Chapter 70

Left alone to her thoughts, Lillian was wondering exactly who Harry McFry was. Just a ‘coincidence’ that he was a McFry? She doubted it. Why had he been so disingenuous, pretending he was Danny’s father when, just to look at him, you could tell it wasn’t true, she wondered? In the end – somehow - she had come to trust him. Maybe that was just how the McFry’s were: they had messed up her life well enough already – she, above anyone, should know what they were capable of. And yet … he had been (eventually) quite … charming, in a disheveled, untidy sort of way.

In the end, she was tired of it all. She wouldn’t live forever – she knew that. A miracle of sorts it was that she was still there at all. So, what did it matter if everyone knew? Most of them were dead, now, anyway.

She’d been glad to hear that her granddaughter was prospering. All the regret of never knowing her … well … it might have been worth it if it meant the poor girl was spared her history. She looked at the picture of herself on the sideboard. What she wouldn’t give to live her life over again, to live it from that one, sunny day when she’d felt so free.

Lillian never thought for a moment that, if Laurel knew about her, she would be proud of her. So far as she was concerned, her life had been frozen, from the moment she had accepted Thomas McFry’s ‘proposition’.

“We were meant for each other!” he had said. Lillian had often wondered whether he knew just how weak she had felt when he’d said those words. Perhaps he did: his callousness, she’d thought, had come later, but now she wondered whether it might have been there all along.

The ‘proposition’ had sounded almost reasonable to her, at the time. Jonathan Harcourt was most probably dead. She had to accept that. Stuart McFry – who she might have loved, but never did – had married, and given his life somewhere in Germany. She was left, at the end of it all, with Thomas. Thomas, who stood to inherit the McFry fortune, when Stuart had died.

She remembered – vividly - the day he had come to tell her of his brother’s death. She had not long returned from her shift at the munitions factory, making shells which she sometimes inscribed in chalk “This one is for the workers!”: her own, personal protest, her own revolution. He must have thought she carried a flame for his brother, the way he’d spoken. He’d tried his best to be tender, had even seemed almost regretful as he told her the news. But she’d sensed something deeper – she knew Thomas McFry better than anyone so, if she didn’t sense it, who would?

And then, there came the ‘proposition’ that they should not be married.

A proposal which (at the time) was something that seemed, at least to Lillian, to hold out some hope. Perhaps Jonathan Harcourt was still alive – still looking for her? If she never married Thomas McFry, then there was always hope that Jonathan would turn up, claim her as his, and their life together could begin.

And so, Thomas and Lillian never married. The codicil of the agreement was more uncomfortable. Once (if) the War was over, she and Thomas would move away from Yorkshire. He’d use the McFry fortune to build them a life together. And she must never - ever - tell anyone about her daughter.

Now that’s not something you would really want to tell a perfect stranger - even if he appeared ‘quite charming’ - is it?

Chapter 69

The journey back to Birkenhead went smoothly enough for Harry and Danny, and gave them the opportunity to test out with each other some widely divergent theories they had as to the parentage of Colleen Blyth. They left Vale View around 2pm, feeling Lillian was maybe more than a little exhausted with all her talking.

They’d learned a lot in those three hours. Harry’s head, in particular, was buzzing after the encounter. So much so, that he made a snap decision he (only later) came to regret.

“I don’t know about you, Danny,” he said, as the car slipped easily into the motorway traffic, “but I’ve had just about enough of these McFry’s over the last three days. I think maybe we need the afternoon off.” Harry sounded tired. It was Friday afternoon, and he thought Laurel McFry had perhaps had her money’s worth from them already. As well as that, they both needed to prepare for their trip to Madrid the following day.

Danny agreed: he’d more than once lost track of Lillian’s account of her movements in Spain, France and then back in England. The week he’d planned for himself when it started had taken an unexpected – if not unwelcome – turn. Last Sunday night, he’d been plotting the research for his latest book, had imagined a full week spent in the library; but the invitation to work alongside Harry had been too much of a good thing to turn down. The idea of an afternoon not spent thinking about Laurel McFry’s ‘missing’ family seemed an attractive one.

Yet neither of them could help themselves as the car sped northwards.

“So who do you think Colleen Blyth’s father was, Harry?” Danny asked.

“I wish we could be sure, Danny,” Harry said, noticing, though, that his apprentice had got to the nub of the case . “What about you?”

