Short Story Sunday: The Space Between [Part One]

“That’s it. That’s all that’s left of him.”

I stared at the faded strip of photo paper which showed my great-aunt Rosa with her husband Fred. It was taken in a booth by the seaside in those lean years after World War I, when people clung to each other because everything else was expendable.

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But don’t you wonder what happened?”

“I’ve thought of little else.”

“And he never contacted you? Never let you know where he was?” I saw her eyes brim. “I’m sorry, Rosa.”

“There is nothing to be done, Vera.”

I bit my lip. “Would you mind if I did some digging? There must be a logical explanation for his disappearance.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

I nodded. “How did you and Fred meet?”

That made her eyes crinkle. “At the community theatre. I used to sew the costumes, and he thought acting might make him bolder. Anyway, we turned up a night early – both of us had got the day wrong. He found me sitting on the steps outside the playhouse, wondering how I was going to get home. Well, we chatted, and then he suggested we go for a drink. I said no because it wasn’t proper. So he offered to walk me home. I deliberately took the long way.” Rosa laughed. “I think he knew, but he didn’t say anything.” She rubbed the gold band on her ring finger. “He had the most soulful eyes. You can’t see it in the photo, but he did.”

“What happened after that?”

“We courted for a while. He got his draft card and went to France. I had to wait a year to see him again. I wanted to get married before he left but my mother said I was too young to be a war widow. It hurt at the time, but I know she meant well.”

“So did you marry when he came back?”

“Not immediately. It took a long time for him to be home in body and mind. I thought he’d gone off me. Then one day he turned up at the shop where I worked – I did alterations for the village tailor – and begged me to come out with him. We went to the seaside.”

“Is that the day you took those pictures?”

“Yes. The first one was taken after he asked me to marry him.” She stroked the top frame. “And I look serious here,” she pointed at the second image, “because I knew he had found his way back to me. I was in shock, to tell the truth.” Rosa tucked the photograph back into her battered hardcopy. I could barely make out the gold embossed Little Dorrit on the spine.

“Any reason you chose that book?”

“There’s nothing small about it, despite what the title says.” Her smile was wistful. “And... Fred gave it to me.”

I took her hand and squeezed it. “That’s a beautiful story. Thank you for telling me.”

Great-uncle Fred’s disappearance was something of a family secret. Nobody really talked about it, unless it was New Year’s Eve and the combination of eggnog and sherry loosened people’s tongues. It took ages for me to get the few details my mother imparted, and my grandmother shut like a clam whenever Fred’s name was mentioned. Then, when my cousin Violet died, I, together with my other cousins Vanessa, Vernon, Victor and Vivienne, was roped in to help clean up her house. Much to our chagrin, all our parents a ‘V’ name for each of us as a reminder that Britain had won the war. I doubt Churchill had meant his “V for Victory” to be taken quite so literally. And it didn’t help that I was teased the most because of the nickname ‘Aloe Vera’ bestowed on me by my father. He meant it kindly, of course, but having merciless cousins made me wish he hadn’t.

I found the letter from Fred quite unexpectedly in Violet’s desk drawer. It almost ended up in the recycling bag, but the handwriting on the envelope made me give it a second glance. The date coincided with Violet’s twenty-first birthday, and the money he sent was still there, brittle and yellowed. While there was no return address, the letter was brimming with other details: he was alive as recently as twenty years ago, and the postmark indicated that he was still living in England. My cousins weren’t interested in finding out more. Vernon was particular about my not showing his mother as it would only distress her. I think he was jealous that his grandfather hadn’t written to him. Although I did honour his request and keep the letter from Rosa, I didn’t avoid the topic entirely. But I was surprised to discover that all she had of Fred’s was that one photograph with two shots of them. When I asked why, she shrugged and said it was the only thing worth keeping.

On the drive home, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Rosa’s face softened when she recalled the day at the seaside with Fred. I glimpsed her as a young woman in love, and it was beautiful to see. But I had to know why Fred left, and why Rosa never tried to find him.

“This is so typical of you,” Ben said when I relayed the story to him. “You have these romantic notions about the war and the people who lived through it, and you won’t rest until you find your ‘happy ending’.” He scraped chopped onions into a frying pan and stirred.

“Come on, Ben. Don’t tell me you’re not curious. There has to be a reason behind his leaving.”

He looked up from where he was browning the mince. “Leave it alone, Vera. Some stories don’t have happy endings.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “You sound like Vernon.”

“With good reason. Don’t meddle.”

“I have to know, Ben. I have to understand.”

“Why?” He added tinned tomatoes to the mince and onions.

“Because!”

He put down the wooden spoon. “You think I’m going to leave you, is that it? Because I don’t believe in marriage, your mother, or whoever, has got you worried that I’m going to leg it the first chance I get?”

“It’s not that.”

“Well, what is it? Why are you acting like a pit-bull on my pants-leg about this?”

I stared at my cuticles. “He still loved them, Ben. His letter – the one he sent Violet – is full of love for them. I need to know why he didn’t come back.”

“God, Vera.” He stirred the mince. “He must have had his reasons.”

With Ben’s back to me, I walked out of the kitchen. We weren’t going to agree on this, and he knew me well enough to know that I was not going to give up the search until I got my answer.

I curled up on the couch with Fred’s letter and read it again, even though I already knew it by heart.

“Here you are.” Ben handed me a glass of wine.

He sat beside me and sighed. “You sure you want to do this?”

I nodded.

“Even if it’s not the happy ending you are hoping for?”

“Does that mean you’ll help?”

“You won’t let me hear the end of it unless I do.”

I kissed him. “Thank you.”

“I love you, Vera. But, God, you vex me.”

