‘Think of that, after all those years.’ Andy emptied his glass. ‘Still, there was nothing for it once Nora died.’
‘Nothing for what, exactly?’
‘They had to give Gran’s flat back to the council and Maria wasn’t on the tenancy so she had to leave.’
‘What happened to her? This is what I’d really like to find out, how Maria came to live with my grandmother.’
‘To be honest, I never did discover,’ Andy said, frowning.
‘Would your father remember, do you think?’ Ben pressed.
‘I doubt it, his memory’s that bad, he can’t remember the time of day, mostly. But he do talk about the old days, so you might get something out of him. He’s deaf, though, won’t wear his hearing aid, so you have to shout. Let’s see if Trace has got him out of bed yet.’ He drained his glass, pushed back the chair and we all got to our feet.
Just then the door opened and in came Tracey, backwards, struggling to manoeuvre a wheelchair containing the frail old boy with a mop of white hair. Ben went to help her over the step, as we cleared a space at the table. The old man looked around, bewildered, as she parked the wheelchair next to mine and firmly put on the brakes.
‘This is Andy’s father, Sam,’ she said. ‘I’m Tracey.’
Ben shook the old man’s claw-like hand. ‘What can I get you to drink, sir?’
‘Lager and lime for me, a pint of mild for Sam, thank you very much,’ Tracey answered for him.
Andy put his face close to his father’s ear. ‘This lady wants to know about that Maria woman who lived with Gran in the old days. Do you remember her?’
The old boy turned his head slowly in my direction, and peered at me with milky grey eyes. ‘You’re Maria?’ he asked, in a quavery voice.
‘No, Dad. She wants to find out about Maria,’ Andy said, more loudly.
Old Sam shook his head. ‘Don’t shout, boy. Maria, you say?’
‘Who lived with Nora, your mum?’
There was a pause as Ben returned with the drinks and the old boy took several noisy gulps. ‘What was you talking about?’ he muttered to his son, after a moment.
‘MARIA,’ Andy bellowed. ‘Woman who used to work with Gran and Grandad. At Buckingham Palace?’
‘Oh, Maria,’ Sam said, his face brightening with recognition. ‘Strange old bat. Worked with Mum at the palace, didn’t she?’
‘THIS LADY WANTS TO KNOW IF SHE HAD A THING WITH THE PRINCE OF WALES?’ There’s no such thing as a discreet conversation with a deaf person. The barman glanced at us curiously and, across the table, Ben appeared to be inspecting something of vital importance on the floor, shoulders shaking as he tried to stifle his laughter.
Old Sam appeared to be even more confused than ever. ‘Didn’t hear nothing about a prince,’ he grumbled.
‘They was both seamstresses for the queen,’ Tracey chipped in. ‘We’ve still got some of Nora’s work, at home.’
‘Did you ever see Maria working on a quilt?’ I said loudly, close to old Sam’s ear.
He shook his head.
‘A QUILT,’ I shouted again, trying to ignore the earthquake now convulsing Ben’s shoulders. ‘A bed cover, you know?’
‘They was always sewing something,’ he muttered. ‘They kept each other company, you know.’
Tracey piped up again. ‘She was a kindly soul, that Maria. Looked after Nora once she got ill, and nursed her as well as she could before she was taken into hospital for the last time. She was a great help in them final days.’
‘What happened after Nora died?’ Ben asked.
‘It were a shame really, after all she done for us, but she said she got a friend up Essex somewhere,’ Tracey said. ‘Something about a son.’
A son? I nearly fell off my chair. ‘Go on.’
‘When Nora was poorly, in them last days, Maria got a letter,’ Tracey went on.
‘What happened next?’ I asked.
‘This friend offered her a place to stay,’ Andy went on. ‘It was a relief, to be honest. There was precious little space in our house already, with Mum and Dad and us three kids getting big by then.’
‘Did you know who she went to live with?’
‘WHO WAS IT MARIA WENT TO LIVE WITH, DAD?’
The old boy shook his head. ‘Long time ago. Name’s gone.’
‘Could it have been someone by the name of Jean, Jean Meadows?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘DID YOU SEE MARIA AGAIN, AFTER SHE LEFT?’ Andy shouted.
‘No, never saw hide nor hair of her,’ old Sam said, more cheerfully now. ‘Good riddance too. She never would stop talking.’ He drained his glass with a noisy gulp. ‘Now,’ he said, looking up hopefully, ‘who’s for another drink?’
In jubilant mood, I suggested dinner at the Italian around the corner from my flat.
