On Saturday evening, Zoe was upstairs in her bedroom sorting out her laundry when she heard the doorbell ring. She decided to ignore it. Whoever it was, she couldn’t face them tonight. Tweaking aside the net curtain that shielded her from the busy street beneath, she looked down.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered when she saw the figure standing on the doorstep. She dropped the curtain back into place quickly, but not before he’d looked up and seen her.
The doorbell rang again.
Zoe looked down at her tracksuit trousers and ancient sweatshirt. Her hair was piled untidily on the top of her head and she wasn’t wearing a stroke of make-up.
‘Go away,’ she whispered, ‘please go away.’
At the third ring Zoe leant against the wall, her resolve crumbling, then went downstairs to open the door.
‘Hello, Art.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure.’
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Even dressed like a regular person in jeans and jumper, he was an arresting sight. Zoe couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.
‘What happened yesterday?’ he asked. ‘Why did you leave Norfolk without telling me? My driver waited for you for over two hours.’
‘Art, I’m sorry, I . . .’ She finally looked up into his warm green eyes. ‘I ran away. I was so . . . frightened.’
‘Oh darling.’ He pulled her into his arms and held her close.
‘Don’t, please, it’s wrong, we’re wrong . . .’ She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly.
‘I nearly went mad when I couldn’t get through to you, when I realised you were running away again. Zoe, my Zoe –’ he smoothed away the blonde hair from her face – ‘I’ve never stopped thinking about you, wanting you, wondering why—’
‘Art . . .’
‘Zoe, Jamie’s mine, isn’t he? Isn’t he? However much you deny it, I’ve always known he was.’
‘No . . . no!’
‘It didn’t matter that you spun me some ridiculous story about another man. I didn’t believe you then and I won’t believe you now. After everything we shared together, even though we were so young, I knew you couldn’t have done that to me. I knew you loved me too much to deceive me in that way.’
‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’ She was crying now, still trying to break free of his grasp, but he held her tight.
‘I have to know, Zoe. Is Jamie mine? Is he?!’
‘Yes! Jamie’s yours!’ she screamed. All her energy spent, she sagged in his arms. ‘He’s yours.’
‘God . . .’
They stood in the hallway, holding each other in mutual despair. Then he kissed her, first on the forehead, then on her cheeks, her nose and eventually her mouth.
‘Have you any idea how I’ve dreamt of this moment, longed for it, prayed for it . . . ?’ He caressed her ears, her neck, then in one easy movement pulled her gently to the floor.
Afterwards, as they lay in the hall in a tangle of discarded clothes, Art was the first to speak. ‘Zoe, forgive me. I . . .’ His hands roamed the soft skin of her back, unable to stop touching her, confirming her physical presence next to him. ‘I love you. I always have and I always will. Listen, the car’s waiting for me outside, but please, let me see you again. I understand how impossible this is for you, for both of us, but . . . please,’ he begged her again.
She offered him his boxer shorts and his socks, silently revelling in the intimacy of seeing him put on the mundane items.
When he was dressed, he stood up and pulled her to standing too. ‘There is a way, darling. For now, we just have to see each other in secret. I know it’s not how it should be, but surely we owe it to ourselves to try it for a while?’
‘I don’t know.’ She leant into his chest and sighed. ‘It’s Jamie . . . I’m so scared for him. I don’t want anything in his life to change. He mustn’t be affected.’
‘He won’t be, I promise. Jamie is our precious secret. And I am so very glad you told me, Zoe,’ he murmured. ‘I love you.’ He gave her a final smile, then headed for the door. With a kiss blown towards her, he opened it and was gone.
Zoe staggered to the sitting room and sank onto the sofa. She stared into space for a while, reliving every second of the past forty-five minutes. Then the demons began threatening to invade her mental tranquillity, whispering their doubts and warnings about the ramifications of breaking the promise she’d vowed to keep forever.
No . . . Not tonight.
She wouldn’t let the past or the present torture her. She would take this moment and wrap its pleasure and its peace around her for as long as she could.
Joanna woke at eight on Sunday morning, unaccustomed these days to the quiet of the countryside – no shouting from the street outside or car alarms – just silence. She allowed herself a delicious stretch in the comfortable old bed, before climbing out and dressing, then shivering her way down the stairs. She donned her coat, which hung over the banister at the bottom, and went to stir the glowing embers of yesterday’s fire, adding firelighters, tinder and logs to try to banish the god-awful cold.
There was so little time, she thought, staring at the boxes, and such an impossible mountain of documents still upstairs in the attic. At this rate, she’d need weeks to go through them carefully and systematically. Beginning again on the second box, she set to work.
At eleven o’clock, Marcus finally appeared, his face creased from sleep, an eiderdown wrapped round his shoulders. Yet somehow, he still managed to look attractive.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning.’ Joanna smiled up at him.
