Ghost At The Table

By Sandy Jones

July 2010.

Sam is sorting through her grandmother’s letters and documents relating to her grandfather’s war record. She is going to write a book about the lost aircrew. For as long as she can remember, their story has fascinated her. Why did he leave his very young family to volunteer to go to war? And how did her beloved Nan cope with his loss when he failed to come home? 

Of course, she has a reason to do it now. Having received a sizeable inheritance, she is free to be the writer she always wanted to be, and she needs a distraction. She has to make a hard decision. Her relationship with Charles is failing, and she knows she must decide what to do. Only her best friend, Lizzie, can help. 

Together, they travel to France to visit the place where her grandfather’s plane crashed. Sam is hoping to find more about his death and to pay her respects. Lizzie is along for the ride. But the trip doesn’t go as planned and what happens in France changes everything. And back home in England, there are more shocking revelations to face.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781803138039

Sandy Jones

Sandy Jones has had a variety of jobs including running a cycle shop, working in the MoD and ‘on the railway’. After completing her Open University degree she began writing and tried her hand at poetry but prefers novels. She currently lives in Wiltshire.

Book preview

Contents

Today

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

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22

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24

25

26

27

28

29

30

Today

She can hear the children in the garden shrieking with delight. Their father must have filled the paddling pool, she thinks. The sun is pouring through her office window, warming the room making it difficult to concentrate on writing, but she must. Today she has been distracted by her past and a book she wrote years ago.

It’s ten years to the day since her life changed forever. At first, it was almost imperceptible; tiny events that joined to create the whole. It began with her grandmother’s funeral and the inheritance. Sam was always close to Annie, and she had promised she would ‘look after’ her. The looking after comprised a sizeable amount of money and a pleasant apartment on a Georgian terrace in Bath. Sam found herself at twenty-eight, with a home of her own and a healthy bank balance.

Her grandmother had sold most of her furniture. The illness that killed her had given her time to organise her affairs and be specific about what she wanted. The flat was empty except for a beautiful bookcase and a fine mahogany sleigh bed. Sam kept them both. She remembered sleeping in the bed when she’d stayed with Annie as a teenager, and the bookcase was something she’d always loved.

Under that bed was a suitcase which contained documents, letters and photographs from Annie’s past. Mostly it related to Sam’s grandfather, including letters he’d written as an airman in the war. Ralph had died on D-Day, not on the beaches but up in the air as a rear gunner in a Lancaster bomber. Sam knew the story well. Annie had kept his memory alive for her daughters and granddaughter, but the personal letters had remained private until she died. Then Sam had read them.

It was the contents of the suitcase that triggered the journey. Ten years ago, she’d decided to research and record her family history, starting with her grandfather’s story; the first step toward changing her life.

Sam stops typing and stares out of the window at the beech hedge below. She listens again to the children’s voices and casts her mind back to that day when she made the decision that would lead to where she was now. It had been so exciting, the thought of leaving her job and becoming a full-time writer. Mum hadn’t been so enthusiastic; she’d never been adventurous and lacked Annie’s bravado. ‘What if…?’ she’d say when Sam came up with some bold plan. Sam had just replied that she’d be fine. Stop worrying.

And here I am, she thought, and I am fine. But the cost of getting here was not without pain and a re-evaluation of what really matters.

A death recorded

Reference P.418139/7/44/P4.B.7

CERTIFICATE OF DEATH

CERTIFIED that according to the records of this department.

No. 1853943

Rank Sergeant

Name Ralph George Page

Service Royal Airforce Volunteer Reserve,

Was reported missing and is presumed for official purposes, to have lost his life on the seventh day of June, 1944, as the result of air operations.

Johnathan Lampeter

Squadron Leader,

For Director of Personal Services

Dated at the Air Ministry this 1st day of July 1945.

1

Slips of paper covered the table. Letters from family and friends in one pile, official documents in another and all in chronological order. Sam was trying to piece her grandfather’s death together. Who knew what and when? It felt wrong in one way but exciting in another. She hadn’t known him. He’d died years before she was born, but she felt that family connection.

