‘Tea?’
I nodded.
She brought two mugs over to the small table and grabbed an open packet of digestives from a shelf above us.
‘So, what did you find out?’
I took a piece of paper out of the folder at random.
‘Far more than I had expected,’ I told her. ‘It’s put flesh on the bones – she’s a real person for me now. In fact, it’s thanks to you I’ve decided to change the angle of the paper I’m writing.’
She looked pleased but also confused. I handed her the letter and she began reading it aloud.
Dearest Jane, I hope this letter reaches you. The young girl who works here promised to post it in secret, but one can never be sure. It’s been snowing for a full five days now. There is something calming about it; how each snowflake falls weightlessly, without a sound. Every so often a slight breeze will cause a flurry of flakes to spin and swirl and lift over the walls of this place. A silent escape. How I long for the same. My only friend here, Mary, has died. I woke to find her lifeless in her bed this morning. From the cold. It has set into my bones so much that I cannot remember how it used to feel before. I received your letter in which you wrote that you hoped the gloves and shawl you’d sent were keeping out the chill. Oh, dearest Jane. If only you knew that anything of worth is taken away long before it reaches us inmates.
The physician is expected tomorrow. I think. My thoughts meander in a deep fog these days. Again I will ask to speak to my brother, again. I will request to be released for I am not mad, though I fear this place will render me so. The screams at night are unbearable. Why does Lyndon not answer my letters?
It does not surprise me that the doctors here have turned down your offer to bring a specialist from London. Having me assessed independently would prove that I have been wrongfully committed here, that I am sane. Although I fear it may be too late on that score. Losing the baby, and now Mary, in this place of unspeakable horrors, I would rather my sense leave me entirely. If I cannot escape this place physically, I must devise a way to do it mentally. To dissociate from this nightmare. Please do not write any more. Go and live your life. Consider your old friend no more. She no longer exists.
Opaline
‘Bloody hell. This is horrific. I never thought—’ She stopped suddenly.
‘I know, it’s all very real now.’ I put the letter back and dunked a digestive into my tea. I hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. I’d been up all night going through the folder and taking notes. I held the biscuit in the tea for a second too long and it sank into the depths. I sucked my teeth.
‘I’ll make you another one,’ she said and got up to refill the kettle. ‘I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again.’
‘Why do you say that?’
She shrugged but I pressed for an answer.
‘It’s just – you have what you need now. Opaline’s records.’
Wow. I’d really made quite the impression. Was that really what she thought? That all I cared about was the manuscript? I opened my mouth to say something, then thought better of it. What did it matter? I had to stop thinking that this could ever go anywhere. We were just friends.
‘You didn’t think I could leave without seeing her book, did you?’
She rolled her eyes and gave me a knowing look. It had been left on her bed and when she passed me to get it, I reached out for her hand, without thinking. She stopped and looked down at me.
‘It wasn’t all about the manuscript, you know. Not for me.’
I let her hand go but she didn’t move. A slight smile formed at the corner of her lips.
‘Thanks,’ she said, almost in a whisper, then she retrieved the book from the bed and brought it to me. I hadn’t expected it to look so elaborate. I had seen my fair share of rare editions and not many books made me gasp, but this one did. It was covered with a deep sapphire blue cloth, making the golden title jump off the front.
‘A Place Called Lost,’ I read aloud. There was a beautiful illustration of an old bookshop and I knew it was the one I had seen when I first arrived on Ha'penny Lane. I hadn’t been drunk. It really was there. I felt completely overcome and my nose started itching with what could disastrously become tears. I cleared my throat.
‘Where did you find it?’ I asked.
‘It sort of found me. Stories sometimes do. Like the one on my back.’
Her tattoo. I wanted to ask what it was, but before I said it, she asked about the rest of Opaline’s papers and I was glad of the distraction. Thinking about the last time I saw her tattoo, dancing with her, holding her in my arms, it was too much.
‘Oh, yes. There were bundles of letters written by Opaline that were never sent. It seems a bit sporadic, maybe some got through the gates and some didn’t. They don’t make for easy reading, I can tell you that. I don’t know how she survived. But she must have – we have the letter to Sylvia which proves that.’
‘And the book,’ Martha said.
Even if I never found the manuscript, I had the makings of a very interesting paper on a woman who had been one of the most prominent book dealers in Ireland who was nevertheless locked up on the word of her brother. It didn’t seem to matter how talented, intelligent or independent a woman was, she was still seen as the property of a man, to do with as he pleased.
‘I’m afraid I have to get back to the library,’ I said, rising rather abruptly and putting on my jacket.
There was a beat before Martha reacted. Had she wanted me to stay? I would never know and I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself by asking.
‘Could I take the book with me? I’m trying to finish the paper I’ve been working on. Hopefully I’ll still be able to get some funding for it.’
She hesitated, so I suggested a trade. Opaline’s papers for the book.
‘Actually, there’s a photo inside. Would you like to see?’
She nodded enthusiastically. It was endearing to see her enthusiasm for this woman she never knew. It was not a terribly flattering photo. There were several women lined up in front of a dining table, their hands clasped, no smiles. Perhaps it was taken for the families who paid for their keep? There was no writing on the back. Martha cocked her head to one side, then asked if I had a magnifying glass.
‘Not on me, no,’ I joked, but it went over her head. ‘What is it?’
‘Maybe nothing.’
‘You can’t say that!’
She squinted and held the photograph close to her face.
‘It’s her skirt. It looks like there’s something written on it.’
‘It’s hard to tell,’ I said, looking at the grainy black and white image. When I looked back at Martha her expression had changed.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing, I’ve just realised the time, Madame Bowden will be back soon.’
With that she almost shoved me out of the door and I found myself back on Ha'penny Lane wondering what it was that I was missing.
Chapter Forty-Nine
OPALINE
Dublin, 1941
‘Guten Abend, Fr?ulein.’
I didn’t know how to respond, or why he was speaking in German. I wrapped the sliver of a shawl tightly around myself, as if it offered any protection. I thought I’d heard something and had come down from the attic to check.