The Photograph: A Daughter’S Search

By Dee Woods

The story is about Katy, who, on the death of her mother, discovers a hidden photograph that changes everything she knew about her life up to that point. Despite objections from her aunt whom she believed was her only family, she decides to search for the people in the photograph, who she now knows are the family she knew nothing about. Her search leads to joy and heartbreak, love and friendship, and betrayal and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jun 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543485349

Dee Woods

Dee Woods is 66 and retired and has had a passion to write a book for many years. Now retired she felt she had the time to devote to this. She attended a short novel writing course which gave her the confidence to start and with the encouragement of family and writing group has completed this her first novel. Her passion has not abated and she is in the process of writing her second book.

Book preview

CHAPTER

1

K aty found the photograph tucked inside the lining of her mother’s handbag. A few stitches had been carefully unpicked to allow it to be slipped out of sight. It was two weeks since Victoria Williams’s funeral and the first time Katy had ventured into her mother’s bedroom. There was a lingering scent of her perfume in the air, and as nothing had been touched since her death, a slight film of dust lay on the surface of her bedside table and the old chest of drawers that held her meagre clothing.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford new clothes, Katy thought, she just had no interest in them.

On entering the room, she had sat on the bed, a tall dark willowy girl, the image of her mother, they said, breathing in the last quiet feeling of her mother’s presence until her eyes lit on the handbag. It was the same one her mother had always used, brown leather, scuffed at the corners, with an old-fashioned clasp fastening and two handles, worn in the middle from years of use. Katy picked it up from its place beside the bed and, before opening it, held it in her hands for a moment, feeling the leather, softened from years of use. It felt like a violation of her mother’s privacy, but her mother had gone and there came a point when she knew she would have to make a decision about her few possessions.

The bag contained the normal things a woman finds essential. There was a brown leather purse containing a few coins, a bank card and some folded receipts, a gold-coloured powder compact with the initials VW engraved on the front, a diary with very little in the way of entries, a small silver pen, and a lace-edged handkerchief. She took each piece out and laid it on the bed. There was nothing of value and no clue to the character of the woman whose bag it was, except for the handkerchief. It was an old-fashioned thing to carry, and Victoria had been rather old-fashioned in her way. It was when she was putting the items back that Katy noticed the small split in the lining. She slid the photograph out of its hiding place and studied it. It was worn from handling with bent corners, but it wasn’t very old, certainly not one of those sepia prints, like those of her grandparents that her Aunt Betty would get out every now and then. The black-and-white print was of a man dressed in casual trousers and open-necked shirt. He had his arms around two children, a boy of about 8 wearing shorts and a school shirt, and a girl about 6 wearing a gingham dress. Standing in front of him were two more boys aged about 5, so alike, they must have been twins. They were also wearing shorts and white shirts. Sitting cross-legged in front was a pretty toddler in a printed dress. She must have been about 3, with blond curls and an infectious grin. They were all smiling, as if prompted by whoever was taking the photograph, but their smiles looked natural and relaxed. They were comfortable with the photographer and with each other. In the background, there was a garden, a small plot with a square lawn, a narrow tree behind the figures, and behind that again, a wooden fence. Katy didn’t recognise anyone at first, and then, eyes narrowed, she looked more closely at the man. Puzzled, she glanced at the picture of her father that Victoria had always kept on her bedside table and then back at the print. Surprised, she realised that it was her father, or someone very like him, but who were all those children? She had never known her father as she had been born two weeks after he died tragically in a hit-and-run accident. The only photograph she had ever seen of him was this one beside the bed, in its simple wooden frame, but it was so familiar to her, she felt she almost knew the handsome, smiling man in it. She turned the print over. On the back in faint writing, she could make out some names and what looked like an address. Leaving the handbag on the bed, and clutching the photograph, she went down the narrow staircase to the room they always called the parlour and called out, ‘Aunt Betty! Where are you?’

‘I’m in here, Katy love. I’m just trying to decide what to do for tea. I can’t really be bothered but we need to eat.’

Her aunt was in the tiny kitchen behind the parlour, so Katy followed the sound of her voice. Betty was standing in front of an open-kitchen cupboard, a puzzled look on her face. She turned as Katy appeared in the doorway.

‘What do you think, love—beans on toast?’

‘I don’t care really,’ said Katy. ‘I’m like you, not bothered. Auntie, have you ever seen this photograph before? I’ve just found it in Mum’s handbag, hidden inside the lining.’

Her aunt turned and the change in her face was extraordinary. From a look of puzzlement, her kind, round face suddenly paled to a ghostly white and the colour seemed to leach out of her plump cheeks.

‘What photograph? What have you been doing, going through Vicky’s things? I was going to do that when the time was right.’ Her aunt seemed suddenly very agitated and alarmed, her shoulders tense, her head held high, almost defensively.

Katy was surprised at Betty’s reaction. ‘Well, I just wanted to be in her room and I opened her handbag, and there it was. Surely I’m entitled to look through her things?’ Katy herself was suddenly defensive.

Betty’s face crumpled and she reached into her apron pocket for a tissue, which she held up to her face, her shoulders sagging. Alarmed, Katy slipped the photograph into the back pocket of her jeans and stepped forward to put her arm around her aunt’s shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry, Auntie, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Katy was contrite.

‘I’m sorry too, love. Everything seems to upset me these days. You see I miss her so much.’ Betty raised a tragic face to Katy, who led her into the parlour to one of the old fireside chairs.

‘You sit down there and I’ll get you a nice cup of tea,’ Katy said.

Betty smiled feebly. ‘The famous cure-all. I seem to be drowning in tea!’ She sat back into the chair, resting her head and closing her eyes.

Katy felt guilty, but was not quite sure why. Her aunt did get upset easily these days. It wasn’t surprising considering her sister’s sudden death, the funeral, and everything else that went with it. Katy wasn’t sure why the photograph would have upset her so much when she hadn’t even seen it, but she would leave that for another time. She busied herself in the tiny kitchen preparing a pot of tea and setting out pretty china cups and saucers on a tray. She realised she had put three cups on the tray and hastily removed one. A little ache in the region of her heart reminded her of her own recent loss, and shaking herself, and painting a bright smile on her face, she carried the tray into the parlour.

They had always called it the parlour, but it was really just the back room of the small sweet shop that Betty had been running for over thirty years, in the tiny coastal village of Porthcarrow, in Cornwall. This was where they called home. The shop was situated halfway up the hill, running from the harbour at the bottom, to the church at the top, and aptly named Church Hill. It was a small grey stone cottage with a picture window in the front with Betty’s collection of antique jars and bowls displaying the old-fashioned goodies that could be found within. Behind the shop was this small sitting room, and behind that, a tiny kitchen leading out onto a yard. Above the shop were two bedrooms and a bathroom, and up in the attic, a small bedroom that had been converted for Katy to have a room of her own. It was small but cosy and the only home that Katy had ever known.

To either side of the shop, running up and down the hill, were similar shops selling tourist fripperies, cakes and pastries, clothes, and books and magazines. Opposite, also wandering haphazardly up the hill, were more stone cottages, homes to some of the residents of the village and also the second homes of what the locals called ‘Outsiders’. At the top of the hill stood the fourteenth-century church, its haphazard graveyard looking out over the harbour and the sea beyond. The rest of the village was scattered across the hillside, a maze of passageways and lanes, small fisherman’s cottages crowded together with tiny shops, a small supermarket, and an old chapel, converted into a gallery, which sold local arts and crafts. Visitors would wander the lanes and linger in the gallery looking for hand-made souvenirs to take home, and despite scorn from some of the locals when it had opened, it had become very successful. The harbour was the greatest attraction to visitors, who came to watch the last few fishing boats in the area landing their catches, and who would then wander up the hill, sampling the pastries at Bob’s Cakes and lingering in Betty’s shop to admire the array of old-fashioned sweet jars on the shelves, leaving with their twists of paper containing humbugs, pear drops, and all manner of things, sharing the contents of their little bags and their memories.

It had surprised the whole village when Betty bought the shop over thirty years ago. Elizabeth and her sister Victoria, the only daughters of Albert and Rene Webster, had been brought up in comfort in a large house on the outskirts of the village. Their father, Albert, a proud, self-made man, full of bluster and self-importance, ran a number of estate agencies in the area, with his offices based in Truro, a few miles away. He also had interests in other businesses and was a local councillor. Their mother Rene was a tall graceful woman, the daughter of a wealthy couple whose home in Devon covered several thousand acres, with farms and businesses scattered across it. She ran an elegant home and together with her husband had great plans for their daughters. The girls had grown up with every luxury and been educated privately, not with a view to great careers, but in order to make good marriages. Their parents had ideas of a life similar to their own for them. The older girl, Victoria, tall and elegant like her mother, carried all their hopes and dreams of a successful marriage, a beautiful home, and grandchildren. Betty—or Elizabeth as she was always known at home—was short, plump, and rather plain. Her parents were less hopeful for her, but she was good around the house, always willing, and she adored her elder sister, although this adoration was always tinged with an element of envy. Her greatest fear was of being left to look after her elderly parents, while Victoria lived a life that Betty could only dream of. Betty was determined to find a man that could rescue her from obscurity and service.

Betty and Vicky were close sisters, and in their early twenties, with only two years between them, and they spent much of their time together, shopping and spending their evenings at parties and dances. The sixties had just begun and all the excitement of those times was only just beginning to filter through the isolation of the village. They loved to wander through their village, lingering on the harbour and chatting with the locals, and were well-known in the area. Betty hoped when they both married that they would remain close and bring up their children together, but Vicky soon proceeded to smash her parents’ plans to smithereens and to break her sister’s heart.

She met and fell in love with a young man, a carpenter, working in the village on a building contract. They would pass him each day as they strolled arm in arm through the village, and he was struck by the beauty of tall lovely Victoria; he would chat with the two girls as they passed and often joined them when he took his lunch, sitting on the harbour wall with them. He would flirt with them both, but had eyes only for Vicky. James Williams was a good-looking young man, tanned and fit, with a sparkle in his blue eyes, and Victoria was smitten. Betty pleaded with her not to get involved as it would only bring disaster, but Victoria was deaf to her warnings. She would take extra care with her make-up and hair before they went for their morning walk.

Their mother began to notice this enthusiasm for early exercise and the glint in Victoria’s eyes. She questioned Betty, who, forever loyal, pleaded ignorance and explained that they just enjoyed their time spent together, before their lives changed inevitably. Rene, however, was not satisfied and one day she followed them carefully. Dressed in an anonymous beige mac and headscarf, and feeling faintly ridiculous, she hovered at the edge of the harbour, shivering as the air was chilly and autumn was approaching and watched with dismay the play of affection between Vicky and this highly unsuitable young man, clearly a labourer, and not at all what her husband and herself had in mind for their beautiful elder daughter. Not wanting to make a scene, and knowing the inevitable reaction of her husband if he knew, she took her daughter to one side after lunch that same day, with the pretence of a fitting for a new dress Victoria was to wear at the Hunt Ball in a few weeks’ time.

The Hunt Ball was the highlight of their social calendar, and both Albert and Rene had high hopes for this particular evening to produce a happy conclusion to their search for a suitable husband for their eldest daughter. Victoria had been courted by a young man from a well-known local farming family and their feeling was that this occasion would be perfect for a proposal and a satisfactory outcome for both families. Alone in Victoria’s bedroom, the discussion centred on the ball and some of the eligible young men who would be present. Rene had decided to broach a difficult subject carefully. Kneeling down, pinning the hem of Vicky’s ball gown, and not looking at her daughter, she said, ‘I met Mrs Morgan-Jones at the baker’s this morning.’

‘Oh yes, and what did that old gossip have to say?’ Vicky laughed.

‘Victoria, you really shouldn’t call her that. Her husband is very influential on the council.’ A smile tugged at Rene’s mouth, though. Mildred Morgan-Jones was a terrible gossip. However, it suited Rene at this point to use the woman’s reputation to her own advantage. ‘She told me she has seen you and Elizabeth quite often lately, down at the harbour, talking to a young man, a stranger in the village.’ Rene looked up innocently at Vicky, awaiting her reply.

‘Oh!’ Vicky was caught unawares. ‘Well, we talk to lots of people down there. I can’t think of anyone special!’ A flush had stained her cheeks and she had refused to meet her mother’s eyes.

Rene sighed and rose from her kneeling position to look straight at her daughter. ‘Victoria, there’s no use trying to deny this, I’ve seen you myself.’

Victoria stared at her mother, shocked. ‘Have you been spying on me? How could you?’

‘Not spying exactly.’ Rene was uncomfortable, but she ploughed on. ‘But I’m trying to save you from your father’s wrath, if you want to know. If he finds out you have been consorting with a labourer, he’ll have a blue fit! The Hunt Ball is in two weeks and you know how keen he is that you and Martin Bradford get together and make a decision about your future.’

Vicky laughed out loud, her hands on her hips, the beautiful gown shimmering with her movement. ‘There’s not a hope in hell that Martin and I will "get together as you put it. He’s a friend, that’s all, and the rest of that Hunt" crowd do nothing for me. Daddy can wish all he likes, nothing’s going to happen. And for your information, James is not a just labourer, he’s a skilled carpenter and much in demand!’

Now Vicky had shocked her mother.

Rene stepped back in dismay. ‘James, is it? Well, you’ve obviously become very friendly, haven’t you?’ Rene hesitated a moment, as if making a decision. Her voice became more pleading and softer. ‘Victoria, please don’t do this. You don’t realise what this will do to your father. I’m sure this young man seems very glamorous and attractive, but what sort of future can he offer you?’

‘Hah!’ Vicky was scathing. ‘You mean the sort of future that means a big house, a wardrobe full of clothes, and the requisite two or three grandchildren. Maybe that’s not what I want. And anyway, who says I’m going to marry James? Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit, I’ve only just met him!’

‘Well you do seem extremely struck by him and he certainly seems smitten with you.’ Rene realised her mistake too late as a wistful smile suddenly played around her daughter’s mouth.

‘Do you really think so?’ Vicky looked at her mother, her eyes sparkling. ‘He is rather dishy, you know. I’ve never felt like this before, Mum, but I’m not going to run off and marry him tomorrow. He’s so much more fun than that "Hunt" crowd, and I’d like to go out with who I choose, not who Daddy chooses for me.’

Rene sighed. She caught hold of her daughter’s hands and looked her up and down. She was resplendent in her midnight blue ball gown, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. Rene knew she would be the belle of the ball, but she also knew that if she defied her father, only heartache would follow. ‘You are so lovely, Victoria. You know you could have the pick of the most eligible young men in the county. I beg you not to rock the boat. I don’t know if I could cope with your father if you go on this way.’

Vicky pulled her hands away from her mother’s and slid the ball gown off her slender shoulders, impatiently. ‘It’s no use trying emotional blackmail, Mother. I don’t want to upset Daddy any more than you do, but we’re in the 1960s, for God’s sake, and I want a life of my own. He’s so Victorian about everything. I want to get a job, earn my own money, and maybe move away from home. I want to go to concerts and parties without being chaperoned.’ She stepped out of the dress and flung it carelessly on her bed turning to her mother. ‘Couldn’t you speak to him, please?’ she pleaded. ‘I won’t do anything to shame the family if that’s what he’s worried about. Anyway Betty will be the first one to produce grandchildren for you. She’s dying to have a husband and family.’

Now her mother was impatient. ‘Victoria, you know you have better prospects than Elizabeth. We would love her to have a home and family, but it won’t be so easy for her. You could have anything you wanted without even trying.’ She picked the ball gown off the bed and lovingly stroked the beautiful material. ‘When your father and I got married, we had nothing, and life was very hard. We don’t want that for you girls. Can’t you see we only want what’s best for you?’