Some letters bought a sharp response she hadn’t expected. One from the headteacher that her mother had carried home from school that day—that had pulled her up. The raw emotion hit her with a jolt, and she felt the pain her grandmother must have been experiencing; not knowing whether her husband was dead or alive. How awful that must be, she thought as she reached for the letter and read it again.

The teacher’s precise handwriting on pale blue paper offered sincere concern. There was the faintest scent on it. Sam recognised it from her childhood, Blue Grass by Elizabeth Arden. She remembered her grandmother’s laugh as she pulled a bag of sweets from her large blue handbag and the scent of her delicate cotton handkerchief…

Sam put the letter back on the pile and stood up. She needed a coffee. Perhaps she’d phone Lizzie and see if she wanted to go out tonight? As the kettle boiled, she searched for her phone. Friends continually complained she was hard to contact. They lived on their phones, but Sam never quite knew where she’d left hers. There it was, under a pile of bills on the kitchen table.

She had Lizzie on speed dial. They spoke every day. Text messages weren’t her thing either; if someone texted her, she’d phone them back just to irritate them.

‘Lizzie! Are you busy? Do you fancy a night out?’

‘What time is it?’ Her friend’s voice was muffled, as if she had a scarf over her mouth.

‘It’s eleven. I just stopped for a break. Don’t tell me you’re still in bed?’

‘What? No, no, I’m up, honestly.’

Sam laughed. Of course, Lizzie wasn’t up. She was a sloth before twelve, then bright as a button till gone midnight.

‘Don’t fib! I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but I wondered if you fancy going out tonight?’

‘Could do. I’ll get organised and text you later.’

Sam knew she’d annoyed her friend phoning before midday, and the threat of a text was her way of getting back at her. They chatted for a while, then she hung up and went back to making coffee.

She hadn’t expected to feel so emotionally involved when she opened the case and began sorting the paperwork. This was to be her new book, a project to help her establish herself as a non-fiction writer. It was becoming much more than that.

She sipped her coffee as she carried on reading a letter from the Air Ministry informing Annie that it had received confirmation from France of Ralph’s death in the crash. It was dated 15th March 1945, nine months after Ralph failed to return. Nine months of not knowing for sure, Sam thought.

The report now received from the Mayor of St. Jean de Daye, Department of Manche states that your husband’s was one of four bodies recovered from the wreckage of a Lancaster aircraft which crashed in his town during the night of 6/7th June. Formal presumption, for official purposes, of your husband’s death will now be put in train, and a letter on that subject addressed to you shortly.

The last line offering profound sympathy must have done nothing to soften the blow. Sam leaned back in her chair, imagining how her grandmother must have felt reading that letter. But there was far worse amongst the papers in front of her. She sighed and reached for the letters addressed to Annie from the only crew member that made it home.

Before she could begin transcribing his handwritten letter, her phone trilled from somewhere under the pile of papers. She searched for it and found it just as it stopped ringing. Charles’s number was on the screen. Her reaction to his missed call was mixed. Lately, she was unsure of her feelings for him and didn’t know why.

They’d been in a relationship for three years, if you could call it that, Sam thought. A bloody affair is what it is. She should have called it off when she found out he was married, but she was in too deep by then. Now she was questioning just how deeply her feelings ran; nagging guilt was her constant companion. Her phone pinged again; he’d left a message. It was brief and to the point. She read, You never answer your phone. Ring me when you get this. Speak later.

Charles wanted to take her out to make up for standing her up a few nights before. Would tomorrow be okay? Sam said yes, fine just to get rid of him, but she knew by tomorrow she’d feel differently. He had a way of getting under her skin and she had to admit to herself he was good in bed. Lizzie said that was the only reason it had lasted as long. The excitement of good sex was highly addictive.

When Lizzie rang, Sam had her phone in front of her.

‘Hi, sorry about earlier. I’m working late today, getting the gallery ready for the exhibition tomorrow. Can you meet me here later and we’ll go for a drink? Is that okay?’

‘Of course. Sorry I’d forgotten it was your launch tomorrow.’

‘You are coming, aren’t you? I need some moral support, somebody normal amongst all the art snobs.’

Sam laughed. ‘Lizzie Penn! Those are potential clients you’re slagging off. Of course, I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. There’s only one snag - Charles, I’m seeing him tomorrow. Is it okay if I bring him too?’

‘If you must. I’m joking. Yes, bring him along but make sure he behaves himself.’

‘That’s unfair. Doesn’t he always? He can charm the birds out of the trees. Perhaps he can schmooze some of the wealthy art snobs for you.’

‘Perhaps he can. I’m sorry Sam, I’ve got to dash. Somebody needs me. I’ll see you later. Seven ish?’

‘Yeah, fine. See you later, bye.’

Lizzie was stamping about in a sea of polystyrene beans when Sam reached the gallery. Her bright pink hair was sticking up from her head, making her look like a Disney inspired porcupine. Sam laughed, and Lizzie turned to see who was laughing at her.

‘Oh Sam! Am I pleased to see you! I’m tearing my hair out here.’

‘Yeah, it looks like it. Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, to be honest, I’ve reached the stage of nit picking. Take me away and buy me a drink.’

‘Well, I can certainly do that. Come on, lock up and leave. It will be fine tomorrow. You know it will.’

Lizzie sighed and dropped her armful of bubble wrap in a bin. She must have caught sight of herself in the mirrored artwork next to it as she tried to smooth down her spiky hair. Sam had reservations about the pixie cut but had to admit dying it pink made Lizzie stand out in a crowd.

‘You look gorgeous. Come on, let’s go.’

The bar was just around the corner; a small but popular drinking den that attracted the local college students. As usual, the room was full of young people shouting over each other. Sam squeezed her way to the counter while Lizzie hung back, looking for a quieter corner or table to become free.

They were lucky and grabbed a small table just as the previous occupants got up to leave. Sam passed Lizzie her pint of dark ale and sat down.

‘So, is Charles coming tomorrow?’

‘I haven’t told him yet, but I’m sure he’ll be fine. Unless he stands me up again, in which case I’ll come on my own.’

‘Perhaps you should. Show him you’re not the only one who can be stood up.’

Lizzie rarely interfered in Sam’s life and certainly never openly criticised her choice in men. Lately, she had dropped odd comments into conversations. It was a sign that she thought Charles wasn’t good enough. They’d been friends since college and Sam trusted, and valued, Lizzie’s opinion.

Sam leaned across the small table to talk. The crowd at the next table were shouting at each other above the general noise in the room.

‘The truth is Lizzie, I’m not sure how I feel anymore. Lately I’ve become less enamoured with him.’

‘What brought on this change of heart?’

‘I don’t think it was any one thing, more a progressive change. I’m just not sure…’

That sounds lame, Sam thought as she sipped her cider. Lizzie was staring at her with a slight smile.

‘I must admit, I was wondering if you’d ever see the light. You know I never interfere, Sam, but the guy is not to be trusted.’

Sam sighed. Her friend had just hit the nail on the head.

‘I know, and that’s the problem. That’s the one thing that stops me from considering a future with him. And I feel so guilty all the time now.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Good sex isn’t enough anymore.’

‘It never is long term. You didn’t fall in love; you fell in lust with him. He’s a good-looking bloke, likes to splash the cash and smooth talk his way through life.’

‘I’m guessing this is you saying you don’t like him very much.’

‘Pretty well. He’s okay, charming, and good company, but he’s not good enough for you, Sam.’

‘I just feel like I don’t know how to back off. It’s fine talking to you now, but I know when I’m with him he’ll win me round. It’s almost an addiction.’

Lizzie laughed and whispered across the table, ‘You’re a sex addict. Take up drugs or drinking. It’s less painful.’

Sam shushed her. The joke wasn’t as funny as her friend had intended. What if that was it? That was why she couldn’t wriggle free of Charles?

‘That was a joke, by the way. I don’t think that for one minute. He’s just manipulated you to get what he wants. He’s the addict.’

‘Do you think so? He always says his wife is cold and doesn’t love him the way I do.’

‘Classic philandering husband. If only you’d known the truth when you met him, you wouldn’t be in this situation now.’

‘Ain’t that the truth.’

‘Shall we have another one here or head back to yours? And I’m bloody starving.’

