Chapter Nine
She had been a little too optimistic about the weather. Vicky woke to the sound of rain pelting against the window. After a glorious week, normal British summer had returned.
Memory came back to her quickly of the small fortune tucked under her pillow. She pulled out the bag and opened it again, just to check that she hadn’t been imagining it.
No — there they were, a fistful of bright jewels, still sparkling in the cool morning light. “Thank you, Aunt Molly.” She tipped the treasures back into the bag. “I had no idea that you had stuff like this, but... thank you.”
She tumbled out of bed and had a shower at top speed, dressed quickly and scoffed down a bowl of cereal. Then she went out to load the car with the two suitcases of clothes for the charity shop, and a couple of coats — she might as well kill two birds with one stone.
The jewellery. She laid it out on the bed and stood gazing at it for a moment. It was a bit bulky, but it didn’t feel safe to put it in her bag.
There was a silk scarf in one of the drawers, and she wrapped the garnet set in that and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. The rest, in the velvet pouch, went into the other pocket.
It was still raining as she drove down the lane and turned right onto Church Road. She had to drive carefully — the potholes were now puddles, and she wasn’t sure how deep they were. She didn’t want to risk damaging the car again.
Tom’s cows were in the top field, quietly cropping the grass — apparently that thing about cows lying down when it rained was just a myth.
But she wasn’t letting herself think about Tom. Well, she’d indulge herself for just a few moments at a time — it was a struggle to cut him out completely from her mind, especially when he lived next door and she could see his cows every time she looked out of her window.
Rounding a bend in the road she saw someone waiting at the bus stop, huddled into a parka as rain dripped from the hood, a hefty-looking backpack weighing down their drooping shoulders.
As she drew level she recognised her — Bethany, Brenda’s teenaged daughter from the little convenience store. She stopped and lowered the passenger-side window.
“Hi — would you like a lift?”
The girl huffed and turned away. “No, thank you.”
Vicky hesitated. But she was reluctant to leave the girl standing there in the rain. And she wasn’t so far from her own adolescence that she couldn’t remember those days when everything and everyone seemed to be against you.
“I think you’ve missed the bus,” she said.
The only reply was a grunt.
“There won’t be another one for ages.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Vicky suppressed her amusement — she was quite sure she had been equally as rude in her day. “Look, I’m going into town. I can drop you off anywhere — it won’t be out of my way. You’re going to get soaked standing there.”
The girl hesitated, then grudgingly opened the passenger door.
“Stick your pack on the back seat,” Vicky suggested, keeping her voice bland.
Silence. Bethany climbed into the car and hugged the backpack on her lap as if it was going to try to get away.
“Seat belt?” Vicky prompted.
Another grunt — but at least she fastened the seat belt.
The traffic on the main A road was quite busy — a dozen cars passed before Vicky could slip into a gap. “Phew!” She laughed. “I thought we were going to be stuck there till Christmas. It’s like they’re afraid they’d choke on their chewing gum if they gave way for you.”
That produced a brief snigger.
Vicky tried a friendly smile. “It’s Bethany, isn’t it?”
That earned her one of those patented sardonic adolescent girl glances.
“Bez.”
“Oh . . . right. Bez.”
Bethany — Bez — turned her head away to look out of the window. This was going to be an entertaining drive!
For a while she concentrated on finding a place to slip into the outside lane to overtake a caravan.
“So, you’re off school today?” she asked.
Bez hunched into her shoulders. “I’m not going back to school.”
“Oh?”
“Mum wants me to finish my A levels and go to university.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“No.” Her pretty face creased into a dark scowl. “I’m not going to let her rule my life.”
“No — quite. Although... not doing something just because it’s what she wants you to do is... still kind of letting her rule your life. Just... backwards. Kind of.” She wasn’t sure if that made sense.
The girl rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’re going to tell me to go to university.”
“Certainly not — not if it isn’t what you want to do. That would be a complete waste of time.” There was another caravan to overtake. “What do you want to do?”
Bez glared at her, all adolescent defiance. “I’m going to London.”
Vicky stared at her in alarm. “What, now?”
“Yes. I’m seventeen — almost eighteen. I can leave home if I want.”
“Ah.” Yikes — what could she say to that? “Uh... does your mum know?”
“I left her a note.”
“Oh. And . . . um . . . what will you do in London?”
“Get a job.”
Of course — get a job. As if it was the easiest thing in the world. “Right... what sort of job?”
“I dunno.” The girl shrugged, unconcerned. “Whatever.”
Damn — what should she do now? She really ought to turn around and take her straight back home — but she suspected that the girl would just run off again at the first opportunity. She might even kick off in the car, possibly causing an accident on this busy road.
The traffic ran smoothly for a few minutes and Vicky took the opportunity to covertly study her passenger. Seventeen... She sighed to herself. At seventeen you knew everything — or thought you did.
