’ll try to help. I’ve got a couple of months’ leave, so if you move house while I’m at home, then all the better. In the meantime,’ he added as tears sprang to her eyes again, ‘If there’s anything you need a hand with, just let me know.’

  She said there was, and there was more she needed to discuss, but she was tired. Stephen knew it was time to go, but he felt guilty leaving her alone. With assurances that she would be fine – TV and an early bed tonight – he promised to call the next morning.

  Ten minutes later he was climbing the stairs to his flat.

  It was only as he was preparing his evening meal that he remembered the letter. He picked up the envelope, re-read the contents, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Tomorrow he must remember to ask Joan about that.

  She was in the kitchen when he arrived, preparing pastry for a meat and potato pie.

  ‘But I was supposed to taking you out for lunch,’ Stephen protested, kissing her warm and rosy cheek. ‘Anyway, I’ve brought these for you.’ He whipped a bunch of daffodils from behind his back, delighted by her surprise. The flowers were plunged into a cut glass vase and set upon the dining table.

  His third visit in as many days, and yet, as he looked at his grandmother’s empty fireside chair, it seemed odd not to see her there. She had been for him – as he was sure he was for her – a link with his father. For a moment he bitterly regretted his career. It had taken him away from so much.

  The family was shrinking. His sister had children, but the Elliott name would soon be gone – from this family at least. The thought made him sadder than ever.

  Thoughts of family reminded him of the letter in his coat pocket, but Joan’s thoughts were on more immediate matters. Over the next hour, as the pie released its tantalizing aromas, she explained the problem of the attic.

  ‘I really need some help with this. You see, there’s trunks and things up there I can’t possibly take with me, but I can’t just send them to the tip. Not without going through everything – and to be honest, love, I just can’t face it. I’ve already spoken to Pamela – she hasn’t got room, and anyway, I doubt she’d have the patience.’ She gazed at Stephen, her eyes full of appeal. ‘So I wondered – would you? You’ve got time on your hands while you’re on leave – and a spare bedroom…’

  Bemused, Stephen mentally assessed the contents of his ‘spare’ room. ‘Well, Joan – I don’t know – how much stuff is there?’

  Clearly, that was the cue she was waiting for. ‘Come and look.’

  Having checked the progress of the pie, she led the way to the attic, climbing steep wooden steps with little grunts of effort. With her hand on the narrow, half-glazed door, she paused to catch her breath. ‘It’s all up here – including Dad’s photographic equipment. But that’s going to the museum, so don’t panic.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that.’ He smiled, but in the midst of curiosity came an involuntary thrill which transported him back to childhood. On rare occasions he had been allowed to come up here; not to play, but to look at the giant camera and huge glass negatives which had been part of his grandfather’s life. Robin Elliott had trained as a photographer before the First World War, and afterwards had run his own business on Monkgate. Hundreds of photographs, not all of them mounted, lay in boxes and drawers beneath the eaves.

  But he had forgotten the trunks. As soon as Joan pointed to them memory came flooding back. The big black metal one, with its brass studs and clasps, had books in it, he was sure. Tomes from the last century: bound copies of illustrated journals, old bibles and history books. And photographs – albums of them – which he and Pamela had sometimes been allowed to look at when they were young. For a moment he was a child again, hushed and expectant, wondering at the treasure hidden within. And then he smiled, recalling disappointment: books and photographs seemed dull stuff indeed when his imagination had painted gold coins and strings of pearls.

  The other box, smaller, leather-bound, with its oversized padlock, had always remained closed. Whenever they asked, Gran said the key was missing.

  To his surprise, after a very short search, Joan produced a key from the top drawer of a painted chest.

  Before he could stop himself, Stephen said: ‘I thought that was lost?’

  His aunt gave him a sidelong look. ‘She always said that.’ After some persuasion the key turned, but the catch refused to give until Stephen wrenched at it. The hinges were stiff, too, squeaking in protest as he lifted the lid.

  ‘Good grief,’ he murmured, thinking of his own lightweight luggage, ‘to think people travelled with these things. No wonder they needed porters!’

  There was a layer of old newspapers covering the contents, and beneath, a sectioned drawer with several small boxes and three tiny pairs of children’s shoes. The leather was stiff with age.

  ‘And who did they belong to, I wonder?’

  ‘My father,’ his aunt replied softly, ‘and his brother and sister.’ After a moment, clearing her throat, she said: ‘Granny was so sentimental — Louisa, her name was – she cou
ldn’t bear to part with anything, especially letters. Just take out that drawer…’

  He hesitated. The sight of those little shoes, Stephen felt, was ridiculously disturbing. They were such an intimate part of someone else’s past, he did not want to touch them; nor, suddenly, did he want to see the rest. Time was telescoped alarmingly, the gap of a hundred years no longer existed; it was here, beneath his hand, and it made him shiver.

  As he crouched before the trunk, Joan released the catches and tugged at the wooden drawer. Reluctantly, Stephen helped her to lift it out. Beneath, tied with ribbon, were bundles of letters. Dozens of them. The uppermost ones, with envelopes yellowed and brittle, were directed to a Mrs. L. Elliott. One, Stephen noticed, was clearly postmarked Dublin, the year 1922.

  ‘Did you know these were here?’ he asked. ‘But of course, you must have done. Have you ever been through them?’

  Joan shook her head. ‘No. I couldn’t, somehow. I remember her very well, you see. She was my favourite person when I was a little girl – the sort of person you could tell your troubles to.’ Joan smiled, a regretful, affectionate smile; and then she sighed. ‘She died in 1944, just before D-Day.’ There was a pause, in which Stephen recalled the significance of that date to Joan. On one of the French beaches, her fiancé had been killed.

  ‘Was she very old?’

  ‘She was seventy-seven – a good age, then.’ She paused again. ‘Poor Granny.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Well, she outlived most of her own family – apart from that daughter of hers, who never bothered – and she seemed so sad and confused towards the end, talking to people who weren’t there. It got on Mother’s nerves, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But she kept her things?’

  ‘Well, they were precious to Granny, and I don’t think Mother liked to dispose of them.’ Lifting one packet of envelopes, she spotted another with familiar handwriting. ‘Just a minute – I think some of these are my Dad’s letters. Yes,’ she said slowly, scanning the addresses, ‘they are. His letters to Mother. She must have put them here for safe-keeping.’ For a moment, overcome, she held them against her breast. ‘I’ll have to keep these – you don’t mind, do you?’