Danny was swift in his response (just a little too swift for Harry’s liking but, hey, the boy still had a lot to learn): “I think it’s obvious. It’s got to be Stuart McFry.” Danny turned to Harry. “Who else could it be?”

Harry had his own idea, but wanted to test out Danny’s hypothesis.

“You might be right,” he said, “but I take it you are ruling out Thomas McFry?”

Lillian had told them more than they had imagined she would. They’d learned all about her time in Spain, in particular how she had worked in the field hospital in Guernica, and had met up there (improbably) with Stuart McFry, the older brother of Thomas. Lillian had traveled to Spain with both brothers, although Thomas was her ‘partner’ she said, using the ‘modern’ sense of the word. She told them how the two of them had managed to escape, via Bilbao, to France, where they had spent some months in the refuge of a fisherman’s home. And she told them about Colleen.

But Harry wasn’t supposed to know about Colleen. He had itched to ask her who Colleen’s father was, but he knew he couldn’t. If Lillian got even the slightest sense that he thought this was important, she’d know at once that the real purpose of his visit wasn’t anything at all to do with the medals. Instead, he was condemned to sit back and listen to Lillian’s account, hoping she might just give away a clue – one, solitary clue – as to who Colleen’s father had been.

The clue never came, even though he learned that she had left Colleen with Philippe Bergerac, the fisherman in the south of France. Her ‘plan’ she had explained (“such as it was,” she had said, only a little bitterly) was to return to England, to Yorkshire, and to make a home for her daughter. She would need to get a job, find a house. The idea that she could just arrive in England with an infant girl had seemed to her, at the time, well … not even to be contemplated.

Harry had found himself softening towards Lillian when he had heard this. Looking at her now, at her thin, angular frame, he had wondered why he had feared her so much before he met her. But he also knew she was sharp. There were times, before what still seemed to him, as he recalled it, to be a ‘confession’, when he hadn’t known if he was playing against a poker master or a seasoned angler.

With Colleen ‘safe’ in south west France, and with every intention of returning for her once she had settled again in England, Lillian Blyth had made her way through France, accompanied by Stuart McFry, back ‘home’. Harry couldn’t help think that, however strong a woman Lillian had been at the time, history had proven itself stronger. No one who heard her story – and Harry thought he’d been around the block enough times not to get caught up in the emotion of these things – could be immune from thinking hers was a tragic tale.

Of course, she had told him, Stuart McFry had been in love with her. Besotted by her, she had said, without a trace of embarrassment. Should she be ashamed if men found her attractive? “I don’t imagine for one minute that, when you look at me now, you see a beautiful woman,” Lillian had said. “But I was young once. And the men … seemed to like me.” Harry had caught the regret in her voice. He already knew that Jonathan Harcourt was the love of her life: he knew, the moment she had asked him “Have you ever loved someone?” what she meant.

She told him how she had tried to find Jonathan on her return to England. The letters she’d written, the phone calls she had made. The friends she had asked, until she thought they were bored by her enquiries. The slow and painful realization she had come to, that Jonathan Harcourt had died in Spain.

Harry was waiting for Danny’s answer. When it came, it showed he’d kept up with Lillian’s story more than Harry had imagined.

“I don’t think it was Thomas McFry, Harry,” he said. “She hated Thomas McFry.”

Harry reflected (not for the first time) that Danny Longhurst was smarter than he’d thought he was, for a teenager, and for someone who hadn’t lived very much, just yet.

Chapter 68

Although she had little reason to be, Mabel Harris was feeling just a little nervous as she followed Jane Tobias into Dr Lawrence’s office. She hadn’t really expected the visitors from Cardiff to return that day, and when they had done, and she had parked them in Lawrence’s room, she had rung a friend who worked as a practice manager in a nearby surgery to find out a little more about the Family Health Services Counter Fraud Operation, their powers and their remit. Of course, ‘fraud’ could take many forms in the health service, and it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that Dacre Lawrence, with his flashy private car and driver, might have had his fingers in the till somewhere along the line. But Mabel was sure she would know about it. As practice manager, it was her business to know. Much as she shared the general dislike of other members of staff for Lawrence, she couldn’t work out what he might have been up to. But it must be serious, for these two visitors to stay overnight and spend a second day at the surgery. She thought of Dace Lawrence, a prisoner in his own body, and wondered what exactly it was he might have been up to.

