Page 6

‘Sleep on it,’ she murmured to herself. ‘You don’t have to make a decision right now.’

That thought calmed her enough to continue looking through the letters.

One from the solicitor was referring to a response from Elizabeth saying she would be coming over to take possession of the cottage.

That again jolted Mary. Not only had that date passed, but Mr Boyle would be bound to want her signature before he handed over keys.

But then she found a slim folder containing typed carbon copies of all Elizabeth’s replies to the solicitor, and they even included her signature. So it occurred to her she would only have to practise copying that signature perfectly, as there appeared to be no handwritten letters to trip her up.

Again she calmed herself and realized she didn’t have to ring Mr Boyle immediately and tell him why she’d been delayed. There was plenty of time to make up her mind about what to do. Meanwhile she’d have a good rest in this lovely guest house.

Also in the brown envelope was a letter dated back in July from Mr and Mrs B.

Donaldson, the owners of the dress shop in Richmond, informing her that they were giving up the lease of the shop.

They went on to thank Elizabeth for being the perfect manageress, and to hope she would find a new position quickly.

Attached was a ‘To Whom It May Concern’ glowing reference which stated she’d been an honest and reliable employee, an excellent saleswoman with a real flair for fashion, and that all their customers thought highly of her.

There were a couple of letters from her old landlord too, the first saying he was sorry she was leaving as she’d been a very good tenant, and the second enclosing a cheque for the deposit she’d paid.

He said he was pleased not to have to make any deductions from it as she had kept it in such good order.

The rest of the letters were mainly offering condolence on the death of her mother.

Whether they were from relatives, or friends and acquaintances was unclear.

They wrote the usual platitudes yet not one of them had offered help, or an invitation to visit.

She thought they were quite blunt, as if written out of duty not affection, and she felt surprised her friend had kept them.

But at least it reassured her that no one would be worrying about Elizabeth Manning if they didn’t hear from her.

She moved on then to look through the photographs.

Many were family ones, of her parents on their wedding day, her father in uniform, Elizabeth as a baby and then on through childhood.

One lovely one was taken professionally when she must have been around sixteen.

Many of them had dates and places written on the back.

There was one of an attractive but small Georgian villa, with ‘Home, 10 Marsham Road, Tunbridge Wells’.

Mary placed everything back in the envelope, intending to study all the photographs and letters again closely in the next few days. It was time to open the large suitcase.

Perfume wafted out as she opened it. She recognized it as Joy by Jean Patou– Mrs Bradley wore it on special occasions.

Her first thought was how neat Elizabeth had been.

The case was packed perfectly. Underwear in a monogrammed linen bag, shoes in cloth bags too and tissue paper protecting dresses, blouses, skirts and jackets.

But it was a white cloth bag secured with an elastic band and which rustled as she picked it up that intrigued her.

When she took the band off and shook out the contents, her mouth dropped open in shock.

It was full of bank notes, in bundles with rubber bands round them. Mostly ￡20 notes, and a quick count of just those made ￡700. The tens and fives made another ￡200, and twelve one-pound notes came to ￡912 in all.

She was stunned. She’d never had more than three pounds in her entire life.

This was a fortune. Who had that much money just in a suitcase?

A sudden and frightening thought came to her.

She didn’t know anything much about the real Elizabeth.

Suppose she’d stolen this money and was going on the run!

She’d said she ran a dress shop, but was that true?

Since when did a mere shop assistant get to save this much money?

If she had come by it honestly, surely she would’ve kept it in a bank account?

But Elizabeth had run a dress shop, there was a reference from her employers. Her landlord clearly thought a lot of her too.

Mary didn’t feel she could keep this money, it was far too much. Yet it was so very tempting. It would give her the chance to change her life for a better one, and if she turned it in to the police she’d have to go back to the Bradleys.

She put the money back in the bag, telling herself that maybe Elizabeth’s mother had given it to her on her recent death, or she’d sold some jewellery or some other valuable item.

