The name and address of the girl whose belongings had been sent with the note were written in the book, and with that information Tayte had thought it would be a breeze to find Philomena, especially after he’d written to the address and confirmed that the Lasseter family still lived there to this day. He’d received a phone call from a man named Jonathan Lasseter who was keen to speak to him.
And that’s when it had all gone wrong.
Tayte had expected to learn something about the girl whose suitcase had found its way to Washington after all these years, but any hope he had of an easy assignment was dashed when Jonathan told him he knew very little about Philomena. By the time the conversation had ended he was of the impression that her life was little more than a rumour. Tayte had seen the warning signs, but they had only served to further pique his interest; like when he’d seen Eliza’s original birth certificate and noted that her mother’s name was recorded as Mena Fitch, not Philomena Lasseter, although the address given was the same as the address found inside the copy of
Madame Bovary
.
“The news isn’t as good as I’d hoped for,” Tayte admitted, closing the suitcase. “When I spoke to Jonathan, he told me that Philomena was something of a family mystery. He said he’d heard of her and that he’d seen a few old photographs, but he also said that he hadn’t seen any beyond the war years, when Philomena would have been in her late teens.”
“So she could have died during the war?” Eliza said.
“That’s a possibility, but I don’t think so. You see, while I was waiting for a response to my letter, I started looking for Philomena’s vital records online - in the UK birth, marriage and death indexes. It’s an uncommon name, which helps a great deal. From the address I had, I was able to identify the parish where she was born and I found the record of her birth in Leicester, England in August 1927, making her seventeen years old when this library card was stamped in September 1944.”
“But there’s no record of her death?” Eliza said, second-guessing him.
Tayte shook his head. “No record of any marriage either. From the information on her birth certificate I could identify her parents, Margaret Lasseter, nee Fitch - which is where the name on your original birth certificate comes from - and George Lasseter, who was a general medical practitioner at the time. I searched for Philomena under both Lasseter and Fitch, but I couldn’t find anything relevant.”
“Any clue as to who my father might be?” Eliza asked.
Tayte opened the book to the page where a piece of material had been placed inside it like a bookmark. “Even less to go on there,” he said, removing what he recognised as a military nametape. It was a piece of olive-drab cloth with the name, ‘Danielson’ sewn into it. “All we have so far is this, but it could be anything or nothing.”
“Or it could be a clue,” Eliza said.
“Yes, it could, but by itself it doesn’t mean a thing.” He slid it back into the book. “It could have been picked up just about anywhere in 1944.”
Eliza shifted in her seat and Tayte could see that even sitting too long in one position was uncomfortable for her.
“Didn’t you find anything else?” she asked.
Tayte pushed his hair back off his brow. He had a thick crop of black hair that never looked tidy for long no matter what he did with it. “I made some general checks online,” he said. “I went through all the newspaper archives I could and I looked at several other resources for any mention of anyone called Philomena Lasseter or Mena Fitch. I checked the British electoral registers, too, and the online London Gazette where enrolled changes of name by deed poll are printed.” He shook his head. “My results aren’t conclusive, but so far I can see why her life became a family mystery.”
“But you do think she could still be alive?” Eliza said, as though holding on to that hope.
“If she is she’d be eighty-four years old, so there’s every chance, yes. But I can’t do any more to confirm that from here.” Tayte bit his lip as he added, “I’m booked on an overnight flight to London.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going for a few days yet, or was it next week?”
“I know, but I was just putting it off because I don’t like to fly and sitting around worrying about it just makes it worse. I’m all packed.”
“Well now that’s the spirit, Mr Tayte.” Eliza said. “What doesn’t kill you, eh?” she added, and Tayte wished she hadn’t.
“I need to go and talk to the family,” he said. “I figure I’ll have all weekend to find out what I can from them and when the local record office opens on Monday I’ll go and see what they can tell me. I’ve arranged to meet Jonathan Lasseter and his wife at their home tomorrow afternoon.”
