Second Chapter: A Box-set of 3 Novels

Second Chapter

The Box Set

JANE DAVIS

PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

‘Davis is a phenomenal writer, whose ability to create well rounded characters that are easy to relate to feels effortless.’

Compulsion Reads

‘Jane Davis is an extraordinary writer, whose deft blend of polished prose and imaginative intelligence makes you feel in the safest of hands.’

J.J. Marsh, author and founder of Triskele Books

Contents

I Stopped Time

These Fragile Things

A Funeral for an Owl

About the Author

Other Titles by the Author

I Stopped Time

JANE DAVIS

Copyright © 2012 Jane Davis

All rights reserved

Fifth Edition

I Stopped Time is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

Cover design by Jessica Bell

IN MEMORY OF

Victoria Mabel Kathleen Davis

24.8.1911 ~ 5.5.2011

‘He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,

With his name printed clearly on each.

But since he omitted to mention the fact

They were all left behind on the beach.’

Lewis Carol

‘Very sorry can’t come. Lies follow by post.’

Telegram to the Prince of Wales

1 - SIR JAMES’S STORY

BEGINNINGS

I grew up motherless. That isn’t to say my mother was dead. ‘Conspicuous by her absence’ was the phrase I heard my father use as I listened at keyholes in hope of answers. Theirs was a lengthy marriage. The fact that she chose to take no part in it didn’t detract from his sense that she was his wife. Yes, he had frequent lady friends, perfumed, interchangeable. None replaced her. My mother remained the love of his life - except, that is, for racing cars, an open stretch of road and, of course, the lure of speed.

I couldn’t help but feel I must have done something terrible to cause her to go, but my father frequently assured, You were hardly capable of anything more ghastly than crying too loudly. Or too often. No, it was me your mother left. But he failed to provide an adequate explanation of his crime, claiming to have bought her the best money could buy, even allowing her to pursue her career - against his better judgement. What was I to think?

Think of the boy! I shrank into my seat at the sound of my grandfather’s bullish proclamation over the cut-glass and cruets. I can’t understand why you don’t divorce her.

My father slowly applied a napkin to one corner of his mouth. His response was measured, dry: I wouldn’t expect you to.

Frankly, I never understood why you had to marry her in the first place! Never one to waste time listening to the other side of an argument, the older man forked food into his mouth as if his was the last word.

I know you’d have preferred me to throw in the towel with some obedient little debutante, but, and here my father turned his focus to me, exaggerating the width of his cow-brown eyes, "your mother was exciting. And very beautiful."

My grandfather inhaled his Claret, spluttering, "Excitement! That’s not what one looks for in a wife!"

"‘Til death us do part was the promise I made. And I haven’t managed to kill myself yet."

Despite your confounded tomfoolery! Look here, in my day a man would have taken a woman like her -

My father coughed a loud protest.

Do you dare censor me? One can only hope, my grandfather’s eyes singled me out, flashing terror into my soul, young James here will learn from your mistakes!

Son. I found my hair being ruffled, my father’s voice assuring, Don’t listen to anyone who tells you it’s a mistake to marry for love.

"Oh, come on! What utter rot!" The table shook as my grandfather’s glass crash-landed, the stem snapping under the weight of his forearm, adamant that it was my father, and not he, who was responsible for the wreckage Mrs Strachan fussed over.

Is it possible to miss someone of whom one has no memory? No, I missed the idea of her. Like the Rome I learned of in Ancient History lessons, a mother was an idea in the minds of men. Sometimes differing substantially from the reality.

From the age of eight, I boarded. Once I overcame the anxiety of separation, this masked the situation. Increasingly, as I grew older, it was an annoyance that school was interrupted by holidays rather than the other way round. It was then that a mother’s absence became most apparent. My father - who, in many ways, remained a boy himself - cut a dashing figure as he picked me up at the end of term in whatever incarnation of a prototype he’d been working on, all leather-coated, moustache and goggles, revved up for the next event on the calendar. Never a moment to lose, we rushed from the London to Gloucester Trial to Brooklands for the Round the Mountain Race Meeting. While he denied himself pause for thought, I pondered that perhaps a woman as exciting as my mother might have enjoyed our escapades.

I met her once when I was about ten. Only the once.

My father and I were visiting Brighton for the annual speed trials that took place along a mile of arrow-straight road when he caught sight of an advertisement for a photography exhibition.

Well now! The name on the awnings wasn’t one I recognised. Grabbing hold of my upper arm, he raised his free hand to halt the traffic. This looks like fun, James. What do you say?

But you said we were going to have - I was not expected to say anything, that much was apparent. The harshness of his glare retracted the promise of ice cream.

We shuffled as part of a compacted crowd from one black and white memory to another. And there she was: another exhibit to be admired from a carefully roped-off distance. Weightless coral chiffon, skin like cream, bobbed hair the colour of autumn.

Why, Kingdom! She appeared animated, but I was bored by the affectations women made for my father’s benefit. They talked their various ways into his drawing room to see for themselves the lie of the land - the habitat of this almost-available and most amusing of men - only to find the errant son lingering in the doorway, seen but not heard; forever eavesdropping. You should have warned me...

Why, Kingdom! I was exaggerating her voice inside my head. You should have -

Pushed in front, my father’s hands clamped tightly on my shoulders, I shrank as every vertebra in my back was compressed. Son. He cleared his throat: three noisy syllables. This is your mother.

There had been no warning. I had prayed for this moment, but now it had arrived my jaw dropped, my throat constricted.

She exhaled my name - James? - as though it were part of her she couldn’t bear to be parted with.

I swallowed hard, looking from this woman, a tableau not unlike one of her own photographs, to my father’s face, uncertain how he expected me to react. I - I don’t recognise her.

No. His grip relaxed, knuckles cracking in my ears. Not your fault. No reason you should.

The shudder of the woman’s breath was audible. Her pale blue eyes pooled. I watched her lips tremble, before she covered them with a slender-fingered hand. Everything else was utterly still, the moment suspended.