She wasn’t quite sure of the legal position, but she didn’t think Bez could be forced to return home if she didn’t want to. Even if she didn’t have her mother’s permission.
She’d never been in a more tricky predicament. She had to stall for time while she tried to come up with something.
“Well, there’s certainly lots of jobs going if you’re not too fussed what you do.” She kept her tone light, casual. “There’s plenty of hotels in London — they’re always looking for people to clean the rooms, wash up in the kitchens, that sort of thing.”
Another defiant glare. “I’m not going to clean someone else’s scuzzy room!”
Vicky nodded sagely. “No — I can see that wouldn’t be too much fun. And they don’t pay much, I believe. You might be able to get a job in a shop. Not the posh ones in the West End, of course — they’d probably say you’re too young.”
“I’m not too young!”
“Oh, I didn’t say you’re too young, but they probably would. But there are plenty of places in the suburbs — supermarkets and that.” She smiled encouragingly. “And you have experience, so that would help.”
“I don’t want to end up working in another shop. Not ever again as long as I live.”
“No? Well, that’s one thing to tick off your list then. What do you want to do? What do you like?”
Another silence — but this one seemed to have a different quality. Not sulky, more... contemplative. Vicky slanted her a swift glance. The girl was chewing her lip, apparently deep in thought.
“Reading,” she volunteered at last.
Oh. That wasn’t the response she had been expecting. “That’s good,” she responded carefully. “I’m not sure what sort of job you could get where you could do that. Unless it was in a bookshop, of course.” She caught the eye-roll almost before it happened. “No... well...”
“Did you go to university?” For the first time there was genuine interest in Bez’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“It was brilliant.” There was no need to lie about it — the memories still danced in her mind. “Parties every weekend...”
“Every weekend?”
“More or less. Friday and Saturday nights. There was a film club, and a drama society that put on plays and revues every term — some of them were really good. I was a member of the hiking society — though I don’t suppose that would interest you.”
“I like hiking.”
“Oh. Well... there you go. There was a debating society — in fact there was a society for just about anything you could think of.”
Bez had visibly relaxed — the tension had eased from her shoulders, and she was no longer hugging her backpack so tightly.
She hadn’t set out to give advice — who was she to give advice to anyone, considering the doldrums she’d let her own life sink into? But nevertheless it did seem as if she’d given the girl some food for thought. She wouldn’t push it anymore.
It had given her food for thought, too. What had happened to the lively, fun-loving girl she used to be? She’d got buried in ‘sensible’. Aunt Molly hadn’t been sensible — at an even younger age she’d danced at the Moulin Rouge in little more than a few strings of pearls.
“I’m looking for a charity shop to donate some of my Aunt Molly’s clothes to,” she remarked.
At last, a friendly response. “Which one?”
“It doesn’t matter. Do you know where they are?”
“Of course. There are three, right on the High Street. One’s for animals, one’s for cancer research and one’s for heart diseases.”
“Well, I’ve got two suitcases and a couple of decent coats. Maybe I’ll share them out between all three.”
“She was nice, your Aunt Molly.” Bez was almost smiling. “Not grumpy like some old people. She told me once that she was in the war.”
“Oh?”
“I was doing a project for history and she told me she’d lived in Paris during the war, when the Germans were there. She was younger than me.” Now there was real animation in her voice. “She said sometimes it was horrible — there was never enough to eat, and you couldn’t go where you liked, and if you forgot to take your identity papers everywhere you could get into real trouble. But sometimes it was dead exciting. She told me she used to run messages and that, for the Resistance.”
Vicky glanced at her in surprise. “She did?”
“Well, that was what she said, anyway. Mum said she was probably making it up.” Her tone indicated what she thought of any opinion her mother might hold. “Do you think she was?”
“I don’t know,” Vicky conceded. “I could ask my mum.”
“What subject did you do at university?” Bez had put her backpack in the footwell between her feet.
“Medieval history.”
“Why did you pick that?”
“I was fascinated by it. Well, any era of history, really, but that one most of all. There was so much going on — kings and queens fighting each other over the throne, deadly plagues, the odd revolution...”
Bez laughed. “It sounds like fun.”
“I’m not sure I’d have wanted to live then, though,” Vicky confessed. “There was so much disease — most people only lived into their thirties.”
“A lot of women died in childbirth, didn’t they?”
“They did — it was the main cause of death among women. And the men got killed off in the endless battles.”
“Things haven’t changed much there.” Bez’s voice lilted with cynical amusement. “They still like nothing better than a good punch-up. Football, whatever... any excuse will do. Stupid.”
They slid into an easy conversation — Bez seemed to have entirely forgotten her earlier sulks. Until they reached the roundabout and the turn-off for the town.
“Could you drop me at the train station?” she asked — though Vicky detected a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the adventure now.