She took the garments out one by one, astounded by the quality of them.

She slipped a lilac-coloured short jacket over her dress.

It fitted like it was made for her. She had very few clothes and all of them cheap things from markets.

But remembering how Elizabeth had said she had enough clothes to share with her, she didn’t feel guilty at revelling in the chance to wear such finery.

There was only one special dress– she supposed it would be called a cocktail dress– mid-calf length, rose-pink satin and lace.

It was beautiful, a dream of a dress. Apart from that her friend appeared to have picked stuff that was still glamorous, but suitable for every day.

There were even two pairs of slacks, and several very soft jumpers, plus exquisite silk underwear.

In the smaller suitcase was a classic camel coat, a raincoat and a far smaller light-brown handbag, which looked more useful for now than the big one. Plus three pairs of shoes, size five, that fitted her perfectly too.

As thrilling as the clothes were, there were also a couple of desk diaries. A quick glance through them promised a wealth of information about the real Elizabeth. She told herself she would read every word of them, starting this evening after supper.

Completely overcome by this treasure, she lay back on the bed to gather her thoughts.

She really wanted to be Elizabeth now. To wear nice clothes, to ride in taxis and stay in hotels.

It was like a wonderful dream, but she was very much aware that taking another person’s identity for gain was illegal.

‘You are an imposter,’ she whispered to herself.

Wishing you were someone else wasn’t living a lie like an imposter. But for a good part of her life Mary had wished she was Ruth Carstairs’ daughter. If it wasn’t for that kind woman, she would probably have ended up like her mother.

She could recall the first time she met Miss Carstairs as clearly as if it was yesterday.

It was raining, bitterly cold, and her mother was out.

Miss Carstairs invited her in, and there began a warm and loving relationship which lasted until she was twelve.

Absolutely everything good she knew came from Auntie Ruth, as she called her– reading, writing, sewing, cooking.

Hours spent reading aloud to her, or learning to do joined-up writing, and to spell correctly.

She sewed a blouse and a skirt for herself there, had cookery lessons, and learned her times tables and arithmetic.

Sitting by the warm fire in winter, in Auntie Ruth’s snug and pretty living room, for a couple of hours each day, she managed to forget how different her real life downstairs was.

Home was dirty, everything shabby and ugly.

It smelled of mould and damp, and Ronnie’s sweat and cigarettes.

The kitchen cupboards were always bare, a good meal was rare, and always the atmosphere was of something unpleasant looming.

But then Ronnie and her mother went out every night, and if Mary hadn’t got her dinner at school for free, and tea most days with Auntie Ruth, she’d have starved.

It was to Auntie Ruth that she finally sobbed out what Uncle Ronnie was doing to her.

He’d come into her life when she was four, and had seemed nice.

He’d wallpapered the tiny box room especially for her and bought her a proper bed.

Up till then she’d shared with her mother.

But gradually Ronnie stopped being nice.

One wrong word from her or her mother and he’d hit them.

Mary realized by the time she was nine that he made her mother do something at nights that she didn’t like.

She told Mary she worked in a bar, but that didn’t seem like the truth.

She found out the truth when she was nearly ten.

A boy at school said her mother was a streetwalker and went with men for money.

Around the same time, Ronnie came back in the evening when her mother was working and raped her.

It all fell into place. Ronnie took the money her mother made, and wanted to use her daughter for sex whenever he felt like it.

Nothing had ever hurt as much as what he did to her.

Years later she could still smell his foul breath, his sweat, and remember the callous way he forced himself into her.

But even the pain wasn’t as bad as the humiliation.

She felt dirty all the time, she was afraid to get close to anyone in case she smelled.

And always the dread of wondering when the next time would be.

She knew her mother couldn’t or wouldn’t help her, not just because she was afraid of Ronnie but because she took something in a brown bottle that made her dopey.

The sound of a gong from downstairs alerted Mary that she’d fallen asleep, and it was half past six and time for supper. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and that was only porridge. Now she came to think about it, she was very hungry.