“Where are you headed?” I ask. The cold stabs at my chest, makes my eyes water.
“To the bus stop,” Dinny replies.
“Well, I gathered that. Where then? I’m going into Devizes-do you want a lift?” Dinny walks over to the car, drops his hand from his face. With the sun this strong, I can see that his eyes are brown, not black. The warm color of conkers; touches of tortoiseshell in his hair.
“Thanks. That’d be great,” he nods.
“Shopping?” I ask, as I pull away from the verge, the engine sluggish with frost.
“I thought I’d get something for the baby. And I need a few supplies. What about you?”
“I’m going to the library-they’ll have internet access there, won’t they?”
“I don’t know-never been in, myself,” he admits, a touch sheepishly.
“For shame,” I tease.
“There’s more than enough drama in the newspapers, without reading made-up dramas as well,” he smiles. “Checking your email?”
“Well, yes, but I’m also going to look something up in the births, marriages and deaths index. I’ve been tracking down a Calcott family secret.”
“Oh?”
“I found a picture of my great-grandma, Caroline-do you remember her?”
“Not really. I think I saw her from afar a couple of times.”
“She was American. She came over to marry Lord Calcott late in 1904, but I’ve found this picture of her in 1904, in America, with a baby.” I fumble blindly in my bag and pass it to him. “Nobody seems to know what happened to that baby-there’s no record of her marrying before, but I’ve also found a letter that suggests otherwise.”
“Well, the baby probably died there, before she came over.” He shrugs slightly.
“Probably,” I concede. “But I just want to check-just in case he’s mentioned in the records. If he is… if I can prove that Caroline lost a child-another child, since we know she lost a daughter here in Barrow Storton-it might help explain why she was the way she was.”
Dinny says nothing to this. He studies the photo, frowning slightly.
“Perhaps,” he murmurs, after a while.
“I’ve been trying to find out, you see, why the Calcotts-the earlier Calcotts-had such a bee in their bonnets about you Dinsdales. Caroline and Meredith, I mean. I’ve been trying to find out why they behaved the way they did toward your family,” I say, suddenly keen to have his support in this quest.
“A bee in their bonnets?” he echoes quietly. “That’s a gentle euphemism.”
“I know,” I say apologetically. I change the subject. “So, how’s Honey doing?” We chat about his sister for a while, until I try to park in Devizes and am met by swarms of people, row upon row of parked cars.
“What on earth is all this?” I exclaim.
“Sale mania,” Dinny sighs. “Try Sheep Street.”
Eventually, I creep the car into a space, bumping the one next to me when I open the door. Skeins of exhaust twist up into the sky and the town hums with voices, the ring of purposeful footsteps. It all seems too loud, and I feel as though the quiet at Storton Manor has snuck into me, somehow. It’s performed a stealth coup; and now I notice its absence like something vital gone.
“Do you want a lift back as well?” I offer.
“How long will you be?”
“I’m not sure. An hour and a half? Maybe a bit longer?”
“OK-thanks. I’ll meet you back here?”
“How about in that café on the High Street-the one with the blue awning? It’ll be warmer if one of us has to wait,” I suggest. Dinny nods, twists his hand in salute and strides away between the packed cars.
The library is on Sheep Street, so I don’t have far to walk. The fan above the doors pours out a stifling wave of warmth and I stop the second I am through, struggle out of my coat and scarf in the cloying heat. It’s almost empty inside, with a few people perusing the shelves and a severe-looking woman at the desk who is busy with something and does not look up at me. Seated at a computer, I search for deaths in 1903, 1904 and 1905, to cast a wide net, and the names Calcott and Fitzpatrick, in London and in Wiltshire. I skim these results for the deaths of children under the age of two. My pad of paper remains blank on the desk beside me. After an hour, I scrawl on it: He’s not here.
I stare at the last list of names on the screen, until my eyes slide through the pixels, focus on a point in the middle distance. The baby probably died in America. That, and whatever happened to make Caroline leave the man who signed himself C, might even be what made her come over to England in the first place, and could certainly have contributed to her distance, her frigidity. So why can’t I let it go at that? What is it that is pulling at a far corner of my mind, begging me to grasp it? Something else-another thing-that I know and have forgotten. I wonder how many of these things are lurking in my head, waiting for me to chase them out. I pull the teething ring from my pocket, run my fingers around the smooth, immaculate ivory. Inside the bell, on the rim, is the hallmark. A tiny lion cartouche, an anchor, a gothic letter G, and something I struggle to make out. I turn it to the light, hold it close to my face. A flame? A tree-a skinny tree like a cypress? A hammer? The light bounces from it. It’s a hammer head. Vertical, as if viewed from the side when striking something.
I turn back to the computer, search for American silver marks G. Several online encyclopedias and silver-collecting guides appear. Searching entries under the letter G, it takes no time at all to find the stamp on the bell. Gorham. Founded in Rhode Island in 1831. An influential silver maker-made various tea sets for the White House, and the Davis Cup for tennis, but their primary trade was in teaspoons, thimbles and other small gift items. I find the vertical hammer head in the list of Gorham’s date marks-1902. This then I have managed to prove-whoever the baby in the photo is, and whoever his father was, and whatever became of him, this silver and ivory teething ring belonged to him. He was the fine son it was offered to. Not Clifford, not any other child Caroline lost once she had come over to England. I close my hand around it, feel my skin warm the metal; the stifled movement of the clapper inside, like a tiny, tremulous heartbeat.
It is slow work, making my way to the High Street, through knots of purposeful browsers. Shop windows ablaze with lurid banners promising unmissable bargains, ludicrous discounts; music and heat blaring out; people with four, five, six fat carrier bags, sprouting from the ends of their arms. I am barrelled this way and that and the café, when I reach it, is full to the brim. I feel a wash of irritation, until I see Dinny already at one of the small tables in the steamed-up window. The reek of coffee grounds is strong and delicious in here. I edge my way through the crowded tables.
“Hi-sorry, have you been waiting long?” I smile, draping my coat over the empty seat opposite him.
“No, not long. I got lucky with this table-a couple of old dears were just getting up as I came in.”
“Do you want another coffee? Something to eat?”
“Thanks. Another coffee would be good.” He clasps his hands on the sticky table top and looks so odd suddenly that I stare, can’t work out what I am seeing. Then I realize-this is one of only a scant handful of times I have seen Dinny indoors. Actually sitting at a table, in no hurry to be outside again, doing something as mundane as having coffee in a café. “What’s up?” he asks me.
“Nothing,” I shake my head. “I’ll be right back.”
I buy two big mugs of creamy coffee, and an almond croissant for me.
“Didn’t you have breakfast today?” Dinny asks, as I sit.