There was talk – only talk, of course - when she had first joined the practice twenty years ago, that Lawrence had a ‘working association’ with that odious fellow who ran an antiques shop in Thirsk. Nobody quite knew what it was, but she dimly remembered people joking about never letting Dacre Lawrence anywhere near your sideboard. But that was a long time ago, and the shop had closed down not many months after its owner – what was his name? – had left the town.

In the short walk from her own office to Lawrence’s room, she reminded herself how little she owed the doctor. In fact, if truth be known, he might even owe her his very life since, if she hadn’t found him that night, had not had the foresight to check why his light was still on, he might well have died in that room.

And yet … she couldn’t help feeling just a little on edge. With only two more years of work before her pension was due, she wondered whether these visitors might spread their investigations beyond Dacre Lawrence. Just suppose they turned their attention to the practice drug budget. Would they notice, she wondered, that her authorisation of certain expenditure co-incided with the visits of one particular drugs rep?

As Mabel entered the room, Jane Tobias took a seat near the desk by the window, and Dave Morris turned to greet her. “We won’t keep you very long, Mrs Harris,” he said. “Please – do sit down.”

Dave wasn’t trained in interview techniques, but Jane’s police background meant that she remembered, later, how nervous Mabel looked as she sat on the only free chair in the room.

“Just a couple of quick questions, if you don’t mind. We’ve been looking at Dr Lawrence’s diary for the last couple of weeks, and there are some names you might be able to help us with,” Dave said.

“I’ll help you in any way I can, Mr Morris. I don’t know what Dr Lawrence is supposed to have done…” Mabel replied, leaving her question trailing, in the hope that Dave Morris would enlighten her. When it was clear that he wasn’t about to, she went on “but I can assure you, whatever it was, we weren’t aware of it.”

Dave noticed her emphasis, and realised their visit had already been discussed – perhaps informally – amongst other practice staff.

“Who is Stephen Garbutt?” he asked – his question sharp, and to the point.

Mabel visibly relaxed. “Stephen Garbutt was a trainee who worked with us a couple of years ago. Not a trainee doctor, you understand. Just a teenager. Someone who was on a Government scheme. I think he had been out of work for a while, and needed a place where he could brush up his skills.” She seemed to grimace a little as she replied, Jane noticed.

“So what exactly was he doing?” Dave asked.

“General office work. He did a spell on reception. Not very good with his social skills, I’m afraid to say. And his dress sense – well, it was a little too informal for our practice,” Mabel replied. She seemed to pause for a second, as if she was wondering if she was being a little harsh on the young man. “But he was very good at IT,” she continued.

“In what way?” Jane asked, thinking that perhaps Dave might miss the line of enquiry.

Mabel turned to Jane, replying: “We don’t have a computer expert on our staff, I’m afraid. When Stephen came, he was able to do quite a lot to sort our systems out. I suppose they learn all that kind of stuff at school nowadays. But we weren’t able to keep him on, I’m afraid. We just don’t have the budget.”

Dave had another line he wanted to pursue. “When did Stephen leave?”

Mabel looked up to the corner of the room, seeming to compute.

“I’m pretty sure it was two years ago. We haven’t had any trainees since then.”

“Can you think of any reason why Dr Lawrence might have had a diary appointment with him just two week ago, Mrs Harris?” Dave asked.

Mabel appeared genuinely surprised at the news. “None whatsoever. He never mentioned it, and we don’t keep our doctors’ personal diaries, I’m afraid. We have quite enough on our plate with their patient appointments.” Mabel folded her arms across her chest, Jane noticed.

“Quite,” said Dave, “I understand. And what about Cyril Galloway? Do you know who he is?”

Mabel looked as though she had just worked out the answer to a cryptic crossword: a quick smile of achievement that said ‘Of course!’ broke out on her face.

“Yes! I can tell you that Cyril Galloway used to run an antiques shop in the town many years ago. Dr Lawrence and him were very good friends,” she said, almost relieved that Dave Morris had mentioned the name. Maybe the gossip had been right, after all!

“And you didn’t know that Lawrence saw Galloway earlier this week?” Dave asked.

“No. Not at all. I know he booked a day out of the office, and that’s why I was surprised to find him back in the surgery, when I did … when he’d had his stroke. I didn’t expect him back that day.” Mabel sounded relieved, Jane noticed: hers was the voice of someone who was hiding something, but was glad that the subject had turned to safe ground.

Dave nodded. “I just have one more question, before you go, Mrs Harris. Was Dr Lawrence interested in family history at all?”

