Lorna Gray - The War Widow

A woolly-haired sergeant looked up from her post behind the desk as I entered, clearly very busy and clearly very worn out by the world. She was not at all pleased by the interruption. She gave me a brief look up and down and I think she could scent fear, but mistook it for guilt.

“Yes?”

At her resigned bark, I withdrew my hands sharply from where they had been defensively thrust into my deep coat pockets and approached the desk. “I’d like to talk to someone about viewing Rhys Williams’ possessions, if that is possible. Are they available?”

“I don’t know. Do you have a case number?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. He died. At Devil’s Bridge. The investigation has concluded, I believe. That’s why I’m here.” I counted breaths in an effort to calm my sense of urgency as she fussed with some documents, and stumbled blindly into telling my first lie. “His mother was told the possessions they found were ready to be collected. I believe someone is expecting me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh dear – perhaps I can speak to the policeman in charge? Is he available?”

“No.”

Failure stung. “Is there anyone else I can speak to?”

“No.”

Perhaps lying really did reap its own rewards. I was about to add a little truth when she abruptly deigned to expand a little. “You have to see Detective Inspector Griffiths. It’s his case.”

I waited. I don’t think I was being brave. I think the truth is I was numb. I don’t think I was really thinking anything except that I didn’t want to have to go back out onto those streets like this. So I waited, face moulded into something bordering on polite encouragement and at long last she mustered the energy to concede, “He’s back in tomorrow. Would you like to make an appointment?”

“On a Saturday?”

She peered up at me beneath lowered brows. Meaning, I think, to imply that a policeperson’s work didn’t stop for the weekend.

I said contritely, “Yes, please.”

“Eleven o’clock suit you?”

“Yes.”

“Name?”

This was where I made my second mistruth. Some wildness within me made me say after only the tiniest of hesitations: “Mrs Williams.”

The foolish thing about it was that technically I was still entitled to use that name. It was on my passport and on various other documents such as my account with the bank. However my latest ration book was most definitely in my maiden name and it was the one I had very recently taken to using on a daily basis so really the truth here was a touch blurred. I suppose if I’d been truly honest I’d have dictated Mrs Kate Williams (indicating divorcee) rather than Mrs Rhys Williams (indicating that a husband still had ownership of me).

I watched as her hand carefully entered the name in the large diary on her desk. Then the hand recorded the name of the case I’d mentioned in my enquiry. The pen paused hovering over the paper. After a moment she looked up and suddenly seemed considerably more human. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Williams, I’m sure Inspector Griffiths will be glad to help you. I’m sorry he isn’t in today. It’s his mother’s birthday. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Lies really are an ugly thing, and they definitely do bring their own punishment. I walked out with my head wavering between the unexpected return of hope and the rather grimmer calculation of waiting another day and whether or not it mightn’t be wiser to abandon everything and make for the nearest train, and I only came to when I caught myself glaring fiercely at every man I met as I hurried along. My heartbeat kept intensifying until they were past and I was safe again. Which was ridiculous because if they were that close it was already far too late. And as it was, I ought to have been watching more closely for someone else because Jim Bristol was following me.

Or rather, remembering my terrible mistake yesterday with another man from the hotel, it would be more accurate to state that he was sauntering along at his ease some way behind me.

It was hard to be sure. He seemed to have his head thoroughly buried in his guidebook so he might have just been completing his much discussed tour of the town. As I hurried along another shopping street towards the promenade with half a plan of going from there to the hotel to retrieve my bags and pay my bill, I kept throwing little glances over my shoulder and at first I thought I had lost him. But the second time I looked, a carefully staged examination of a pair of gloves in the window of a gentleman’s outfitters, I saw him more clearly. He seemed to vanish just as I turned but I was confident now that I was not mistaken; he was following me.

It was exhausting work guarding myself from this specific threat at my back at the same time as remaining ever watchful for the uncertain threat of the two men who might approach from any side they chose. It was exhausting to the point that it made my brain ache. Part of the difficulty lay in the fact that with each passing day since the accident, I was growing less confident about my memory of those men from Lancaster. I knew I would recognise them if I saw them. I also knew they weren’t Jim Bristol and I’d managed to eliminate the other faces I’d met so far from my endless watch. But these days when I tried to fix my mind upon a definitive description, their eyes and noses slid away into nonsense. Sometimes the faces in my memory were the doctors at the hospital. Sometimes they had the faces of old friends like Gregory or even my husband. And the more I fought it, the more I found it hard to tell if any of it was real. As was happening now, in fact, with the uncertainty of being followed.

In the end, I opted for ambush. I turned a full circle and doubled back up the main shopping street. I crossed again as I neared the junction onto the street that led down to the pier. There was a tearoom there, just on the corner. Jim Bristol was still behind as I followed an old lady step for step around a man selling newspapers and finally slipped inside. I waited by the door for a few thrilling moments; nerves and eyes fixed on the street outside and eventually he obliged me by walking past. His coat today was a well-cut pre-war sports jacket. It was burgundy and unmistakeable. I shrank back in case he saw me, but he only seemed interested in the antics of a group of young soldiers on the opposite side of the road who were clearly on leave. They still wore their uniforms even for a day at the seaside.

I waited a while longer before finally acknowledging the waitress’s ushering and I allowed myself to be shown to a table in the heart of the room for a rest and a sandwich. It was an expensive bolthole. After the outlay of funds for the train journey and the hotel it was perilously close to being above my means but it was the perfect position. I was screened from the street outside by the line of crowded booths that were arranged along the high glass windows and yet I could see the car. It was still entirely deserted and ordinary.

The tearoom was reassuringly ordinary too. It was the sort that appealed to wealthy older couples and thankfully none had the fearsomely brutish form that my two would-be kidnappers must take. The patrons did unfortunately put me through the usual rigmarole of making my heart jolt every time one of them spoke in a tone that was reminiscent of Rhys’s voice or turned their head in just such a way to cause a momentary spark of recognition before it evaporated again, but I was getting used to that by now.

Then my solitude was disturbed by a loud call of ‘Katie’ and it was clear that someone had managed to surprise me here.

Mary James bore down on me like a whirlwind through a rose garden and to be honest it was a relief to find that it was only her. I’d been surveying the shadows around that parked car. I hadn’t imagined I could have been so inattentive to the traffic through the door.