Joan and her sister, Ruth, were infrequent correspondents. They'd been close as children but had started to drift apart at school; Ruth's fierce intelligence and strong academic ability had drawn her into very different circles from her younger sister. Joan, while no intellectual slouch, was of a more socially-inclined bent. She favoured home economics and book-keeping, played netball for the school and was on the Orienteering team. She found herself on every organising committee, and appeared in every school dramatic production. Not in any lead part of course, but always hale and hearty in the chorus or delivering her one speaking line with wit and perfect timing, complete with vociferous cheering from her many friends in the audience.
And, while Ruth had calmly and assuredly decided on a career in medicine from a young age and, to that end, had eschewed most opportunities for a normal schoolgirl social life, Joan discovered early the delights of parties, the cinema, and the opposite sex. It was no real surprise then that Ruth became a highly respected and world renowned psychiatrist, and Joan married young; throwing herself enthusiastically into the life of a farmer's wife in a small and tightly-knit community.
Now, over twenty years since Joan had abandoned her privileged London upbringing, the extent of their communication was limited to an annual exchange of birthday cards and a brief, but cordial, telephone call at Christmas. So, on an unremarkable, overcast Cornwall morning, Joan was mildly surprised to discover amongst the bundle of morning post, a letter from Ruth, addressed in her precise, unembellished hand.
Tucking the rest of the envelopes into the large pocket of one of her favoured shapeless cardigans, Joan slid her thumb under the flap and tore it open impatiently. Inside was a newspaper clipping that had been carefully and intricately folded, but she was surprised to see there was no attached note or card. Her mouth drooped at the corners and she scowled, her usual expression of annoyance, as she struggled to shake the cutting open.
"Taken up bloody origami have we, Ruth?" She grumbled, shaking it again more vigorously, and this time it unfolded for her. Immediately, the scowl fell from her face, she felt her heart race, and she let out a strangled squeak. As she looked down at the clipping again, Joan realised she was trembling.
Clearly, Ruth had gone to a lot of trouble to fold the large cutting so not only it did it fit into a standard envelope, but there were no creases across the image it depicted. She'd also written 'The Times', and the date of publication, neatly in the top corner.
The photograph showed a tall, elegant man with a haughty expression whom she immediately recognised as her brother, Christopher. He was shaking the hand of a shorter, rounder gentleman to his left. They appeared to be standing in front of a bronze bust that Joan realised must be the memorial to her own father, displayed in the wing of St John's hospital that bore his name.
But it was the third figure that had caused Joan to involuntarily exclaim. Taller than both other men, and standing slightly apart from them; ramrod straight, chin raised, gazing imperiously at the camera. It had been so many years since she had seen him; he'd been a skinny, awkward boy of eleven when last they'd parted. She recalled his stricken face then as his father ordered him into the car, his little balled fists at his sides when Christopher, enraged, shouted at him for standing hopeless and defeated in his bedroom, unable to collect his thoughts and pack up his clothing. But mostly she remembered her own unbearable pain as the boy she thought of as a son sat, head down and in silence, in the back seat of Christopher's car as it disappeared down the pot holed driveway. Her brother, always mean and vindictive where she was concerned, had sworn that she would never see Martin again and, much to Joan's everlasting sorrow, he had kept his word.
The article itself bore all the hallmarks of Christopher's egotistical character. It began with the explanation that Dr. Martin Ellingham had just completed his medical degree and was about to become a surgical registrar at St John's hospital; the third generation of his illustrious family to do so. Martin's exceptional results and stellar potential were briefly touched on before the story became a vehicle for his father's considerable conceit. There was a tiny mention of Henry Ellingham's benevolence to the hospital but no reference to the ground breaking technique he had pioneered during the war that had saved so many lives and set him up, financially, for life. The story ended with a reference to the fund raising efforts of Martin's dreadful mother, Margaret, and a promotion of her latest ghastly event.
After she'd read it twice, and cursed her brother under her breath repeatedly, it dawned on Joan that Martin was now an adult, independent of his father's strict regulations, and therefore she should have no qualms about contacting him. If she wrote to him at the hospital, the letter would surely find him eventually, wouldn't it? Suddenly Joan felt elated. She stood up, rummaged in the sideboard for a notepad and a biro, put the kettle on the stove to boil, and wondered what on earth she was going to say.
Joan's letter took a circuitous route, but it did eventually find its way into Martin's hands. He saw the postmark, flipped it over to check the return address, and slid it quickly into his suit pocket. A flicker of something passed over him, an emotion he didn't care to identify. Breathing deeply, he buried the feeling swiftly, and immediately composed himself. He had a very busy afternoon scheduled and the letter would have to wait. It wasn't until many hours later, safely ensconced and alone in the calm quiet of his flat, after he had prepared and eaten his evening meal, that Martin took the envelope out of his pocket and neatly sliced it open. He slid out the enclosed page and ran his hands over it a couple of times to flatten it. Then he began to read.
The following Sunday morning, the phone rang in Joan's cottage just as she was removing her egg from the boiling saucepan. She swore under her breath, wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the receiver. Moments later, she uttered a helpless sob, and began to cry.
