Chapter 143

It wasn’t Galloway at the door. Instead, when Bill Blunt eased it open, he found a young couple, smartly dressed and looking for all the world like they might have got the wrong house.

“Is… I mean, would Mrs McFry be at home, please?” It was Dave Morris and Jane Tobias, who had arrived at their appointment a little earlier than they’d expected, and who, after some discussion in the car outside, had resolved that it could do no harm to see whether Lillian would see them then. Dave’s voice was hesitant.

Bill, who had been expecting the Telford auctioneer, was momentarily thrown off guard. Who were these people, and what was their business here?

“I’d better go and check,” he said. “Who shall I say it is?”

Dave looked at the smartly-dressed man who had opened the door to the tiny bungalow. Was he a family member, or a visitor to Vale View himself? Surely he wasn’t employed by Lillian? The place looked far too small to have any staff…

He pulled a card from inside his jacket, and flashed it to Bill.

“My name is Dave Morris, and this is Jane Tobias. We’re from the Family Health Services Counter Fraud office. Mrs McFry is expecting us.” Dave was genial in his reply, with just the right shade of officiousness added, for good measure. As Bill left them standing at the door and turned up the passageway, Dave cast a glance at Jane, who was trying to mask a smile.

“Do you think he’s the butler, Dave?” she asked, her lips hardly moving.

“Stop it, Jane!” Dave whispered, trying equally hard to suppress a smile.

Bill popped his head around the door to the lounge. “It’s a Mr Morris and a Miss Tobias, Mrs McFry. Are you expecting them?”

Lillian looked at the clock on the sideboard. It wasn’t yet noon, so they were early. “Yes, you’d better let them in, Elliot.” She wondered where Galloway was.

So did McAllistair, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t relieved that his unexpected meeting with the man had been delayed, however briefly. He wondered who Morris and Tobias might be, and was starting to get the uneasy feeling that the woman he had come to interview today had an agenda all of her own. What was she up to? He looked at the frail, but still lively, woman on the chair opposite him, and tried to remind himself that she must have killed many times to get the medals that the Spanish Government in Exile had felt she so richly deserved. She clearly wasn’t a woman you should underestimate.

While Bill returned to the door to collect the guests, Colin turned to Lillian.

“You seem to be very popular today, Mrs McFry!” he said.

“Yes,” she said, a little distractedly. “It’s been a while since I had so many people interested in seeing me.” She would have preferred it if Galloway had kept to schedule and felt, instinctively, that confronting McAllistair with him would open up a chapter in the life of Jonathan Harcourt she hadn’t even dreamed existed until, that was, Harry McFry visited her last week. Still, the very mention of his name had seemed to unnerve the Scotsman. It might not all be going to plan, but she was, at least, starting to enjoy herself.

*

The enforced silence of the rest of their journey down to Telford at least allowed Harry to mull over how best he might approach Lillian when they got there – once he’d pulled his mind back from the precipice of the unexpected return to Madrid, and all that implied.

There were a lot of loose ends he felt Lillian would be able to tie up. He’d have to let her know about the bond, of course. The man from the ministry had said she’d need her signature to redeem it. He couldn’t imagine her going to Madrid to do that. They’d have to arrange for the bond to be brought over here. Her account of Colleen’s birth and parentage would be crucial in establishing Laurel’s inheritance, even if they might require some DNA evidence from Lillian herself, to seal matters.

He looked at Laurel, now wrapped in a sulky silence as she sat at the wheel. He’d been a little sharp with her, over that Ana affair. But it really wasn’t any of her business – it wasn’t anyone’s business. Not hers, not Danny’s, not his brother’s. So what if he’d screwed things up with her? It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to failed relationships. But enough of that, Harry - think about those loose ends!

They’d have to get across to see Dacre Lawrence, of course. Maybe later this week? That was one meeting he was looking forward to…

He wondered if Linda had managed to get those certificates through to him. What if she’d been found out? He didn’t like the idea that he might have caused her trouble.

“Hey, Danny – can I borrow your phone?” he asked, turning to his colleague in the back seat.

“Sure,” the boy said, fishing it from his pocket and passing it forward.

Harry punched in the number for Southport, and heard it connect.

