A Habit of Dying (17 page)

In the weeks that followed, Lydia found her normal equilibrium restored. Even Gloria became, if not likeable, then at least bearable. She continued her researches, doing at least one thing nearly every day. Over this time she sent for and received fifteen certificates of Joslin birth and marriage. She allowed herself just one death, that of Nathaniel Joslin in 1887. To her immense satisfaction the informant was ‘Papa’ Albert, doing what an eldest son has to do. Each of the envelopes was eagerly anticipated, and much to her relief only two appeared to be irrelevant to her immediate quest. Nonetheless, she still tabulated the information they offered, knowing that one day they might fit into some obscure corner of her jigsaw.

Before she knew it, the calendar had clicked into December, which was not so much winter as an endless extension of autumn. Warm damp days followed one another in a clammy cycle. The annual invitation to her brother and his family to join her for a Christmas meal was met by the annual polite refusal. This in turn was followed by Lydia agreeing to spend Christmas day with Brian and Joan and their girls. The enforced ten-day break from County Council payroll administration, or ‘Human Resources’ as they currently liked it to be known, loomed ahead of her, an unwelcome gap in the routine of her life. Worse still, before that lay the drudge of shopping for a few gifts, and the prospect of the Christmas meal with her colleagues from the office.

‘No, Derek, you squeeze in here between me and Lydia.’

Derek was Gloria’s current infatuation. The meal was strictly ‘no partners’, just the eight women from the section, but an evening entirely without male company had clearly not been on Gloria’s agenda, so Derek turned up just as the dessert was being served and dutifully squeezed in where he was told. A big man, well over six feet, and heavily built, maybe in his late forties and certainly a good deal older than Gloria. He nodded a half smile before turning his attention to Gloria and his back to Lydia. This was a relief, since an hour and a half of full-on Gloria was about as much as Lydia could stand, and she had just calculated that in another twenty minutes she could safely take her leave.

‘Derek, say hello to Lydia. Lydia, this is Derek, he’s a detective, a real detective. You two should have plenty to talk about. Lydia’s investigating a murder, aren’t you?’ Gloria was extremely pleased with herself, although Derek was less taken with the idea.

‘Oh, are you?’ he offered lamely, with no hint of genuine interest.

‘No, not really, just a little project I’ve been working on. Anyway, it was all a long time ago.’

‘Oh I thought she meant now.’

‘No, the, er, death was a long time ago.’

‘That would make it all the harder.’

‘It’s for fun really, I enjoy the puzzle and seeing if the pieces can be made to fit. I suppose that would be a luxury for you.’

‘Yeah, it’s not all Morse in Oxford. Paperwork mainly, bloody great mountains of it. That and computers. It’s all computers, analysing this and checking that. If not computers then it’s boffins, forensic stuff, little wisps of chemicals or a hint of DNA. Don’t matter if you get caught in the act, no little wisp then you’re off. Not many puzzles left in the job now. Only how to work the bloody computers, eh?’

‘I can imagine,’ said Lydia, and she could. She looked at this big dull man breathing beer in her face and wondered if he had ever solved a puzzle in his life. Perhaps he hadn’t needed to. ‘That’s a pity if you don’t enjoy what you do,’ she added, before remembering her own far from interesting employment.

‘It’s a living, pays the bills.’

‘That’s something.’

‘You two having a good chat, then? Comparing notes?’ Gloria interrupted. ‘How is it lover, shall we go on somewhere in a minute?’

Oh yes please, thought Lydia, go on somewhere right now, take this guardian of the peace and go anywhere. The opportunity for her own escape soon presented itself, as other members of the group began talking of one more drink and then which club to go to. No one expected Lydia to join them and she was able to slip away without any fuss, as relieved to be gone as she imagined her workmates would be to see her go.

The night was cold, St Giles still glistening from a shower as she made her way towards the lights of the shops. Crossing Beaumont Street she turned to walk down past The Randolph. A few steps from the entrance she stopped. Ahead of her Stephen Kellaway was getting out of a car, the door held open for him by the hotel porter. Lydia stared in astonishment, jostled by the others on the pavement as she stood in their path. There was no mistake, the black tie and dinner jacket could not disguise him. He would not see her if she did not approach him, she could turn away or walk
right up to him. He would be friendly and greet her warmly, take her in for a drink, enquire about the journal, encourage her, take an interest. It would be the second time that they had met in a hotel entrance. Lydia moved to the side, closer to the building, steadying herself against the brickwork with one hand while the other went to her hair, a damp and frizzy mop. As she stood gulping air, a woman, radiant in evening dress and million-dollar hair-do over shimmering earrings, descended the steps to welcome Stephen with a kiss on each cheek. Taking his arm, she guided him up and into the Randolph. The car drew away. Beaumont Street returned to its business. Of the scene that had played out, only Lydia remained, pinned to the wall.