“Okay.”
What to do? She couldn’t just let the girl go off to London like this — but how could she stop her? As she followed the signs for the train station her mind churned with a dozen ideas, all of which she rejected as likely to make matters worse.
She was no closer to a solution as she turned into the car park in front of the station. “Do you want to leave an address to let your mum know where you’re staying?” she suggested as Bez picked up her backpack and opened the passenger door.
A long hesitation. “I... don’t know where I’ll be staying yet. I’ll probably find a hotel or something.”
“Do you have enough money for that?”
“Yes — I looked up the room prices on the internet. And I’ve been saving up my babysitting money for months.”
“Okay. But do let your mum know as soon as possible. She may be a pain in the bum — mine can be at times, even now. But I’m sure she loves you.”
“Right. Yes. Um . . . thanks for the lift.”
“No problem.”
Bez clambered out of the car. It had almost stopped raining, but it was still a dismal day for running away from home. Vicky’s heart went out to her. Even with nothing seriously wrong — a comfortable home, a caring if naggy mother — a lively teenager could feel suffocated in a small village so far away from the beguiling city lights.
Before she closed the door, Vicky leaned across and delayed her. “I’ll tell you what — let me know where you’re staying too.” She reached for her bag and pulled out one of her business cards. “I’ll be coming back to London in a few days, and I’ll look you up. And this is my mum’s phone number.” She scrawled it on the back of the card. “If you have any problems, give her a ring. Any problems. Don’t worry — she’s really kind.”
She’d ring her as soon as she got home to give her the heads-up. She knew her mum would be more than willing to help out if she was needed.
Bez glanced at the card. “Oh... you live in London?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re an estate agent?”
“That’s right.”
“Is that a good job?”
“Well... I suppose so.” She kept her tone flat, with no spark of enthusiasm — which was easy, as she felt none. “Of course, you usually need to have a university degree, and then train with an agency for another year.”
“Oh...” Far from looking as if she was about to embark on an exciting adventure, the kid looked as if she was going to the dentist. “Well... um... goodbye.”
“Goodbye. Stay safe.”
Vicky watched as she crossed the car park and disappeared into the booking hall. In spite of this crazy plan to go to London, she did seem to have her head screwed on. She could only hope that things would work out for her. Maybe after a few days in London she would find out that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and come home.
In the meantime she was going to have to let Brenda know what had happened, and her part in it. Which was going to put her in even worse grace than selling the cottage. With a small sigh she put the car in gear and drove out of the car park.
The town was quite small, but the High Street was bustling, lined with shops, with a small car park just round the corner. She picked out the charity shops as she drove past — it wouldn’t be too far to walk, even making three separate journeys. She’d get that job out of the way first.
Patting her pockets to make sure the jewellery was safe, she hefted the first suitcase out of the boot of the car and set off.
It had finally stopped raining but the pavement was wet, and heavy drops were dripping from the trees. The charity shop was warm and welcoming, a jumble of clothes racks and bric-a-brac, a couple of shelves of CDs and DVDs and several tables full of toys. The plump lady behind the counter greeted Vicky with a broad smile when she offered the suitcase.
“Ah, thank you, my luvver. I’ll put them out the back for now, till we can get them sorted. Do you want the suitcase back?”
Vicky smiled back. “No, thanks — you can keep that.”
Half an hour later the car boot was empty. Vicky glanced at her watch. She still had plenty of time on her parking ticket. How was Bez getting on? Unfortunately she didn’t have Brenda’s phone number so she couldn’t call her and let her know what was happening. She’d have to go into the shop as soon as she got back to Sturcombe — and risk getting her head blown off.
Anyway, for now it was time to deal with the jewellery. Vicky strolled back to the shops, a small fizz of excitement bubbling inside her. This could make a lot of difference to the next few months.
There were two jewellers on the High Street. One was a national chain, selling all modern stuff. The other was more interesting — a small, personal-looking shop with a window full of mixed modern and vintage pieces. Above the window it bore the legend Digby’s Jewellers. That was the obvious one to choose.
The bell above the door jingled as she opened it. Inside, the shop was narrow and dimly lit, the walls lined with glass cases displaying more jewellery, clocks, silver cups and some items of crystal glassware.
An elderly man with grey hair and a pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose came through a bead curtain from the back room and greeted her with a smile. “Hello, my dear. What can I do for you?”
“I have some jewellery to sell. I inherited it from my aunt.” She pulled the bag from her pocket. “I’ve brought a copy of her will to show you that I really own it.”
“Ah, yes — excellent, excellent. Well, let me see what you have.” He produced a red velvet cloth from under the counter, spread it out smoothly and invited her to set out the pieces.
She tugged open the draw-cord and tipped out the contents onto the cloth. “I had no idea Aunt Molly had these things. I only found them yesterday, in a box of old photographs.”