“It’s me,” he said. “Everything alright?”

“Alright? What do you mean?”

“I didn’t receive the papers,” Harry said, keeping the conversation as vague as he could.

“Sorry about that. But you should have them there – I sent them ten minutes ago.” Linda didn’t sound alarmed, which reassured Harry.

“I see. I’m out of the office at the moment. Thanks for that, though. I’ll sort everything out at my end in due course.”

Linda had already seen the shoes she planned to buy with the proceeds of the transaction. “I look forward to it,” she said, lightly.

Harry rang off. It crossed his mind whether they might not double-back to collect the certificates, but they were already close to Telford. Who knew what damage Bill Blunt was doing down there? It was a no-brainer that they should carry on with their journey. Whatever bits of the story Lillian couldn’t fill out, the certificates would patch in later.

Harry’s request for the phone had stirred Danny from his day-dream. He saw they weren’t far from the junction where they would pull off the motorway.

“You’re not thinking of…” he started to say. He’d guessed who Harry was ringing.

“No. We’ll wing it, like I said. At least we know they’re waiting for us, when we need them.”

Laurel slowed as they approached the exit.

“A few more directions from here on in, please. I believe this place is a nightmare for roundabouts.”

*

Across the Pennines, Mabel Harris was wondering what to do. Her instinct was to ring Dave Morris with the news, but she was feeling a little shell-shocked. It wasn’t every day that the police turned up at the Health Centre and asked if she minded helping them with a few questions. After they’d left, seemingly satisfied with her answers, she’d sat quietly in the still of her office for a few minutes. A pale sun filtering through the office blinds, even with the weak heat thrown out from a radiator by the window, was no match for the chill she felt. Outside, she heard whispered voices in the corridor, and imagined other staff wondering what the visit by the police was all about. She’d marked today as a quiet one, no meetings scheduled – just an oasis of time for her to work through some of the mountain of paper on her desk. Budget reports to examine. Staff rotas to manipulate. Maybe a visit to see Dr Lawrence at the hospital. She certainly hadn’t expected this shocking intrusion. Not at all.

If she rang Morris, there would be even more questions. He hadn’t even acknowledged her fax, yesterday. The police had been very interested in her regular visits to see Dr Lawrence, and why she’d asked for his key on Sunday night. She hadn’t mentioned about the certificates. It wasn’t so unusual, surely, that she should help out her employer by collecting some nightwear for him?

Maybe she should tell the rest of the staff, first? She wondered what they were thinking. It might be anything – a death in her family, perhaps? She smiled, wryly. No more visits to the hospital for her, then.

Chapter 142

With each of them settled with their cups of tea, Lillian, Colin and Bill moved onto the business in hand. A tiny red light on the corner of the camera was the only clue that it was busy recording the proceedings. Colin was sitting opposite Lillian, leaning forward in the armchair, while Bill was perched on a chair he’d pulled away from the wall, his reporter’s notepad resting on his lap, his pen poised in readiness.

“Perhaps you could begin by telling us about yourself, Lillian – where you were born, your childhood?” McAllistair’s question was meant as a gentle introduction for Lillian, an invitation for her to roam widely across her memories. She nodded, and turned slightly away from her interviewer, to face the camera.

“My name is Lillian Susannah Blyth, and I was born on the first of August 1904,” she began. “My father was a joiner and cabinet maker. A very skilled man. My mother was Christiana Garbutt, and they both lived in Ripon, which is in North Yorkshire. I was their only child, and I was 17 years old when my mother died.” Here, she turned briefly to McAllistair. “Which was 1921 – it was probably a heart attack, but they weren’t always quite so specific with their diagnoses in those days.”

Bill Blunt was taking shorthand notes. This was all very interesting, but he couldn’t yet see the significance of the information. He realized Colin was perhaps letting Lillian ‘warm-up’, to relax a little in front of the camera, but her warning to them that they didn’t have much time was still ringing in his ears. Still, he’d better hold onto his own questions for a little longer, and see how the historian fared.