Sam giggled as she struggled to get her key into the lock. Lizzie was no help, but at least she managed not to drop the bag containing the fish and chips and kept a firm grip on the bottle of red from the local supermarket. Once inside, Sam found the light switch easily enough and stumbled into the kitchen, kicking off her shoes and dropping her coat on the hall chair as she went.

‘We’ll eat in the living room. My kitchen is a bit of a mess.’

Lizzie followed her, putting the warm bag on the worktop and the bottle next to it. She looked at the table covered in documents and photos.

‘I see what you mean. Is this the latest book taking shape?’

Sam pulled two wineglasses from the cupboard and turned to see Lizzie picking up a letter from the pile. ‘Yeah. It’s the paperwork I was telling you about, all the stuff from my grandmother’s suitcase. Some of it’s pretty grim reading.’

‘Is it okay if I look?’

‘Yes, of course, but let’s eat first. You carry the wine through. Do you want a plate to eat from?’

‘Nah, I’m happy to eat it as it comes.’

Sam knew she needed food. She thought if I don’t eat, I’ll pay for it in the morning. Lizzie had already opened the bottle when she carried the food in. They’d had many a boozy night as students, and Lizzie never seemed to suffer any ill effects.

‘So, how’s the research going? Have you found anything new amongst all her papers?’

‘Not new exactly, just more info. I was reading letters earlier from the one member of the crew that actually survived and made it home. He wrote to Nan several times, but you can see she kept asking tough questions he either couldn’t or didn’t want to answer and the correspondence stops after a while. He spent the last months of the war travelling around Britain giving lessons on evading the enemy.’

‘Jeez, it was a different world, wasn’t it? I feel for her, trying to find out what happened to him.’

‘Me too. It was eleven months before he was officially certified as dead.’

‘Christ, that’s awful. And here we are, stuffing ourselves with chips and wondering what you should do about Charles. It puts it into perspective, doesn’t it? Whatever you choose to do, life goes on. Nobody dies.’

Sam grimaced. But Lizzie was absolutely right. Charles would carry on and so would she.

2

Sam opened her eyes slowly. The room was bright and her head hurt. Then she remembered the second bottle.

‘Oh shit.’ She reached for her watch and squinted at the face. It was seven thirty. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, trying to recall last night. Had Lizzie gone home, or was she sleeping it off in the guest bedroom?

The sun leaked into the room through a gap in the curtains, and she could feel the heat on her arm as it slanted across the bed. Sam thought she’d get up and make coffee, then she’d peek into the second bedroom to check, as she was sure Lizzie had stayed in the end. At one in the morning they’d decided enough was enough, and it was too late, or too early, to be walking across town.

Her flat was in an old townhouse in a Regency terrace and the floorboards creaked. Sam crept past her second bedroom and through the living room into the kitchen. Daylight flooded the room through the large window overlooking the garden. It’s going to be a lovely day, Sam thought as she waited for the kettle to boil. She popped two tablets while the coffee brewed. Her headache was already subsiding.

The smell of coffee drew a yawning Lizzie into the kitchen. Her pink hair contrasted with her pale features. She mumbled something inaudible and poured herself a glass of water.

‘You okay, Lizzie? You look a little the worse for wear.’

‘So do you. I’m just wondering if I can manage a coffee.’

‘I’m out of decaf coffee I’m afraid. A single bog standard one won’t hurt, surely?’

‘Okay, a milky should be fine. Thank you.’

Lizzie had a problem with caffeine. It could trigger palpitations if she had too much, but Sam thought one should be fine.

‘I can make some toast for you. That would help line your stomach. Or I can do scrambled egg if you’d prefer?’

Lizzie pulled a face and said, ‘No toast is good on its own. Thanks.’

Sam moved some documents that were spread across the kitchen table and pulled out a chair for Lizzie. She slumped onto it, running her fingers through her hair, which did nothing to lessen her resemblance to a party pooped porcupine.

Sam grinned and passed her a mug of milky coffee. She noticed Lizzie had picked up one letter and was reading it.

‘Who’s James Boswell?’

‘He was one of the crew; the only one to survive the crash and make it home. We talked about it last night.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember. You said your gran had written to him for a while.’