Move along! As an attendant’s shout broke the spell the shuffling recommenced, carrying us in its wake. I wasn’t ready, still trying to absorb that this woman was my mother.

Desperate for another glimpse, I rotated my neck like an owl. She was on tiptoes, straining to make herself seen above heads and hats, between shoulders.

James! I heard her call above the steady murmur, slightly louder now. James! Not the voice of someone who would abandon me, but increasingly desperate.

Holding onto a brass post for support, I leant out across the thick twist of rope. "Mother? Mother!"

Seeing me, her expression of panic softened. She smiled, pressed two fingers to her lips and then turned the fingers towards me, rippling. I blinked hard, capturing the gesture: her fingers, lips, the wave.

Two shrill blasts of a whistle cut through the echoing space. Back, please! Stand well back! But it was my father’s hand that grabbed my collar. Reluctantly releasing my grip on the brass post, I was air-lifted back among the crush, watching my damp fingerprints evaporate.

I’m sorry, Sir. Shame-faced, I bowed my head, anticipating punishment. I only wanted -

Son! I thought I’d lost you.

My head swivelled back in the direction we had come from. Can we - ?

Perhaps next time. His hands were already steering me into the flow. So there was to be a next time. She hasn’t been taking proper care of herself. Very drawn, don’t you think?

The room was overbearing; the high ceilings gave the sensation that the walls were closing in; the general murmur became an elevated din.

I don’t know.

Shuffling people, jostling for position, crushed in from all angles.

What’s that you say? Speak up!

My toes treading on the heels of the shoes in front, my nose pressed flat against the coarse tweed of a jacket, the terrible weight of my father’s hands, and to see what? Pictures of boring old things. There is no place for nostalgia in a boy’s vocabulary.

Can we go now, Sir?

Yes, let’s. It’s stifling in here. Coming through! My father began to hack his way through the jungle of legs, setting free a blizzard of excuses, issuing me with instructions that were impossible to follow. Pushed, stretched and stumbling, I was manhandled into a marble clearing. We navigated the echoing corridors, guided to the exit by a misshapen rectangle of daylight, cut with a bold-shaped shadow.

Framed in the doorway stood a grey-haired soldier with loose red skin around one eye that looked like a turkey’s wattle, and whose left trouser-leg was tucked under at the point where his knee should have been. An image far more striking than any I had seen that day, both repulsive and fascinating. I was unable to tear my eyes away. My father executed a neat little jig, but the man stepped forwards. Kingdom. He planted his crudely-fashioned crutch firmly. I’m glad you felt you could come.

Well, look who it isn’t! Puppy-like in his enthusiasm, whatever followed would be a lie. The tone was one my father reserved for people he’d been trying to ignore. Didn’t see you there. We’re just popping out for some air. The boy’s feeling faint.

I’m doing the same myself. Not my thing, crowds. We only expected half this number. Still, the man inhaled on a cigarette, shouldn’t grumble. We stand a fair chance of turning a profit.

Well - My father nodded, taking a sideways step.

The soldier seemed unprepared to let him escape so lightly. Down for the speed trials?

That’s right. Fine venue, Brighton.

And don’t tell me. You must be young James! The soldier smiled down at my drop-jawed recoil, but I was surprised to find a hint of nervousness reflected in his rheumy eyes.

Yes, this is my son. My father held me back protectively.

You must be very proud of him. Whatever the man had seen to make my father proud wasn’t clear to me: I was distinctly average in everything from hair colour to ability on the cricket pitch. Did Lottie…? He nodded rapidly, looking away and scratching one side of his face.

Briefly. Whatever this single word conveyed, it drew the man’s gaze. My father and the crippled man locked eyes, what passed between them remaining concealed. Shielding my own, I looked out of the arched porch: the onion-topped domes of the Royal Pavilion glowed brilliant white against the violent blue of the sky; gulls’ silhouettes circled and looped.

Like to swim, young man?

I twisted back, surprised that the soldier was addressing me directly. He stood erect, a hint of the military man he had once been.

Yes, Sir.

You should ask your father to take you to Saltdean. The new lido’s jolly good. Of course, I can only go round in circles. He noticed me staring at his limp trouser-leg, and saluted: not the response I expected. Don’t look so worried. I didn’t let them get my favourite one.

He appeared to be keen for me to laugh, but it seemed impolite somehow, and so I stood stupidly, my mouth twitching.

Anyway, we really must be getting along. Stepping into the soldier’s shadow, Father squeezed his arm. Glad to see you looking so well. Come along, James.

Who was that? I ran to catch up with my father who was striding off down the sun-bleached pavement. Our shadows stretched long and thin, all the way to the street corner.

Just an old Tommy your mother’s taken under her wing. He looked left and right distractedly at the junction, seeming to have forgotten what was next on the agenda. Good sort, your mother.

I remembered her eyes, her hair, her gasp, and wondered what it would take before she decided to take me under her delicate chiffon wing. Not the loss of half a leg, I hoped.

2 - LOTTIE’S STORY

BRIGHTON, 2001

And what words have you chosen to have engraved?

Wishing to put my worldly effects in order from the comfort of my bed, I had opted for Mr Marsh of Marsh Littlejohn Solicitors on account of his mobility rather than his reputation. My initial reaction was that Mr Marsh must have sent one of his clerks. We eyed each other with suspicion from our respective vantage points: mine, propped up on a mountain of lace-sheathed pillows, the variety the young assume old ladies crave; his, loitering beyond the foot of the bed. Inching forwards, he introduced himself, touching my rice-paper hand, instantly withdrawing his own.

"The Mr Marsh?" I rasped.

The same. His smile was a blend of pride and embarrassment, as though accepting a prize on the sports field.

I checked myself: there was someone - once - who hadn’t dismissed me because I was too young. You’ve done well for yourself.

If it’s not rude to ask, how old are you, Miss Pye? He adopted a voice designed for conversing with deaf foreigners. It… says… here…

I interrupted. Old enough to make a will. And there’s no need to shout for my sake. I have a fully-functioning hearing aid. Credentials established, I nodded to the chair by the side of my bed. Make yourself at home.

