Her Own Rules

  She wondered what she would do if he did ask her to marry him. Jon and Cat thought it was all so simple, but in reality her life was rather complicated. She lived in America, he lived in France, and they both had businesses, commitments, responsibilities. She couldn’t very well walk away from Havens Incorporated, and certainly Luc would never give up his architectural practice in Paris. Nor did she expect him to. So how could they ever work it out. . .

  “Mom, let’s have tea in here,” Catherine called from the archway leading into the dining area. “It’s so much easier.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Meredith said, pushed herself up off the sofa, and went to join her daughter. “How nice it looks,” she said a moment later as she surveyed Catherine’s handiwork.

  “Thanks, and sit here, Mom.” Cat indicated a chair, took the one opposite, picked up the teapot, and poured. “Now, here’s this lovely cup of tea, Mother, just the way you like it, and help yourself to some sandwiches. There’s cucumber, tomato, egg salad, and ham. Tiny ones but tasty.”

  “I remember our nursery teas,” Meredith said, taking a minuscule cucumber sandwich. “They were fun, weren’t they?”

  Catherine nodded as she munched on a sandwich. After a moment she said, “I tried to get scones today, but no luck. My local bakery sometimes has them. I was hoping to give you warm scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam.”

  “Thoughtful of you, darling, but this is fine. Not too fattening,” Meredith replied with a dry laugh.

  Catherine eyed her mother. “You don’t have to worry Mom, you look wonderful.”

  “Thank you.”

  Catherine stood up. “I won’t be a minute, I’ve got to get something from the kitchen.”

  When she returned to the table Catherine was carrying a glass bowl and a jug. She stood there, smiling at her mother, her bright blue eyes full of love.

  “I have a treat for you, Mom. Strawberries. Your favorite.”

  Meredith stared at Cat.

  She felt herself go cold all over.

  And then she heard a voice echoing in her head, faintly, as if it came from a very long distance. “Mari . . . Mari.”

  A moment later the same voice was calling, once again echoing in Meredith’s head. “Mari . . . Come on. Come in.”

  A scene flashed.

  In her mind’s eye she saw a young woman with sparkling blue eyes and red-gold hair bending over a small child, her expression loving. “Strawberries, Mari. A special treat.” The child beamed at the mother. It was such a happy scene; there was such love on the mother’s face. Then she heard the child crying. “Mam, Mam, what’s wrong?”

  The scene faded.

  Meredith felt icy cold. She stared at Catherine. For a moment she was unable to say anything.

  Catherine, who had been looking at her mother intently, now asked in a concerned voice, “What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well? You’ve gone awfully white, Mom.”

  “I’m fine,” Meredith managed to say She shook her head. “I think I’ve just had what Dr. Benson would call a flashback. My first.”

  “What exactly is it?”

  “It’s a memory really, usually a repressed memory coming to the surface. I believe I just had one from my childhood. I saw a young woman of about your age, with bright blue eyes like you, and a small child. Maybe a five-year-old. At first the scene was happy, then suddenly the child was crying. It faded away.”

  Meredith took several deep breaths. “I think I had a memory of my mother and me. My biological mother, Cat.”

  “Why do you think you had this flashback all of a sudden?” Catherine asked curiously, sitting down in the chair, her eyes pinned on Meredith’s face.

  “I believe you triggered it. It was the way you said strawberries, then mentioned special treat. And it was your eyes, Cat, so blue, so full of love.”

  Meredith paused, shook her head. “Jack had very blue eyes, and I always thought you had inherited yours from your father. But perhaps they’re my mother’s eyes.”

  Catherine reached out, took hold of Meredith’s hand resting on the table. “Oh Mom, this is wonderful.” She felt her throat tighten, and she said in an emotional voice, “Maybe you’ll keep remembering more and more until you know everything about your past.”

  “I hope so, darling.” Meredith bit her lip. “Perhaps I ought to call Hilary Benson, tell her about this. She would want to know” Glancing at her watch, she went on, “It’s just turned six o’clock. I’m sure she’s still at the office.”

