Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (22 page)

“If I hadn't been an optimist, I don't think I would have survived that orphanage in Sydney.”

“No, you wouldn't.” Patsy glanced down at her pad, and went on, “The rest of the stuff on the punch list is all minor, to do with electrical outlets, the wattage of the lightbulbs and such, so we don't have to worry now. It can wait.”

“I don't have a lot of other things either,” Meredith said, and pushing back her chair, she stood up. “I'm going to take that walk, Patsy”

“Are you sure you don't want me to drive you to Fountains Abbey?”

“No, thanks anyway for offering. I really do want to walk, I need the exercise and the fresh air. See you later.”

Patsy smiled at her and nodded.

Returning the smile, Meredith left the dining room, crossed the foyer, and headed out of Skell Garth House.

It was a fine afternoon, not too cold even though it was still April. The sky was clear, a soft pale blue filled with scudding white clouds. Wherever she looked, Meredith saw that spring was truly here. The trees were in bud, the grass already thick and verdant, and, here and there, patches of wildflowers grew in the hedges. She noticed primroses and irises, and then, as she came to the avenue of limes leading to Studley Church, she caught her breath. Daffodils were blooming everywhere, on the banks by the side of the road and under the limes.

As she walked past them, the Wordsworth poem Patsy had recited to her in January ran through her mind. It had seemed familiar then, and now she realized that she knew the last verse:

 

For oft when on my couch I lie

in vacant or in pensive mood,

they flash upon that inward eye

which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

and dances with the daffodils.

 

She knew it by heart because her mother had taught it to her all those years earlier. And it had stayed in her mind, dormant perhaps, but nevertheless there.

Her mind focused on Kate Sanderson. The shock of discovering that her mother was not dead had partially receded, but she was still upset, troubled that Kate had apparently abandoned her, and so callously, when she was a little girl.

Meredith knew herself extremely well, and she had begun to realize earlier in the day, as they had driven from Leeds to Ripon, that anger and resentment were beginning to simmer deep down inside her. As she walked on, heading up to the church on the hill, she resolved yet again to find Kate, no matter what it took.

Upon reaching the top of the hill she stood looking down at Fountains Abbey, and just as it had in January, it seemed to beckon to her, pull her forward.

A magnet, she thought, it's like a magnet for me. She hurried down the steep path, almost running, and within a few minutes she was entering the ancient ruins.

On this clear bright April day she was more stunned than before by the dramatic beauty of the soaring ruined monolith.

Dark and imposing, it was silhouetted against the pale sky as if flung there by a mighty hand. But, the blackened stones were softened by the greenness of the trees surrounding them. Just a few feet away from where she stood the Skell flowed toward Ripon. Yet another river, Meredith thought, no wonder I love to live near water. I grew up with it.

Seating herself on a piece of ruined wall, she cast her mind back in time, trying to envision herself visiting this place with Kate Sanderson, but no memory came to her, even though she sat there for half an hour. Her mind was totally blank. Still, again she had the strongest sense that she knew Fountains, had been here before, and that something momentous, and tragic, had happened to her in this ancient spot. But what?

Only her mother had the answer.

 

Always, in the past, Meredith had used work to subjugate heartache, bring it to heel. Working hard until she dropped had enabled her to keep her mind off her troubles, to function properly.

And so for the rest of the weekend she threw herself wholeheartedly into creating a new look, her look, in most of the rooms in the hotel. It kept worry about her mother at bay.

With the help of Patsy, Bill and Claudia Miller and three handymen, she had furniture moved around until every arrangement pleased her, and each room had the look she was striving for. Beds, chairs, sofas, antique tables, and chests were repositioned under her direction; once this had been accomplished, she set about rearranging lamps and accessories and rehanging pictures.

The Millers were astounded by her, taken aback. As Bill put it to Patsy: “We couldn't believe it when she took off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and got down to it herself.”

Claudia Miller was particularly impressed with Meredith's energy, stamina, and sheer doggedness. At one point, late on Sunday afternoon, a weary and exhausted Claudia said to Patsy, “I've never seen anyone work like this before. She doesn't stop, she's a whirlwind.”