It was a strange question, Mabel thought. Dacre Lawrence, who never mentioned anything about his parents, who had never (so far as she knew) married, who had no siblings she knew of, and certainly no children (did he?) – why would anyone imagine, for even one minute, that he had an interest in family history?

Technical Note: Tag, You're It!

The blogosphere is a wonderfully friendly institution. If reading Harry McFry is your first foray into the world of blogs, then I can only encourage you to explore further.

Kevin, who runs the Fuel My Blog website (and where readers have catapulted Harry McFry into the No3 position for art and literature blogs on the site) has kindly 'tagged' me as one of seven people with the challenge of naming seven tracks or albums that have been playing in my life recently and then naming seven more people to carry the baton forward.

So, as a little light diversion from reading Harry McFry, here goes:

• Ray LaMontagne's superb new album Till the Sun Turns Black. Anyone who heard Trouble last year can't fail to be seduced into buying his latest album. Every track has something to commend it.
  
• Stan Getz, on a CD that came as part of collection of 12 called simply Jazz Masters. I've particularly enyoyed his rendition of Autumn Leaves.
• Artie Shaw - any one of 10 CDs that came as part of a box set I picked up for 6 Euros in Berlin last year: astounding value.
• Bob Dylan - I bought Modern Times the day it issued last year, and I don't think a week goes by when I don't listen to it. The richness of the lyrics reveals new depths every time I listen. And I'm greatful that this tagging led me to look up bobdylan.com, because I just discovered Bob's European tour dates for 2007!
• Tom Waits - any of his old stuff, but I enjoyed listening to Blue Valentine the other night
• Charles Lyonhart - I discovered Charles last year when I did a piece of work for him, and (in addition to paying me!) he kindly sent me a handful of his CDs. If you haven't heard Charles before, you might like to check by his website for some samples: you'll be glad you did.
• Charlie Parker, from the same Jazz Masters set: his Begin the Beguine is almost as good as Artie Shaw's!

Right! The nice part is, I get to 'tag' 7 other people, who have to do the same. Here goes:

• Enumerator
• Crofty
• Sarah Police Lady
• Harry Barnes
• Nurse Myra
• Apple
• Miriam Midkiff
  

Can't wait to see the results! And thanks again, Kevin, for the tag!

