or ’60 when he left.’
‘My mum and he were close for a while, weren’t they?’
Mrs McDonald chuckled. ‘That’s one way of putting it, darling. George was a real ladies’ man, and your mum wasn’t the only one by a long chalk, but it was never serious with him. Not until his rich widow came along.’
‘Was Mum serious about him?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Only doing it to make your dad jealous, I thought.’ She looked suddenly suspicious. ‘This isn’t a divorce thing, is it? I wouldn’t want to get George in any trouble.’
‘Oh no, my dad’s dead.’
Mrs McDonald reached a hand towards Joycie, but then put it to her mouth. ‘Poor Charlie, that’s terrible, he was no age.’
‘But Mum left us in ’53, just after the last time we stayed here, and I wondered if she went off with Mr Grant.’
‘No, darling, George was just a bit of comfort for her. She was a lovely girl, and what with Charlie being the way he was …’ She looked at Marcus as if for help, and when he nodded she let out a heavy breath. ‘He was a theatrical, wasn’t he? And like a lot of them he was light on his feet, as they say. Probably should never have married, but then your mum was a slim little thing, boyish like, and they must have been very young when they got together. But they were still fond of each other, you could tell that.’
Marcus leaned forward. ‘Do you think Charlie knew about the affair?’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised, but she would never have left him for George, and George wouldn’t have asked her to.’
They managed to avoid more tea and said their goodbyes, but on the doorstep Joycie said: ‘So you knew my dad was homosexual?’ Mrs McDonald pursed her lips, as if the word was too rude to respond to, and crossed her arms over her acreage of bosom, but Joycie carried on. ‘It’s just … I wondered if you ever mentioned it to the police?’
Mrs McDonald squeezed her bosom tighter, hands high in her armpits. ‘Certainly not. Apart from a couple of commercial travellers, like Mr Grant, I’ve always had theatricals staying here. If I reported everyone who was that way inclined the place would soon be empty. Anyway, live and let live is my motto.’
Joycie touched her beefy forearm. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’
They thanked her and turned to go, but she said, ‘Why do you want to know all this after so long?’
‘My aunt just got in touch with me hoping to trace Mum.’
‘Only I was wondering. Because someone else was asking after your mum and dad a week or so ago. I thought he was a debt collector, but perhaps it was your uncle?’
A chill down her back. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Smart chap, fortyish, and as I say looked like a debt collector to me. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, if you know what I mean. Lovely shiny shoes, though.’
***
‘It was the same man – the one from Manchester – the one with the autograph book,’ Joycie said.
‘Surely not.’
‘The way she described him, I just know it’s him.’
‘But why would he be calling on your old landlady?’
‘I don’t know, but it scares me.’
‘Do you want to go to the police then?’
‘They’d just laugh at me, you know that,’ she said.
They were both quiet for the rest of the journey, but when she got out of the car and was climbing the steps to the house Joycie found herself looking up and down the sunny street. Marcus put his arm round her as he slotted in his key. ‘Relax, there’s no one there.’
There was the usual pile of post on the hall floor, and Joycie put it on the little table and began to look through it, trying to calm herself.
‘There you are – Fort Knox,’ Marcus said, attaching the chain to the front door and slapping the heavy wooden frame. ‘And we could get a dog, if you like. I wouldn’t mind an Afghan or something.’
Joycie only half-heard him because she was opening a big brown envelope, her heart beating hard.
Dear Joyce,
These are the letters from Mary to our mam or all the ones Mam kept anyway. It was lovely to see you and the kids haven’t stopped talking about you. It would be nice if you could come for a proper visit sometime.
Your loving aunt,
Susan
Marcus came behind her and rested his warm hand on her shoulder. She put her head against his cheek. ‘You’ll want to read those on your own I expect?’ he said. When she nodded he rubbed her arm. ‘I’ll be in the darkroom. Call me if you need to talk.’
It was sunny outside now so she made a cup of Earl Grey and took the bundle of letters into the garden. Marcus had dragged a couple of old wicker chairs out from the shed the other day, and she put the brown envelope on one and sat on the other. A deep breath, a gulp of tea, then with her cup carefully placed on the grass beside her she took out the letters.
They were in no particular order. One from ’43, another from ’52 and one from ’49, all signed: Your loving daughter Mary. The careful handwriting wasn’t familiar, but then she’d only ever seen a shopping list or two scribbled by her mum. Odd phrases jumped out at her as she tried to organize the letters by date.
The postal order is for Susie’s birthday. Please buy something nice for her.
Joycie is walking really well and is into everything.
Charlie and Sid are doing the summer season in Clacton …
… in Margate,
… in Blackpool. Perhaps you could try to get over sometime while we’re there. If you drop a note at the box office I can arrange to meet you. I’d love you to see Joycie. She’s so pretty and she never stops talking.
Joycie held the crinkled paper to her lips, looking down the garden. Most of the daffodil flowers had gone now, leaving just their spikes of green to catch the sun, but the tree in the middle danced with pink blossom. The date on this letter was 1947: her mum hadn’t seen her family for six years.
She took a breath and carried on organizing the bundle by date. This must be one of the first: August 1941, not long before her own birth.
I don’t know when Charlie will get his next leave, but I’m not on my own because I’m staying with a friend of his, Irene Slade. She’s very kind, but I do miss you all.
Just before Christmas that year:
We’re calling her Joyce after Grandma. Charlie hasn’t seen her yet. I’m still staying with Irene and I’ve put her address above. I know it must be difficult, but if you could get down here it would be lovely to see you.
December ’45: Charlie’s home and we’re so happy, but Joycie is still not sure of him!
She skimmed through them all, but could find no mention of Mr Grant or any other man. There were only two from that last year: 1953. The first was just chit-chat about them going to Hastings for the summer season and the new shoes she’d bought for Joycie. She remembered those: they were red patent leather, and she’d worn them till they were so tight her toes began to bleed. You should see her in them. I think she might turn into a dancer one day.
Then what must be the last, sent in August 1953.
I’m coming back home. Please tell Dad