“How did you come to get involved in politics, Mrs McFry?” Colin asked, gently again.
Forgetting the camera, Lillian responded directly to him. “My father was always an active trades unionist. I suppose I grew up with politics as part of the house. There was the war, of course. The awful waste of it, the families shattered by it. And the Soviet Union! People used to actually talk about things like that, Mr McAllistair – whether society could be a better place, and how to make it better. I was a nurse for some years. But I suppose it was around the time of the General Strike that I actually joined the Independent Labour Party. I used to go to conferences and meetings in Bradford or Leeds. That was where we were strongest, you know.”
Colin nodded, encouraging Lillian to go on.
“That’s where I met Stuart and Thomas.”
“Stuart and Thomas?”
“The McFry brothers, of course. Oh, everybody found the McFry brothers 'interesting'! Imagine it – all that money, and socialists! Their father must have turned in his grave!”

Bill Blunt sensed an opening. He dimly recalled a detail from Philip McFry’s obituary (which he’d penned himself). “Tell me, Mrs McFry – their father wasn’t James McFry, the clothing manufacturer?”
Lillian turned to Bill, and smiled. “Well, Mr Blunt, I can see you have done your homework! Yes, it was the one and the same. He died, of course, not long after the third son was born.”
“And that would be … Philip?” Bill chanced.
“I’m impressed! I didn’t imagine a television company would be so assiduous in its research.”

It was Colin McAllistair’s turn to be perplexed. Bill Blunt was taking the interview down a path he hadn’t expected. He, too, was conscious that Lillian had told them that other visitors were expected, and wanted to move on to the nub of the matter – Lillian’s time in Spain. But who exactly the other visitors might be was still nagging him. Could it be Harry McFry? He wouldn’t relax properly until he knew.
“This is very helpful background, Mrs McFry. Before we move on to talk about your time in Spain, you mentioned earlier you were expecting more visitors – do you mind me asking who is coming?”
Lillian stared at him. “Not at all. In fact, I believe you are already acquainted with the individual concerned.” She raised an eyebrow slightly. “Mr Galloway?”
Lillian watched the colour drain from McAllistair’s face. She couldn’t help but notice, too, that Mr Blunt’s face also showed a flicker of recognition when she mentioned Galloway’s name. So – there she had it! Harry McFry had been right when he’d told her that McAllistair had previously had dealings with Cyril Galloway. If she needed any further confirmation, it came the instant the academic knocked over the tea cup and saucer that had been resting on the arm of his chair.
“Oh! I’m … sorry about that!” Colin scrabbled to pick up the (unbroken) crockery. Bill Blunt had seen the nervous move that had led to the cup’s tumble, and had leant across to pick it up. Lillian watched as the two of them tried to retrieve the situation, Bill Blunt pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the small amount of tea that had spilled onto the carpet. Perhaps, she thought, it was time she began their interview?
“Please – leave that. It’s not important. I’d much rather we moved on. I’d like to know how each of you know Mr Galloway,” she said, with an authority and calmness that was drawn from all her years. “Perhaps we can start with you, Mr Blunt?”

Bill shot an angry glance at Colin as he sat back on his chair and gripped his notepad. McAllistair looked stunned. Harry McFry must have told her all about his part in the disposal of Jonathan Harcourt’s medals. That was the only thing he could think of. But how on earth had Bill Blunt come across him? He didn’t relish the thought of Cyril Galloway turning up, and finding him there. It was all getting very messy – very messy indeed.

Just as Bill Blunt had composed himself to answer Lillian, the silence was broken by the piercing ring of the doorbell. Both Colin and Bill looked around at each other, and then back to Lillian.
“On second thoughts,” she exclaimed, “I imagine we can ask Mr Galloway himself! Would you be so kind as to get that for me, Elliot?”

Chapter 141

While Bill was busy in the kitchen, Colin set his camera onto the tripod and positioned it in front of the window, where it was half-hidden by the foliage of the huge aspidistra that sat on a table there. He switched it on, and framed the armchair where he imagined Lillian must sit. Then, he panned the camera across the room, lingering on the faded photographs on the sideboard, before returning it to re-frame the chair.

