The Angel in the Corner - Monica Dickens [41]
‘Mrs Martin?’ she repeated. ‘There’s no one of that name here.’
‘There must be. They live here.’
‘They do, do they? Well then, you know something I don’t know, for it’s the first time I’ve heard of it. Martin? I never heard the name.’ She sucked a tooth, distending her cheek as if her tongue were a caramel.
‘They must have let the house, unless they’ve sold it. Who lives here now? Can I see them? They would know my – Mr Martin’s address.’
‘No one lives here.’ The woman kept her hand on the door, ready to close it. ‘At least, not to say lives. It belongs to the National Health, the way I understand it. Being made over into a day nursery, they say. Not that I know. I’m only here to do a bit of scrubbing and washing down.’
‘Perhaps they could help me at the Town Hall.’
‘Ah, the Town Hall. Well, they might. I couldn’t say. Good day, Miss. I’ve got to get back to my floor.’
She shut the door. Virginia went slowly down the steps, and stood in the muddy garden, looking at the house. The windows were closed and dirty, and all the curtains were gone. She could see into the front room, which had once been her nursery. It was bare, and the fireplace was full of rubbish and sweepings. At the Town Hall, anyone who could help her was out to lunch. She waited, and finally saw a woman who knew something about the day nursery, and who consented to look at her records. Yes, the house had been purchased from a Mr Harold Martin. No, they had no other address for him. All the business had been completed before he went away.
Disheartened, but not wanting to give in without a struggle, Virginia went to see her father’s solicitor. She remembered his name, because Helen had made jokes about it at the time of the divorce. Curtis Cowmeadow. She found him in a dim, triangular office in one of the buildings near Saint Paul’s that was marked for demolition. He was a gnome of a man, with a big head and lined cheeks. He eyed Virginia carefully through the top half of his bifocals, then tipped his head back and examined her through the bottom half.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I see it. You might be Harold Martin’s daughter.’
‘I am. I’ve just told you.’
‘No need to take me up. I’m not doubting your word. I merely meant that you do look a trifle like him, as I remember him.’
‘Remember him? Haven’t you seen him lately? He has just sold his house, and I thought that you must have acted for him.’
‘Oh, no.’ Mr Cowmeadow shook his heavy head, which was insecurely balanced on a thin, pulsing neck. ‘I haven’t handled his affairs for quite some time. I have no idea where he might be. There was some bad luck, I believe, a few years ago. Lost his job, was it? Perhaps you know about that.’
‘I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen him since I was twelve. I found him quite by chance a few months ago, and now it looks as though I’ve lost him again.’
‘Oh, come,’ Mr Cowmeadow said. ‘It can’t be as bad as that. No one can be lost. There are ways, you know, of tracing people.’
‘I don’t know now that I want to find him,’ Virginia said flatly. ‘Perhaps it was all a mistake. I should have let it alone.’
She felt suddenly defeated. The little office was airless, and smelled of cigarettes stubbed out in a metal ash-tray. Mr Cow-meadow looked rooted there, as if he had grown up behind his desk like a toadstool, and never known anything of the outside world. She did not want to be involved with him any more.
She went down the worn, narrow stairs, and walked aimlessly in the busy street. The excited determination that had sent her hurrying to her old home had all faded away in disappointment. She did not want to look for her father any more. He had deserted her, just as he had deserted her before. He was not the answer. There was no answer except to do what Helen wanted. If her father and his wife had been at the house, it would