‘Here’s to the fabulous Kowalskis,’ Ben said, clinking his glass to mine.
‘You make them sound like a circus act,’ I laughed.
‘What about this son then?’ Ben asked. ‘That Tracey mentioned? She said Maria had found him.’
‘If it was the baby she gave birth to in the hospital in nineteen eighteen, by now he’d be …’ I did a quick calculation ‘… ninety. Jeez, he could still be alive!’
‘The bastard son of the Prince of Wales?’
‘Alive and living in Essex? Do you really think so? I wonder if we could trace him?’
‘If he was adopted he won’t be a Romano,’ Ben said, tucking into his spaghetti.
‘But Tracey suggested that Maria had found him, and if so, how?’
‘Chances are she checked the local authority’s records.’
‘Could we check them, too?’
‘They’re not likely to tell us anything, since you’re not related,’ he said.
‘The only thing we know for sure is that she ended up living with Granny. I could look through Mum’s photo albums again, see if they offer any clues.’
By the end of dinner we had agreed that Ben would make initial enquiries with social services and Barnardo’s, and would put a small item in the
Eastchester Star
’s weekly ‘Looking Back’ feature, to ask whether anyone knew a man adopted around 1918 who might have been related to a Maria Romano. It was a very long shot. I would check the family photo albums and quiz Mum once more to see if she remembered anything about Maria having a son, or how Maria came to meet Granny. She was our last link, but I didn’t hold out much hope.
Early on Monday morning I was woken by a phone call.
‘Miss Meadows? This is Gill Lewis, deputy matron at Holmfield.’
‘What’s happened?’ I panicked, confused by being roused from deep sleep. ‘Is Mum okay?’
‘Nothing too serious,’ she said, ‘but we just wanted to let you know that your mother took a bit of a tumble last night. She was quite distressed, but there doesn’t seem to be anything broken. She settled okay but this morning she seems a little more muddled than usual, so we’re getting the doctor in to check her over.’
‘I’ll come right away. Be there in an hour or so.’
As I speeded down the A12, anxiety stirred up the now-familiar argument in my head. Was Holmfield the right place for Mum? Now that I wasn’t in a nine-to-five job surely I should be looking after her myself, just as the Kowalski family cared for old Sam?
I went at once to see the deputy matron, who told me more about the fall – apparently it was in the dining room, after suppertime. The doctor had already checked Mum over and found her bruised, but nothing broken.
‘You’ll find her a little more confused, though,’ she cautioned. ‘It’s not uncommon in dementia patients if they take a bit of a knock, or have a shock. It’ll probably ease after a few days.’
I’d expected Mum to be in bed, but I was led to the conservatory where, to my surprise, she was up and dressed, sitting in a chair by the window. From a distance, she looked healthier than I’d seen her for a long time, her cheeks rosy, her hair neatly held back into an elegant roll, her eyes bright and alert. But when we came into her line of view she did not break into her usual welcoming smile; her face remained blank and strangely unwrinkled, giving her a curiously youthful look.
Only when I sat down and took her hand did she turn to me, with a little crease of concern creeping between her eyebrows.
‘Mum?’ I whispered. ‘It’s me, Caroline.’
The frown deepened and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear the haze of confusion.
‘Your daughter, Caroline.’ If Mum didn’t even recognise me, this was the beginning of the end. It had happened so terrifyingly quickly. Her memory loss continued its merciless march and the fall had made it so much worse. Now she’d even forgotten who I was.
‘Ah, Caroline,’ she whispered like a sigh, her brow smoothing. Somewhere inside her head, synapses were making links, but not in the right order. ‘My dearest granddaughter,’ she added.
‘I’m your
daughter
,’ I said gently. ‘Jean’s granddaughter.’
Her eyes flickered away, across the room. ‘Is Jean here?’ she said, with more urgency.
‘No, she’s not here.’ I stroked her hand to bring her focus back to me. ‘Granny Jean died years ago.’
Mum slumped back in her chair, shoulders drooping and hands limp, and closed her eyes. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed. ‘They’re all dying off now.’
‘Shall I get a cup of tea and some biscuits?’
‘Yes please, dear,’ she whispered without opening her eyes, as if the business of trying to figure out who I was had drained all her energy. ‘I had a bit of a fall, did they tell you?’
‘Yes, Mum. But the doctor says you are all right now.’
‘All right now,’ she repeated, like a child.
When I returned with the tray, Mum’s face was alert again. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘You girls are so good to me.’