His silk-lined jacket unbuttoned, its tails flicked upwards, a truce of sorts was drawn. He took a slim notebook from his briefcase and, consulting his watch, jotted down the time. So, what’s your secret?

I hesitated. My secret?

You must have good genes, obviously, but is there anything else?

I suppose you’d like me to tell you the path to longevity is lined with whiskey bottles!

Preferably.

Then let’s leave it at that. I imagine you’re charging by the hour.

My choice of stone, the place of burial: these things were easily settled.

Your headstone, Miss Pye? Mr Marsh prompted.

The question wasn’t unreasonable. Given the purpose of our meeting, I should have been prepared. Now, I hesitated.

You must have thought about it. He conveyed a growing impression of anxiety as our interview proceeded, his eyes straying frequently from my face to his wrist. I know how I appeared to him. I experience that self-same shock every time I’m forced to acknowledge myself in a mirror. The face that stares back belongs to what used to be described as an ‘old crone’. The witch from Hansel and Gretel. Hollow eyes peering blankly out of the workhouse window. Skin dissected by etchings, stretched so thin it clings to the contours of my skull and gathers in folds around my neck, like a sock that has lost its elastic. Hair so fine it is beyond grooming. But it wasn’t always like that. I wasn’t always like that.

How would you like to be remembered? Mr Marsh prompted. Inserting itself into my filing cabinet of thoughts, his question seemed to relate to appearance. I was surprised he was unable to detect the red-headed girl inside my much reduced frame when I felt her presence so vividly. Beloved wife and mother? he suggested.

No! I averted my gaze while I recovered myself. Hardly for me to say.

Hmm. He repeatedly clicked his ballpoint pen - his thumb accustomed to constant texting, no doubt - narrowing his eyes in careful thought. I take your point. The pen scratched the surface of his notepad.

What’s that you’re writing?

A fail-safe.

Saying what, exactly?

In loving memory.

My skin went cold. Cross it out.

If you’re undecided…

Please. I felt my nails digging into my palms. Just do as I ask!

His expression suggested he thought my protest disproportionate. Then, can I suggest we keep it simple? Your name and the dates, perhaps…

An involuntary noise escaped me, interpreted as dismissive. Silently, hands unmoving, Mr Marsh waited for me to expand.

I had hoped it would be someone else’s job to do this, but they’ve all gone. No one to remember me now.

All of them? With the lick of a finger, he scooped back layers of notes in search of a fact to refute what I had said. He didn’t have to look far before his finger tapped on an earlier entry.

Though I doubted he’d ever lay eyes on my gravestone, it was because of James - the only blood relative I have ever known - that it was vital to get it right. To be honest, Mr Marsh, I’ve never had much faith in words. Words are what lies are made of. I trust only what I see with my own eyes - which is considerably less than it used to be.

After I dismissed his brief lecture on the history of the law with the announcement that my son, too, was a solicitor, he remained determined to coax something out of me.

What about poetry? Literature? And then, unknowingly, he struck gold. You’re not telling me you’ve lived as long as you have and you don’t have a good story or two.

There was a time I liked to quote that the past always falls victim to the present but, in my case, the reverse is now true. The room seemed to darken, the urge to close my eyes and retreat into memory almost overwhelming. Before television, before the wireless, before even cinema, stories were our main form of entertainment. My favourite stories were true, those that had Daddy shaking his jowls and declaring, You couldn’t make that up if you tried!

Three, I gasped, fighting to earmark my place in the moment, not to slip backwards until I had the luxury of being alone.

Mr Marsh’s startled expression suggested he hadn’t expected anything so specific. I beg your pardon?

I felt light-headed in my breathlessness. I have three stories.

Well, then. A quick recovery, pen poised, he thought he had arrived at a neat solution.

I’ll need time.

Time? It was as if I were Oliver, asking for more.

Yes. To think. Orson Welles hit the nail on the head when he said that a story is almost certainly a lie.

I understand. Leaning back and folding his arms, Mr Marsh showed no signs of departure. Whatever you decide will be there for all eternity.

I had to spell it out for him. Give me a week.

He raised his eyebrows dubiously.

Don’t fret. I’m not going anywhere until we’ve settled this.

Looking doubtful, Mr Marsh collected his belongings, pointing questioningly to the door as if an alternative exit might have opened up. Perhaps you’ll give me a call when you’re ready.

Closing my eyes, the reel began to run; flickering images coming into focus, the slightly speeded-up world of silent movies with its exaggerated expressions. A red-headed girl in a seaside resort at the birth of a new century. The sounds, the sights, the smells, the vastness of the sky and, below, the writhing sea, stretching to infinity - or France, whichever came first. Brighton! Mine for the taking.

Tell me the one about Phoebe Hessel! I would demand of Ma, whose stories took on the rhythm of dough being kneaded, accompanied by the clatter of kitchen pans.

I had discovered Phoebe during an illicit game of hide-and-seek in the oldest churchyard in Brighton. Tracing the lichened dates beneath the tangle of ivy, the calculations I made, counting on fingers and then out loud seemed, to me, incredible. One hundred and eight?

A hand was clapped on my shoulder. Got you!

Declaring loudly, You can’t have, because I’m not playing, I ran all the way home, clattering up the stairs to the kitchen.

Ma! Ma!

What’s that terrible to-do about? Is that you, Lottie?

I recovered my balance with one hand on the doorframe, and panted, I’ve just discovered the oldest woman that ever lived! Only she’s dead now.

Bent over the table with a rolling pin, Ma merely turned her head, apparently unimpressed. That must be Phoebe Hessel you’re talking about.

You’ve heard of her?

Ask around town and you’ll still find people who remember Phoebe selling gingerbread at the foot of Old Steine. That’s where Prince George first came across her.

A prince? Gawping, I slipped into my seat at the table.

"The prince. But it was her early life that was a mystery. Some say, after her mother died, her father dressed her as a boy soldier so she could follow him into the army. But she would tell anyone who cared to listen how, at the age of fifteen, after she fell madly in love with a private from the King’s Lambs, she disguised herself as a man. And together they fought, side by side."