‘Yeah, there are other letters from him here. She obviously kept trying to find out more. He had nothing else to add though and stopped writing after a while.’

Lizzie grunted and reached for a photograph. It was a picture of a large aircraft with a line of seven young men in front of it, smiling at the cameraman.

‘Is that the plane? It looks like a bomber. Which one is your grandad?’

Sam leaned over and tapped the small, handsome man in the middle of the line. ‘That’s Ralph, and yes, it’s their plane. An Avro Lancaster. It had four Rolls Royce Merlin engines and apparently was notoriously difficult to escape from because of the design. But the pilots loved flying them.’

‘It was a big aircraft, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Have you never seen the one left that still flies? It’s magnificent to watch.’

‘You sound quite besotted with it, Sam.’

Sam laughed. She’d become involved with the backstory of Ralph’s brief time in the RAF and had developed a fondness for the old heavy bomber.

‘I’ll take you to Hendon one day and introduce you. Were you serious last night about going to France with me?’

Lizzie looked up from the letter she was reading. ‘Yeah, of course. We can go whenever you fancy. I’ve got a light workload for a few weeks now, after tonight.’

‘Oh shit, of course. Are you organised? Is there anything I can help with today?’

‘No, despite my fussing last night, I’m all good. Just turn up.’ She sipped her coffee and grinned up at Sam. ‘With or without his lordship.’

Lizzie finally left Sam’s flat at midday. They sat and talked about the research, the book yet to be written and, of course, Charles. After she’d gone, Sam decided she’d best let Charles know about that evening, just in case he had anything else planned.

She found her phone, checked for messages – there were none – and sent him one. Can I ring you? After five minutes she got a reply, a simple yes, so she did.

‘Hi, how’s things? Are you still okay for tonight?’

‘Yes, of course. I was just thinking of you.’

‘That’s sweet. Nice thoughts I hope.’

He laughed, and she heard him shuffling papers. ‘Always, sweetie.’

‘Are you busy? I just wanted to check about tonight and whether you had anything planned.’

‘I’m always busy but I can spare time for my favourite girl.’

Sam thought, why does that sound so corny? Then she felt guilty. That was just Charles, the way he spoke.

‘I just wondered because we’ve been invited to a gallery launch.’

‘Have we? Who by?’

Was it her imagination, or did he sound uncomfortable with it?

‘By Lizzie. She’s launching her latest exhibition and asked me to go. Are you okay with that?’

‘I guess so as long as there’s nobody there…’

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. She knew the score well enough by now and how it would pan out. They’d enter separately, and he’d make sure there was nobody there that might cause him problems at home. She sighed, and he heard her.

‘You know how it works, baby. I still have to be careful. There are still things to be ironed out.’

‘Yes, I know. Are you happy to go? We could make it another night if you’d rather not.’

‘You really want to go, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, she’s my best friend and I want to support her.’

‘That’s fine. I understand. What time?’

‘I said I’d be there about seven. Is that okay?’

‘Might be a bit early for me. Why don’t we meet there? Send me the address and I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished here.’

‘Okay, it’s easy to find and there’s a carpark opposite. I’ll text you the address.’

‘Great! Listen, I’m sorry, but I have to go. See you later, dearest.’ She heard his muffled voice as he put his hand over the phone and said he’d be there in a minute. She was about to say goodbye when he came back on the line.

‘And wear that red dress. I like you in that. Really got to go. Bye!’

And the line was dead before she could reply. She felt strangely deflated, but wasn’t sure why. Was it the reference to ironing things out at home or the demand to wear the dress? Nothing felt right about Charles anymore. She’d have to talk to him and wasn’t looking forward to it. He was very persuasive, and she often found she didn’t say what she really felt.

Of course, she wore the red dress; after all, she looked great in it. It fitted just where it should and covered her knees, and she hated her knees. Sam piled her dark hair up into an untidy bun because she knew it suited her and squeezed her feet into a pair of heels. A quick check in the mirror, a dab or two of the perfume Charles had bought her, and she was ready for the fray. She always considered the arty types that surrounded Lizzie as somewhat intimidating. It was probably their wealth and their easy manners, but Sam never felt entirely relaxed at these events. She felt like an imposter.

Half an hour later,