‘I’m Caroline.’ I poured the tea, and gave her an extra spoonful of sugar. ‘Your daughter. I don’t work here. I’ve come to visit you.’
After a moment’s pause she said, ‘Caroline?’ At last she recognised me.
‘Yes, Mum. Your daughter, Caroline. Have a cup of tea.’
She took the cup and saucer with a surprisingly steady hand and took a sip. ‘Delicious,’ she murmured. ‘Dearest Caroline. It is so nice to see you. Now, what were we talking about?’
‘I’ve got some exciting news, Mum. Remember that old quilt we found in the loft, Jean’s quilt? I’ve been finding out more about the person who sewed it. Just as you thought, it was made by Maria, the woman who came to live with Granny.’
She looked at me, blankly. ‘Pass me a biscuit, dear, would you please?’
I pressed on. ‘Do you remember Maria?’ She shook her head.
‘Jean’s quilt,’ she parroted vaguely, munching on her biscuit. ‘Someone called Maria?’
I was about to give up and change the subject when it came out, that shocking non-sequitur, ‘Has Jean told you …?’ She stopped mid-sentence and reached over for her cup of tea.
‘Told me what, Mum?’ I stuttered, passing the cup. Whatever could it be that Granny had wanted to tell me?
‘Said she wanted you to know, when we were all gone.’
A chill started in my scalp and travelled down my spine. What kind of dark place was Mum in, that she was summoning messages from the grave?
‘What was it she wanted me to know?’ I asked, struggling to keep my voice level.
‘Before she died, dear,’ Mum said mildly, taking another biscuit. ‘Long time ago now.’
I relaxed a little: her sense of time had corrected itself, we were back on normal territory at least. ‘Was it something important? Something you ought to tell me?’ I probed.
‘About Richard,’ Mum said, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘My darling Richard. He’s waiting for me, you know?’
‘I’m sure he is, Mum,’ I soothed, trying to envisage how she imagined him. Sitting on a cloud, perhaps, or in a paradise garden?
‘He’ll have my supper ready when I get back.’
I tried to enter her world, follow her train of thought. ‘And what will he tell you about Jean’s secret, Mum? The thing she wanted me to know?’
She turned her sweet face towards me, putting a finger to pursed lips. ‘Shhh,’ she said conspiratorially. ‘Arthur’s not supposed to know.’
I shivered again, despite the stifling heat of the room. ‘What is Grandpa not supposed to know, Mum?’
She turned to gaze into the distance out of the window, her expression frighteningly blank. The effect was strange: as the wrinkles relaxed and smoothed out, her face became almost youthful again.
‘What are we not supposed to know?’ I repeated, moving my face into her line of vision. ‘You can share it with me, you know. I promise not to tell him.’ My stomach was churning uneasily. Was this just the ramblings of a demented old woman? Or had Granny really wanted something concealed from my grandfather?
Just then, an old man in a wheelchair parked a few yards from us let out a loud groan, like an animal in pain. ‘
Yaaaaahhh
,’ he shouted and again, ‘
Yaaaaaaaaaah
. Help me.’ His face was screwed up in agony.
I leapt to my feet and went to his side. ‘What is it?’ But he just closed his eyes and roared again.
A young assistant ran towards us, talking urgently into her pager, and within moments three nurses were by his side. I backed away, relieved to entrust the poor old soul into their care, and returned to Mum. But despite all the noise and commotion she had fallen asleep. I sat quietly beside her for ten minutes but, when she continued to doze, I went to see the deputy matron.
‘She’s sleeping now,’ I said, ‘shall I leave her in the chair?’
‘That’s probably for the best. Sleep’s a good healer. Please don’t worry, Miss Meadows. Give us a ring in the morning and I’m sure she’ll be feeling a lot better by then.’
With my head full of conflicting emotions – curiosity and anxiety, relief and guilt – I retraced my steps back along the corridor to the entrance hall, negotiating a couple of zimmer-trundlers en route. On the hall table was a display of newspapers and magazines, and my eye was caught by a copy of the
Eastchester Star
.
The teaser headline below the paper’s garish red masthead read: ‘PALACE TIGHT-LIPPED ON HELENA HALL CLAIM. Turn to page 5.’
No! It couldn’t be. I grabbed the paper and opened it with shaking hands. The piece wasn’t exactly prominent, and there was no by-line but, as my eyes skimmed over the words, it confirmed my worst fears:
ROYAL officials today refused to comment on claims that a former Buckingham Palace servant was held involuntarily at Helena Hall Mental Hospital for several decades before being released into the community in the 1950s.