Chapter 67

The ringing of Lillian’s phone gave Harry McFry a chance to collect his thoughts. Danny was still in the doorway to the small lounge, so that it seemed natural for Harry to stand up, collect together the cups and say: “I’ll go and rinse these through, while you take that, Mrs McFry.” Lillian made no protest, and reached to pick up the receiver as Harry left the room.
“What’s going on Harry?” Danny asked, in a hushed tone, as Harry ushered him into the small kitchen at the back of the bungalow. Harry placed the cups and saucers in the washing bowl, ran the hot tap and turned to Danny.
“Who was that on the phone?” he asked.
“It was Henry. Did you give him my number?”
“Yes, I had to. My mobile’s out of action at the moment. What did he have to say?”
“It seems that Cyril Galloway is still in Birkenhead. He called in Meldew Buildings this morning, after you’d left. And was asking across at the newsagents about you.”
Harry smiled – he knew all about Henry’s little ‘thing’ for Elsie.
Dropping the smile, he asked Danny whether Henry had told Galloway where they were (already knowing, in truth, the likely answer).
“No. He said he told Galloway he hadn’t seen you. And Elsie said pretty much the same, he said.”
“Good. We don’t want Mr Galloway knowing we’re in Telford. Now…” he said, his voice still hushed as Lillian continued her call in the room over the corridor, “Lillian just told me she had a visit from someone called Lawrence earlier this week – about the medals. I’m still not sure she trusts me entirely. She’s a tough cookie, that one.” Harry rinsed the cups as he spoke.
“Organise some fresh drinks, Danny. When you get back in there, I want you to ask her about Spain. How she lost contact with Jonathan Harcourt. I need some thinking space.” He heard Lillian ending the call, and the click as the receiver was replaced. “I’ll go back in there now – you bring the drinks in, when they’re ready.” He left Danny searching for tea bags and coffee, and walked back into the lounge.
*
“I’ve asked Danny to make some more tea, Mrs McFry – I hope you don’t mind?” Harry said, as he took his seat by the sideboard again.
Lillian looked at him carefully, as if it was the first time they’d met. “Make yourself at home, Mr McFry, why don’t you?” But it had been the right thing to do, because she went on “And while you are doing so, you may as well call me Lillian.”
She seemed more relaxed, Harry noticed. “Then please call me Harry,” he said.
Lillian waited a moment - wondering, Harry imagined later, whether she should tell him about the phone call she’d just had.
“Well, Harry. Here’s a turn up for the books for you,” she said. “That was your Mr McAllistair on the phone just now. It appears that he had formed the impression – from something someone had told him – that I might be dead.”
Lillian left the words hanging, while Harry felt his shirt collar tightening again. ‘You’re going to have to confess, Harry!’ he was thinking to himself. But how best to do it? He needed to let Lillian McFry know the full picture – without, of course, mentioning how he was working for Laurel.
“I can explain that, if you’ll let me. About twenty five years ago, Colin McAllistair interviewed Jonathan Harcourt – or whoever he really was, as part of his academic research on the Spanish Civil War. Jonathan entrusted him with his medals, and McAllistair sold them for him, via Cyril Galloway.”
Lillian seemed to be struggling to follow Harry’s explanation. The words ‘twenty five years ago’ were like another dagger in her heart. This meant that Jonathan had not only survived the war, but that he had lived long after it. Surely he would have tried to find her?
Harry continued: “When Galloway viewed your medals, he realized they were the same as the ones he had sold for McAllistair, on Jonathan’s behalf, all those years ago.”
He wondered if she was still listening, but persevered, nonetheless. “When you gave the medals to Danny to pass to Laurel, he brought them to me. If you don’t mind me saying so, Lillian, I’m glad he did.” As he said this, he saw Danny appear at the door, carrying the tea tray.
Lillian seemed to be jolted back to the present with Danny’s return to the room. She had been listening to Harry, even while she had been wondering how it was Jonathan had never tried to find her.
“Then how did Dacre Lawrence come to visit me – can you explain that, please?”
The little voice inside Harry’s head was saying ‘Thank you – I’ve got a name!’ “I can’t be sure. But I do know that McAllistair was contacted by Galloway shortly after he’d been approached by Stan, who owns the military memorabilia shop where I took the medals to be valued.”
Danny handed a cup of tea to Lillian, and Harry reached over for his coffee. He’d only half over-heard the conversation while he was in the kitchen, and was wondering exactly when he was supposed to interrupt and start asking Lillian about her time in Spain.
For her part, Lillian was beginning to suspect a wider web of intrigue – that, somehow, Lawrence, Galloway, McAllistair and now, maybe even this Stan character, were all out to get their hands on her medals.
“I got a call from McAllistair yesterday,” Harry continued, taking a sip from his coffee. “Galloway was in Birkenhead, and had lunch with him there earlier that day. It seems they were working together, but McAllistair claims he’s had second thoughts. But I didn’t want to risk exposing you to him. So I told him you were dead.”
Lillian took a drink of tea. “You know, one of the pleasures of reaching my age, Harry, is that I do believe I have no enemies in life.”
Harry walked right into her trap. “Why’s that, Lillian?” he asked.
She paused, as if she had rehearsed the lines in her head a thousand times, before replying: “Because, Harry … I outlived them all.” She chuckled as she said this, and both Harry and Danny saw a light in her eyes and, as they smiled in response, they both knew that Lillian had, finally, stepped up over her barricade to put herself in the firing line. However uncomfortable this new place was for her, she had determined she would work with them in the distasteful task of digging over the past of the McFry family. The rest of their discussion would be relaxed and amicable, even if sometimes emotional. By the time it had finished, Harry had at last formed an idea about why someone might go to the lengths they had done to hide Laurel McFry’s family.

Chapter 66

Danny Longhurst was getting worried. He’d trusted Harry –he was his ‘partner’, after all. But it seemed to him that everything Harry was saying was making Lillian McFry more anxious than she needed to be. First of all, he’d blown his cover by a making a stupid reference to her exact age. Then, he’d seemed to retrieve the situation by playing the ‘honesty’ card (even if it did paint Danny as someone who couldn’t be trusted with doing a simple job without calling for help from an outsider). To cap it all, he’d made the poor woman feel like an idiot, raising the ante by mentioning Jonathan Harcourt. He’d have played it a differently himself, he was thinking – a lot differently.
Still, he had to admire Harry. He’d walked in there, expecting to take a back seat to the game, yet there he was, tossing his chips down. ‘What have you got up your sleeve now, Harry?’ he was thinking, as he watched the thin face of Lillian McFry, just a shadow of the photograph on the sideboard.
But just then, Danny’s mobile phone began to ring. He shot a glance at Harry, noticing it seemed to startle Lillian from her train of thought. Harry indicated, with a nod of his head, that Danny had better take the call outside the room. Fumbling the phone from his pocket, he stood up and made his way to the hallway.