‘Been up long?’
‘Since eight.’
‘Blimey, the middle of the night. Still at it, I see.’ He indicated the half-empty box next to her.
‘Yep. I’ve just found some unused clothing coupons from 1943.’ She flapped the pieces of paper at him. ‘I wonder if Harvey Nicks would still accept them?’
Marcus chuckled. ‘No, but they must be worth a few bob in their own right. I think Zoe and me’ll have to seriously wade our own way through that stuff soon. Tea? Coffee?’
‘I’d love a coffee.’
‘Right.’ Marcus shuffled out in the direction of the kitchen. Joanna, in need of a break, followed him and took a seat at the old oak table.
‘I don’t think your grandfather started collecting stuff until the mid-nineteen thirties, which is a real pain, because the biographies are all very vague about his childhood and early adulthood. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Not really.’ Marcus lifted the range’s hob cover and put the stove-top kettle on to boil. He sat down opposite her and lit a cigarette. ‘From what I know, he was born somewhere near here and ran away to London town to tread the boards at sixteen. At least that’s the folklore, anyway.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t marry again after Grace died. Ninety-five years is a long time for just one marriage of eight years.’
‘Ah, well, that’s what true love can do for you.’
They sat in contemplative silence for a couple of minutes until the kettle whistled from the hob and Marcus stood up to take it off and pour the hot water into a mug. ‘There you go.’ He put a steaming coffee in front of her, and she held the mug to her chest.
‘Your poor dad, losing his mother so young.’
‘Yeah. At least I had my mum around until I was fourteen. The women in our family seem to be accident prone, while the men thrive and live to grand old ages.’
‘Don’t tell Zoe.’ She took a sip of the coffee.
‘Or any future wife of mine, for that matter,’ Marcus added. ‘Anyway, are you going to take time out for a traditional Sunday roast, or do I have to go by myself?’
‘Marcus, you’ve only just got up! How can you even think about beer and roast beef!’
‘I was thinking of you, actually, and how hungry you must be.’
‘Really?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. Okay then, I’ve got enough to write a half-decent article now anyway. I was wondering, though, whether you’d allow me to take one photo that I found with me to put in the article? It’s of Sir James, with Noël Coward and Gertrude Lawrence – really atmospheric of the era. I thought the idea of having a photo of him as a young actor would mirror nicely the fact that the memorial fund is for the young actors of today. I’d send it straight back, of course.’
‘I don’t see why not. I’ll have to okay it with Zoe before you print it,’ Marcus replied.
‘Thanks. Now –’ Joanna stood up – ‘can you help me bring down another box?’
At one o’clock, Marcus pulled Joanna to her feet and bundled her into the car, ignoring her protests.
‘How many words is this article going to be?’ he asked her. ‘You’ve got enough for a whole bloody book! Let’s enjoy what’s left of the weekend.’
Joanna leant back in her seat and gazed out the window, savouring the views of the glittering white countryside. They drove through the small town of Blandford Forum, its streets lined by tall Georgian houses, and Marcus, with a wry grin, pointed out all the pubs he had been kicked out of as a teenager. He pulled up outside a small red-brick pub with a cheerful green front door. ‘This place does the best Sunday roast for miles around – with the biggest Yorkshire puddings you’ve ever seen.’
‘That’s a serious promise you’re making to a Yorkshire girl,’ she giggled. ‘I hope you can keep it.’
After a scrumptious lunch, complete with the crispy-yet-doughy Yorkshire puddings Marcus had promised plus lashings of gravy, Joanna dragged her companion to his feet.
‘Right! I need to walk off that lunch,’ she said. ‘Any suggestions?’
‘Yes, I’ll take you up to Hambledon Hill. Climb in, milady.’ Marcus opened the passenger door of the car for her.
They stepped out a few miles later, and Joanna looked up at the gentle rise of a tall hill. It was now three in the afternoon and the sun was just beginning to set, sending golden rays skipping over the snow-covered slope. It reminded her so much of home on the Yorkshire moors that she felt a lump in her throat.
‘I love this place,’ Marcus said, crooking his arm through hers. ‘I used to come up here a lot when I was staying with my grandfather during the holidays – I’d just sit on the top of the hill to have a think and get away from everything.’
They walked upwards, arm in arm, and Joanna revelled in how still and peaceful her mind felt here with Marcus, so far away from London. They stopped to sit down on a tree stump halfway up the hill, and admire the view.
‘What did you think about when you came up here?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, you know . . . boy stuff,’ he hedged.
‘I don’t know. Tell me,’ she encouraged him.
