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‘I could send it back or just destroy it. Either way, it’s not going into Elizabeth Kingsley’s account. Now, let’s get on.’ Sally stood up stiffly.
‘What should we do with the rest of her things?’ Millie asked.
‘Charity shop or rubbish collection, I think. Let’s get started.’
For the next twenty minutes, they worked in silence, each coming to their own opinion of Owen’s mother; not even one good.
Millie found French perfume and luxury make-up on the dressing table and expensive lingerie in a drawer and decided it all should be relegated to a bin bag for the rubbish collection.
George found a wardrobe stuffed with clothes. He was sure Owen had said his mother never went out. What did she want with all these posh clothes? These too went in a bin bag destined for a charity shop.
Sally found photographs. One of Owen as a toddler. Sweet child. Another of Owen, a little older, grown tall and scrawny; serious expression on his face and a plump, smaller child beside him, looking up adoringly into his face. Sally smiled and felt relief; clearly there had been some love in Owen’s young life. This dark-haired little girl must be his sister. Sally placed the photographs carefully in the cardboard box supplied by George and moved on to the next drawer in the bedside cabinet.
‘Ah! Mrs Kingsley, I presume,’ she murmured.
‘What’s that, Mum?’
‘I think I’ve found a photo of Owen’s mother.’
‘Let’s see.’ Both George and Millie pushed forward to look.
‘It seems like a professional picture.’ Sally said, handing them a black and white glossy print.
‘Oh, wow, she was good looking,’ Millie said.
George said, ‘Must run in the family.’
‘Do you think he looks like her?’ Millie tilted her head to George.
George looked over her shoulder at the image. ‘Hmm. Not really. Both got dark hair. But it’s difficult to tell with a black and white image. I suppose they both have sad eyes.’
Sally had grown bored with the inspection of Owen’s mother and gone back to searching the drawer. She found two more black and white prints, one much more frayed around the edges than the other.
‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘This must be Owen’s father. You said he was in the army, didn’t you, George?’
‘Yes.’ George took the print and stared at the stocky man in the sergeant’s uniform, wearing very shiny boots. He had short-cropped lightish hair, probably brown, and looked nothing like Owen.
‘And I wonder who this is,’ Sally said, holding out the second print. Millie and George inspected it. A handsome dark-haired man, strong jawline, good profile.
‘Helooks like Owen,’ Millie said.
‘Yes, he does,’ George agreed. ‘But he’s not in army uniform.’ He handed the print back to his mother.
‘Perhaps he was on leave or maybe he’s a relative on the mother’s side,’ Sally said, just as the bedroom door opened.
‘I’ve finished packing,’ Owen said, looking slightly surprised to find everyone clustering around a photograph by the side of the bed.
‘Is this your dad?’ George asked, handing over the battered image of an army sergeant.
‘Yes.’
‘He doesn’t look like you. Were you more like your mother?’ Sally asked, slipping the photo of the other man into her pocket to join the cheque and the letter.
Owen shrugged. ‘I suppose I must have been.’