Ben’s brother is a warrant officer in the police, so he pulled some strings to see if there were any records with information about Fred. I called directory enquiries and did a web search on him as well. All the searches came up with the same result: he was living in a retirement village forty minutes away. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was too easy. Ben had other ideas and insisted on coming with me to see him. I called ahead and made an appointment for Saturday afternoon. I was on tenterhooks for the rest of the week.

“Mr Gillespie? There’s someone to see you.”

I cringed at the nurse’s tone. Thankfully, she lowered her voice when she spoke to me.

“He’s through there, by the window. Speak loudly. He’s a bit...” She mouthed ‘deaf’.

“Thank you.” I checked to see if Ben was still there.

He squeezed my arm and smiled. “Moment of truth.”

Fred still had all his hair, but his teeth bobbed in his mouth as he tried to dislodge the remnants of his lunch. I saw his wheelchair peeking out from under the blanket across his lap. He regarded me without changing his expression.

“Fred? Mr Gillespie? My name is Vera Musgrave. This is Ben Forsyth-Jones.” I took a step towards him. “I’m your great-niece.”

“Not possible,” he said.

I tried to ignore the spittle he sent my way. “You married my great-aunt Rosa?”

“You’ve got the wrong man.” He moved as if to turn his wheelchair away from me.

“Didn’t you write this letter to my cousin Violet?”

He glanced at the envelope. “I said, you’ve got the wrong man.”

“Please, Mr Gillespie. You took Rosa’s happiness with you when you left. She deserves to know why.”

“Dear girl,” he said. “I never married. I am a homosexual, and it would have been illegal anyway. You’ve got the wrong man. I told the same thing to the woman who came round here ten years ago. She looks like you, only older.” He stroked his stubble. “The Fred Gillespie you know is a scoundrel, but he’s not me.”

“Violet was here?” I turned to Ben. “She tried to find him too.” I began to shake.

Ben put his arm around my waist and held tight. “Er, thank you, Mr Gillespie, for your time. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”

“It’s no bother. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told that other woman. If I had run away, I would have changed my name. I never liked ‘Gillespie’ to begin with.”

Ben reiterated his thanks and steered me past another old man towards the door.

We made it to the car. Ben didn’t start the engine right away. “Are you OK?”

“Processing,” I said.

“Me too. I can’t believe Violet was here ten years ago.”

“I can’t believe he remembers!” My laughter gave way to tears.

Ben handed me his handkerchief. He was the only man I knew, apart from my father, who carried one.

“I need to speak to Vernon. I think he knows more than he’s letting on.”

“Fine,” said Ben. “But can we please not do that on an empty stomach. I saw a bistro as we drove in here.”

I allowed myself to acknowledge that I was famished too. I touched Ben’s face as he moved to start the car. “Thank you for being here. Even if it is against your better judgement.”

He kissed my palm as his stomach growled. “All right, all right. We’re going.”

“I thought I told you not to go looking for him, Vera.”

“What did Violet find out?”

Vernon sighed. “The same as you. That he wasn’t there. It broke her heart.”

“So you gave up?”

“Where would we even begin looking? He could be dead for all we know.”

“Mr Gillespie said something about Fred changing his name. Do you know if your grandfather had any nicknames or middle names?”

“Vera.”

“I’m not going to stop looking. So, the way I see it, there are two options, Vernon. Either you help me and tell me what you know, or I keep digging on my own.”

The line was quiet for so long that I thought he’d put the receiver down and left me talking to an empty room.

“I have the same middle name as him. It could be nothing.”

“Edmund Gillespie. Do you think he’d go under that name?”

“He might have done.”

“Wait, what is your grandmother’s maiden name?”

“Cameron.”

“Thank you, Vernon.”

“Look, Vera, I know you won’t listen to me, but please stop this. For my mother’s sake. She grew up without a father. If she knew that he’d written to Violet...”

“Which begs the question of why he wrote to Violet in the first place.”

“I don’t know all the details.”

“What ‘details’?” I could almost hear him debating with himself before he answered.

“You remember how Violet did volunteer work at different retirement homes before she became a nurse? Anyway, she said she’d chatted to the old folks about how she never knew her grandfather, and that’s why she wanted to help them because she couldn’t do it for him. She must have spoken to someone who knows Fred because the letter arrived on her next birthday.” Vernon cleared his throat.

“Don’t you want to know the whole story? Haven’t you ever wondered?”

“No. He left my grandmother destitute and with two children to raise. He’s a coward, Vera. Not a romantic hero from one of those paperbacks you read at school.”

I said goodbye to Vernon. Some wounds are generational, and I knew Vernon thought I was rubbing salt in his.

“Any luck, Enid Blyton?” Ben handed me a mug of tea.

“Not yet.” I peered at the computer screen. “I’ve been in touch with the researchers of that TV show Know Your Ancestry. Maybe they’ll pick up the story.”

“I’m sure they get thousands of requests like yours.”

“Thank you, Kevin Killjoy. I’ve also searched the public census records for Frederick Edmund Gillespie. His last known address was near the retirement home we visited, which is no help at all. But I did manage to find out that his parents were Liza Scotlock and Frederick Gillespie Senior. So I am going to look for Edmund Scotlock or Edmund Cameron and see what comes up.”

Ben peered over at the screen. “Looks like your browser has frozen. Too many tabs open?”

I sighed and put my head in my hands.

Ben patted my shoulder. “Go easy on yourself. It’s only research.”

“And I have no leads, Ben. I don’t have anything more to go on. If these searches come up empty, then I’m back to square one.”

“I have faith in you, Enid Blyton.” He kissed my forehead. “Come to bed. This will still be here tomorrow.”

[END OF PART ONE]