Chapter Thirteen
T
ayte had been staring out the car window since Jonathan had picked him up from his hotel, trying to get an idea where they were going. It was a quiet Sunday morning and having passed through a few sleepy villages, which afforded him no clue whatsoever, he was still none the wiser.
“I managed to do some research into Danny Danielson after I left you last night,” he said.
“How did it go?”
Tayte scrunched his face. “Mixed at best. I checked with the US National Archives and Records Administration. I went into the US army enlistment records for World War II and I found several entries for people called Danny Danielson. I took some notes and started looking in the civilian records using the information I’d found.” He shook his head.
“No good?” Jonathan said.
“No good at all,” Tayte replied. “It’s just too common a name. Until I can find out more about him I’d just be chasing my tail. I checked with the American Battle Monuments Commission in Washington, too. They keep records of American soldiers buried overseas and they were able to confirm that there’s no Danny Danielson listed, and there’s nothing on the Rosters of the Dead either, so there’s every chance he survived the war at least. He might still be alive.”
“That would be something,” Jonathan said.
“Yes, it would,” Tayte agreed.
The car was amidst the wintry countryside now - cold and naked farmland to either side of them. It made Tayte wonder all the more where they were going and he was about to ask when they turned into a muddy lane on their right where he saw two distinct ‘H’ shaped goal posts in the field ahead.
“He coaches junior rugby,” Jonathan said. “Under sixteens. His boy plays.”
“Great,” Tayte said. “I’m a big American football fan myself. Washington Redskins.”
“I wouldn’t mention that,” Jonathan said. “He doesn’t get the whole padding and armour thing. He’ll tell you that Rugby’s a real man’s game and we’ll never hear the end of it.”
They came to a busy car park and a low club building that carried the team’s name, ‘Leicester Cubs RFC’.
“He’s been divorced a few years now,” Jonathan said, continuing the character profile as they got out of the car. “Bit messy by all accounts, but he gets to spend plenty of time with his son, Josh, particularly during the season.”
It was still raining, light but cold in the breeze; the sky like concrete. As they headed towards the activity and the confused shouts from the playing field grew, Tayte had to admire the young players’ determination to get out there in the cold, wet mud on a Sunday morning. He pulled his collar up and wished he had a waterproof coat like Jonathan’s and a hot cup of coffee in his hands.
They found the man they were looking for amidst an animated gathering of people standing at the edge of the pitch.
“That’s him there,” Jonathan said. “In the long black sports coat and bucket hat on the right. His name’s Alan. Alan Driscoll.”
He was a stocky man and well dressed for the occasion, Tayte thought. His own coat barely reached the hem of his suit jacket and his tan trousers and loafers were already spattered with mud.
“Alan!” Jonathan called and the man turned towards them, confusion meeting Jonathan’s smile. “I thought I’d find you here,” he added as they approached and Driscoll came to meet them.
“Morning Jonathan,” Driscoll said, glancing at Tayte. “Something wrong?”
“No, no,” Jonathan said. “I’ve brought someone to meet you, that’s all.” He turned to Tayte. “This is Jefferson Tayte. He’s a family historian from America.”
“JT,” Tayte said, smiling as he offered out his hand. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask a few questions about the family.”
Driscoll shook Tayte’s hand and the furrows on his brow deepened. “I’m pretty busy,” he said, indicating the playing field. “What is it you want?”
“I’m trying to find out about a relative of yours no one seems to have seen since the war years - Jonathan’s aunt, Philomena. Jonathan tells me she went by the name of Mena. She was your maternal grandmother’s sister.”
“Mary-Grace,” Jonathan interjected.
Driscoll was quick to reply, one eye on Tayte, the other on the game. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anyone called Mena. What’s your interest?”
“She had a daughter she gave up for adoption towards the end of the war. I’m trying to find out what I can about her for my client - locate her if I can.”
Unexpectedly, Driscoll wheeled towards the playing field, cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, “Tackle him, Jones! Don’t tickle him!” He turned back to Tayte. “Like I said. I’ve never heard of her. But then we’re not exactly what you’d call a close-knit family.” He glanced knowingly at Jonathan.