As Danny left the room, Harry smiled towards Lillian, almost conspiratorially: “Kids!” he said. “They’ve all got them, these days. Don’t see the use in them myself.” Lillian didn’t need to know that Harry had been what the phone companies liked to call an ‘early adopter’ – had bought a mobile phone for himself over ten years ago, upgrading every year to the latest model. Until, that was, he’d lost his phone at the airport. Then, he’d wondered long and hard about replacing it, but his finances hadn’t allowed it. It was something on his list of ‘things to do’, but just now it was low on the list of post-it priorities.
“I do know what a mobile telephone is, Mr McFry,” Lillian said.
Harry responded quickly, conscious that he’d hurt her with the news about Harcourt, and thinking how patronizing he must have sounded: “Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest anything. Now…” he said, leaving the word trailing, like a hook on a line, “I need to ask you about someone else – if you don’t mind, that is?”
“It seems to me, Mr McFry, that I don’t have much choice. You know more about me than I know about you. I can only speculate why that might be. But…” she replied – and Harry saw she was casting her own line – “I think you should know that I do not take kindly to people who deceive me.”
Harry shifted a little uncomfortably on his chair. “I’m sorry that I came here under false pretences, Mrs McFry. But I did so to protect someone else. I can’t tell you anything more about that. I have a professional duty to another client.” Harry wasn’t sure that would be the end of Lillian’s suspicions, but he had a few other cards he wanted to play, and he noticed that she’d waited until Danny was out of the room to be so frank with him. That had to be a good sign.
“Who is Margaret Lawrence?” he asked.
Lillian gazed into the far distance, as if trying to place a name that eluded her grasp.
“I’m afraid I don’t know a Margaret Lawrence, Mr McFry,” she said, finally. Then – thankfully, for Harry’s sake – she seemed to reflect a moment more. “The McFrys, you know – they’re connected to the Lawrences.”
Lillian paused for a moment. “But I expect you know that already,” she said. There was just the faintest hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Harry caught sight of Danny, who had finished his call and was about to enter the room. Everything about Harry was screaming to the boy ‘No! Stay There!’
Thankfully, Danny got the message. He hovered in the doorway as Harry refocused on Lillian.
“No. I don’t know about that connection. Please – tell me what you know. In family history, every detail can be a clue,” he said, wondering whether this might be the break he needed.
Lillian seemed to be considering her response. ‘This is it, Harry – you’ve got her now!’ he thought.
“There’s more to family history than pieces of paper, Mr McFry,” she said, almost sadly.
“I had a visit just this week, you know, from one of the Lawrences. Oh yes, he would have loved to get his hands on my medals. But I told him I didn’t have them any more. Which of course, was true.”
She glanced towards the doorway, where Danny stood, wondering whether he should come in just yet.
“I just pray they are safe, Mr McFry. For Laurel’s sake,” she said.
She had hardly completed the sentence when the phone on the table by her chair began it’s sharp, insistent ring.

