sound of the aged leather creaking beneath his fingers. His joints ached. His mouth, which still tasted ominously of blood, felt stale and dry.
If he could just get himself into his seat… If the guard would only blow his whistle and send the train wheezing and grunting out of the station… If he could put some distance at last between himself and the weary, winter-tide streets of cold, old, lonely London… Then and only then could he be certain that nothing and no one might prevent him from reaching his destination on time.
There had been all of eight days to digest the news, which in Henry’s world was less time than it took for the bulletproof avocados from his local corner shop to embrace their natural-born destiny and ripen. One minute he was pottering on the patio, mimicking the sound of the Papadopouloses’ chickens clucking in their homemade coop next door; the next, he was engaged in the most surreal telephone conversation of his life.
‘Uncle Henry, it’s Amy. I’m calling to say that I’ve found her. I think I’ve found the woman you’ve been searching for all these years.’
Henry pressed a finger to his ear and waited for the punchline, the dénouement, the inevitable Candid Camera reveal.
He stared at the framed reproduction of Monet’s sublime water lilies floating serenely on the hall wall. His instinct, once he’d had a second or two to process Amy’s words, was to gasp, but his jaw fell slack and all he could muster was an acute, ear-splitting silence.
He wrapped his hand around the empty glass vase on the bureau, moving it an inch this way, that way, keeping the pads of his fingers pressed to its cool, hard surface for no other reason than because it was the only object in his immediate line of vision that was solid, and tangible, and real.
A wave of longing rolled through his body. The sensation came close to overwhelming him until it was matched, molecule by molecule, by a slow-moving river of fear in his veins. What if there’d been a mix-up? What if this was all just another terrible mistake?
‘Uncle Henry, are you there?’
‘Yes, Amy,’ he replied. ‘I’m here.’
‘Good, because I need you to listen to this – it’s from an article in last night’s Evening Standard: “The inspiration for the novel came from the author’s mother, Yorkshire girl Francine Keeley, who in the aftermath of the Second World War worked as a waitress at Blackpool’s Shore Hotel.” Did you hear that? It’s her name. Her hotel. Same town. From everything you’ve told me, I don’t think there can be any mistake.’
Slowly, Henry let the vase go. Amy was right. The match was nothing short of perfect.
‘I’m sorry, Amy,’ he managed at last. ‘What exactly is this article about?’
There was a momentary pause.
‘Oh. Sorry, I should have said… It’s a spotlight on a new wave of debut authors, one of whom has written some sort of mystery-thriller set on the Lancashire coast in the 1940s. She credits her mother – “Francine Keeley” – and the Shore Hotel as the jumping-off points for her story. Honestly, you should thank the customer who left the paper behind in the café this morning, because otherwise I would never have seen it. I’ll drop it over to you after work and you can read it for yourself. In the meantime, I think it’s probably safe to assume that according to this, Francine is – or at one point was – married. Either way, the one thing we know for sure is that she has a daughter.’
Henry felt as though he were floating out of his shoes. He reached out his hand and grabbed the edge of the bureau before sinking in a state of burgeoning delirium onto the hallway chair.
Banjo raced in from the patio and began to paw frantically at Henry’s shins. Henry’s body slumped forwards, his elbows skidding to his knees. He was trying his damnedest to formulate a response, but his powers of expression were scrambled, his train of thought unclear.
‘I wouldn’t blame you for thinking it’s too late,’ Amy continued on the other end of the line. ‘It was practically a lifetime ago, after all. Then again – if she really is that important to you – if you make contact with her daughter, you’ll find Francine. The ball’s in your court, Uncle Henry. What do you want to do?’
Henry gripped the handle of his walking stick and pressed ahead. Determination coursed through every muscle of his body. He’d seen Francine in his dreams again last night, only this one was more real to him than most; so real he was sure he could even smell her perfume.
Her words haunted him still:
Francine.
Always and forever, Francine.
Even now, the memory cleaved Henry’s heart in two. Time, it seemed, had been cruel, and capricious. It had healed nothing.
One thing he’d learned for sure: digging around in his memories as he sat, pen in hand, bent over his notebook, was like sifting for gold; he never quite knew when the most precious nuggets of all – the ones with the power to steal his breath away – were going to filter up to the surface.
Catch me, Henry! – her arms beating wildly against her sides – Catch me if you can!
Her smile was electric. Sometimes it was a transitory feeling, gentle as a whisper, as intangible as a baby’s breath; at other times it was a profound ache that grabbed hold of Henry’s heart and tightened its grip like an iron fist. It astounded him how the human heart could remain so vital and complex with the passing of the years; an organ so unwaveringly loyal and pure and constant on the inside, while the outer body bowed to its inevitable decline.
And yet…
Henry glanced in renewed horror at his blood-splattered clothes. He’d experienced spontaneous nosebleeds once or twice before, but never like this. He wondered if it were a side effect of the medicine he’d been prescribed (but so rarely succumbed to taking) for one of his various ailments. He’d never placed much stock in doctors’ pills and potions; they handed them out far too readily for his liking, when mostly – just like every other lonely pensioner he knew – all he wanted was a chat and the opportunity for a bit of social interaction in the waiting room. And now look at him! A disgrace in his dove-grey suit! He wasn’t sure things could be going any worse. He must look like a decrepit Sweeney Todd!
Henry came to a stop alongside the train and placed his suitcase at the platform’s edge. Thank heavens for the girl: Ariel. Here she was standing right next to him telling him that she was travelling to Edinburgh, too:
‘I was supposed to be on the one that left at eight,’ she said, a little disconsolately. ‘But I had a total nightmare getting here on the Tube. I’m sure it’ll be fine if I just get on this one. I don’t suppose it’s full.’
As she spoke, a horde of passengers swarmed onto the platform behind them, and jostled past in a shamelessly undignified scramble to board the train.
‘Well, not completely full, anyway,’ Ariel added with a frown.
She turned and peered briefly through the First Class window. ‘Is this your carriage? It looks nice. Would you like me to see you to your seat?’
Henry smiled, partly at her kindness, but mainly at the expression of wonder on her face. He cast a discreet glance at the holes in her jeans, at her faded black plimsolls (just like the ones he and Devlin had worn in school!). At her side was what he assumed must be the hand-me-down exterior of her rather tired-looking suitcase on wheels. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but at her age he could never have afforded