Page 28 of Autumn at the Willow River Guesthouse
Underneath was a picture of Lily’s grandfather, his face stoic as he held up a plaque, the picture too grainy to reveal its inscription. Her grandmother, Margaret, stood beside him, a wide grin on her face. To either side stood two young men, one rotund and bushy-haired, the other thinner and already balding. On Pete’s left stood a much younger, slimmer, and less flamboyant version of her mother, a baby held in her arms.
Lily stared. That had to be her at roughly a year old. She smiled. Her first appearance in the press.
She got up and wandered through to the reception lobby, where she found the award, now collecting dust behind a pot of dusty plastic flowers. She gave it a quick polish with her sleeve and adjusted its position so that it was more visible to customers. Twenty-five years old it might be, but it was still something to be proud of.
Uncle Gus and Aunt Gert were still hunched over their Scrabble game, chuckling and muttering to each other, as rain now hammered against the windows. Lily, feeling happily invisible, refilled her coffee and went back to her sofa.
She soon discovered that the common theme the papers shared was that each had an article about the guesthouse. There were one or two more awards, then some special events, such as the hosting of a duck race down Willow River, a charity fete held in the gardens, and a visit from Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall. Then there were a couple of offbeat ones, such as a carrier pigeon that had somehow ended up stuck in the conservatory with a message taped to its foot for a Scottish lord, and another as the starting point for an attempt by a local man to walk all the major railway lines in the United Kingdom while dressed as King Arthur. Dated 2002, shortly before the line had closed, a colour picture underneath the short article showed a grinning man in a cloak and crown holding a wooden sword aloft, standing beside her grandfather, a look of bemusement on his face.
Lastly, were the anniversary articles. These were easy to spot because they came every five years. In 1995 the guesthouse had celebrated forty years with a half-page picture taken from an upper floor of a group of people waving from a larger patio where the conservatory now stood. Aside from her grandparents, Uncle Gus and her dad, the picture was too grainy to reveal the identities of the other people in the group, although according to the caption, one of them was Phillip Schofield, come down from the BBC to make a speech at the party.
Ten years later, for the fiftieth anniversary, the picture was in colour and much clearer, the group this time standing at the front of the guesthouse. Lily felt a pang of regret that her grandmother was no longer there, and her grandfather seemed to have aged remarkably since the previous occasion. Uncle Gus had begun to take on his current appearance, his features mostly hidden by beard—albeit with less streaks of grey—and Aunt Gert was grinning as she leaned on his shoulder. Her own parents stood looking respectfully at the camera, with Lily standing to her mother’s left, nine years old, gangly and dorky, her hair an awkward bob. She didn’t remember the event, but she remembered hating that hair, growing it out and wearing it in a ponytail for years, until friends at university had convinced her to experiment more.
Of the other people in the picture, she recognised a couple: Martin Donbury, Jimmy’s dad, stood beside her grandfather in a suit, and Lily vaguely remembered him once chairing the village council. Mary, her best friend at the time, was there to one side, standing next to her mother wearing a maid’s apron. Lily briefly raised an eyebrow, having not known Mary’s mother had once worked for Gus. She had always thought she worked in a florist’s on the road between Willow River and Brentwell, but supposed she may have had more than one part time job.
Of greatest interest, however, was the woman standing beside her own mother. Not especially tall but with a presence that seemed to fill the picture, a younger, slimmer, and strikingly attractive version of Victoria Borton stared confidently into the camera. In a long purple dress with a white sash and a leopard print shawl, she looked like a movie star. One arm was hooked into her hip as though to execute a textbook photographer’s pose, while the other held the hand of a little boy.
And in his other hand, he held Lily’s.
They were about the same height. The boy, his hair close cropped, his ears sticking out a little awkwardly due to the oversized spectacles he wore, was the only one not looking at the camera. Instead, his head was tilted slightly and the smile he wore was directed solely at Lily.
She found herself smiling too. So, Victoria’s connection with the Willow River Guesthouse ran deeper than her current use for it as a refuge. She had been staying here on the day of its fiftieth anniversary, travelling with a boy who had to be her son, even if he shared none of her flamboyance. And the boy, judging by the captured moment of time, had had a crush on Lily.
She wondered what had become of him. In her few brief minutes in Victoria’s room she had seen no personal photos, and had found no other pictures—nor indeed a mention of him—during her search online.
A sudden bloom of heat into her cheeks came with the idea that he might be dead. Letting her rapidly beating heart gradually slow, she reasoned that while it was possible, it was only one of many possibilities. He looked about her age. Most likely he worked in a bank or some other office now, keeping his head down to avoid being recognised as the son of a famous writer. Perhaps he even had a family, a couple of kids.
She studied the photograph for a little longer, then carefully returned the newspapers to where she had found them. In the restaurant, Uncle Gus and Aunt Gert had finished their game of Scrabble and were shuffling a set of playing cards.
‘Poker for matchsticks,’ Aunt Gert said, holding up a huge bag of little sticks. ‘You in?’
Lily pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Can I ask you guys something?’
‘Sure,’ Aunt Gert said.
‘Depending on whether it’s a trade secret or not,’ Uncle Gus said. ‘But in case you were wondering, no, I don’t use hairspray.’
‘Glad to have finally cleared that one up,’ Lily said with a smile. ‘It was about Victoria. I just wondered how long she’s been staying here.’
Uncle Gus and Aunt Gert shared a glance. ‘I could check the books,’ Uncle Gus said. ‘But off the top of my head, I’d say it’s about three years.’
‘But that’s not her first time to stay, is it? She’s stayed here a few times, hasn’t she? I found a picture in an old newspaper.’
‘She was a regular for years,’ Uncle Gus said. ‘Once or twice a year she’d show up for a couple of days. I believe she used to come here with her family when she was a child, way back when it first opened, when I was just a nipper.’ He laughed. ‘We used to play kiss chase out in the car park.’ At Aunt Gert’s glare, he added, ‘I used to run like hell to get away from her.’
‘And she had a little boy?’
‘Michael. Yeah, nice lad. