The Year I Found Great Aunt Alice: Love-in-War, #1

By Susan Leona Fisher

Nadine Crichton is a glamorous thirty-something woman of the eighties, running a successful business with her friend Pat. But is it enough? Orphaned as a young adult, she longs to have a family to belong to. She's not the sort to act on a whim, but as 1987 gets underway and heralds a whole series of disasters from the Zeebrugge ferry sinking to the King's Cross fire, that's just what she does. Surely this look-alike woman from years ago must be a relative. Her search leads her first to a small English village, where she finds unexpected complications in the person of local farmer Josh Reynolds. She's not looking for another failure at love, and he's clearly not interested, or so she thinks. Her discovery of a link to Alice brings unwelcome publicity about her past, but spurs Nadine on to visit France and Switzerland to reveal the full story of her great aunt's courage and uncover secrets that go back to both world wars. As she comes to know and understand this lost relative she gains a new perspective on her own losses and re-examines her priorities.

If you enjoy a carefully crafted story, with well-researched, authentic historical settings, a strong romantic interest, a bit of mystery and a happy ending, then you'll like this novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Fisher
• Release date: Dec 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201250584

Susan Leona Fisher

Susan Leona Fisher began writing fiction on her retirement, having been a technical/academic writer in her former working life. She was born in London and now lives in the Yorkshire Dales, having lived in various places in between, due to  her clergyman husband’s various postings. Her route to publication was via the New Writers’ Scheme run by the Romantic Novelists’ Association, of which she is a member. She has written 20 historical romances in settings ranging from the ever-popular Regency period to the Second World War. One of them, A Master of Litigation, made the final for historical romance in the Romantic Novel Awards 2018. She has also written several contemporary romances and one non-fiction biography.

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The Year I Found Great Aunt Alice

by

Susan Leona Fisher

Love-in-War series #1

Copyright © 2022 Susan Leona Fisher

All rights reserved. The right of Susan Leona Fisher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

All characters in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This edition published by Susan Leona Fisher, 2022

First published 2013

LOVE-IN-WAR SERIES:

The context of war, whether pitched battles between opposing armies or the sudden violence of air raids or terrorism, affects relationships in many ways. There will be separation, snatched moments, anxiety and uncertainty, the urge to protect children, shock, physical suffering and life-changing wounds, death and all the emotions generated by bereavement, made particularly poignant when there is no body. This is the first of three stories that touch on some or all of these issues.

#1 The Year I Found Great Aunt Alice begins in 1987, when Alice’s great niece sets out to discover what her late relative did in both world wars and unexpectedly gets a second chance at love herself along the way.

#2 The Girl Back Home begins in 1938, when 17-year-old Emily is sent by her partly Jewish family to a relative in New England, to be safe from the coming war. On arrival she learns the relative has died and she must use all her wits to survive the next seven years. Will she ever again encounter the young naval lieutenant who helped her on the voyage out?

#3 Tracing Shadows begins in modern times, when Ellen is confronted with some old love letters from the 1st World War written by her late grandmother. She recalls the investigations she undertook years ago and how she fell in love along the way. But she also has secrets she’s kept for years, until her own granddaughter challenges her to reveal them.

The three stories are connected by the theme of love and loss in time of war rather than by the characters in them, so can be read in any order.

Table of Contents

Prologue: 1987

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

A Memoir

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epitaph for Alice

Postscript

Prologue: 1987

The year Margaret Thatcher was returned as Prime Minister for a third term; the Church of England voted to allow women’s ordination; the Archbishop of Canterbury’s envoy was kidnapped in Beirut; party hostess Cynthia Payne went on trial again and a film of her life, Personal Services, was released; the British and French governments formally approved proposals for a Channel Tunnel; a passenger ferry capsized in the Belgian port of Zeebrugge, killing one hundred and ninety-three; Rudolf Hess died in prison by his own hand; a gunmen ran amok and killed sixteen people in Hungerford; a hurricane killed twenty-three in southern England, a few days after which automated computerised share trading, possibly, precipitated Black Monday; an IRA  bomb killed eleven and injured more than sixty gathered at Enniskillen’s war memorial on Remembrance Sunday; and accumulated rubbish under an escalator at King’s Cross underground station fuelled a fire which killed thirty-one and injured many more. It was also the year I set out, armed with a scrap of information and a photograph, to find out something of myself and where I came from, where I belonged and what I wanted for my future. I dedicate this account of my special year to all my family, past and present, and to Sister Parker, affectionately known as pourquoi, teacher of French at my convent school, who always believed I had more to say than came out of my mouth.