  “Yes, call her,” Catherine exclaimed, getting up. “The phone in the kitchen is the nearest.”

  Meredith nodded and followed her daughter, then quickly dialed the psychiatrist’s number from the wall phone. “May I speak to Dr. Benson please, Janice?” she said when the secretary came on the line.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Mrs. Stratton.”

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Stratton. I’ll put you through right away.”

  “Good evening, Meredith,” Hilary Benson greeted her a split second later. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. As you know, I’m going to London tonight. I stopped off to have tea with my daughter this afternoon, and she said something that triggered a memory. I think I’ve just had my first real flashback.”

  “This is very good news, Meredith. Very good indeed. What exactly did you remember?”

  Meredith recounted the flashback in every detail.

  When she had finished, the psychiatrist exclaimed, “This is your first significant memory, a true breakthrough, and I think it’s just the beginning. You may find you have more in the next few days. That frequently happens. Try to focus on some of the details you’ve just mentioned to me, they might lead you into a whole series of significant memories.”

  “I hope so. I’d really love to unearth the mystery of my early years.”

  “You will, Meredith, I’m quite certain of that. If you have the need to call me, don’t hesitate to do so. And I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, and thank you, Dr. Benson. Good-bye.” Meredith hung up the receiver, turned around to face Catherine, who was standing in the doorway, an expectant look on her face.

  “What did she say?” Catherine asked.

  “That it was a significant memory, and that I’ll probably have more now.”

  “Oh Mom!” Catherine hurried into the kitchen, wrapped her arms around Meredith, and held her close. “I love you so much, Mother, I just want you to have peace of mind. And some happiness in your life finally.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Patsy Canton had been listening attentively to Meredith for the past hour.

  Now she said in a low, thoughtful voice, “So what you’re saying to me, in essence, is that you believe you were born in England and then taken to Australia as a child.”

  Meredith nodded. “Exactly. I think I must’ve been about six years old.”

  “And you went alone? That can’t be so. You must’ve been with your parents.”

  “I’m pretty sure I went alone, Patsy. I’m convinced my mother was dead by then.”

  “No father?”

  “I don’t remember him.”

  “But why would you go alone? That seems awfully strange to me. And who sent you?”

  “I don’t know.” Meredith gave a light shrug of her shoulders. “I truly don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “In your recurring dream, there are children . . . could you have been sent with other children, perhaps? You know, the way evacuees were sent in groups to safe places during the Second World War.”

  “Maybe. But why? There wasn’t a war on in 1957, when I was six years old, so why was I sent away? Exiled from England?”

  Patsy shook her head. “I haven’t a clue, my darling, and I want to help you, but I don’t know how I possibly can. I’m as baffled as you.”

  Meredith sighed and took a sip of water. She leaned back in the chair, glancing around the restaurant in Claridge’s, and con
tinued quietly. “Last night on the plane, I couldn’t sleep. I suppose I dozed off and on, but mostly my mind was racing, trying to remember things.”

  “And did you?”

  “A couple of things came back to me. The first has to do with my name. I was called Mary Anderson in the orphanage in Sydney. It was Merle Stratton who changed my name to Meredith. And of course I took their surname when they adopted me. But I was never Mary—what I mean is, that wasn’t my name, even though they called me Mary at the orphanage. My real name is Mari, and my last name is Sanderson.”

  “I see. So how did it get changed?” Instantly Patsy shook her head and exclaimed in a dismayed voice, “Oh God, bureaucracy! Do save me from it. Your name probably got muddled up by some idiot at the orphanage.”

  “That’s exactly what happened, I think. I had this memory on the plane last night. It was of a woman, a rather stern one, who told me that my name wasn’t Mari with an i, but Mary with a y. I kept telling her that I was called Marigold, but she wouldn’t believe me. She scoffed and said that it wasn’t a child’s name, but the name of a flower.”