As he waited for Lillian to return, he wondered who the other guest she was expecting might be, and how much time they’d actually have with Lillian. Bill Blunt had certainly executed his role with charm and poise. He looked again at the photographs, and saw how beautiful Lillian had been when she was younger. There was a certain fieriness in her eyes, a passion that he knew must have been behind her decision to fight in Spain. Not many women had gone there from England; still fewer had been decorated as conspicuously as she. The thought of her medals caused a shudder to run through him, as he wondered how much he’d have to reveal of his own role in selling Jonathan Harcourt’s all those years ago. If confession is good for the soul, then his own had felt much less tormented since he’d admitted his tawdry actions to Harry McFry. He considered whether he wasn’t just here to interview Lillian – whether, in fact, something had driven him to visit her so that he could further unburden himself, and salve his conscience that little bit more? It was possible.

Just then, Lillian re-appeared. She was carrying the flowers, in a cut glass vase, and as she placed them on the sideboard he noticed that she had changed. She was wearing a pink dress and cardigan, and her hair seemed a little softer. As she turned to face him, she caught his glance.

“I thought, perhaps, that if you were recording me for posterity, I had better make an effort,” she said, by way of explanation.
“Oh, this is just what you would call a rough, working recording, Mrs McFry. The proper interview will be done in a studio,” Colin replied, hastily.
She stared at him. “Mr McAllistair: when you reach my age, you have to consider the possibility that every appearance in front of a camera may well be your last one. So, please forgive me if I appear vain. Now, where’s that tea?”

Bill shuffled into the room carrying the tray as she said this. He saw how embarrassed Colin looked.
“Here it is!” he said, placing the tray on the side-table. “I say, Mrs McFry – that’s a very fetching outfit. And perfect for the recording, if you don’t mind me saying so!”
Lillian smiled. Someone who understood the common courtesies of life, at least! She remembered how McAllistair hadn’t even introduced himself when he’d presented himself at her door, despite the fact that they’d only ever spoken on the telephone. She’d let that pass, at the time. At least this Elliot Blunt character had much more of an idea of how things should be done.
“Now,” Bill said, smiling back to her. “Shall you be mother?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr Blunt. Although you’ll understand if I tell you that it’s not a role I’ve had much practice at.”
As she poured their drinks, Bill couldn’t help but wonder whether the tragedy, the forlornness, of Lillian Blyth’s life wasn’t perhaps perfectly captured in the essence of her reply.

*

“I meant to ask you, Harry. Who’s Ana?”
The question took Harry by surprise. Then, he remembered Laurel had seen the fax cover sheet, and knew she must have wondered at the tone (not to mention the language) of Ana’s hastily-scribbled note.

Danny (thankfully) had managed to tune out of the conversation. He was watching the countryside speeding by outside. He’d got to thinking of Lillian’s role in Spain, and how it must have been for a young woman to be swept up in the excitement of a civil war – and to meet people like George Orwell, for goodness sake! He was spared, then, Harry’s discomfort.

“A former girlfriend,” Harry said. “She lives in Madrid. She was helpful in sorting out a meeting with the official from the Ministry, about the bond.”
“I see,” Laurel said. “But she still thinks a lot about you?”
“What makes you say that?”
Laurel could see that Harry wasn’t comfortable discussing Ana, but it made her even more interested.
“The note she sent you with the DNA results. If you don’t mind me saying so, it was quite – is the word ‘terse’?”
Harry felt cornered. “Well, we meant a lot to each other, once. But I made a mistake, thought I could re-kindle something that must have died years ago.”
“Are you sure of that? In my experience, someone who expresses themselves… well, someone who can find themself using the emotion of hate could equally be masking other feelings…”
Harry hadn’t anticipated being chauffeured to Telford by an agony aunt. The whole idea of dragging up Ana, when he’d spent the last 24 hours trying to rid himself of all thoughts of her, was not one that appealed.
“I’d rather not go there just now, if you don’t mind,” he said, adding, perhaps a little pointedly, “Ana”.
“I see. Then I won’t mention anything more about her,” ‘Ana’ said.

The rest of their journey passed in silence.

Chapter 140

Everything was ready in Vale View when Bill Blunt’s car drew up outside Lillian’s bungalow. In her kitchen, she’d filled the kettle and arranged the teapot, the cups, the saucers and the sugar bowl on a little table against the wall, next to a tray where she had created a mound of biscuits on a dinner plate. She was sitting in her favourite armchair, when she heard the car door slam. This must be Mr McAllistair, she thought – the first of her many anticipated visitors that day. But, it seemed he was not alone: she heard another door being closed just moments afterwards. Unless it was the mysterious Mr Morris and his colleague, from Cardiff? She squinted at the clock on the wall – no, it was far too early for them.