Like a child with a picture book, I learned Phoebe’s story by heart, but it had the ring of a fairy tale when Ma told it: When asked how she kept her secret for so long, she said it wasn’t safe to tell it to drunken men or children because they always tell the truth. Instead, she dug a hole big enough to hold a gallon and whispered it to the earth.

Tell me the part about the highwayman, I begged, aware of every revision to the original: each stretching or concealment of facts.

What highwayman? Distributing flour liberally with flicks of a wrist, Ma pretended not to remember it was Phoebe’s evidence that brought the notorious James Rooke to justice.

Josie tells me.

Gripped tighter, the rolling pin hesitated mid-air. Does she now? Then Josie and I will be having words.

What Tennyson saw fit to immortalise in poetry, Ma thought too gory for children’s ears. If I couldn’t have the highwayman, a hero among villains, I was going to have the next best thing: Tell me the one about how you found me!

I was never under any illusion that I was Ma’s real daughter: I was so much more important than that. This was understood by the name I called her. I couldn’t say ‘Mother’ as other children did because it was never in doubt that I’d had a mother of my own. So in one of England’s southern-most towns, I used the northern version.

If you’re not careful, child, I’ll put you back where you came from.

Just one more story.

She raised her eyes in despair. Lord, give me peace in my old age, if it’s not too much to ask! Sit yourself down again, child. You’re making me dizzy.

I sat, my elbows on the table making circles in the flour, chin resting in my hands, halo neatly in place. Please, Ma. I am sitting nicely, like you said.

She closed her eyes and, while she drew breath, I held mine in readiness for a hasty retreat in case my nagging produced what I no doubt deserved. Ma pursed her lips, giving no clues as to her decision. I had always longed for a little girl - don’t ask me why - but it wasn’t to be. My lot was to have boys but, one by one, I lost them to consumption. A bowl landed heavily on the bleached white surface in front of me; translucent cubes of lard nesting on a bed of soft white flour. Hands?

Keenly, I held them out for inspection: fronts, backs and nails. Make yourself useful, then. Breadcrumbs, fine as you can get them! And try not to get it in your hair like last time. Now, where were we? Ma returned to her aggressive style of rolling. "You arrived in a late summer storm when all the fine folk had taken to the seafront for their afternoon strolls. The storm came on so sudden that everyone was caught out. Slanted rain made light work of cotton dresses, feathered hats wilted, and silks clung like second skins. I hurried along the promenade, clutching my shawl, while people darted here and there in search of shelter. Holiday-makers huddled in shop doorways, abandoning broken parasols as they raised their hands to hail hansom cabs. Even the fishermen took to the arches, which just goes to show.

I counted the seconds after I heard the rumble of thunder to see how far behind the lightning was. If someone had told me lightning can strike miles from the centre of a storm, I would have told them not to be so daft. I wasn’t afraid for myself; it’s not as if I had any good clothes to ruin. As the pavement cleared of running feet, I faced the elements, blinking back raindrops. Thinking I was alone, I watched lightning fork into the swollen sea, still some distance off. The rain seemed to be easing when I became aware of a woman pushing a perambulator up ahead.

I fidgeted: the first appearance of my mother.

Don’t wriggle if you want to hear the end of the story, Lottie. Ma slapped the wrist nearest to her, a warning glance. I angled the bowl so that she could inspect its contents. Still too lumpy. You’re not done, not by a long way, Missy. Now, where were we? Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, Ma left a tell-tale trail of powdery white. The woman, she looked like a holiday-maker from behind, all fashionable-like, holding onto her fancy hat, dress nipping her in at the waist while its skirts dragged along the pavement, heavy with water. Both ruined! While everyone else had taken cover, with waves crashing about her feet, she continued her walk to the end of the promenade. As you know, I’ve got no time for tourists whose idea of disaster is a heel gone down a pothole, but this woman seemed equally foolish when there was a child’s safety at stake. ‘Madam!’ I called through the rumble of thunder. She shaped her hands into a megaphone to demonstrate. ‘Let me help you find shelter for the little one.’ Just as the woman turned, open-mouthed with surprise, lightning pierced the sky and struck the wet pavement. My breath was suspended in an inflated moment. I watched helpless as she was lifted into the air like a rag-doll and thrown into the street right in front of my eyes. Freed from her hands, your carriage continued its journey towards the sea. There was no time to think. I ran after it and grabbed the metal handle, just as the front wheels reached the place where the pavement drops away. There you were, wrapped in white and screaming at the top of your lungs.

Show me, Ma. Grabbing her hands, webbed together with the makings of pastry dough, I peeled away her fingers to reveal scarred palms. Are you sure it didn’t hurt?

Ruined the nerve endings, the doctor told me. Never felt a thing in them since. Now, look at the mess you’ve made! What did I tell you, Lottie? She attempted to shake me off. Do you want to go to bed without hearing the ending?

Conceding that I didn’t, I meekly returned my hands to the bowl.

"By this time, an audience of black umbrellas had gathered. They were none too keen to get too close to the poor lady where she’d come to rest in the sludge left behind by the horses and the rain. It was a white-haired gentleman who stepped forwards to do the decent thing, covering her with his cape, God bless her soul.

No one knew who your mother was. When she wasn’t claimed or reported missing, they assumed she was a fine lady on a day-trip from London. ‘Would you mind taking the baby home while we track down the father?’ a policeman asked me. ‘I wouldn’t want to be blamed for sending her to the workhouse if she doesn’t belong there.’

Satisfied with the explanation that my mother was a fashionable lady from London, I was taken aback when a semicircle of sly-faced tormentors disguised as seven-year-olds trapped me in a secluded alley.

Oi, Red-head! Think your mother was a lady?

I looked up to an open window two storeys above, but saw only a small rug that had been hung out to air.

You know what sort of woman God strikes down with lightning?

My hands sought refuge behind my back, finding the roughness of brickwork.

Prozzies.

I swallowed.

Who else wouldn’t be missed?

Lottie’s mother was a prozzie.

This crude refrain was taken up, filling the narrow space.

So what if she was?

