Page 27 of A Snowy Seaside Christmas
Though Lark didn’t vocalise it, she really didn’t fancy going back to Crayke’s Cottage. She’d felt an enormous sense of relief bringing the suitcase here and thought that would be the end of it. But it didn’t feel right to leave Nate to go on his own. She just hoped he wasn’t going to suggest heading there once they’d left here, or worse, after work this evening. The darkness would make it extra spooky.
‘Have you any idea why the case might have been put together like this?’ Nate’s question stopped her from having to worry about another trip to the cottage for the moment.
‘Hmm. It does seem very deliberate rather than the items simply being randomly thrown together.’ Louisa clasped her chin between her thumb and her forefinger. ‘The suitcase postdates the other items by a considerable amount of time. Suitcases weren’t introduced until the late nineteenth century – trunks were used before then – so any theory would be purely conjecture. I guess we’ll never know for sure, so it’ll just have to remain a mystery, and an intriguing one at that.’
She set about putting the items back in place and closing the suitcase. ‘Well, thank you so much for letting me see all of these fabulous items. Are you sure you don’t mind me hanging on to them until I can get the experts to take a look at them?’
She was beyond thrilled when both Lark and Nate had told her they were donating the suitcase and its contents to the museum, declaring the items would be perfect for a new exhibition they had planned. ‘I promise to let you know what the experts have to say about the pistol and the ledger.’
‘You said you had a couple of interesting things to show us,’ ventured Lark once the suitcase was closed.
‘Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me.’ Louisa gave a mysterious smile before heading over to her desk.
EIGHTEEN
Louisa returned with a handful of items. The first was a sepia photograph of what was very clearly Crayke’s Cottage, the door of which was half open. Leaning against the wall was a young fisherwoman dressed in the typical garb of the period, comprising of an ankle-length skirt, worn with an apron over the top and tied at the waist. She had a shawl fastened crossways over the long-sleeved bodice of her outfit, and a checked scarf of rough-looking fabric covering her head, which suggested the weather was cold the day the photo was taken. The young woman rested a large basket on her hip as she gazed casually at the camera, a riot of wild curls resting on her brow. Lark noted there was a warmth to the picture that suggested the sun was shining, though the cobblestones underfoot glistened with rain.
‘Oh my goodness! This is amazing!’ Lark instantly recognised it as being the work of George Stainthorpe. The famous Victorian photographer, who hailed from further along the coast at Skelby-by-the-Sea, had set about capturing everyday life in the nearby towns and villages. His sepia prints were always high in demand and were sold in the local art gallery.
As Lark gazed at the photograph, her mind tumbled with an array of senses, the sound of seagulls, the smell of fish minglingin the air with the earthy sent of freshly fallen rain, the warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds. Instinct told her that though the young woman’s days were filled with hard work, there was an innate happiness to her. Lark got a powerful image of her singing as she set about her business with her fellow fisherwomen, her sweet voice rising above the sound of the waves and the cries of the herring gulls, her workmates joining in with her song.
‘The young woman’s identified as Molly Ventriss of Gabblewick Gate, and the basket she’s holding was for carrying fish or bait. She’d have carried it on her head, hence its wide shape which helped even out the balance.’ Louisa’s voice snapped Lark out of her thoughts.
‘Ah, right.’ She nodded, unable to take her eyes away from Molly’s mesmerising gaze that seemed to reach into her soul.
‘The cottage has hardly changed,’ exclaimed Nate. ‘Maybe the windows look a bit different, but nowt else.’
‘And there are these.’ Louisa handed Lark a couple of pieces of A4 paper that appeared to be photocopies of newspaper reports.
The first was a photocopy of a newspaper article dated September nineteen forty-one and bore the headlineLocal Girl Star of the Show!Beneath it sat a grainy photograph of a young woman with dark, wavy hair wearing a floral tea dress and a huge smile. In the piece the reporter described how a young woman by the name of Betty Pearson of Crayke’s Cottagein Micklewick Bay had stunned locals with her wonderful voice.Crayke’s Cottage?It would seem a well-known singer from York who’d been booked for a much-anticipated Saturday night event at the town’s dance hall the previous weekend had let them down at the last minute. Rather than the organisers having to cancel and refund the ticketholders, Betty had stepped inand taken the microphone, saving the day with her beautiful renditions of popular wartime songs.
A shadowy photograph of Betty in a stunning evening gown featured further down, the article concluding with the reporter predicting a “wonderful future for the young seaside songbird”.
Lark could scarcely believe what she was reading.
She moved on to the other sheet of paper which was copy of a different newspaper report. This one, dated June nineteen forty-two, bore the title ‘Wedding Belle!” and included another black and white photograph. This time it was of Betty on her wedding day, linking the arm of her new soldier husband, Ralph Roberts. Betty wore a white gown with a round neckline and long sleeves while her hair was set in waves and brushed back off her face. The look was finished with a veil that fell to the waist, a huge, frothy bouquet in her hands. The whole style was so typical of the nineteen forties. Ralph Roberts looked dashing in his uniform, his hair slicked back. And, despite the poor quality of the print, it was still easy to see the young bride and her groom radiated optimism and happiness.
‘Oh, wow!’ Lark’s heart started thudding as she marshalled her thoughts. She could hardly believe it. This was without doubt the couple who’d appeared in her mind when she’d pulled out the clothes of the first suitcase a couple of nights ago. The details were identical, from the wedding dress, right down to Betty’s bouquet! And then there was the name: Betty. There was no way this could be a coincidence. No way at all. ‘This is incredible! I can hardly believe it!’
‘I think that’s your Betty,’ said Louisa, peering over her shoulder at the report.
‘I think it is,’ replied Lark, a sense of happiness washing over her. ‘From what I can make out in the photo, she’s wearing the very same wedding dress as the one I found in the first suitcasewhich proves it must’ve belonged to her. Like I mentioned over the phone, it’s made of panels of silk.’
‘Yes, I was thinking about that. Because rationing was in place for clothing as well as food, it was quite common at the time for brides to make their own wedding dresses out of whatever they could get their hands on. Would you believe that included parachute silk?’
‘Parachute silk?’ said Lark and Nate in unison.
‘Yes. And, interestingly, there was a parachute factory not too far from here over in Lingthorpe. It closed down some ten or so years after the Second World War, but it would’ve been a handy place for brides-to-be to get their hands on any seconds, or off-cuts of silk, and use the panels to construct their wedding dresses. In fact, some even used silk that had come from actual parachutes that had been used in active service. It was particularly poignant if the ’chute had helped save an airman or soldier’s life, or assisted him in making a safe landing.’
‘That’s fascinating, and I can’t help feeling that Betty’s dress has a special significance like the sort you’ve just described.’
‘It would be lovely to think so, wouldn’t it?’ Louisa smiled.
Lark felt almost euphoric to know that Betty had enjoyed a happy life and that Crayke’s Cottage wasn’t just filled with tension and been witness to whatever it was the items in the second case were trying to warn her about.
‘I reckon that’s what you’d call a successful visit,’ Nate said as they walked away from the heritage centre, the wind whipping in from the sea, skimming over the waves.
‘I reckon you’re right. Louisa certainly knows her stuff.’ Lark blinked, the cold making her eyes water.