“Molly?” He peered up at her sharply. “Would that be Molly Marston, from down Sturcombe?”
Vicky’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s right. You knew her?”
“I did, yes.” He nodded, smiling sadly. “I heard that she’d passed.” He picked up the watch and examined it closely. “She would come in now and then to sell me a piece. Gifts from her lovers, she said — I used to tease her that she must have had many of them. Some of them she said were very famous, but she wouldn’t even whisper their names.”
“Did you know that she was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge in Paris?” Vicky asked, thrilled to find someone who might know a little about her aunt. “I found some photographs, and some of her costumes.”
“Oh, yes — the Moulin Rouge. That was where she met some of them, of course. There were many men who would go to watch the cabaret, then take flowers and chocolates round to the stage door and try to date the girls. And often they would bring gifts of jewellery to their favourites.”
“Did she ever tell you... was there ever anyone special?”
“Well, yes — I believe there was. A long time ago. I never knew his name.”
“A poet — a painter?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know about that. But she certainly lived quite an adventurous life.”
He placed the watch carefully on the cloth and picked up the pearl earrings. “I’m sad that she’s gone, but she’ll have gone with no regrets.”
“No regrets.” She smiled. “That’s a good thought.”
“It certainly is.” He picked up the ring with the entwined hearts. “Ah, now this is a pretty thing.”
“That’s my favourite.” She sighed in wistful regret. “I’d have kept it, but I need the money. She left me her cottage too, but it needs quite a lot of work, and there’ll be a big inheritance tax bill to pay.”
His kindly eyes twinkled at her. “Of course.”
He continued to examine each piece, placing them down side by side. The final piece he picked up was the dragonfly brooch — he seemed to have deliberately left that till last. “Ah...” He switched on a light at the side of the counter and removed his glasses, and lifted the loupe-glass that hung on a cord around his neck.
She watched anxiously as he held the brooch under the light, turning it in his hand, peering at it closely through the loupe-glass. After a few moments he let the loupe-glass drop and laid the brooch down separately to the other things.
“Now, these I can buy from you.” He laid his hand over the pile on the right. “But this...” He picked up the brooch again and held it out to her on the palm of his hand. “No.”
“Oh.” The fizz inside her went as flat as day-old beer. “The diamonds are fake? I thought they must be.”
He shook his head. “On the contrary, they are very fine stones indeed. Together I would estimate that there are about fourteen carats. If I were to put a price on it, I’d say perhaps twenty-five thousand pounds.”
“Oh . . . !” Fizz!
“I don’t have the market for a piece like this here, and I won’t cheat you by buying it to sell on. If you want my advice, you should sell it in London.”
“Oh...” Fortunately there was a chair beside the counter, and she sank onto it, her head spinning. Twenty-five thousand pounds... ! Even after paying the inheritance tax on it, that was going to go a long way towards paying for the renovations on the cottage.
“I can give you the name of a friend of mine whom you can rely on to deal with you honestly.”
“Th . . . thank you.”
“Now this is very interesting.” The jeweller had picked up the medal, which had spilled out of the bag with the jewellery. “The inscription — do you know what it means?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I meant to look it up, but I didn’t have time this morning.”
“Patria non immemor. I’ve not seen it before, but I think... Would you mind if I take a photograph and send it to another friend of mine? He’s very interested in medals — he’s quite the expert.”
“No — of course.” She sat forward eagerly. “Go ahead.”
He took his phone from his pocket and photographed each side of the medal, and then tapped a message into the keyboard. “In the meantime, why don’t you put this back in your bag to keep it safe, and I’ll work out a price for you for these other pieces.” He handed her the brooch. “Would you like a cup of tea while we wait for Leonard to get back to us?”
“Oh . . . yes, please.”
They drank tea together and negotiated a very good price for the trinkets as they waited for the medal expert to call back. The response came sooner than Vicky had expected. Mr Digby read the message, and smiled.
“I thought so. Your Aunt Molly’s real name was Meline, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Meline Marston. My friend says this is a French Resistance medal. The meaning of the inscription is ‘the nation does not forget’. It was awarded to those who participated in the Resistance during the war.”
Vicky stared at him. “But... Molly would only have been about fourteen or fifteen when the war ended.”
“That’s right. But there were quite a few young people who took part, carrying messages, that kind of thing. It seems that Molly’s adventuring days started early.”
“Wow!” Vicky laughed a little unsteadily. “And I only knew her as a slightly eccentric old spinster.”
The old man chuckled. “Oh, she was certainly that. Leonard would like to look into this a little further. May I give him your email address so that he can get back to you?”
“Of course.” For the second time that morning she pulled out a business card and handed it over to him. “Thank you.”
“Do let me know what he finds out. It’s a very interesting story.”
“It is.”