Heads swivelled. Alfie West, mop-haired wearer of hand-me-downs, had dared breach the line of attack. He thrust out a hand, a life-saver. Hauling me behind him, he hissed, Get yourself off home, and then provided a verbal shield. What’s it to you? Oldest profession in the world. More than you can say for dustmen, Charlie Brazier. And remind me what your mother does, Ethel? That’s right: milk lady.

But it was your mother told mine!

My mother repeats a lot of stupid things she hears. It doesn’t make them true.

Charlie Brazier squared up, feet a shoulder-width apart, and squashed his nose sideways against the back of his hand. Let’s get this right. Are you calling your own mother a liar?

Kiss my arse! Alfie simultaneously threw the first punch and turned to me. You still here?

Seeing my escape route, I scampered home, blubbering incomprehensibly. Ma was in the yard, clothes pegs in her mouth, but she soon had me up in the kitchen, legs dangling from the table top. Pacified by a jam-coated spoon, I was implored to talk sense.

Stuff and nonsense! Children say all sorts of cruel things without thinking. Ma’s verdicts, always final, came with backing from on high. I doubt God still deals in lightning bolts but, if he does, he’d have a better bowling-arm than they credit him with. Why, he’d have had the lot of them by now! Listen to me, Lottie. Your mother was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. Could have happened to any one of us. (I suspect that she was thinking of herself, so close to the centre of the storm and yet spared.)

It wasn’t just children, I persisted, licking the spoon. Alfie West says he heard it from his mother.

Oh, that Mrs West! She hugged me close, strawberry-daubed cheeks and all. She’s always picking up scraps of gossip. Just say for argument’s sake that God chose to punish your mother - and I’m not saying he did, mind. He chose to save you for greater things.

Her message was clear: God had a purpose for me. It was my job to work out what it was.

3 - LOTTIE’S STORY

BRIGHTON, 1910

Daddy stood back, surveying his handiwork with a critical frown. Kate and Sidney Pye’s World Famous Steak and Kidney Pies curved in gold-edged lettering on the plate-glass shopfront, and underneath, in the shape of a smile, Accept no imitations. Whether lit or not, his pipe, rarely extracted from his mouth, now rose and fell. What do you think, Nipper?

It’s beautiful! I cried in admiration, clasping my hands.

But will Ma like it?

You might not think a fishing port would be the place for a pie shop, but even if you loved the smell of the sea and all of the aromas carried inland on the wind, folk can’t live, breathe and eat fish seven days a week. Even the fishwives who sold the catch straight from cradles on their heads queued to spend their hard-earned coins at our shop. Wiping his paintbrush with turps, Daddy winked at me. Everybody loves a pie.

I never really understood why. Most folks survived on stew. On Sundays it might be rich with a sheep’s head or bullocks’ livers but all that was left by Fridays was gravy. In my mind, pie was only stew wearing a hat. And although Ma’s piecrust was crisp and golden and melted in your mouth, there was no mistaking stew for anything else. Still, the filling that went into her pies was special. Slow-fried onions the colour of toffee-apples mingled with chunks of topside steeped in best Sussex ale. (Wasted, lamented Daddy, looking on longingly in hope of the dregs.) Mushrooms and kidneys were thrown into the pot, but all sorts might find their way into the mixture. And, the thing was, you couldn’t inspect the filling until you’d parted with your money.

On cue, Ma appeared behind me. Well, let’s have a look at your masterpiece. Her smile performed a trick of acrobatic proportions, promptly standing on its head. I thought we’d agreed to put something about ‘health-giving properties’ underneath!

"Now, we didn’t agree, Kitty. If you remember rightly, what I actually said was there’s no proof -"

Who needs proof? Everybody knows it’s just puff. Anyway, you didn’t mind ‘world famous’.

We have our share of foreign visitors, but the line has to be drawn somewhere.

No one’s died after eating one of my pies, Ma protested, as if this were something to trumpet about. She operated a strict three-stage warning system but, by-passing step one, Ma moved straight to her steeliest glare, leaving Daddy to reflect.

Consulting a cloud, he exhaled. Not as far as we know.

Knowing we would both pay the price of Ma’s displeasure, my mind raced to chores left undone. That bucket’s no use to anyone empty.

Although bird-like in stature, Ma was equipped with a great booming voice designed for keeping order, and she wasn’t one to hold back, not with opinions or admonishments. Daddy, who knew he could be absent-minded, was patient when her moods descended.

What have I done wrong now, my dear? he would enquire smilingly.

"It’s not what you’ve done, it’s what you haven’t done!" she exploded.

But, on the whole, the household ran like clockwork. What we’d do without that woman I’ll never know, Daddy remarked, but once she was out of earshot he was inclined to add, I’ve a few ideas of my own.

What’s that, Daddy?

He crouched down to my height, his bones groaning with resistance. Ma’s trouble is that she thinks work’s a cure for everything, even a broken heart. But I wake with the sound of gulls in my ears and long for the sight of the ocean. I see old pals I’ve known since I ran barefoot, and I ask myself, would the occasional pint of ale really do any harm?

Whose heart’s broken, Daddy?

He sighed and pulled me to him. Both of ours, Nipper: your Ma’s and mine. But we’ve got rather too good at hiding it from each other.

Although his sons were never far from Daddy’s mind, I thought of myself as more than adequate compensation. I set about the task of convincing Daddy by throwing my arms around him whenever the occasion called for it - and sometimes when it didn’t, to keep him on his toes.

Muffled by his striped apron, I sulked, But why does Ma always have to be the one who says what goes?

If I had my way, I’d be up on the Downs every afternoon and nothing would ever get done. We all have to do things we don’t like, Nipper. I’d be lying if I told you otherwise. Doing right is what’s important.

But how do you know what’s right?

Your Ma puts me straight, that’s how. He kissed my frown away. I’m joking with you! The right thing is the one that nags away at you and won’t let go until you give in.

It sounded very much like Temptation. How do you know it isn’t telling you to do bad things?

He chuckled. Chances are, the bad things are those you want to do but shouldn’t and the good things are what you don’t want to do but should.