‘I thought about what I was going to do when I was older,’ he said, looking into the distance. ‘My mum . . . she really loved nature and was passionate about protecting it. She was what one might call an “eco warrior” and used to go on Greenpeace marches and lobby parliament. I just always wanted to do something that she’d be proud of, you know?’ He turned and looked at her, and she found herself captivated by his gaze. ‘Something important, something that mattered, I—’ He broke off, and kicked at the snow. ‘But since then, it’s all gone wrong, so I think she’d be disappointed.’
‘I don’t believe she would be,’ Joanna said eventually.
Marcus turned to her with a sad smile. ‘You don’t?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Mums always love their kids, no matter what. And the main thing is, you’ve tried. And your new film project really sounds worthwhile.’
‘It is, if I can get the funding for it. To be honest, Jo, I really am crap with money. I’ve realised recently that I let my heart rule my head, jump in with both feet first because I’m excited by the idea, and never see the risks. I’m like that with relationships too . . . all or nothing, that’s me,’ he confessed. ‘Just like my mum was.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being passionate, Marcus.’
‘There is when you’re using other people’s money to fund it . . . I’ve been thinking recently that if I get this new project off the ground, I’m going to shadow Ben MacIntyre, the director, as an assistant. Maybe I should concentrate on the “vision” in future, rather than the finances.’
‘Maybe you should,’ Joanna agreed.
‘Now, I’m freezing my knackers off, why don’t we head home?’
‘Soft southerners,’ she said in her broadest Yorkshire accent. ‘Can’t ’ack the cold!’
They returned to the relative warmth of Haycroft House, and while Marcus heaved the boxes back into the attic, Joanna tidied the kitchen.
‘All set?’ Marcus stood in the hall as she arrived downstairs, having collected her holdall.
‘Yes. Thanks for the weekend, Marcus. I’ve really enjoyed it. And I really don’t want to go back to London.’
Marcus returned the key to its hiding place before jumping behind the wheel next to her and starting the engine. Turning out of the drive, he caught a flash of the grey car he’d seen the day before, and Joanna followed his glance.
‘Who’s that? Nosy neighbours?’ she said.
‘Probably just some twitchers out to freeze their rocks off over some robins,’ he answered. ‘They were here yesterday too. Either that, or they’re going to nick all the valuables in the place.’
Joanna stiffened. ‘Don’t you think you ought to let the police know?’
‘Jo, I was joking!’ he said as they passed the parked car.
Joanna was not calmed by his casual reply. The earlier peace she had felt evaporated, and for the rest of their drive to London, she surreptitiously kept an eye on the rear-view mirror, tensing at every grey car they saw.
On Highgate Hill, Marcus parked the Golf in front of Simon’s building.
‘Thanks, Marcus. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
‘Just make sure you get the family and me at least a double-page spread on the memorial fund in that rag of yours. Listen, Jo.’ He leant over the gearstick and gripped her hand before she could escape. ‘Can I see you again? Maybe dinner on Thursday evening?’
‘Yes,’ she said without hesitation. She leant over and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘I’ll see you on Thursday. Bye, Marcus.’
‘Bye, Jo,’ he answered wistfully as she climbed out of the car and pulled her holdall out of the boot.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he whispered as she gave him a wave and a smile and walked up to the front door.
As Joanna soldiered up the long flight of stairs, she decided that there was far more to Marcus Harrison than she had expected. But as she turned the key in the lock, the warmth in her belly was immediately replaced by the cold fear that she had been followed again. By who? And what exactly could they want with her?
She took off her coat, with a renewed gratitude for the modern convenience of timed central heating, then placed the photograph she had acquired from Haycroft House on the coffee table. She went to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea and make a sandwich, then settled down at the table. Collecting the pile of biographies, then pulling the music-hall programme and the photocopy of the love letter Rose had given her out of her rucksack, she placed everything in front of her. She reread both Rose’s note and the love letter, then flicked through the old programme from the Hackney Empire, studying the photographs of the cast. Her heart began to pound as she finally recognised a face.
Mr Michael O’Connell! Impersonator Extraordinaire! the programme read beneath the photograph.
Joanna put the picture she had brought back from Dorset beside it and compared the faces of James Harrison and Michael O’Connell. Even though the picture in the programme was old and grainy, there was little doubt. With his dark blond hair and devoid of a moustache, the young actor calling himself Michael O’Connell was a double for James Harrison. Unless they were twins, they had to be one and the same man?
But why? Why would Michael O’Connell alter his name? Yes, it was quite possible he would have decided to acquire a stage name that he felt suited him better, but surely he’d have done that right at the beginning of his career, not a few years later? By the time he’d married Grace in 1929, he’d apparently dyed his hair black and grown a moustache. And none of the biographies noted any change of name. The early details all related to the ‘Harrison’ family.
Joanna shook her head. Maybe it was just coincidence that the two men looked so alike. And yet, it would finally explain the significance of the programme, and the reason why Rose had sent it to her.
Had Sir James Harrison once been someone else? Someone with a past he wished others to forget?