Eliza was on the edge of her seat now, clearly excited by this sudden sense of urgency. “Is there someone who can go with you?”
Tayte had to think about that. A moment later he shook his head and said, “No. There’s no one.”
“Well Madame Bovary will have to keep you company. She’ll help take your mind off things.”
Tayte just smiled and glanced down at the book he was still holding.
If only it was that simple
, he thought.
“I want to know everything about her,” Eliza said. “What kind of life she led, and -” She paused. “And I’d like to understand why she gave me away.”
“Of course,” Tayte said. “I’ll do my best.”
“And you’ll keep me updated? I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.”
“Just as soon as I have anything to update you with.”
“Good. Well have a safe trip and if you need anything just let me know.”
Eliza reached for her walking sticks like she was about to get up and Tayte could see that she was eager for him to get started, despite the fact that he couldn’t make his plane take off any sooner.
“There’s no need to see me out,” he said, getting up himself. He leant in and gently shook her hand, which seemed tiny in his. “I’ll call you tomorrow once I’ve touched down,” he added, forcing positive thoughts into his head as he imagined himself at the baggage reclaim at Heathrow, stressed as he knew he would be by then, but alive and kicking and whistling an up-beat show tune to calm his nerves.
Eliza kept hold of his hand. “I’d like to keep this just between ourselves until we know more. You understand?”
“Of course,” Tayte said, knowing that she had an extensive family around her: three sons and a daughter living in DC with children of their own. The arrival of the suitcase had affected their perceived ancestry and it was entirely his client’s call as to if and when she wanted to tell them.
She let go of Tayte’s hand and as he turned away he eyed the little red suitcase again and wondered, as he had wondered all week, who had sent it and how they came by it. And he wondered why it had been sent now, some seventy years later. Something had happened to prompt it, but what? Tayte had no idea just now but he intended to find out. As he left the house, heading for his car, he gazed up into the clear sky and snapped his collar higher to keep the late afternoon chill off his neck. He thought about the girl again.
Philomena Lasseter.
He’d been thinking about her a lot. Who was she? Why was her name recorded on his client’s original birth certificate under her mother’s maiden name of Fitch? And why had she been separated from her suitcase all those years ago?
Chapter Two
December 1943.
I
t was Christmas morning and Mena Lasseter awoke early, harbouring the sensation that she had been disturbed by something that now, in waking, left no obvious clue as to its source. The blackout curtains at the window held her bedroom in total darkness and it was so quiet that she fancied she could hear the air around her, hissing in her ears. She sat up and pulled at the heavy curtains behind her until they revealed a misty, moonlit landscape of leafless trees and frosted fields and just the hint of a salmon daybreak to the east. When she opened them more fully the moonlight washed in from the Leicestershire countryside, casting diagonal crosses onto the oak-beamed walls from the blast tape that had been in place between the leaded lights since the bombings began. The moon painted everything with its silver brush, stealing all the colours.
But not quite all.
As Mena turned away from the window and looked into the room across a cheerless bedspread, past the foot of an ironwork bedstead and the chaise beyond, she saw something beside her washbasin that she hadn’t seen in such a long time that the sight of it brought a lump to her throat. It was an orange - a beautiful plump orange that was as vivid amidst the early morning grey as if it were in full sunlight. She threw aside her bedcovers and ran to it, unable to resist piercing its peel as she clutched it to her nose, drawing in the sweet memory of its scent. She laughed quietly to herself, choking back a tear and just smiling at it because she understood its significance: Eddie was home for Christmas, and what a gift.
Mena - whose devout Catholic mother had named her Philomena after Saint Philomena the wonder worker - was sixteen years old and several months younger than she wanted to be. She was tall for her age and knew she could easily pass for seventeen, which was the age she needed to be before she could join the Women’s Land Army, but her mother - staunch upholder of the Decalogue that she was - would not permit Mena to lie about her age, even if most of the other girls of her acquaintance were doing it.
But August wasn’t so far away, she kept telling herself. She could make do with being a fire-watcher until then and she also worked part-time as a volunteer, wheeling books through the wards at the Leicester Royal Infirmary and the general hospital in Evington, often reading to the patients. She was still doing her bit, like her sister, Mary-Grace, who had enlisted with the Auxiliary Territorial Service two years ago and was no doubt having a glorious war, driving around in her motorcar, delivering important documents to important people.
And there were her three brothers. No one could ask more of them. In the thick of it since 1940, Mena hadn’t seen Michael, James or Peter in far too long. She envied them their freedom, despite the mortal danger and the hardship that was all too evident from their letters. Edward Buckley - dear, sweet Eddie, who had always been like a fourth brother to her - was already a commissioned regular when the war began. His childhood belonged to Oadby and it owed much of its happiness to the Lasseter family, before the Buckleys moved away to Hampshire.
Mena pulled the orange to her nightdress and sighed.
Mary will be so thrilled to see him,
she thought, genuinely happy for her. And yet a part of her envied her sister his return. She set the orange down, thinking to steal back to her room with a knife after breakfast, to eat it in secret, knowing that it would taste all the sweeter after whatever powdered egg creation was in store for them again this festive morning. Her hand had barely left the orange when the distinct sound of a creaking floorboard beyond her bedroom door drew her attention. Her smile grew when she realised that this must have been the sound that had stirred her from sleep. Was Eddie still there, delivering his oranges in the night like Santa Claus?
She opened the door with a flourish, expecting to catch Father Christmas in the act. But as she leapt through the doorway and the cool moonlight followed her, she found her own father instead, glowing in a pool of candlelight. He was dressed, not in a red tunic and trousers, but in slippers and a new striped dressing gown that was not unlike the curtains that used to hang in one of the spare bedrooms. He had one foot on the stairs at the top of the landing and a startled expression creased his already worry-lined face.
“Pop!” Mena said, still smiling.
Everyone called him, Pop. Although Eddie, who was more than welcome to, was such a stickler for correctness that out of respect he still called him Mr Lasseter or sir - despite Mr Lasseter’s numerous protestations over the years that he should at least call him George. Pop was a tall man: lean and lanky, with a balding pate and a wiry grey moustache that he kept meticulously trimmed. He clutched a bony hand to his chest and staggered forward like a bad actor in the throes of a poorly written death scene and Mena thought he was about to fall down the stairs. She rushed to him, her smile faltering, but as she arrived he wheeled on her, balancing on the top step with all the nimbleness of a man half his fifty-four years. His free hand grabbed her.
“Gotcha!” he said, laughing disproportionately to the joke until Mena slapped his arm playfully and reminded him of the hour.
“Shh!” she said. “You’ll wake everyone.”
Pop nodded and quickly buttoned his smile, though his steely eyes were still laughing.
Mena hugged him. “Merry Christmas, Pop.”
“Merry Christmas, my lovely Mena,” Her father replied. “Now back to bed with you until I’ve lit the fires and this old house has had a chance to warm up.”
Mena reached her bedroom door and turned back. “Will there be an extra setting for Christmas dinner?” she whispered, sure of the answer.
Her father’s smile renewed. “Just you wait and see, my girl. Wait and see.”
The Lasseters lived just outside the village of Oadby, which was a few miles east of Leicester, between Evington to the north and Wigston to the south. The war for them had so far been kind, if
kind
is a word that can sit alongside
war
so comfortably. But it had been kind in as much as they were still receiving regular letters from Michael, James and Peter, who were all serving in the European Theatre of Operations and living on the outskirts of Oadby in a crooked old farmhouse that seemed too big without the boys - despite the two refugee children who had been assigned to them - meant that they had not suffered the bombs that had fallen on Leicester. Neither had they fallen victim to those bombs that had been dumped on the villages when the bombers returned from their numerous raids on Coventry. And the war had been kind to them perhaps because they were financially better off than most families in Oadby, which meant that when the war began they had a better stock of things with which to
make do and mend
.