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Next to Iris stood a young, dark-haired man with his arm around her shoulders. He was grinning happily, with Iris pulled tightly into his side.
‘Do you know who these other people in the picture are? Iris and this man look very close.’
‘I’ve no idea, but these photos belonged to my mother and she was always organised.’ He turned the photo over and the sight of his mother’s careful handwriting made the breath catch in his throat, even after all these years. ‘Look, she’s written down some of the names.’
He handed the photo back to Lettie, who squinted at the letters.
‘Iris Starcross is written here, and next to her it says Cornelius Allford.’ She frowned. ‘That’s the correct first name, but it can’t be Mrs Allford’s brother. He wouldn’t have the same surname as her if she was married.’
‘You don’t know Florence. She used to be quite feisty in her younger days,’ said Claude, noticing the girl’s eyebrows raise at that. ‘When she got married, according to my mother, she made her husband take on the Allford name so it wouldn’t die out.’
‘In which case, that man must be Florence’s brother – he does look a little like her around the mouth. He and Iris look so young and carefree.’ She leafed through the rest of the photos in her hand and paused when she got to the final one. ‘Isn’t that him, too?’
Claude peered over her shoulder. She was looking at a group of young men in army uniform. They stood in a line, their faces proud, and there, at the end, was a young man who looked very much like Cornelius.
Lettie frowned. ‘I assumed that Florence’s brother had died fairly recently, but if she needed to carry on the family name when she got married, he must have died a long time ago. Do you know when or how?’
Claude shrugged, distracted by Buster’s whimpering, which was getting louder. ‘Not that I remember. He wasn’t around when I was growing up.’
Lettie leaned over and started scanning through the small number of newspaper clippings laid out on the table.
‘Anything there?’ asked Claude, after a while.
‘I don’t think so. I can’t see a Cornelius mentioned, and there’s definitely no mention of my great-aunt.’
‘You could try the war memorial.’
‘I haven’t seen one in the village.’
‘It’s at the end of Weaver’s Row, near the church.’
Lettie seemed upset again. ‘I almost can’t bear to look for Cornelius’s name there. Not after seeing the photo of him and Iris looking so happy together. It must be awful to lose someone you love.’
Claude closed his eyes for a moment, swamped by bittersweet memories.
‘I don’t think I can help you any further. I’d like you to go now,’ he told Lettie firmly.
He knew that he was being brusque, rude even. But he was suddenly overwhelmed by memories of his parents, long gone, and a woman he’d lost many years ago. It was also overwhelming simply having another human being in his home for any length of time. He wasn’t used to it – usually it was just him and faithful Buster.
‘Oh. OK. Of course. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.’
Lettie’s eyes opened wider and she gathered together the information she’d been looking at and placed it back into the filing cabinet. He’d upset her.
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ said Lettie. ‘I really appreciate it. Could I borrow this photo of my great-aunt for a day or two? I’ll bring it back.’
Claude eyed her suspiciously. These outsiders came and went – here one minute and gone the next.
‘I promise I’ll return it,’ she assured him, and her earnest expression suddenly reminded him of Esther.
‘Take it,’ he said, switching off the lamp and leading her back up the cellar steps. ‘I’ll trust you to bring it back.’
According to Google Maps,the lane she was looking for was right about… here. Lettie looked around for a road sign and eventually spotted one, screwed to the side of a stone cottage. Weaver’s Row.
The row was narrow, cobbled and lined with ancient cottages with tiny windows and shiny front doors. They looked like workers’ homes from centuries long gone. Lettie peered through the latticed panes as unobtrusively as she could as she passed by and spotted stone hearths and beams. How wonderful to live in a house with such history. Her flat was ex-council, erected in the 1970s, and didn’t have a single interesting feature to redeem it.
The end of Weaver’s Row opened onto a small green and there, in the middle, stood the war memorial. The memorial was formed of a stone cross standing on a stone plinth and both were pitted and weathered. Someone had planted flowers around the base of the plinth and the bright blooms swayed in the breeze as Lettie approached.
Depressingly, there were lots of names for such a small village. Some were from the 1914-18 conflict, while others were from World War II. Lettie ran her fingers across the indentations of the names of men long gone and scanned down those lost in the 1939-1945 conflict. In her heart, she hoped he wasn’t there but she suddenly saw his name: Cornelius J. Allford, 1915–1941.
He was only twenty-six years old when he died, and Iris would have been in her early twenties. How deep was their relationship? wondered Lettie. If they were good friends, his death would have shattered her great-aunt, and if they were more, as the photo suggested…
Lettie suddenly felt near to tears. There was so much she wished she’d asked her great-aunt. So much she wished that Iris had told her.
An old flyer advertising the village fete fluttered by and Lettie watched it twist across the grass. The blue of the sea sparkled in the distance and there, to the right, was the Allford headland jutting out into the ocean.
Sit where I sat, darling girl.
Was the letter written by Cornelius? He must have sat up there on the headland, high above the village and the ocean. He and Iris might even have sat there together, making plans and dreaming of a future that was about to disappear in a rattle of gunfire. If only Lettie knew for sure.
She sighed, longing to know the truth. But both Cornelius and Iris were now gone and all she had was a letter that made little sense and the key that was hanging around her neck, glinting in the sunshine.