“I know. Meredith's never ceased to amaze
me
. She's a real workhorse. And also very talented,” Patsy pointed out. “She has terrific style.”

Claudia merely nodded.

Patsy added, “Meredith has really fine taste in decorating. She was born with it. And she has a great eye.”

“So I've noticed. The rooms do look better the way she has arranged everything. I suppose Bill and I were a bit slow on the uptake. We really should have followed the plans you gave us more precisely.” Claudia's expression was suddenly worried as she asked, “Are you and Meredith upset with us?”

“No, of course not. It's all right, don't worry,” Patsy reassured her. “But do try and follow our instructions
exactly
in the future, Claudia, please. It'll save a lot of heartache for everyone. Tomorrow I'll help you to unpack all of the items I shipped from London last week, and Meredith will finish the public rooms down here. She expects to be done by lunchtime.”

“You will interview the chefs tomorrow, won't you?” Claudia said. “Monday
is
the deadline.”

“That doesn't present a problem. By the way, I enjoyed lunch today. Mrs. Morgan cooked it, didn't she?”

“Yes. She also is going to make dinner tonight.”

“Not Mrs. Jones?”

“I'm afraid not. She burned her hand cooking dinner for us last night and she begged off today.”

“I see. Do you have a favorite, Claudia?”

“Yes. Mrs. Morgan. She's the best in my opinion, and besides, she's the most adaptable, more easy going in a way, not quite so temperamental as Lloyd.”

“And Mrs. Jones? Aren't you impressed with her?”

“She's a good cook, but I don't think she's right for the inn . . . at least, not the way it's going to be in the future.”

“Do you mean she's not sophisticated enough?”

“No, I don't mean that, not really. You and Meredith said you wanted high-style English cooking, and country-type cooking to a certain extent. In my opinion Mrs. Morgan's the winner. She's the most all-round cook of the three of them.”

 

Mrs. Morgan turned out to be a woman in her middle fifties, with rosy cheeks, bright brown eyes, and a cheerful smile.

Meredith noticed at once that she had a pleasant demeanor, and within moments of being in her company she felt quite at ease. The woman exuded calm self-confidence, and Meredith could tell from Patsy's expression that her partner had also taken an immediate liking to the chef.

“I understand from Claudia Miller that you are used to cooking for relatively large numbers of people, Mrs. Morgan,” Meredith began.

“Oh yes, I am. Until a few months ago I was chef at a hotel in the Scottish border country. It was an old house turned into an inn like this, but a bit bigger. And we also got a lot of local trade in the restaurant. So numbers don't faze me, oh no, they don't at all, Mrs. Stratton. Of course, I'm used to having a couple of sous chefs.”

“Yes, I understand, Mrs. Morgan. That's not a problem,” Patsy interjected.

“I gave Mrs. Miller all of my references, so I expect you've seen them.” She looked from Patsy to Meredith.

“We have indeed.” Meredith smiled at her. “And they're excellent. We also enjoyed the meals you've cooked this weekend.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Stratton, and please call me Eunice. I prefer it. Much friendlier, isn't it?”

Meredith said, “Yes, it is, Eunice.” She paused for a moment, shook her head, then said, “I've known only one other person called Eunice. And that was my baby-sitter when I was a child.”

Eunice laughed. “What a coincidence. You had a baby-sitter called Eunice in America, and I was a baby-sitter here in Yorkshire.”

Meredith stared at her. After a split second she said, “Where in Yorkshire?”

“Leeds. That's where I come from originally. My husband's from Ripon, and he's been nagging me to come back here for years.”

“Whom did you baby-sit for?” Meredith said, continuing to stare at the chef.

“A lovely little girl. Her name was Mari.”

“What was her last name?” Meredith asked in a strangled voice.

“Sanderson,” Eunice answered, and threw Meredith a swift glance. “Are you all right, Mrs. Stratton? You look a bit odd.”

“I'm the little girl, Eunice. I'm Mari Sanderson.”

“Get away with you, then, you can't be Mari!” Eunice exclaimed, her astonishment only too apparent.

“But I am.”

“Well, I'll be blowed, this is one for the books, I can tell you that.” Eunice chuckled. “Can you imagine me, of all people, being a chef, Mari? Do you remember how I always used to burn your lunch? I drove your poor mother crazy.”