Are adults’ answers always so confusing?

Daddy thought for a moment. I’m afraid so. Not everything in life is clear-cut. It would be nice if it was. Sometimes, all you can do is make a decision and hope it’s the right one.

I hoped for facts when I asked questions, and I asked an awful lot of questions. There were facts that I understood at the time. Already, I was arguing with the one that said I had a life of domestic service to look forward to until I married and had a home of my own to clean.

Ma had attempted to tame me by making sure I knew how to sweep the hearth, light the fire and to make use of the cinders to polish cutlery: There’s nothing worse than being unprepared, my girl. And if you have a head start, all well and good.

The responsibility of making sure the coal bucket was full was usually a job for a son but, in the absence of her darling boys, Ma declared dubiously, You’ll have to do. So instead of curling into a tight ball at first light and waiting for the frozen condensation on the inside of the windowpane to thaw, I was the only girl who trailed behind the tip carts with a dozen boys, hair still a-quiff from their pillows.

Go home, Red-head! They broke away from scavenging for stray lumps in the gutters to lift the layers of my hems with their sticks - sticks that also encouraged lumps of coke to fall off the cart. Get back to scrubbing floors.

Prepared to turn an occasional blind eye, the coalman’s patience was tried until he would snatch a stick out of the hand of a boy and turn on us. I should inform on the whole bleeding lot of you! There were no complaints. Most parents considered their sons’ temperaments would be improved by a good beating. Even if Alfie West was under orders not to go home empty-handed, his mother had no sympathy: I didn’t tell you to get caught, now, did I? she’d say, dragging him indoors by the ear.

They’re right, Lottie, Alfie said. I don’t like to think of the end of that stick going anywhere near you. There’s more than enough driftwood on the beach to keep your Ma happy.

Swapping cobbles for shingle, I picked my way between upturned boats draped with nets and the brightly-coloured bathing machines owned by the fishermen as a sideline. Lamenting the days when there were hundreds of fishing boats, they complained to the tourists they rowed around the harbour that their industry was in its death throes.

Yours are the only death throes I can see, I apologised to the bulging-eyed fish whose silver tails thrashed in nets.

You can try to forget the sea if you live in Brighton, but it never forgets you. There’s a reason you feel most at home on the beach. You become a reflection of the wildness. The fishermen understood how I felt.

I survived a storm, I boasted, convinced of my invincibility, as the wind lashed at my hair and salt coated my skin.

Their pipes nodded at the corners of their mouths as they concurred: Oh, you’re a fisherman’s daughter. No doubt.

Home was all I knew. Children put up with disapproval, because we were always warned worse was hiding round the corner.

If you can’t find something useful to do, get out from under my feet! Ma would yell. And I don’t want to see you until teatime!

I didn’t wait to be told twice. As far as the arches of the viaduct, the streets were mine; from the stench of the slums, through the narrow back-alleys to the grand Regency avenues lined with exotic palms. In a town designed for pleasure there was always plenty to do. An Italian organ-grinder pushed a tottering monkey dressed in a red waistcoat into the crowds with a collecting cap. Punch and Judy shows drew gasps on the promenade. There were cockles, whelks and jellied eels to gorge on. We had strong men, escape artists, bearded ladies and dwarfs. But, for me, the greatest spectacle was the fashionable folk who strutted the length of Madeira Terrace like peacocks. Our visitors rode the electric railway from the Palace Pier, or took one of Campbell’s paddle steamers, not realising they were our entertainment. I lapped up every exquisite detail: the pearl buttons, the puffed sleeves, the feathers and bows, the delicate lace trim, the whitest gloves. These women had chambermaids to dress them. Road sweepers rushed to their assistance so they didn’t ruin their good shoes. They glanced out from beneath wide-brimmed hats to make sure they were being watched by the right sort of people, and, if you weren’t the right sort, they thought nothing of saying, I’ll thank you not to stare.

You could mix with royalty, film-makers, actors and music hall stars in Brighton. I had no shortage of choices when searching for my Great Purpose, and, slowly, I began my process of elimination.

4 - SIR JAMES’S STORY

SHERE, 2009

I didn’t react when my mother’s solicitor wrote to inform me of her death - hadn’t known how to react, if I’m honest. I’d presumed she had died many years ago. I lost my father when he was sixty-seven, back in 1959. Not racing, as I’d always feared, but as a spectator. It was the excitement that killed him. My mother was his junior by eight years. Who would have expected her to live another half century? She must have been, what…? 108 years old to my eighty-seven. It hardly seems possible.

I had no idea she’d known where I live. Even old friends had failed to track me down to Shere, a small Surrey village hemmed between the A25 and the North Downs. A ramshackle scattering of overhanging gables, timber beams and crooked elevations, dotted around the ancient churchyard of St James’s. Clear waters from the Tillingbourne trickle idly through, dissecting Middle Street in front of the award-winning public conveniences complete with their ivy-trailing hanging baskets. Here, a short walk with the dog in tow, pausing on the bench to feed the white-tufted ducks, followed by a paper and a pint qualifies as a good day out. At weekends our tranquility is shattered by the rumble and roar of Harleys and Morgans. Noisy Americans in search of the quintessential English experience get as far as the stocks outside the Black Swan Pub before being lured inside by chalked promises and rumours of smugglers. Do I share the right of the locals to be disgruntled when I too sought a timeless retreat? I like to think I do my bit by lending my name to the petition to make Church Square traffic-free. (I can so rarely park outside my own house - a double-fronted affair with a dubious history as the local vicarage and one-time brothel.) But as a resident of only twenty-two years, I am still eyed with suspicion, as if it were my ill-gotten money that funded Pathfields housing estate that continues to defy the architect’s optimistic prediction that it would ‘soon weather in’.

It was through this insubstantial network of roads designed for nothing wider than a horse and cart that the man from Parcelforce was obliged to wend his way. I imagine he looked over his shoulder through a wound-down window to ensure he wasn’t leaving evidence of his passage on the fleet of shiny 4 x 4s.