A minute later, and the doorbell rang. She rose to make her way down hallway to welcome her guest.

On their journey to Lillian’s, Colin McAllistair had told Bill he’d have to pretend he was from the production company who were planning to make the documentary.

“Hmm – I expect that means I’ll have to be called something suitably metropolitan,” Bill had said, and then he’d pondered for a few seconds. “How about Elliot?”

Colin had smiled. “Where’d that come from?”

“Oh, I don’t know… it has a certain media ring about it, don’t you think? Elliot Blunt?”

Lillian opened the door to find the two of them side by side. Colin was smiling, and carried with him a bunch of flowers they’d collected from a petrol station en route.

“Mrs McFry!” he exclaimed. “I hope you don’t mind, and I’m sorry I didn’t have time to tell you, but I’ve brought a colleague with me. Mr Blunt works for the TV company who are interested in the programme I want to make.”

Bill held out his hand. “Elliot Blunt, madam. Colin has told me all about you.”

Lillian shook his hand, lightly. “Not everything, I shouldn’t imagine. I rather thought that was the purpose of your visit here today.” Her response was, if not icy, then distinctly not warm. But she saw that the stranger seemed polite enough, and smartly-dressed, to boot. She realized she could hardly protest, although she suspected the flowers McAllistair was holding were by way of some kind of apology for the discourtesy of turning up at her door with ‘plus one’.

“These are for you,” Colin said, handing her the flowers.

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. You had better come in,” she said, turning away from the door, “both of you.”

Colin followed her along the passageway, and Bill closed the door behind them. As he did so, he checked his watch. The deadline for his paper would normally be just an hour away, but a series of phone calls to his editor that started last night and finished while he’d been waiting for McAllistair to spruce himself up that morning had earned him a five hour delay. Still he wasn’t sure this would be enough.

As they made their way into the small lounge, Lillian turned to them. “We don’t have a great deal of time, I’m afraid. You see, I’m expecting one or two other visitors later. But you will have a cup of tea, I suppose?”

Bill could hardly believe this woman had lived out a century. She looked, to him, much younger. She was dressed in a smart, blue dress, with a matching cardigan. Colin had started to unpack his small tripod and camera.

“That would be very nice, Mrs McFry,” he said. “I can set this up while you are arranging that. Perhaps Elliot could give you a hand?”

“That won’t be necessary. But perhaps you can arrange these for me, Mr Blunt?” She handed him the flowers. “I’ll find a vase.” She turned towards the kitchen, Bill ready to follow her, but then seemed to have a second thought and turned back to face Colin. “Tell me, what exactly are you ‘setting up’, Mr McAllistair?” She sounded frosty.

He realized he hadn’t pre-warned her that he would be recording their interview, and blushed, slightly.

“Oh, err.. I meant to say that we need to video our discussion. Its standard practice – it will give us something to work on at pre-production stage, that’s all.”

Lillian composed herself. “Very well – so be it. I’m not a Red Indian, you know. I don’t happen to believe that my soul will be captured by that thing.” McAllistair looked suitably chastised.

“But, perhaps Mr Blunt can make the tea. I’ll sort out the flowers.” And she reached across to collect them again.

Bill nodded. “I’d be delighted to do so. Show me to your kitchen, madam, and consider it done.”

Lillian led Bill through to the tiny kitchen.

“Everything you need is here, Mr Blunt. Now, I think I have a vase in my bedroom that will suit these, so please excuse me, won’t you?”

Bill smiled, flicking the switch on the kettle and picking up the tea caddy on the draining board. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll have this ready in two ticks.” He looked at the pile of biscuits. “Bourbon creams!” he exclaimed. “How delightful. I’m rather partial to these, myself.” Lillian allowed a thin smile to escape, as she disappeared from the kitchen.

Bill congratulated himself. Well, if a man’s going to turn on the charm, he might as well turn it to full blast.