“I'd like to talk to you about my mother,” Meredith said.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

“M
y mother and I got separated when I was little,” Meredith explained. “I don't know how this happened, but it did.”

“She was poorly. In hospital, I do know that,” Eunice told her.

“Who was looking after me?”

Eunice brought her hand up to her mouth, frowning slightly, looking thoughtful. Finally, pursing her lips, shaking her head, she murmured, “I don't know, to be right truthful with you. I suppose at the time I thought you'd been taken in by relatives.”

“Relatives,”
Meredith said slowly, “I don't ever remember relatives, Eunice, there was only my mother and me. Just the two of us.”

“Yes . . .” Eunice sat back in the chair, her face troubled. Hesitatingly, she asked in a quiet voice, “So what exactly happened to you?”

“I don't exactly know. But I did eventually go to live abroad.”

Patsy glanced from Meredith to Eunice, and addressed the chef: “When did you last see Mrs. Sanderson? Can you remember that?”

“Let me think. . . . Well, it must've been the summer she got ill. I've got to think back . . . yes . . . yes, it was then. The summer of 1956. I went to Hawthorne Cottage to baby-sit one day and there was no one there. So I went back home. We lived in the Greenocks, just off Town Street, in those days. Anyway, a few days later I ran into Constable O'Shea, he lived near us in the Greenocks. He told me Mrs. Sanderson was in hospital. When I asked about Mari he said she was fine, being taken care of very well. And that was that. A few weeks after this we moved away from Armley. My mother found a house near her sister in Wortley so off we all went.”

Meredith had listened carefully; leaning forward intently, she said to Eunice, “The name Constable O'Shea rings a bell, but I can't quite place him in my mind.”

“Can't you? Well, he was very fond of
you,
Mari. Very fond. He was the local bobby, walking the beat in Armley. He used to be stationed at that police box on Canal Road. Are you sure you don't remember him?”

“No, I don't.”

Patsy said, “Constable O'Shea might be able to throw some light on what happened to you.”

“Yes, that's true,” Meredith agreed, and turned to Eunice again. “Do you think he still lives in Armley?”

“Oh, I don't know, I mean, I lost touch donkey's years ago. And he'll be retired. He was about thirty in those days, so he'd be sixty-eight, thereabouts, by now. Mmmm. Now, who do I know who still lives in the Greenocks? Let me just think.”

Patsy stood up. “I'll go and get the Leeds telephone directory from the office.” She hurried across the dining room and out into the small foyer.

Left alone, Meredith and Eunice looked at each other carefully without speaking. It was Eunice who finally said at last, “You've grown up to be a wonderful-looking woman, and you've certainly made a go of it, you really have. Living in America, owning all these inns.”

Meredith half smiled, made no comment. She was looking back into the past again, trying to remember Constable O'Shea, but she was having no success at all. She couldn't even picture his face.

Eunice went on. “Are you married, then?”

“I was. I'm divorced now I have two children. And what about you, Eunice, do you have children?”

“Two, like you. Malcolm and Dawn. They're both married, and I have five grandchildren. Are your children married?”

“My daughter's engaged. My son's still at college, he's only twenty-one.”

Patsy came back into the dining room carrying the Leeds telephone book. Placing it on the table in front of Eunice, she sat down next to her and said, “Now, let's look at all the O'Sheas who live in Armley. There can't be that many. Perhaps we'll find one living in the Greenocks. What was Constable O'Shea's first name, Eunice?”

“Peter. No, wait a minute, it wasn't Peter. It was an Irish name. Let me see . . .
Patrick!
Yes, it was Patrick O'Shea.”

Patsy was running her finger down the O'Sheas listed, then she looked up and said, “There are two living in Armley and one in Bramley with the initial P. But none in the Greenocks. Well, I might as well go and phone all three numbers, that's the only way we'll find out anything. I'll use the phone over there.” Carrying the directory, she hurried over to the phone on the table at the entrance to the dining room.

Meredith got up and walked over to the window, stood looking out at the garden, her mind on her mother. Turning around, she gave Eunice a penetrating look and asked, “Did you ever run into my mother in the ensuing years?”