‘You mean what’s best for you and Daddy, don’t you?’ Victoria pulled on a pair of navy stretch trousers and a short pink sweater, and pushing her feet into a pair of leather sandals, she grabbed her shoulder bag and tossed her hair. ‘I’m off into Truro,’ she said. ‘There’s a new boutique just opened and they’re advertising for staff. I thought I’d have a go at getting a job. See you later!’

She was gone, in a whirl of dark hair and perfume, before her mother could say another word. Rene sighed again. She wasn’t sure how she would broach the subject of Victoria going out to work to her husband, but she was very sure of his reaction. It would be so much easier if Victoria behaved more like Elizabeth, compliant and easy-going. She mused on these things as she hung the ball gown on the outside of the wardrobe door. Stepping back, she admired its shimmering beauty and thought, I would have given my eye teeth for something like this when I was her age. Why must she be so ungrateful? Still, she’ll be the centre of attention at the ball and maybe it will change her mind. She left the room, leaving the beautiful gown hanging on the wardrobe door.

When Vicky arrived home that evening and announced that she had a job and that one of the other girls in the shop was looking for someone to share her flat so she was moving out, the results were dramatic. A huge row followed with Albert red-faced and furious, bellowing and adamant, that no daughter of his was going to work in a common shop, Rene pleading for calm, and Victoria shedding noisy, hysterical tears. Betty’s tears were quiet, sad, and frightened.

Two days later, Vicky was gone and everything changed from that day.

When Vicky didn’t come down for breakfast that morning, Betty was sent upstairs to fetch her, and finding the bed not slept in and some of her sister’s things missing, she hurried downstairs to break the news. When they searched, the red mini their father had bought for his girls to share was not in the garage, some of Vicky’s clothes were gone and all her jewellery. Albert simply muttered that she would soon be back with her tail between her legs and went to work. Rene phoned all Vicky’s friends in terror and Betty sat on her sister’s bed, staring around at the pretty rose-sprigged wallpaper, the plush pink carpet, and the crisp bed linen, and at the beautiful gown hanging on the wardrobe door, never to be worn, numbly remembering all the lovely times they had had together and wondering if they would ever have such good times together again.

CHAPTER

2

B etty woke with a start, her heart hammering furiously. Vague images from her dream drifted in the dark and she reached out to switch on her bedside light to dispel them. The soft light comforted her, so she plumped the pillows and sat up. Sipping some water from the glass she kept on her bedside table, she waited for her pulse to slow and tried to remember the dream. It had been disturbing, but she had no clear memory of it, just dim faces looming and a feeling of great sadness and also terrible anger. She gazed around her room. It had always seemed so welcoming when she went to bed each night, this little room above the shop, but somehow overnight it had lost its warmth. The blue and pink chintz curtains and bedcover and deep blue carpet had always seemed so cosy, but tonight, each time she closed her eyes, strange images flashed across her vision and a feeling of overpowering fear brought her awake, trembling.

It’s that damn photograph, she thought. Why did Vicky have to keep it? She just couldn’t let go, could she? All these years we’ve been so successful, protecting Katy and living our lives. What am I going to say to her?

She put her glass down and settled back against the pillows. There was no chance of sleep now. She glanced at the bedside clock. It showed just past six in the morning, but it was quite dark and still outside. The village would start to come to life in about half an hour. Bob the Baker was probably already in his shop, starting to prepare the bread and pastries for the day, and that wonderful aroma would soon start to permeate the air, tingling the villager’s taste buds. Betty usually bought her bread from Bob, fresh every day, and on Saturday mornings she treated Vicky, Katy, and herself to newly baked croissants, warm and flaky, to have with their coffee. Since Vicky’s death, neither she nor Katy had the stomach for food, eating out of habit, and feeling slightly sick afterwards. Betty had even been sick, several times, and had vomited, again last night, after Katy tried to show her the photo. Betty knew what it was. There was only one photograph Victoria would have kept all these years.

How on