Chapter One

How can a dead person change someone’s life? You haven’t met my Great Aunt Alice! Neither have I come to that, but I feel I know her very well, nonetheless. I can guess what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. She didn’t leave me a cottage in the country on condition I move there, thus transforming my city ways and, naturally, finding the man of my dreams. It wasn’t quite like that, but she certainly left me a heritage. Can it really be a quarter of a century ago, just as my late-flowering career was getting going, that I set off on a whim that weekend in April nineteen-eighty-seven? A touch of spring fever, Pat called it. She was my business partner and flatmate and it was all her fault really.

It was pure chance she spotted it. I remember the moment, a cold January evening at the start of the year that was to change my life. Pat was kneeling by the hearth, rolling up sheets of old newspaper to light the open fire—our ritual on wintry Friday evenings after our week’s work. My God, Nadine, look at this. It’s amazing. It was only a small photograph but it did look uncannily like me, with her long hair swept up and back as mine once used to be. The face was heart-shaped like mine, well-defined cheek bones, a hint of a smile on her closed mouth, the eyes gazing calmly at the camera—my shape of eyes, but in black and white I couldn’t tell what colour they were. It was an obituary of course, and the photo was an old one from when she’d been about my age. But the name meant nothing and Pat, having at first got really excited, in the end dismissed it as a coincidence. They say we all have a doppelganger somewhere, she pronounced.

Yes, you’re probably right, I agreed. But I kept the cutting and for weeks couldn’t get it out of my mind. Then that awful ferry disaster happened in March—so many families unexpectedly devastated—and they were still trying to find that peace envoy kidnapped in Beirut—he had a family too. It spurred me to action. I had nothing to lose and possibly something to gain. I contacted the newspaper’s obituary section to find out more from the man who wrote the piece. How strange you should ring now, a woman’s voice told me, he’s been long retired and wrote it specially, as he was one of the few who remembered her. Sadly it was one of the last things he did. I’m sorry to tell you he died a few weeks ago. In fact I’m putting together his obituary as we speak. I imagined my mum’s voice, which often echoed in my head in those days, telling me if I’d been more decisive and acted sooner I might have been able to speak to the man and find out more before it was too late. But I hadn’t. My only clue, apart from her name, was the place where she was born—a village in Shropshire.

My fantasy, as I drove off on that grey April day, was that I would unearth a long-lost family, but I set off more in hope than expectation and the signs and portents, if one believes in such things, were certainly not good. Having at last negotiated the suburban Saturday morning traffic, I remembered I needed my best suit for Monday. If I’d thought, Pat could have collected it, but the ticket was in my purse. I doubled back, eventually found a parking place and queued for ages at the dry-cleaners. Back on the move again, I reached the slip-road to the motorway, hesitated long enough to get myself an almighty hoot from an articulated truck driver, then chickened out at the last minute. If you don’t fancy the M1, take the A5. It goes most of the way. It’s about time you did a good long journey on your own, if only to prove you can do it. You’re a good driver—you just need to build more experience and confidence. That had been Pat’s advice along with a firm refusal of my invitation to come along too. It was straightforward enough, as Roman roads are, but took a long time through various town centres. The clouds overhead became increasingly ominous and I remembered to put my lights on. Please don’t rain on top of everything else I begged. They didn’t listen, inevitably. By the time I reached Telford, the few people who’d still not gone home were deploying umbrellas and the road had turned dark and shiny. Nervous of skidding, I slowed down, though I wasn’t going that fast in the first place.

The drizzle became a steady downpour, then such a torrent I couldn’t really see where I was going. But I could see the little needle moving closer to red, which I guessed meant the engine was overheating. Thankfully I spotted my turning onto a minor road leading to the village. There was no other traffic and I stayed in second gear, proceeding with caution.  The visibility was almost nil, but sufficient to spot a very welcome lay-by. It was awash with mud and the surface was far from even, but I was grateful to take a break and let everything cool down, not least my own heart-beat.

Pat had been quite mystified as to why I wanted to make this journey, and I began to wonder at my own judgment—not that it had been a rational decision, more an instinct, or maybe simply a desperate desire. What is it they say, better to travel in hope than to arrive? Very apt for someone whose name means hope, except, having chosen it, my mother spent most of my childhood reminding me how lacking in it I was. When you’re told enough times how hopeless you are you begin to believe it. I certainly felt it now, enclosed in a four sided waterfall that was rapidly whooshing away the boldness with which I’d begun the day.

For a moment I was back in my parents’ ancient Morris Oxford that day they deposited me at St Ignatius Girls’ Convent School. My stomach tightened at the memory and I could hear my mother’s voice. Come on, for goodness sake, Nadine, it’s almost stopped. Why have you locked your door? Her hand had stretched through from the front to lift the lock. Why can’t you have a little more gumption and show some initiative? I really do lose patience with you! My door had been wrenched open.

I broke out of my reverie to the sound of knocking on the window and found my arms folded across the steering wheel with my head resting on them. Had I dozed off? I sat up and focused. The rain had stopped and the sun was out and there was a person standing beside the car, a blurry outline leaning down to get my attention. I began to turn the window winder but it was loose and useless and I remembered it was one of the things Pat had said needed fixing. I opened the door instead.

Hello. Anything the matter? I asked. The figure turned out to be a young man, in work overalls, wellies and a broad-brimmed hat, still dripping from the rain, with that ruddy complexion that comes from an outdoor life, and twinkling blue eyes.

Hello, Miss. Everything all right? Thought you might’ve broken down. It’s quite an old car you’re driving, they often don’t like the damp.

No, it’s fine thanks—I think. I was remembering that needle. I was only waiting for the rain to ease. Still he hovered. Nice of him to call me Miss.

You’ll be setting off again, then—now it’s stopped?

Yes. Can I just ask, am I right for Fordleighham?

Fordl’am, yeah. Follow this road for the next few miles, can’t miss it. That was good news.

Still he stood there. Was I missing something? Then I heard it, the rumble of a large diesel engine coming from my left. The windows were too misted to see and I had to put one foot in the mud to hoist myself out, quite forgetting about the map. It had been on my lap. It was now half submerged in a puddle the colour of melted chocolate. The friendly young man bent to retrieve it.

Whoops! Is it one of the waterproof ones?

I laughed. I don’t think so. Then I remembered why I stood up in the first place, and looked over my shoulder. Oh! This was no lay-by but the entrance to a field and my young friend had apparently managed to open the gate but couldn’t get his tractor out till I moved. He was being very polite, but really in all that rain there was no way I could have known.

A broad, dimpled grin turned his cheeks into mini red balloons and told me he knew I’d now realised my misdemeanour. I probably could squeeze past without doing you any damage but the boss is right behind and his is a lot bigger. He needs every inch he can get.

Right, I better get moving then, I said, privately adding before your man with the well-endowed tractor appears.

He gave the map another shake and handed it to me. By the way, did you know you’ve still got your lights on?

Thanks. I flicked them off and rummaged under the seat for a cloth to clear the inside of the windscreen. The young man still hadn’t got back on his tractor. He was standing hands on hips evidently waiting to watch my departure, or perhaps admiring the car. According to Pat it had become a collector’s item. I hadn’t liked to point out that collectability is often in inverse proportion to functionality, the item either having become too valuable to use or have fallen into such disrepair it ceased to be useable. I was beginning to realise which category Pat’s vehicle fell into, though anyone observing my efforts to get going again might conclude it was really my driving that was at fault. The engine reluctantly stuttered to life, and I half-wobbled, half-slid away, not assisted by the mud I’d now acquired on my right foot.

Now I could see it, I began to appreciate the landscape, a patchwork of fields bounded by neat English hedgerows dotted with white blossom. I’d been a townie for such a long time.

I recalled that long ago last childhood holiday. I had been eleven and joyful at the prospect of four weeks with my usual crowd of friends at the French camp site. I hadn’t known then about my place at the convent and the string of summer invitations from other mums with daughters on the tennis circuit that would fill my teenage summers, while my parents went to France without me. I was popular at school because I was good at sport and not too clever, and I laughed and made jokes a lot. I learned to look happy.

The road had now acquired big ditches either side and become dead straight, so I could see quite far ahead—no large tractor in sight, thank goodness. Mist steamed from the road before me as the sun asserted itself, though I feared some of it was also rising from the bonnet, which, judging by that needle, was getting even warmer. I passed an ancient brick and timber barn, the only building in sight, then, a few hundred yards ahead, the road rose up a slight incline and curved to the left. With much relief, I drove over the narrow coat-hanger shaped stone bridge, on the far side of which the village sign at last told me I’d arrived. Which way to go? A turning to my left warned Ford and I saw a torrential stream tumbling across the lane. No way could I negotiate that, so I drove slowly on, past a large house on my right. It had a central stone-columned portico and those elegant arched windows either side of it. A large sign, in black and gold copperplate, told me it was the Old Vicarage Guest House and had vacancies, which could be useful later.

Beyond the house a long brick wall began, perhaps marking the boundary of some ancient estate, but it was too high to see over. I spotted what looked like a memorial set back in an alcove in the wall and beyond it, where the wall ended, a church, squat and sandy-coloured in grounds fronted by metal railings. No point in wasting time—I stopped the car and crossed the road to begin my research, starting with the memorial, after which I’d take a peek in the church. I had to leap across a long puddle filling the gutter for yards in either direction in order to reach the narrow pavement. The white statue on top of its stone plinth resembled a shining angel in the sun, but, on closer inspection, it turned out to be an armed soldier, standing guard over his dead comrades. There were only five names, all different and none to excite me, but it had been worth a look. It was from the Boer War and I wondered where the village’s other war memorials were, for surely there’d be more than a handful of names for the two later great conflicts of the century.

A metallic squeak drew my attention towards the church and I saw a young woman, pretty with blond curls held back by a colourful bandana, wearing jeans and a long knitted tunic in a striking black and white design. She’d just closed the wrought iron gates at the roadside.

Hello, I called out and she turned my way.

Hi! Were you wanting the church? Only I’ve this moment locked up. Been getting the flowers ready for tomorrow. But if you really need—

No, please, I interrupted, don’t trouble yourself. I can see it another time.

There’s a service tomorrow at ten. The vicar usually unlocks about half an hour beforehand. Family research is it?

Sort of. I’ve only just arrived—I wonder, can you recommend somewhere to stay tonight, I’ve not booked anything?

She pointed back the way I’d come. The guest house is along there—lovely but quite pricey. Then she pointed the other way. "If you go on into the main village, you’ll find The Feathers usually has a room—very friendly and cosy. I should know, I work on the bar of an evening."

"Thanks. The Feathers it is. I’ll see you later then."

Lovely. I’m Sally by the way. With a wave she set off towards the village while I turned back to retrieve my car.

At that moment a tractor thundered along towards me, pulling over to my side of the lane to negotiate my parked car on the other side. There was nothing I could do, except my reflexes told me to turn away, allowing my back to take the full impact of the enormous wave generated by the large back wheel. It soaked through immediately to my shirt and underwear and I remembered Pat’s words that morning. You’re looking very smart for a drive in the country. Why hadn’t I worn jeans and a sweatshirt instead of my cream linen trouser suit? Did I say cream? It was now somewhat beige and spattered with leopard spots of mud. I recognised the offending tractor as it sped past, the young chap I’d seen earlier, obviously in a hurry and oblivious to what he’d done. Sally gave him a wave but didn’t look back, so my drenching had thankfully not been witnessed.

I was studying for the narrowest part of the puddle to cross back to my car—not that it made any difference in my already-squelchy shoes—when I heard another tractor. It was rumbling along, much slower and a lot bigger. This had to be the boss, who at least was going too slowly to splash me. Spotting the enormous contraption on the back, I realised it was also far too wide to pass the obstruction I’d unwittingly created. I squinted up at the cab as it halted right behind my car. Blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the glass, I couldn’t see the man inside, but I guess he could see me. I waved and mouthed sorry at the faceless machine and an arm came out and waved in acknowledgement. That was friendly, I thought, as I stepped straight into the puddle. What the heck—I’d no dignity left by then. I quickly opened the car door and got in. Yuk! It felt like sitting in a cold changing room after leaving the pool. Please start first time, I begged. But naturally it didn’t. I shouldn’t have left the lights on—the battery must be going. It whined its complaint a couple of times but finally caught and I revved up and I pulled off even more jerkily than before. The engine didn’t sound quite right, but it was difficult to tell with the noise of the tractor immediately behind. Trouble was the car didn’t want to do more than ten miles an hour, it simply hadn’t got the power.

Our funereal-paced procession wound along the village street, passing Sally as she opened a gate fronting the sweetest little cottage, one of a terrace, all with tiny windows and a distinctly undulating tiled roof. I glanced in my wing mirror and saw her wave at my pursuing tractor. Perhaps he’d stop for a chat and get off my tail, but that was too much to hope for. Who could talk above that racket anyway? The pub was immediately ahead on the right where the street broadened into a kind of square with a wide pavement on the left, full of colourful flower tubs fronting a quaint row of shops. I pushed down the indicator arm. That was odd; it made a rapid ticking noise instead of the usual steady click. I hoped it was still working as I couldn’t wind down the window and do a hand signal. To my horror, as I turned towards the car park entrance, the tractor was pulling forward to overtake me. Obviously my signal wasn’t working or he’d been too close to my rear end to see it. There was the most almighty clank as he did what must be a tractor’s version of an emergency stop and I crunched into the gravelled car park, engine stalled and me shaking like a leaf. He gave a long blast on his horn, which I probably deserved. I’d been too busy admiring the square to remember to check my mirror.

At least I’d got there, but I suspected getting home might be more difficult. I’d have to ring Pat later. By this point I’d concluded my escapade was doomed, but that was the least of my worries. My main priority now was a wash and change. I unpeeled myself from the seat and left the door open to give the moisture a chance to evaporate. The place looked deserted. It was a characterful pub, very old, in that same mellow brick as all the other buildings, but the brown-painted double front doors were firmly locked. My watch said a few minutes after five, though it might be later. I wasn’t sure if it was still going after its soaking. I wondered how long it would be before the place opened. Rather than sit shivering in the car, and desperate to put on some dry clothes, I set off to explore the possibilities at the back of the building.

A door banged and a figure appeared in the yard—perfect timing. He was a pale, freckled-faced fifty-something man with grey curly hair, sleeves rolled up, wearing a striped kitchen apron, and was bringing out the rubbish. He dumped the bin bags in a large bin-on-wheels, before turning my way.

Hello, can I help you? He still had one hand on the lid he’d lowered, while the other rubbed what might be a sore back.

Hi. Sally mentioned you might have a room for the night? Just the one night.

He looked me up and down. Got caught in the rain did yer, bad luck? Yeah, we can do you a room for tonight. It’ll be one over the bar though, not that popular with some. Got a party taking up the other three, something special happening tomorrer.

"That would be great! I really don’t mind what it is as long as there’s some hot water!’

Plenty of that, boiler’s been going all day. Come on through, if you don’t mind the back entrance. We don’t open up at front till six. From London are yer?

I’d never really lost the accent, despite my convent stretch. Grew up in Lambeth, mostly.

Shoreditch, me and the missus. Moved here twenty year ago, nice place to bring up kids we thought...

Yes, I’m sure, I said, thinking how dull I’d have found it growing up in the back of beyond.

I followed him past a gleaming stainless steel kitchen exuding the tantalizing smell of something doing a slow cook in the oven. My stomach was telling me the sustaining qualities of the apple I’d eaten several hours previously had definitely worn off.

In a lobby between the lounge-come-dining area and the public bar, he produced the register. He handed me a key, glancing at what I’d written. Number two, Miss Crichton. Can you find yer own way up. I’ve gotta get a fresh keg fixed up.

Of course, thanks very much...?

Keith.

Thanks Keith...can I get a meal here later?

Start serving from seven...that all right?

Perfect. I’ll get my things from the car.

Chapter Two

Keith hadn’t said anything about bathroom facilities. My room had a basin, but it seemed I had to share the bathroom, which I found along the corridor. In my look-like-a-catwalk-model period I had long hair, dyed honey blonde. These days it was back to its natural tawny colour, which matched my eyes, and was quite short, in keeping with my new career-girl-about-town image with an economic self-employed eye on the profit margins, being a lot cheaper to maintain. Within half-an-hour I was feeling civilised again, washed and scrubbed, from my well-conditioned head to toe, and I turned my attention to the mud-spattered outfit that might never be the same again. It didn’t sound like the other guests had arrived yet, so I left the various items to soak for a while in the cooling bath water. They’d need proper cleaning but at least I could get the worst off. Meanwhile I went down to locate a clothes line.

I found Sally in the lounge putting out coasters and menus. Be with you in a minute, she called.

Hello again, Sally—it’s me, from the church. I’m Nadine, by the way.

"Oh, hi, didn’t recognise you, you’ve changed your clothes. Welcome to The Feathers."

I’d put on my white   designer jeans, a bright pink sweatshirt and white silk scarf, and the only other shoes I had with me, cream stilettos, a shade away from my usual head-to-toe co-ordination. We got chatting and she told me what was particularly good on the menu that night and I forgot about my suit and the clothes line.

Can I get you a drink? she asked. We’ll start a tab for you if you like.

Thanks. White wine and soda please. Can I ask, is there anyone round here who knows about cars, only I think mine’s pretty sick. I’ve got a four or five hour drive tomorrow and I’m a bit concerned I won’t make it. I don’t think all that rain agreed with it this afternoon.

Dan’s quite good. In fact you probably saw him this afternoon, he drove past on the blue tractor a moment after we’d spoken. What’s so funny?

I told her, which made me remember my suit and she showed me where to hang it out. "That’s Dan, I’m afraid. He’ll have been rushing back to check out Final Score. Don’t ask me why—he’s a Spurs supporter and they were in the FA Cup semi-final this afternoon. While you’re seeing to your laundry I’ll give him a buzz. He owes