Chapter 65

Harry McFry wasn’t to know it, of course, but Colin McAllistair really did want to find Lillian Blyth / McFry for academic purposes. A living testimony of the Spanish Civil War was a rare commodity in the twenty-first century, and he couldn’t easily let go of the idea that he might capture her for posterity. He could see it all in his mind – right down to the lighting, the titles and the theme music. Perhaps he had spent too much time as an advisor to those history programmes, or maybe he genuinely believed that Lillian should be allowed to tell her story?
There was too much that just didn’t add up from his phone conversation with Harry the day before, McAllistair was thinking. If Harry McFry wasn’t related to Lillian, how come he had her medals? He didn’t want to believe his claim that she was dead, although he realized that, with a woman of her age, it was quite possible that she had in fact died in the short time since Cyril Galloway had visited her.
He had found her number easily enough from Directory Enquiries, McFry being quite an uncommon name, particularly in Telford. Now, he contemplated the slip of paper where he’d jotted the number down. It was late morning, and he wondered if he should call the number now? That would, at least, answer the question as to her mortality. He decided to make himself a coffee, and think how best he should approach her. Probably best, all things considered, not to mention Galloway. Maybe he could tell her he’d found her via Harry? That way, he’d find out what exactly their relationship was.
He was conscious how heavy the burden of what he’d done to Jonathan Harcourt’s medals was for him: wished, if he could rewind the personal video player of his life, he could erase that brief passage entirely. But, what was done was done. If he could somehow persuade Lillian McFry to tell her story, then maybe he could make amends for his appalling actions all those years ago?
As the coffee trickled through the filter and into the jug, another thought came to mind. Cyril Galloway. Maybe he could put him off the scent, tell him he’d spoken to Harry, that the medals had been (somehow) disposed of? He poured himself a cup of the steaming brew, and began to mentally write the script he’d need if he was to convince Galloway that the medals, and the certificate, really were gone. He found Galloway’s mobile number, and slowly keyed it into his phone.
*
Well, it seems like a lot of folk were busy making phone calls that morning.
Bill Blunt had discovered exactly who Jonathan Harcourt was. A call had come through from the union archivist with good news: he’d found Harcourt’s membership records, and they detailed clearly enough who he was. There was even a photograph attached, a copy of the one that Harcourt would have used for his press credentials. A few minutes after the call, Bill was examining a fax print out with all the information the NUJ had about Harcourt. From his office at the Birkenhead Beagle, Bill dialled Harry’s number. It took a while until the tape on the answering machine clicked in, time enough for Bill to figure out his strategy. There was a story hiding behind this Jonathan Harcourt character, and he knew it. He wasn’t about to give the details up to Harry without at least a hint of what was behind his old friend’s quest. “Harry, boy,” he said, “It’s Bill. I’ve got chapter and verse on Harcourt for you. Give me a ring back when you get this, and we can meet up, to discuss. Keep taking the medicine, Harry!” With that, Bill hung up. He checked his watch and, with midday approaching, decided it was time he adjourned to the corner seat of The Letters to partake of some ‘medicine’, himself.

*
Over the other side of the Pennines, Dave Morris was checking in with his manager back in Cardiff. “We’ve definitely got all we need to build a case against Lawrence,” he told Tom Gauntless, the phone pressed close to his mouth, and his voice quiet, to prevent anyone overhearing him. He was sat in Dr Lawrence’s clinic room at the Chapter Road Health Centre, Jane Tobias his only company, the door closed to prying ears. At the other end of the line, Gauntless was relieved. He was still worried that maybe the whole ‘Gilbert’ project was going to be an expensive white elephant, and he knew that if fingers were pointed from higher up, they’d be pointing at him. “How much more time do you need, Dave?” he asked.
“We’ll probably be able to wrap it up here today. There are a few loose ends we need to tie up, but I’m confident we can do it today.”
“A report by Monday morning, then?” his boss asked. ‘Bang goes the weekend!’ Dave thought, even as he replied “Yes – no problem.”
After Dave hung up, he went back to examine Lawrence’s diary. “Do me a favour, Jane. Check the practice records for these people, will you?” And he scribbled a couple of names on his pad, tore off the page and passed it to her.
“Did you want to see Lillian’s record? “ she asked.
“Lillian McFry?” The way Jane spoke, it made it sound as though they were on first name terms.
“That’s just the point, Dave. There’s a Lillian, living at 28, Vale View, Telford on the national system alright – but she isn’t a McFry at all. She’s down as Blyth. It must be her, though.”
Dave was thinking hard what this might mean. There was no doubt that Lawrence had accessed the records for all the McFry’s he could find all over the country. And there was the diary record from earlier that week, showing an appointment with Lillian McFry.
“Well you’d better check to see whether he’s accessed her records too, hadn’t you?” Dave said, still trying to make sense of it all.
“I’ve already done that, Dave. The answer’s no.” Dave appreciated that Jane was one step ahead of him: always the sign of a good co-worker.
“Then I think we need to have another chat with our Mabel Harris, don’t you? Can you see if she’ll join us for a minute?”
While she went to fetch Mabel, Dave looked again at the names on the sheet he’d handed her earlier. They might just be patient appointments – but then again, no doctor he’d ever known had bothered to record individual appointments in their diary. They just didn’t do that sort of thing. His betting was that Mabel Harris could help them here, and he composed himself, waiting for Jane to bring her in, even as he wondered whether he’d really get that report done by Monday.

