CHAPTER 56 - ROCHFORD, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 56

ROCHFORD, ENGLAND

The following morning, Susan drove to Rochford, a little over an hour from Epping. In the passenger seat was a tarnished tea tin that she’d kept for over half a century. It would have done no good, she believed, to have revealed to her husband or daughter that she once had had affection for another man. So she’d kept it hidden in a keepsake box. It was, and would always be, her secret, encased inside that tea tin. And in a small, but impenetrable, compartment within her heart.

She’d barely slept. Fear of what she might find, or not find, broiled in her brain, resurrecting vile memories of the war. Sirens. Explosions. The sickening odor of expelled gunpowder. Bertie’s lifeless limbs protruding from rubble. In an attempt to rid herself of the visions, she resorted to placing a record, “The Lark Ascending,” by Vaughan Williams, on her vintage console stereo. She’d listened to it over and over. A penny taped to the stylus kept the needle from skipping. But the angelic music had done little to soothe the wounds of the past. Nor did it dispel the anxiety of what tomorrow might bring.

Following the directions Mr. Googins had given her, she arrived at a sand-colored brick row house with small windows and a crooked television antenna protruding from the roof. She parked the car on the street and got out. Carrying the tin, she proceeded to the front door. The pain in her legs soon reminded her that she’d forgotten her cane at home. Her joints cracked as she climbed the porch steps. She knocked. Her heartbeat quickened. A lock clicked, and the door opened.

“Susan?” A gray-haired man wearing khaki pants and a tartan shirt extended his arm. “Niles Googins.”

Susan shook the man’s hand.

Niles turned to a woman beside him wearing large round glasses and a blue sweater; her wrinkled, pink-hued cheeks were powdered with makeup. “My wife, Lydia.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Lydia said.

Susan stepped into the home, noticing stacks of crown molding on the floor. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Mr. Googins said. “We’re remodeling.” He led Susan to the living room, then pointed to a fireplace. “I found it in there.”

Susan looked at an old coal-burning fireplace but noticed the items on a coffee table. A small clear-plastic display case. Inside, resting on a thin pad of foam, the remains of a pigeon. A skull. Bits of wing. And two leg bones, one with an attached red canister. With quivering hands, she stepped closer. Beside the case, a small message. Although the piece of paper had turned brown from age, she immediately recognized the code and the distinctive penmanship. Her eyes watered.

“Oh dear,” Lydia said. She left and returned with a tissue.