A silvery vibration from my glass cabinet preceded his knock. Restraining Isambard by the collar, his paws determined to claw a path to freedom on the tiled floor, I answered the door.

Sir James ‘astings? The man asked, all tattoos and open-collared uniform shirt, shifting his weight from one trainer-clad foot to the other.

Yes? I looked disapprovingly at his van, its engine idling.

Sign here, please. Without eye contact, he thrust a miniature etch-a-sketch and a finely chiselled plastic implement in my direction.

What am I signing for? I noticed he had a perfectly good HB pencil behind his ear.

You don’t think they tell me, do you? He hoisted up his trousers by the waistband, sniffing. I’m just the delivery man.

The resulting signature bore no resemblance to the letters I thought I had traced.

Excuse me. Mrs Smythe-Jenkins approached with a slight bend in her legs, nervous as only a woman in designer heels on cobbles can be. Do you know how long you’re going to be? I can’t quite squeeze past.

As long as it takes, love. Turning back to me, the delivery man raised his eyebrows, lowering his tone. Plenty of room - if she knew the width of her vehicle.

I stood by, growing increasingly dumbfounded as, sideways shuffling and with beads of sweat standing prominently on his forehead, he deposited box after box in my narrow hallway. There must be a mistake.

You said you’re Sir James Hastings, didn’t you?

What on earth are they?

Bleeding heavy, that’s what!

He loitered optimistically, but I recoiled from the idea of tipping him for something I hadn’t ordered. You’ve been paid, I take it? I asked.

Yes, Gov -

Then I think we’re done. I watched his face fall, then, raising one hand, nodded an apology to Mrs Smythe-Jenkins. Sitting in her open-topped BMW she anxiously checked her Rolex. Always picking up here and dropping off there, experiencing life vicariously through her daughters. Probably the closest she ever came to sitting still, her distress was only too apparent. I heard Isambard retreat, nails clipping down the hallway, commencing his oval circuits of the dining room table. Basket! I hollered after him, feeling the need to holler at someone.

The boxes were sealed with blue plastic bindings that would have challenged Houdini. I hadn’t had the scissors out since last Christmas’s wrapping frenzy - couldn’t imagine where they might have got to - so I retrieved a nail clipper from the bathroom cabinet and launched an attack on the first accessible box.

Lifting the cardboard flaps, I frowned: What the devil?

Tightly packed with s-shaped polystyrene chips, it housed a number of hinged wooden boxes containing green glass plates, the precursors to photographic negatives. In the second were folders of photographic prints - hundreds of the things - carefully catalogued decade by decade. I found notebooks filled with diagrams and words. Scrapbooks containing newspaper clippings. A lifetime’s memorabilia. And here, a letter written ten years ago on tissue-thin paper in spidery scrawl, its envelope taped to the side of box one.

‘To my own sweet James,’

The greeting made me bristle. As a young boy, I had dreamed of being addressed in that manner.

‘It is my greatest regret that we spent so little time together, but there never was a right time to invite myself back into your life and explain why I left. Anything I might have said began to sound unacceptable, even to me. I don’t expect it will be any comfort for you to hear that there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t thought of you.

I was deeply saddened to hear of your father’s passing. He was a good man - and I was a foolish young girl who could never have given you everything you deserved. I hope that you have known happiness, but if not happiness, a sense of usefulness that gives life purpose. There is much to be said for keeping busy.

I used to think that I took photographs to record people and things that might otherwise have been lost. Now I tend to think that I was simply justifying my own existence. Perhaps, if you look hard enough, you will find my reflection in them.’

There was more if I had cared to read on, but I felt the walls closing in, the space-shifting sensation reminiscent of that claustrophobic art gallery where, for the briefest of moments, I had been pushed in front of a beautiful lady and told she was my mother. Hands shaking, I struggled to put the letter back in its envelope, to tuck the flap back inside.

Pub! I shouted at Isambard, who, familiar with the command, appeared leather lead in mouth, metal chain trailing. At the same time, I grabbed my stick.

We walked the few yards across Church Square, past the war memorial where the wreath that I’d laid for Harry Patch, one of the last veterans of the Great War, had seen too much autumn. I had been deeply moved as I watched him break the silence of eighty years, his memories still so raw as to summon tears. It has since struck me that he would have been only slightly older than my mother. Why was it I felt no similar sense of kinship with my own flesh and blood? Distracted by brewing anger I told myself that I had not been forgotten. Worse than that - my mother had been thinking about me but still there was no invitation. And now - now! - that she felt the need to apologise, her main concern was that I had been making myself useful.

Stepping inside the comforting dimness of the pub, I ducked under one of its worm-infested beams that supported the weight of history. The threadbare carpet, rustic tables and wax-encrusted candlesticks suggested an authentic experience; the á la carte menu otherwise. I was relieved to find our favourite table, by the crackle of the open fire, vacant.

Lie down! I pointed as I stood at the low bar. Isambard sunk meekly to the floor, the black tip of his nose resting on his front paws, sombre eyes trailing me.

A beach-blonde newcomer enquired, mid-spin, What’ll it be, mate? in such a way that I wasn’t sure he was addressing me. He turned, puffing out his cheeks as he made what passed for eye contact.

"Pint of TEA please. And a bowl of water for the dog, if it’s not too much trouble."

Hearing of his demotion, Isambard lifted one disapproving ear.

Coming right up. The barman punched the touch-screen of the till, picked up a pint glass and threw it, catching it in the other hand. That’ll be £3.45.

I examined the glass of amber liquid that he deposited on the bar towel in front of me. I’m afraid it seems to be cloudy.

Give it a minute to settle, mate. Yes? He began to serve a neat woman dressed in tight jodhpurs and gleaming riding boots who already had her red leather purse open, and whose smile had an apologetic quality, as if she was sorry for disturbing him. Two lattes for table three, please.

My patience in short supply, I held the glass up to the artificial light filtered through the classic malts. I’m telling you, it’s off.

Frowning, the barman consulted a passing colleague whose v-necked t-shirt exposed crevice-like cleavage. Mate. Standing in front of the spitting espresso machine, his back to me, he briefly inclined his head towards the glass. Does that look cloudy to you?