“No, I didn't.” The chef's eyebrows drew together in a frown. “She didn't die, then?”

“I don't think so, Eunice. We're trying to find her.”

“Oh.”

A moment later Patsy rushed across the dining room, still clutching the telephone book in her arms. She was beaming. “I've found him! He now lives at Hill Top. That's near St. Mary's Hospital, Meredith. He's out at the moment, I didn't actually speak to him in person. But I talked with his wife, and he's definitely the right Patrick O'Shea. He's a retired police sergeant, she told me, and she vaguely remembers Mari and her mother. Anyway, she said he would be home around two o'clock this afternoon. I asked if we could go and see him at that time, and she said we could.”

 

Meredith sat facing Patrick O'Shea in the sitting room of his house at Hill Top in Armley. She did not remember him at all; she realized that she had probably so blocked him out, it was almost impossible to recover the memory. He was a tall man, well built, with graying dark hair and a pleasant manner.

“You were such a bonny little girl,” he said to her, smiling. “Marigold. I always thought it was such a lovely name for a child. Anyway, to continue, that morning you came looking for me you were so upset. Crying. You thought your mother was dead—”

“But she wasn't was she?” Meredith cut in swiftly.

“No, but she wasn't well. You'd come to the police box on Canal Road. I carried you home, it was quicker. And anyway, you were weeping, so upset you were. We found your mother sitting in a chair in the kitchen. She was white, white as a sheet, and obviously very sick. At least that's what I thought. She said she'd fainted earlier that morning. I'd put in a call for an ambulance, and it came within fifteen minutes. They took her to Leeds Infirmary.”

“And what happened to me?” Meredith's eyes were riveted on Patrick O'Shea.

“The last thing she said to me, as the ambulance doors closed, was ‘Look after my Mari for me, Constable O'Shea.' And I did. I spoke to my sergeant at the station, and we decided the best thing to do was take you to Dr. Barnardo's Home in Leeds, the children's home, until your mother was well.”

“And what happened when my mother got better?”

“You went back to live with her at Hawthorne Cottage, as I recall. But I don't believe things were good with her, she was struggling, you know, trying to find a job.”

“What happened to . . . my father?”

“I don't rightly know. At least, I don't have a lot of details. Kate told me once that he'd left her, gone off to Canada. That's all I knew. I suppose he didn't come back.”

“I don't remember him. He must have left when I was very little.”

Patrick O'Shea nodded. “I believe he did.”

“Do you think my mother became ill again, Mr. O'Shea?”

“She did indeed. She was in the infirmary a second time . . . oh, it must have been the following year . . . about 1957, if my memory serves me well.”

“Do you think I was put back into the children's home?”

“Possibly. Yes, that's very likely. There was no one to look after you. And I sort of lost track of your mother after that. In fact, I never really knew what happened to you both. Suddenly you'd left Hawthorne Cottage, another family was living there. I never saw you or your mother again, Mari. I mean, Mrs. Stratton. A few years later I did hear she was working in Leeds.”

“Do you know where?”

“Yes, just let me think for a moment . . . it was a dress shop, I do know that. A posh one, too, in Commercial Street . . . Paris Modes, that was the name of it.”

“Is it still there?”

“Oh yes, I think so.”

“As I explained, Constable O'Shea, my mother and I got separated. I was sent abroad. I thought she was dead. But I've just discovered she's probably still alive. I must find her.”

“I understand. She's not listed in the phone book, then?”

“No, she's not.”

“Perhaps there's someone at Paris Modes who can help you, give you more information about her whereabouts.”

 

“Well, he was certainly nice enough,” Patsy said as she and Meredith drove away from Constable O'Shea's house at Hill Top, heading for the city. “But you don't remember him, do you?”

“Not really, Patsy. I wish I did.” Meredith sighed. “I suppose I truly blocked everything out. If only I could recall those early days more fully, but I can't. I have flashes of memory like an amnesiac sometimes does, but that's it.”

“Try not to worry I'm sure we'll get more information at the dress shop.”

