She had studied it again and again. No pages had been torn out. No entries eradicated in any way. It was as if, having carefully inscribed the flyleaf for Joss, her mother had once, and once only, grabbed the empty notebook in desperation and scribbled those two lone sentences in it. They haunted Joss. They were a plea for help, a despairing scream. What had happened? Who could have upset her so much? Could it have been the Frenchman who the village thought had come to woo her?
She had said nothing to Luke about the notebook. It was as if her mother had whispered a secret to her and she did not want to betray the confidence. This was something she had to find out on her own. Putting down the notebook she reached for the coffee mug standing on the carpet next to her and sipped thoughtfully, staring out of the French doors across the lawn. There had been another heavy frost in the night and the grass was still white in the shelter of the tall hedge beyond the stables. Above it the sky was a clear brilliant blue. In the silence, through the window she could hear the clear ring of metal on metal. Luke was well into his work on the Bentley.
A robin hopped across the York stone terrace outside the window and stood head to one side staring down at the ground. Joss smiled. Earlier she had thrown out the breakfast crumbs, but there was little left now after the flock of sparrows and blackbirds had descended on them from the trees.
The house was very silent. Tom was asleep and for now at least she had the place to herself. Lightly she touched the back of the notebook with her finger. ‘Mother.’ The word hovered in the air. The room was very cold. Joss shivered. She had two thick sweaters on over her jeans and a long silk scarf wound round and round her neck against the insidious draughts which permeated the house but even so her hands were frozen. In a moment she would go back to the kitchen to warm up and replenish her coffee. In a moment. She sat still, staring round, trying to feel her mother’s presence. The room had been Laura’s special, favourite place, of that she had no doubt. Her mother’s books, her sewing, her desk, her letters – and yet nothing remained. There was no scent in the cushions, no warmth of contact as her hand brushed the place where her mother’s hand had been, no vibrations which still held the vital essence of the woman who had borne her.
The envelope with the French stamp had slipped between some old bills in a faded green cardboard wallet. Joss stared down at it for a moment, registering the slanted handwriting, the faded violet ink. The post mark, she noted was Paris and the year it was posted 1979. Inside was one flimsy sheet of paper.
‘Ma chère Laura – As you see I did not reach home yesterday as I intended. My appointment was postponed until tomorrow. I shall ring you afterwards. Take care of yourself, my dear lady. My prayers are with you.’
Joss squinted at the paper more closely. The signature was an indecipherable squiggle. Screwing up her eyes she tried to make out the first letter. P? B? Sighing, she laid the paper down. There was no address.
‘So, what are you up to?’ Luke had come into the room so quietly she had not heard him.
Startled she looked up. ‘Sorting through the desk.’
He was dressed like her in several old sweaters; over them the stained overalls and the woollen scarf did nothing to hide how cold he was. He rubbed his oily hands together. ‘Feel like some coffee? I need to thaw out.’
‘Yes please.’ She was pushing the papers together in a heap on the carpet in front of her when the telephone rang. ‘Mrs Grant?’ The voice was unfamiliar; female; elderly. ‘I understand you have been trying to reach me. My name is Mary Sutton.’
Joss felt a leap of excitement. ‘That’s right, Mrs Sutton –’
‘Miss, dear. Miss Sutton.’ The voice the other end was suddenly prim. ‘I do not answer my door to strangers, you understand. But now I know who you are you may come and see me. I have something which may interest you.’
‘Now?’ Joss was taken aback.
‘That’s right. It is here, now.’
‘Right. I’ll come over now.’ Joss shrugged as she hung up. ‘A somewhat peremptory Miss Sutton wishes to see me now. I’ll take a rain check on the coffee, Luke, and go before she changes her mind. She says she has something for me. Will you watch Tom Tom?’
‘OK.’ Luke leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘See you later then.’
This time when Joss knocked at the cottage door on the green it opened almost immediately. Mary Sutton was a small wizened woman with wispy white hair, caught back in a knot on the top of her head. Her narrow, birdlike face was framed by heavy tortoiseshell spectacles.
Joss was shown into a small neat front room which smelled strongly of old baking and long dead flowers. A heavy brown oil cloth covered the table on which was a small notebook. It was identical to the one Joss had found in her mother’s desk. Her eyes were glued to it as she took the proffered seat on an upright chair near the window.
After several long seconds of silent scrutiny the solemn face before her broke suddenly into a huge beam. ‘You may call me Mary, my dear, as your mother did.’ Mary turned away and began to pour out tea which had been laid ready on a tray on the sideboard. ‘I looked after you when you were very small. It was I who gave you to the adoption people when they came to collect you.’ She blinked hard through her pebble lenses. ‘Your mother could not bring herself to be there. She walked in the fields down by the river until you had gone.’
Joss stared at her aghast, trapped into silence by the lump in her throat. Behind the glasses the old lady’s eyes, magnified into huge half globes, were brimming with tears.
‘Why did she give me away?’ It was several minutes before Joss could bring herself to ask. She accepted the tea cup with shaking hands and put it down hastily on the edge of the table. Her eyes had returned from Mary’s face to the notebook.
‘It was not because she didn’t love you, my dear. On the contrary, she did it because she loved you so much.’ Mary sat down and pulled her skirt tightly over her knees, tucking the voluminous fabric under her bony legs. ‘The others had died, you see. She thought if you stayed at Belheddon, you would die too.’
‘The others?’ Joss’s mouth was dry.
‘Sammy and George. Your brothers.’
‘Sammy?’ Joss stared at her. She had gone cold all over.
‘What dear?’ Mary frowned. ‘What did you say?’
‘You looked after them? My brothers?’ Joss whispered.
Mary nodded. ‘Since they were born.’ She gave a wistful little smile. ‘Little rascals they were, both of them. So like their father. Your mother adored them. It nearly broke her when she lost them. First Sammy, then Georgie. It was too much for any woman to bear.’
‘How old were they when they died?’ Joss’s fingers were clenched in her lap.
‘Sammy was seven, near as makes no difference. Georgie was born a year after that, in 1954, and he died on his eighth birthday, bless him.’
‘How?’ Joss’s whisper was almost inaudible.
‘Terrible. Both of them. Sammy had been collecting tadpoles. They found him in the lake.’ There was a long silence. ‘When Georgie died it was nearly the end of your mother.’
Joss stared at her speechlessly as, shaking her head, Mary sipped at her tea. ‘They found him at