She barely gave it a glance. Give it time. Polish, from the sound of her.

Aware that I was overreacting but unable to stop myself, I raised my voice: "Is there anyone here who knows a thing or two about beer? I don’t suppose, by any remote possibility, that there are any English staff left in this establishment?"

Table conversation temporarily suspended, heads strained in my direction displaying appalled expressions.

The barman leaned on the bar, his elbow aggressively close to my hand, and lowered his voice. Listen, mate, if you’ve got a problem…

"You’re damned right, mate. If you’ll give me my money back, I’ll take my business elsewhere."

Gladly. His palm hit the bar in front of me, depositing three pound coins and a handful of coppers underneath. I pocketed the money, slapping my leg and grabbed my stick. Isambard. Come, boy!

And by the way: you’re barred!

As eyes were hastily averted, there was much shaking of heads and tutting as I stumbled on the doormat. You know, the young come in for all the flack, but I find it’s the older generation who have no manners these days, I heard one voice exclaim to an eager hum of agreement.

Not a regular among them: no hint of sympathy. Doing what I had sworn never to do, I walked uphill to the William Bray, newly renovated, which I always associate with being stripped of character. Greeted by a sign that announced, ‘Only guide dogs allowed’, I was about to turn away in silent protest when a barmaid dressed plainly in black sailed through the door. As she arrived on the patio area at the bottom of a small flight of steps, Isambard took a healthy interest, sniffing her where no dog should sniff a young lady in polite company.

Isambard, no! I tugged at his lead and turned to her. I must apologise -

Laughing, she deposited her tower of plastic ashtrays on a round umbrellared table and stooped down to fuss over him. "He’s just being friendly, aren’t you, boy? He is a boy, isn’t he?"

He most certainly is.

We used to have a German Shepherd just like him, down to the black snout. Having located the drool-inducing spot behind his rust-coloured ears she had him under her spell.

Don’t tell him that! He thinks he’s unique.

As her close-fitting t-shirt rode up to reveal the base of her spine, I liked her all the more for the absence of a Celtic tattoo.

She glanced over her shoulder at me and grimaced. He may be right. We had to have ours put down six months ago.

I was torn between awkwardness and sympathy. Ghastly business.

How old is he?

We’re not entirely sure. The animal sanctuary bullied me into taking him. Must be ten years we’ve been together now, a couple of old strays.

She smiled apologetically. Did you see the sign?

I have to say, I’m not keen on leaving him outside.

Tell you what, seeing as its quiet and the boss is out, you can bring him in just this once. Making quick work of the steps, she held the door open and stood aside.

Stealing past, Isambard clipped across the green-grey slate tile. The bar was airy and empty; not a juke box or slot machine in sight. As I perched on a leather barstool, a clatter of pans and shouts of laughter filtered through from the kitchen.

You’re Sir James, aren’t you? I heard you were a Black Swan man.

Truth told, I’ve had a falling out with the barman. I shall have to apologise if I want to show my face in there again.

You never know. She took her place behind the bar against a backdrop of bottles that avoided the impression of clutter. You might prefer it here.

I thought I wouldn’t appreciate the minimalism, but I found myself running my hands over the smooth surface of the bar, a single piece of oak that had been allowed to retain its natural curve.

Bitter?

Please. If you don’t mind.

My eyes were drawn to framed black and white photographs showcasing architectural details from the village: close by, a fragment of lettering from a gravestone; on the opposite wall, a precariously tilting chimney. My mind drifted to the contents of those boxes.

Angling the glass and pouring with an easy confidence, the barmaid followed my lingering gaze. If you like them, there’s more next door in the restaurant. Mainly of motor racing. The guy who owns this place? He’s into all that.

Given that we were the only two people present, it would have been awkward not to chat, but the search for common ground - beyond a love of dogs - seemed futile. "They say he’s the Stig, don’t they?"

"Don’t tell anyone but Top Gear’s not really my thing. I’m more a Stig of the Dump kind of girl."

I suppose you’ll tell me I should have heard of him.

Her expression one of incomprehension, she placed the pint on the bar in front of me. "That was only my favourite book when I was growing up."

I thought you were going to tell me he’s a rap artist! You see, that’s the problem with not having children.

No nieces or nephews? she asked.

Only child, I explained.

Me too.

Ah! I reached for the glass appreciatively. "Now, that’s what I call a pint. I took a sip. Having investigated - and rejected - the possibility of sitting in front of the log burner, Isambard settled by my feet. I feel at home already. I tapped my chest with a little in the way of pride. My father was involved in motor racing, you know."

Wincing slightly, the barmaid rested her elbows on the bar. I’m more into the photography side of things. The older the better.

I was intrigued to see her eyes take on an eager glow. Is that so?

We’re doing the Twenties at college. There’s this stuff by Cecil Beaton you wouldn’t believe. If I hadn’t seen the proof, I would never have believed people back then looked so modern. That’s why photographs are important. ‘The camera never lies’.

Load of tosh. What about all of that paint-brushing the magazines do? As she looked momentarily confused, I back-tracked. What did I say? It was such a long time since I had conversed with anyone under the age of twenty that, in my panic, I had chosen the wrong word. But I also found that I was smiling.

You mean air-brushing! But they didn’t have that back then, did they?

Beaton did his share of doctoring, I can tell you. This generation of women aren’t the first to want to look taller and thinner.

Really? Elbows slid across oak towards me conspiratorially.

I wonder, I said, looking at her anew. You say you like old photographs?

Love them, she replied luxuriously.

Then I’ve just taken delivery of something that might interest you. I shook my head, dislodging a memory of the delivery man. Forty-two boxes of the stuff, would you believe?

5 - LOTTIE’S STORY

BRIGHTON, 1910

Long before doubt was cast on Ma’s story of my beginnings, I woke on Sundays with the feeling that something terrible must have happened. With no toys, laughter or work to distract us, there was nothing to look forward to. Gone the comfortable weekday layers, dressing was a penance. I laid out my best frock and petticoat,