“I'm not sure at all. Very frankly, Patsy, we're on a wild-goose chase, in my opinion. All of this happened thirty-eight years ago, and my mother's not going to be
still
working at Paris Modes. And I'm certain there's no one there who will remember her.”

“You don't know that for sure, Meredith. So let's just go to the shop, ask a few questions. Somebody might remember Kate Sanderson, and give us a lead.”

“Yes, we can go, but hasn't it occurred to you that my mother might not live in Yorkshire anymore? She could have moved away. Moved anywhere, in fact. There's a very big world out there.”

“I know what you're saying, darling, but I think you're wrong. I have this feeling inside, call it intuition if you like, that your mother is very close by. You'll see, we're going to find her.”

When Meredith was silent, Patsy sneaked a look at her. Her heart sank. Meredith's face was bleak.

Patsy drove on in silence, but after a while she said, “I'm not too sure about parking in Leeds. I think the best thing to do is to go to the Queens Hotel and park the car there, near the railway station. It's only a few minutes' walk to Commercial Street from City Square.”

“Whatever you say I don't remember Commercial Street. Only Leeds Market.”

But, twenty minutes later, as they walked down that particular street, Meredith suddenly stopped and clutched Patsy's arm. “Marks and Spencer is somewhere near here. I remember that now. My mother liked to go there; she bought my underwear at Marks.” Meredith had an instant vision of herself walking down this street, clinging to her mother's hand. She said to Patsy, “Almost always my mother bought me an ice cream. Once I tripped and dropped my cone. I was so upset, I started to cry. And I remember how she comforted me . . . and gave me her ice cream. . . .”

“You see, more and more memories are coming back,” Patsy exclaimed, looking pleased. “And here we are at Paris Modes.”

Patsy pushed open the door, and the two of them walked into the elegant dress shop. Immediately a young woman in a neat black dress came gliding forward.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely, smiling at them. “We have some wonderful new lines in from Paris.”

“Oh, yes,” Patsy said, “we know you have lovely clothes, very smart indeed. But we don't want to buy anything. Actually, we came to see the manager.”

“We don't have a manager,” the young woman replied. “Mrs. Cohen owns the business, and she runs it herself.”

“I see. Is she here? Can we see her?” Meredith asked.

The young woman nodded. “I'll go and get her, she's in the office.”

A few seconds later a woman of about fifty, elegantly dressed and well put together, walked out into the shop from the office behind a Coromandel screen.

“I'm Gilda Cohen,” she said, extending her hand to Patsy.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cohen. I'm Patsy Canton, and this is my friend, Mrs. Stratton.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Stratton,” Gilda Cohen said, shaking her hand.

Meredith smiled at her. “I'm looking for someone, Mrs. Cohen. A woman who used to work here. But many years ago. I'm afraid it was long before your time.”

“Whom are you looking for?” Gilda Cohen asked curiously.

“My mother. She worked here in the late fifties, or perhaps the early sixties. Her name was, or rather is, Kate Sanderson. We were separated when I was small and I always believed she had died when I was a child. But lately I've been given reason to believe she's still alive. I want to find my mother.”

“I'm sure you do, Mrs. Stratton, that's quite understandable, and you're correct, Kate did work here, when my mother was running the shop. I inherited it from her. I was at college in those days, but I knew Kate slightly A lovely woman. My mother was very fond of her indeed, and sorry to see her leave.”

“When was that, Mrs. Cohen?” Meredith asked.

“I think it must've been in the middle or late sixties. But don't let's stand here in the middle of the shop. Come into my office and sit down. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“No, but thank you anyway,” Meredith said.

Patsy also declined, and the two of them followed Gilda Cohen into her office. They sat down together on the sofa and looked at Gilda, who had positioned herself behind her desk. “As I said, my mother was rather fond of Kate, took her under her wing a bit, and she stayed in touch with her after she left.”

“Do you know where she went to work?”

“Yes, she returned to the town she came from, Harrogate, and took a job with Jaeger. My mother once told me Kate hadn't been happy in Leeds, and she always referred to her as ‘my wounded bird,' although I'm not certain why. I married young and had a child, so I wasn't working in the shop in those days. I didn't know her all that well. But she certainly made an impression on my mother, and on other people too. Everyone spoke nicely about Kate.”