Joan had pulled herself together quickly. It just wouldn't do to ruin everything by being overtly emotional. Poor Martin, bemused enough by tears generally, went silent as she tried to explain to him that she wept from sheer happiness. He tried to respond but his stilted conversation wasn't ideal for the telephone and she'd eventually thrown caution to the wind and invited him to visit again so that they could catch up properly. Martin replied that he would need to check dates and she worried, as he hung up quickly, if she'd pushed too hard.
To her shock and surprise, he'd rung back a few days later and accepted; they fixed on a long weekend and she thought he'd almost sounded pleased. He told her that he had a new car and he wanted to give it a run so he planned on driving down on Friday night. She expressed some alarm about him falling asleep at the wheel but he snorted somewhat contemptuously and reminded her that staying awake and alert for long periods was a prerequisite of his profession. Then he instructed her not to go to any trouble and abruptly rung off.
Fat chance, Joan thought, as she clasped her hands together in pure joy, time to make a list.
By the time the designated Friday had arrived, Joan had preparations well under control. She'd kept Martin's room as he'd left it as an eleven year old boy so she wasn't sure how he'd feel about sleeping in there as an adult, but she hoped it held happy memories and he'd be comfortable all the same. She'd bought new flannelette sheets and a pillow made from local goose down. The curtains had been washed and rehung, and the room thoroughly cleaned but everything else remained the same as it had been on his last visit.
As she made her way down the stairs, she decided to make up a big pot of chicken soup so that she wouldn't have to worry about lunch on Saturday. Of course, she needed to go out to the coop and choose a suitable chief ingredient, and that meant she'd need to briefly study her hen book to ascertain which of the girls were no longer pulling their weight. It was also raining steadily and the wind was getting up. She was just about to pull her wellies on when she heard a vehicle pull into the barnyard. She poked her head out from the porch and saw the bulky figure of the local copper clambering out of his Land Rover.
"Lester. Quickly, come inside out of this rain."
"Joan." He replied in his deep baritone voice. "I will if you don't mind. How are things?"
"Fine." she replied, narrowing her eyes and looking at him expectantly. "To what do I owe this honour? Is it lunchtime already?"
PC Tregurtha ignored the taunt. He sighed heavily, furrowing his brow and rubbing his hand across his mouth.
"To be honest, Joan, I've gotta bit of a sticky situation and I'm not sure quite how I'm gonna handle it."
Joan didn't say anything but ushered in in through the door. He made his way into the kitchen, as he had done many times before, and sunk his considerable bulk into a chair.
She sat down opposite him and fixed him with her icy blue stare.
"Out with it then" she said grimly, and the policeman began to talk.
As Joan listened, her heart sunk lower and lower. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. It seemed that there'd been a sting set up in Truro that morning based on information received. An armed robbery had been planned on a Security Vehicle as it arrived at a local Post Office but it had been successfully prevented thanks to the quick actions of the local coppers and the Firearms Unit. There were four offenders in the vehicle, all were armed. They were all apprehended without any discharge of weapons. Police have taken them all into custody, including the getaway driver, one Terrence Arthur Glasson of Port Wenn.
One of the sergeants at the Truro Nick was originally also from the village so he'd phoned P.C Tregurtha for an informative and off-the-record chat. To Lester's credit, he'd been concerned about Louisa immediately and had driven up to see Joan as soon as he could get away from the station.
Joan sat with her head in her hands, her mind racing.
"What's to become of Louisa?" She said flatly. "What will she do now? Where will she go?"
"That's why I came to see you, Joan. It seems that Social Services will need to be advised."
Joan let out a long groan.
"We can't let that happen to her. It would crush her. Destroy her. No, Lester! No, there's only one thing for it, we have to think of a way to keep her in the village and take care of her ourselves."
Her voice trailed off as she fell deep into thought. After a few moments she looked at him, her brow furrowed and her mouth curved angrily downward.
"I think we need to have a meeting as soon as possible. Right now would be preferable. Lester, can I leave it with you to organise? We'll need Rev Counter and Moo Steele because we're going to have to call on Parish Relief. Helen Pratt will want to help. Mary Large? She's known Louisa from a baby."
The policeman pulled out his notebook and began to scribble in it.
"I saw Mary this mornin' down the Platt. I don't think the baby's too far away." He said quietly. "Anyone else?"
Joan grimaced. "Sim is worse than useless since his wife died so no point asking him. Let's just leave it at that until we have a plan sorted."
Lester eased himself up off the chair.
"I'll call you as soon as I can. But, just be aware I need to meet Louisa at the bus this afternoon because she can't be going home. So that gives us, what? He looked at his watch. "About three hours."
Joan stared at him.
"She can't go home? Because you are worried about her? Being alone?"
Lester returned her stare.
"As of 1100 hours they're searching the house. They'll be turning it upside down and inside out as we speak."
He paused as he left the room. "Shall we meet here? And not a word to anyone else til we have this figured out, alright?"
Joan nodded. Her head spun with the enormity of what she'd just heard and she suddenly felt very concerned indeed. She sat very still and listened to her pulse pound in her ears. After a few moments, she sighed, stood up, and went outside to catch herself a chicken.