*

Even at high speed – and Laurel, Harry noticed, wasn’t exactly afraid of the accelerator – they couldn’t expect to reach Telford until early after noon. Still, if Bill Blunt had even managed to see Lillian McFry, he doubted whether he’d have been able to file his story for the Beagle’s deadline. He could relax on that count, at least.

Harry knew he needed to tell Laurel enough background to let her make sense of the meeting she was about to have with her grandmother, and he’d begun with the key details of his trip to Madrid – the meeting with Snr Guttierez and the provenance of the bond. She’d laughed out loud when she’d learned about the Bank of Bilboa’s role. “And to think I thought I was facing ruin!” she’d exclaimed. The more Laurel heard about the bond, the more real it began to seem. She wasn’t a person who courted money. For someone who had been, throughout her life, ‘comfortable’, she hadn’t been one to fritter her inheritance away on wild extravagance. At the same time, the prospect of losing a substantial part of what she had become used to, a life she had settled into, had filled her with an anxiety she’d never previously known. Now, it seemed, she could really relax – the bond had become to seem tangible.

“I still don’t understand Stuart McFry’s role in all this,” she’d said, when she’d heard Harry out.

“You may be surprised to hear that I don’t, either. But my suspicion is that he’s a key player in the story of Lillian. If we handle it right, we can hope to find that out in just a short while.” Harry was leafing through his notes as he spoke. Danny, in the back seat, was only half listening to the discussion. His mind had started to wander, unbidden, back to the book he’d been working on before all this McFry business had intruded. Looking back over the previous week, he wasn’t sure he would want to work with Harry McFry again. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect the guy’s methods – far from it: he’d been impressed at the way he’d pieced the story together. He’d begun to think that he himself didn’t have the heart for genealogy. For Harry, it was clearly a passion, whereas Danny sometimes felt his own interest in teasing out the patterns, pulling together the families, was more of an academic exercise. Sure, he enjoyed digging into the census records, finding new and more precise ways to interrogate the huge databases that held millions of pieces of information about the long-dead. But he knew he didn’t have the same drive to find answers that so obviously propelled someone like Harry.

“Tell me about Dacre Lawrence,” Laurel was saying.

“We don’t know as much about him as we should. We think he’s behind the erasure of your ancestors’ details from the census, and we know he’s implicated in trying to obtain Lillian’s medals – and possibly the bond. He seems to have been in league with Galloway. But, you know, I think he stumbled on the link to you by accident.”

“How do you mean?”

“Again, it should become clearer later. Let’s just say he was right to realize he was related to you, for now. Maybe we’ll need to go across to see him.”

They were cruising along in the fast lane. Laurel turned to Harry.

“You’re not giving a lot away, are you?” She was smiling.

“I’d be happier if we had received those certificates I was waiting for.”

“Why don’t you speculate? Let me know what you’re thinking?”

Harry considered her questions. It wasn’t as if he didn’t pull apart and tease out all the permutations in his head. But it wasn’t his ‘way’ to share that too widely, and he thought he could explain why.

“Family history is fraught with the possibility of error, Laurel. You know, even when we get the paper trail right, we still can’t be 100% sure we’re following the right family, the right ancestors. The only ones who truly know – and, even then, they might not always know – are you lot.”

“Us lot?” she asked, frowning.

“Women,” he said.

“Spoken like a true misogynist!” Laurel said, smiling.

“Not at all. I speak as a realist. I’ve seen enough cases – had enough friends, even – to know that not every father gets his name listed on a birth certificate.”

“Hmm. I see what you mean. Do you think that’s relevant in this case?”

Harry looked at her. “Well, it’s rather academic in your mother’s case, isn’t it, since she doesn’t seem to have had her birth registered at all.” A little indelicately put, perhaps, but the truth, nonetheless.

“And Lillian’s the key to all this, isn’t she?” Laurel asked.

“That’s right. Although you’ll have to prepare yourself for the possibility that even she doesn’t know as much as we think she should. Like I said: sometimes even a woman won’t know for certain, Laurel.”

“Point taken, Harry. But you’d better start calling me Ana, if we’re to deceive my grandmother properly. We wouldn’t want a little slip like that to give the game away, would we?” And she turned her eyes away from the road and trained them on him. Was that a wink, he wondered?