“That’s right,” Tayte said, keen to understand what Mary and her daughter had quarrelled about. “Jonathan told me your mother moved to England after she fell out with Mary over something. Did your mother ever say what it was about?”
“Not really,” Driscoll said. “Some silly argument. You know what mothers and daughters can be like.” He turned away again and shouted, “Pass the bloody thing, Reynolds! You’ve got twelve other players out there!” To Tayte and Jonathan, he added, “Christ! Everyone wants to be Jonny Wilkinson.”
“You said, not really?” Tayte said, hanging onto the hope that he might be able to offer a little information. “Was there something? Anything?”
Driscoll’s shoulders dropped. “Look, I don’t know. Mum never said why. All I do know is that they fell out and Mum came to England. Her brother got everything and we got nothing.”
“Mary disowned your mother because she left home?” Tayte said.
“I guess you could say that. My parents struggled all their lives and they died the same way. No one from that side of the family ever gave a toss. We never had any help from them.” He stepped closer to Tayte and Tayte could see that his face had reddened. “See that lad out there in the number nine shirt? The blue one?”
Tayte looked and nodded.
“That’s my boy, Josh. He means the world to me and he deserves better, but I can’t give it to him. I’ve been living in a one-bed flat since my divorce, struggling just like they did. Not much to show after forty-three years, is it?”
Tayte swallowed the lump that had risen and stuck in his throat while Driscoll was talking more at him than to him.
Driscoll wasn’t finished. He gave a small, sardonic laugh. “Talk about how the other half live,” he said. “I suppose you’re going to see them, too?”
Jonathan answered. “I’m trying to set something up.” To Tayte, he added. “I called to speak to Christopher first thing this morning. Left a message with one of the staff.”
Driscoll snorted. “Staff,” he said. “See what I mean?” He spun away and shouted at one of the players. “Watch your flank! How many more times?”
Tayte had decided that he wasn’t going to get anything useful from Alan Driscoll, who seemed to know little or nothing about Mena and was clearly preoccupied with the bad run of cards fate had dealt him. Tayte had encountered many such family divisions on other assignments and he wasn’t surprised that Driscoll felt bitter.
“Well, thanks for your time, Mr Driscoll.” Tayte said. He handed him a business card and added, “If anything comes to mind, please call me. I’ll be at the Marriott hotel most of the week.”
Driscoll took the card without looking at it or saying a word.
“We’ll leave you to it then,” Tayte said, glancing at Jonathan.
“Yes, thanks Alan,” Jonathan said. “Drop in whenever you like.”
Driscoll just nodded and went back to his spot on the sidelines.
“That was intense,” Tayte said as they walked back to the car.
“Yes, and I’m sorry it wasn’t more useful to you.”
“It was worth a shot and I’m sure he knows something about why his mother fell out with the rest of the family. He changed the subject pretty quick, didn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose he did.”
Tayte checked his watch. “Plenty of time before you have to be back for lunch,” he said. “Let me get you a hot drink back at the hotel.”
As he got into the car and the engine started up, he’d already begun to think ahead to Joan Cartwright. He hoped the afternoon would prove more fruitful.
Chapter Fourteen
J
oan Cartwright’s address in Hertfordshire was easy to find, courtesy of the satnav in the silver Vauxhall that had been waiting for Tayte in the hotel car park when he and Jonathan returned from the rugby club. Once they had parted company, Tayte took advantage of the all day dining in the hotel’s Atrium Lounge and then he was on his way. It stopped raining soon after he set out and it wasn’t a long journey, taking little more than an hour door to door in the easy Sunday lunchtime traffic - a sneeze compared to the long interstate drives he was used to back home.
It had been easier to persuade Joan to see him than he’d expected. Mena’s library book and the story of how he came by it had played their part, but when he told Joan he had a photograph from the old days of the two of them together, Joan had wanted to see it. Tayte thought Jonathan’s telephone number would seal it as he gave it to her over the intercom at the gates, but she hadn’t used it. His story and the photograph had been enough.