  “There are some bloody awful people running these institutions. It’s just terrible what goes on in this world. Despicable.” Patsy sighed heavily and gave Meredith a sympathetic look. “So Marigold was your first name, and I suppose they also managed to get Anderson and Sanderson confused.”

  “Yes,” Meredith replied. “And this confusion about my name might well explain the luggage labels in the dream.”

  “Absolutely,” Patsy cried. “Brilliant, darling.”

  There was a small silence between them. Eventually, Meredith looked at Patsy earnestly and said, “My mother’s name was Kate—I’ve remembered that. And I know she’s dead, so there’s no possibility of my meeting her. But now that I’ve remembered her at last, after all these years, I need to do something. For myself. I need closure. And so I would like to visit her grave at least. See it, take flowers, be with her there. That would truly help me. And perhaps I’ll start feeling better, and maybe—hopefully—the attacks of psychogenic fatigue will go away.”

  “I’m sure you would feel much better, Meredith. And I really understand your need . . . visiting her grave will give you solace in a way.”

  “At least I’d finally know she really did exist, and that she isn’t a figment of my imagination. The only thing is, I don’t know where she’s buried. I’ve remembered her name, but I can’t remember where we lived.”

  “Yorkshire,” Patsy announced after only a moment’s thought. “I’m positive. And certainly it would explain the experience you had at Fountains Abbey. That’s always seemed rather significant to me. I haven’t forgotten the way you explained it that day, you had a very strong reaction to the abbey. You must have gone there as a child.”

  “I agree. But I have a feeling I didn’t grow up in that area. I remembered something else . . . being taken into a city. On a bus. It was a very big city, bustling, with lots of people milling around. There was a large square in the center, with black statues. My mother used to take me to this city to go to a market. It was huge, covered with a domed glass roof.”

  “And they sold everything at stalls. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Patsy nodded. “Vegetables and fruit stalls, fish, meat, cakes, bread, clothes, furniture, crystal and china stalls. Men calling out to passersby to come and look, sample their wares. All of them doing a very loud verbal selling job. Do you remember that?”

  “Oh yes, I do, Patsy! We used to stand and listen to them. They all had . . . different pitches for their goods.”

  Patsy nodded. “Leeds Market. It’s very famous, and in Leeds City Square there are black statues of nymphs holding torches. There is also a statue of Edward, the Black Prince, on a horse. Both are life-sized. Does that ring a bell?”

  “It does. Let’s assume I do come from Leeds . . . how can I find out where my mother is buried? Who would know anything about Kate Sanderson thirty-eight years later?”

  “Somerset House. Actually, it’s no longer called that, they changed its name. Now it’s St. Catherine’s House, but it is the right place for us to begin. It’s the general register office of births, marriages, and deaths, and for the whole of Great Britain. It’s a place of records, and it’s a mine of information, in fact.”

  “Where is it located?”

  “Here in London, in Kingsway. It’s a quick cab ride from here.”

  “I must go there this afternoon.”

  “Yes, you must, and I’ll come with you, Meredith.”

  An hour later Meredith and Patsy were at St. Catherine’s House in Kingsway. They walked through the glass doors and found themselves immediately in the actual records office itself. On all sides were stacks and stacks of ledgers lined up on shelves.

  “It looks like a library,” Meredith said as she and Patsy walked up to the security desk.

  After the security officer had checked their handbags, Patsy said to him, “How do we go about finding the record of a death?”

  The officer directed them to an inquiry desk at the far end of one of the long aisles of ledgers on the left. Five clerks were standing behind the inquiry desk, ready to be of assistance. Patsy and Meredith approached one of them, and Patsy repeated her question.

  The young woman clerk handed Patsy a pamphlet. “This tells you how to use the Public Search Room. And it’s simple enough. Records of deaths are bound in the black ledgers, stacked on the left. Births are bound in red, and they are on the right. Look for the year of death. You’ll find there are four books for the four quarters in each year. And there are three volumes per quarter. These are alphabetical. A to F, G to O, and P to Z.”

