Jean had only spent one week in her entire life in a hospital. She would have given all of her possessions for a friendly soul in the next bed.
“Gretchen never mentioned her,” she said. “And when I asked her husband if she kept in contact with any friends from that time, he said no.”
“Well, those friendships don’t always last on the outside,” said Alice. “Martha’s people came from Chatham, I believe. Whereas I think the Edels lived somewhere in London.”
“Wimbledon,” said Jean.
“People make such promises to keep in touch,” said Alice. “But they seldom do.” She sounded suddenly wistful. “The only one who still sends me a Christmas card is Brenda, but she lives in South Africa now.”
“Do you have her address?”
“I do. If you wanted to write to her care of me, I would be happy to post it on.”
“It sounds as though Martha Campkin might be worth talking to as well,” said Jean. “If I can find her.”
“Her father was a vicar, if that helps.”
“It might.”
“She wasn’t as compliant as Gretchen. A bit more spiky, if you know what I mean. But a nice enough girl,” she added loyally. “And very brave. Nothing we tried ever seemed to work for her.” She held out the little diary. “You can borrow it for as long as you need. But I’d be glad to have it back eventually. I don’t know why.”
“Of course.” Jean realized this was a cue to leave, only now noticing that Alice was looking weary. “I must let you get on. You’ve been so helpful.”
“I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Miss . . .”
“Swinney. Jean.”
“Perhaps you’ll come back sometime and tell me the outcome of your investigation. I don’t think we get the North Kent Echo out here.”
“I’d be glad to.”
“And do remember me to Gretchen,” Alice said as they reached the front door. “I was so fond of her. And Martha too, if you find her.”
After picking up her bicycle, which had fallen into the laurel hedge, and retying her headscarf, Jean turned for a last look up the path. In the front room, between the parted net curtains, Alice stood holding the shepherdess doll up to the window. Jean had a horrible feeling that if she waved goodbye Alice would make the doll wave back, and she couldn’t bear that, so she just smiled and quickly turned her back.
6
Mrs. Tilbury and Margaret were waiting at Charing Cross Station by the ticket office at ten o’clock as arranged. All communications concerning this meeting had been made through Mr. Tilbury at the jeweler’s shop. Margaret was dressed in her school uniform with satchel and hat, as Jean had promised she would be back in time for afternoon lessons. Mrs. Tilbury was wearing a green cotton dress embroidered with daisies and a little white jacket, as though she were going to a summer wedding rather than a pathology lab in a dingy hospital annex.
Heads turned as she clipped across the concourse in her strappy sandals, perhaps in admiration or just charmed by the likeness between mother and daughter. Jean smiled to herself. Who on earth would choose to wear white for such a trip?
“That’s a pretty dress,” she said, almost having to shout over the sound of whistles, the shriek and hiss of shunting trains and the unstoppable flow of announcements from the PA system. “I suppose you are going to tell me you made it yourself.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Tilbury replied. “I make all my clothes.”
They hurried toward the exit, buffeted by the tremendous symphony of noise.
“It fits you far too well to have come from a shop.”
Jean plucked at her own formless garment in brown paisley, gathering a fistful of surplus fabric at the waist. It had been chosen to withstand the inevitable dust and grime of the city and fitted her across the shoulders but nowhere else.
“I could make one for you, if you like,” Mrs. Tilbury said as they halted at the curb to allow a black taxi to sweep past. “You could look through my pattern book and choose some material. It wouldn’t take me two minutes.”
“I’m sure you have quite enough to do,” said Jean.
“Oh, but I’d like to. It would be my way of thanking you.”
“For what? I haven’t done anything yet. And I may still not.”
“You have. You read my letter and took me seriously.”
Let’s just see what the scientists turn up, thought Jean as they waited on the Strand for the lights to change. Then we’ll see how grateful you are. She had been in correspondence with Hilary Endicott, the author of the original paper on parthenogenesis, and there was now a team of learned physicians at the Charing Cross Hospital eager to meet and measure and test and analyze mother and daughter.