Chapter 64

Harry knew what he was doing, alright, even if it might not have seemed that way to Danny. When he looked at Lillian McFry as she seemed to struggle to respond to his question, he saw a strong woman – a survivor. He was pinning his hopes on using the information he’d gleaned from Colin McAllistair to get her to open up a little, to reveal her secrets.
“What do you know about Jonathan Harcourt, Mr McFry?” she asked, deflecting his question with what seemed to Harry like practiced ease. He thought a moment, before replying:
“I know he was a journalist on the Daily Herald. I know he traveled to Spain to cover the Civil War. And I know he was decorated – received the same medals as the one’s you gave to Danny to pass to Laurel.” He paused a second, then continued:
“And I know that he probably never existed.”
“Jonathan Harcourt certainly did exist, Mr McFry,” Lillian said, (and Harry noticed a slight tetchiness to her tone) “even if I haven’t seen him in almost 70 years.”
“Do you mind talking about him?” Harry asked, carefully, sensing just the slightest undercurrent of wistfulness in Lillian’s qualification.
She seemed to relax just a little. She hadn’t spoken of Jonathan Harcourt to anyone in such a long while, and it felt to her as though she was unlocking a place somewhere deep in her heart.
“No. No, I don’t,” she replied. Later, she would recall how wounding it had felt to be told that Jonathan had ‘never existed’, to imagine that she had spent her life pining for someone that might have been a figment of her imagination. That might be why she felt compelled to open up to Harry McFry, to tell him all about Jonathan – to prove that he had, at least, ‘existed’.
She told him how they’d met, in Madrid. She may not have mentioned the night in the Retiro Park – but then, she didn’t need to. By the time she had finished her account, no one who had heard it could have doubted how very much in love they had been.
“Have you ever loved someone, Mr McFry?” she asked. “And I mean loved someone so much that, when you are apart it is like you have lost something of yourself?” Harry blushed a little, and thought of Ana. He knew, he thought, exactly what Lillian was saying.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe I understand what you are saying.” His response sounded just a little matter-of-fact to Lillian, though.
“Jonathan Harcourt was my ‘lost’ love. He was everything any woman would ever want: handsome, of course. I had my pick in those days, you know. He was strong, but sensitive. He cared about people. And he saved my life more than once in Spain. At Jamara. Do you know about Jamara, Mr McFry?”
Harry wanted to ask Lillian to call him ‘Harry’ but, he thought, he had better defer to her. She seemed – at last – to be opening herself up, and he couldn’t risk jeopardizing the position.
“Yes, I know a little. Mainly what McAllistair told me. But I also read about the battle once, and I read George Orwell. It must have been terrible.”
“Orwell wasn’t to be trusted, Mr McFry. I met him once. Not the kind of man you could pin down. Jamara was a hopeless position for us. But we felt we were all there was between Franco getting to Madrid,” Lillian said, then looked him square in the eyes and continued: “I killed someone for the first time at Jamara. Do you know how that feels?”
Harry shook his head. He saw Danny, sitting by the window, and noticed he seemed mesmerized by Lillian. Danny was wanting to ask Lillian all about George Orwell – he could hardly believe he was sat so close to someone who had met an author of Orwell’s stature.
“No. And I can’t imagine it, either,” Harry said.
“In the training, they tell you not to think of them as people. That it gets easier after the first, then the second, then the third. But it’s not true, Mr McFry. It doesn’t get any easier to know that you have deprived some poor woman of her husband, or her son, simply by pulling on a trigger.”
Lillian paused. Something seemed to occur to her.
“But tell me, Mr McFry. You said Jonathan Harcourt never existed. What made you say that?”
Harry thought of Bill Blunt, and wondered how he was doing with his contact in the National Union of Journalists.
“Because there’s no record that Jonathan Harcourt was ever born,” Harry replied, watching the colour slowly drain from Lillian’s face even as he spoke the words. Her hands seemed to be shaking as she gripped the arm of the chair. ‘Too harsh, Harry!’ he thought – better retrieve the situation quickly.
“What I mean to say, Mrs McFry, is that I have every reason to suspect that Jonathan Harcourt was a pen-name. That he was really someone else.”
Lillian seemed to gather strength from inside herself. No longer relaxed, she was fighting through the memories, trying desperately to make sense of what Harry had told her. Why of course! Why had she never thought of that? No wonder she had never found Jonathan Harcourt after the war! ‘You stupid woman, Lillian Blyth!’ she was thinking, ‘You stupid, stupid woman!’