The walk to her little house in West Street took no more than fifteen minutes, but it might have taken an hour for all Lydia knew. She travelled in a daze, her footsteps mechanical, the direction instinctive. Her breathing was all wrong and she could not find its proper rhythm. Confused thoughts and contradictory images flickered through her head one after another. After a while she began to berate herself for such stupidity, what on earth could she have been thinking about? To have simply said hello, to have just acknowledged the happy chance would have cost her nothing, now she could never contact him or meet him, the burden of her shrinking into the shadows at the sight of him would be too great. If he knew how she had reacted there could never be even the most casual of friendships.

On the Tuesday after Christmas, Lydia decided on her next course of action. Quite deliberately she had pushed the whole business of Joslins and journals out of her mind and enjoyed herself more than usual with her brother and his wife. She even agreed to stay over for a night, something she’d done only once before and that when the girls had been mere toddlers. Joan was a little less condescending, Lydia’s presents a little more appreciated, the scarf and gloves from Brian and Joan a little more appropriate.
Surprisingly refreshed, the dead days until her return to work no longer threatened. She would be occupied by the belated Christmas present that she gave herself. It took the unusual form of four hundred stamps and envelopes. These would be used to send letters to two hundred Joslin households in the hope of finding a link from the living to the Longlands album.

Her researches had included placing messages on the half dozen or so relevant family history message boards. They had never previously brought her much joy, dominated as they were by Americans looking for grandparents in Kentucky or a link back to King Arthur, but she did find one message relating to a Joslin family in Essex. It was not her family, but the chances were that they would be closely related, and from that might come information that would lead her to one of Papa Albert’s descendants. Some messages remained on these sites for years without reply, but there was always a chance that another researcher with common cause would stumble on her postings. While they sat there waiting for the right person to read them, she would adopt the old fashioned method of sending letters, ‘begging letters’ her uncle used to call them.

Finding the names and addresses of likely Joslins was not easy. Ideally, she would wish to contact one of Papa’s grandchildren, a cousin to Phoebe, but the chances were slim of such a person remaining alive. There was more probability of a great grandchild. So, with an educated guess, she reckoned that any still surviving were likely be sixty-five at the youngest or as old as eighty-five. As part of her research armoury Lydia had previously acquired a wonderful computer based people-finding tool. It became more out of date with every month that passed, but nonetheless it still enabled her to find a large percentage of the addresses of everyone with a particular name in the whole of the country, or if preferred , a smaller area. Out of date it might be, but it had served her well in the past. The initial list of Joslins shown as over the age of sixty was quite daunting, but by carefully selecting the information and removing all those who shared an address she was able to reduce the list to two hundred and seventy households. Where both male and female were listed she chose only the man’s name. They were
spread across every corner of the land, with particular concentrations in Essex and Sussex.

It took her an hour or so to finally settle on the wording.

Dear

I hope you will not mind me writing to you with a slightly unusual request. I am researching a part of the Joslin family and have information regarding Albert Joslin and his wife Pitternelle White who were married in Coggeshall, Essex in 1878. Their children were Albert, Isabella, Joseph, Alethia and Alice.

I am keen to contact any living descendants of this family. If you are, or think you might be, a descendant then I would be extremely pleased to hear from you. You will see that I enclose a stamped addressed envelope for that purpose. If you are not a descendant, but have a family member who may be then I would appreciate your passing this letter to them or giving me their name and address so that I may contact them.

I do not ask for any private or confidential information and any information that you are able to supply would be treated with respect. Lastly, if this letter is addressed to a former resident then I would appreciate it if you would forward it on my behalf or simply return it to me.

Should you prefer to reply via email then please feel free to do so by writing to me at
[email protected]
.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, I do hope that you can help in my enquiries.

Yours Sincerely

Lydia Silverstream

Lydia chose her two hundred according to their first name, starting with Albert and ending with Ursula. It meant that no Veras or Veronicas or Williams would be included, but they might be an Easter present to herself. The name of each recipient she wrote by hand and addressed the envelopes likewise. On the inside of each of the reply envelopes Lydia wrote a reference number in tiny writing so that if she had any replies she could easily reference the original recipient. Each of these envelopes she carefully folded and included with the letters. By New Year’s Eve all two hundred letters had been posted.

Responses to Lydia’s two hundred letters began to arrive within a few days, but they were not what she had hoped for. After a week she had thirty-seven letters back, all marked as ‘gone away’ by the post office. Then a solitary reply envelope landed on her doormat. At first sight the contents were puzzling, for inside was a letter and a shower of torn squares of paper. The contents of the letter were shocking to her. Michael J Joslin, writing on behalf of his mother Mrs K Joslin, abused Lydia in no uncertain terms for trying to scam money from old and vulnerable people and enclosed her disgraceful letter in pieces. Mr Joslin also threatened police action and even a personal visit to teach her a lesson she would ‘not fucking forget’. Lydia found the whole thing disturbing, dropping the letter as if it were contaminated by some contagious disease. Her first thought was to go to the police herself. She had done nothing wrong whereas this man appeared to be a raving lunatic. Surely he could not have read or understood anything that she had written. Regaining her composure, Lydia checked the envelope for its telltale number. Eighty-three. After carefully noting it down, she tore the letter into small pieces and consigned it to the waste bin. If fate should take her down a path to eighty-three, she would certainly be forewarned.