They were sitting in easy chairs in the conservatory drinking pineapple juice, Joan in a red-and-gold embroidered housecoat and slippers, hair tied back. The chairs were set at angles to one another, looking out onto well kept gardens and what looked like a small woodland that Tayte imagined was part of the grounds. They appeared so extensive that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a line of deer stroll past the window.
It was a cool room, which was how Joan had said she liked it, despite the advice from her live-in help who were always telling her she should keep warm at her age. They were a married couple that had been with her for years, she’d said, adding that they always fussed too much. Tayte had his notepad out and his calling card was on the low glass table in front of them, briefcase open beside him. Joan had the copy of
Madame Bovary
in one hand and the photograph in the other. She seemed to lose herself in it.
“I know you,” she said to the image as she adjusted her glasses.
Tayte couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at Mena or the much younger version of herself as she spoke, but he figured the latter. He sipped his pineapple juice and set it back on the table. “There’s plenty I want to ask you about Mena,” he said, interrupting her memories.
She looked up and something playful seemed to spark in her eyes. “And there’s plenty I can tell you,” she said. “I’m eighty-four years old, but seeing this photograph again makes it all seem like yesterday.” She smiled at Tayte. “Well, perhaps not quite yesterday.”
Tayte returned her smile. “There’s nothing better than a photo to stir old memories,” he said.
Joan lifted the book and gave it a gentle shake, hands thin and contracted with arthritis. “I remember going to see the film with Mena,” she said. “She took quite a shine to the eponymous Emma Bovary as I recall. I think something about that character caught her imagination.” She paused and stared into the middle distance beyond the windows. “That was just after her birthday.”
“1944?” Tayte said.
Joan nodded. “She‘d just turned seventeen. I remember that because she wanted to join the Land Army and suddenly she was old enough to, but something stopped her. I don’t recall what it was. I was glad she stayed in Oadby that summer, though.”
“That was the last time you and Mena were together, wasn’t it?” Tayte said.
“It was. Mena was so desperate to leave home and live her own life. It was inevitable that she would go sooner or later.”
“Do you know why she left?”
“There was a lot of speculation,” Joan said. “She wanted to get away from her mother, I know that much, but I don’t think it was the main reason in the end.”
“You weren’t with her when she left?”
“No,” Joan said. “We were best friends one minute and seemingly less than strangers the next.”
Joan looked at the photograph of the two of them again and smiled sadly. She slipped it into the front cover of the book and saw the nametape that was marking Tayte’s page halfway in. She opened it and turned her head sideways to read it, eyes widening as she did so.
“Danny,” she said with a sigh.
“The GI Mena fell for. Jonathan told me.”
“Oh, she fell for him alright.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
Joan drew a long and thoughtful breath. When she let it go again she said, “I’m a little confused about Danny Danielson. I know Mena loved him, but -” She paused. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about Danny just yet?”
“Not at all,” Tayte said. He was intrigued by what he thought she might know about Danny, but it was clear that seeing his surname on the nametape made her uncomfortable and he didn’t want to push his luck. “Maybe we could talk about Mena some more,” he said. “Save Danny for later.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
Tayte offered her a smile, knowing how difficult it must be to have a stranger turn up at your door trying to dig up a past you might sooner forget, but he sensed that some part of Joan Cartwright wanted to go back there. Why else would she have invited him in?
“You mentioned Mena’s seventeenth birthday, he said. “Would you care to tell me about that? Did she have a party?”
Joan’s face beamed as she seemed to recall it. She laughed. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Mena Lasseter had a birthday party alright.”
Chapter Fifteen
August 1944.
M
ena’s birthday was on a Saturday. The day before, on the 11th of August, General Eisenhower had paid a surprise visit to his 82nd boys at Shady Lane. There was an inspection at Stoughton Aerodrome and although Mena hadn’t seen Danny yet to find out what it could mean, Pop had said that it had to be because something big was coming up.