  Patsy thanked her and she and Meredith retraced their steps. Once they were back in the Public Search Room they headed for the black ledgers and found the year they wanted. Meredith took hold of the handle on the spine of the first ledger inscribed March 1957, P to Z, pulled it off the shelf, and placed it on the book stand that ran the length of the aisle in front of the shelves. Opening it, she saw that it covered January to March.

  “To save time, why don’t you look at the quarter that follows,” Meredith suggested. “That would be April, May, June.”

  “Good idea,” Patsy said, and went to look for the appropriate ledger.

  Meredith ran her finger slowly down the lists of Sandersons deceased through the first quarter of the year 1957. The name of Katharine Sanderson was not among them. Glancing at Patsy, she said, “She’s not listed in this book. How about yours?”

  “Give me a minute or two, I haven’t quite finished.”

  Meredith returned the ledger to its shelf, pulled out the one covering July, August, and September of 1957. Once again her mother’s death was not shown; nor was her death recorded in the two volumes Patsy perused in quick succession.

  “We’ve covered the whole year,” Patsy murmured to Meredith. “Are you absolutely certain your mother died in 1957?”

  “Yes. Well, I think so.”

  “But how do you know this, Meredith? You said you had so little information about yourself. Do you actually remember her dying?”

  “Not really. But I do know I went to the orphanage in Sydney when I was six years old.”

  “You remember that, do you? Are you really sure? How do you know this?”

  “Because Merle Stratton told me. She once said to me that I’d been at the orphanage since I was six but they hadn’t taught me much in two years.”

  “All right, so you went there when you were six years old in 1957. But that doesn’t mean your mother died that year. Maybe it was 1956, when you were five.”

  “I don’t think so . . . I know I was six. But let’s look at the ledgers for 1956.”

  “Good idea,” Patsy agreed.

  An hour later Meredith and Patsy had searched the entire set of ledgers for the year 1956 and turned up nothing. Meredith looked at her friend and said quietly, “This is a wild-goose chase. He
r death is just not listed.”

  “Do you want to try some other years?”

  “No, there’s no point,” Meredith answered. “Maybe I have made a mistake about the date, but we can’t stay here all day, searching through endless ledgers. Come on, let’s go.”

  “No, wait a minute,” Patsy said. “What if she died abroad?”

  “My mother was never abroad.”

  “Humor me, let’s go and talk to one of the clerks. Just for a minute. Please, Meredith.”

  “All right.”

  When they got back to the inquiry desk, Patsy zeroed in on the young woman who had helped them earlier. “We’re looking for the record of a death, and we haven’t been able to find it. Now, what if the person died abroad, that would mean it isn’t listed, correct?”

  The young woman shook her head. “No, it would be listed. Wherever a British subject dies, the death is eventually recorded here. The information comes through all of the British embassies and consulates around the world.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s really quite simple,” the clerk went on, looking from Patsy to Meredith. “If a person’s name is not in one of the registers, then that person is not dead. He or she is still alive.”

  Meredith gaped at the clerk.

  Patsy said, “Thank you very much for your help,” and with a slight nod she turned away. She took hold of Meredith’s arm, led her down the short flight of steps and along one of the aisles.

  They stood in front of the glass doors opening onto the street, staring at each other.

  Meredith looked stunned and she was slightly trembling.

  Patsy, who was nobody’s fool, understood all of the implications inherent in this unexpected knowledge, and she said, “I know what you’re thinking, darling.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Meredith answered, her voice so low it was almost inaudible. “If my mother’s not dead, which according to those ledgers she isn’t, then she’s alive. Somewhere. In England probably.” Meredith paused, took a deep breath, and clutched Patsy’s arm. “Why did she send me away when I was a little girl? Why in God’s name was I sent to an orphanage in Sydney, of all places? The other side of the world. Why? Why, Patsy?”