Page 148 of The Love Letter

35

The day before Joanna was leaving to return to London to pick up the pieces of her life, she drove over to see Dora, her paternal grandmother, in nearby Keighley. In her mid-eighties, but with her wits as sharp as a knife, Dora lived in a comfortable flat in a sheltered-housing development.

As she was hugged and welcomed inside to great delight and a plate of freshly made scones, Joanna immediately felt guilty that she did not visit more regularly. Dora had always been a constant in her life, having lived only four miles down the road from her son and his family up until five years ago. Joanna had treated her cosy cottage as a second home, her granny as a second mother.

‘So, young lady, tell me exactly how you landed yourself in hospital, will you?’ Dora smiled as she poured tea into two fine bone-china teacups. ‘And I’m ever so sorry about your young man.’ Her warm brown eyes were full of concern. ‘You know your grandpa died at thirty-two in the war. Broke my heart, it did.’

Joanna provided the cursory explanation she’d been drilled by Simon to give everyone who asked.

‘That’s what your dad told me. That you almost drowned.’ Dora’s intelligent eyes studied Joanna. ‘But you can’t fool me. I remember all them badges and shields you won at school for swimming, even if they don’t. Dora, I thought to myself when I heard, there’s more to this than meets the eye. So, love –’ she took a sip of her tea and eyed her granddaughter – ‘who tried to drown you?’

Joanna could not help but give a weak smile – her grandmother was such a wily old bird. ‘It’s a long, long story, Granny,’ she murmured as she polished off her second scone.

‘I love a good story. And the longer the better,’ she encouraged. ‘Sadly, time is something I have in spades these days.’

Joanna weighed the situation up in her mind. Then, thinking that there was no one on earth whom she trusted more, and eager to put her still-confused thoughts into words, she began to talk. Dora was the perfect listener. She rarely interrupted, stopping Joanna only if there was something her failing left ear had missed.

‘So, that’s it, really,’ Joanna concluded. ‘Mum and Dad know nothing, of course. I didn’t want to worry them.’

Dora clasped Joanna’s hands in hers. ‘Oh love . . .’ She shook her head, a mixture of anger and sympathy in her eyes. ‘I’m proud of you for pulling through as well as you have. What a dreadful thing to happen. But, my, what a tale! The best I’ve heard for years. Takes me back to the war and Bletchley Park. I spent two years there on the Morse code machines during the war.’

This was a story Joanna had heard many times before. If one was to believe Dora, her decoding skills were what had won the Second World War. ‘It must have been an amazing time.’

‘The things I could tell you that went on behind closed doors, love, but I signed the Official Secrets Act and they’ll stay with me until the grave. However, it made me believe that anything is possible, that Joe Public’ll never know the half of it. More tea?’

‘I’ll make it.’

‘I’ll help.’

The two of them wandered into the immaculate kitchen. Joanna put on the kettle as Dora rinsed the teapot under the tap.

‘So, what’ll you do?’ Dora asked her.

‘About what?’

‘Your story.Youhaven’t signed any Secrets Act. You could go public and make a pretty penny.’

‘I don’t have enough proof, Granny. Besides, this is a secret that those in high places are prepared to kill people to protect, as I know to my cost. Too many people have died already.’

‘What do you have in the way of proof?’

‘Rose’s original letter to me, a photocopy of the love letter she wrote to Michael O’Connell, and a theatre programme from the Hackney Empire that seems to have little relevance to the story, apart from showing James Harrison using another name.’

‘You got them with you?’

‘Yes. They’re in my rucksack and they go under my pillow at night. I’m still looking behind me to see if someone’s lurking in the shadows. They’re no use to me any more. Maybe you’d like them to put with the rest of your royal memorabilia?’

Dora’s collection of old newspaper clippings and photos, betraying her status as an ardent monarchist, was a family joke.

‘Let’s have a look-see then.’ Dora walked back into the sitting room with the teapot, poured them both a fresh cup and settled herself in her favourite armchair.

‘I’m surprised you’d allow yourself to think that one of your precious kings might have had a fling outside the marital bed, especially one that was married to your favourite royal,’ Joanna commented as she dug inside her rucksack for the brown envelope.

‘Men will be men,’ countered Dora. ‘Besides, up until recently, it was the done thing for kings and queens to have mistresses and lovers. It’s a well-known fact there were a good few monarchs whose parentage was questionable. No birth control in those days, you know, love. I had a friend at Bletchley Park whose mother had been an undermaid at Windsor. The things she told me about that Edward VII. He had a string of mistresses and, according to her, he put at least two of them in the family way. Thanks, love.’ Dora reached out for the envelope and removed its contents. ‘Now, what have we here?’

Joanna watched as Dora studied the two letters, then opened the theatre programme.

‘I saw Sir James a good few times in the theatre. Looks different here, though, doesn’t he? I thought he was a dark-haired fellow. He’s blond in this picture.’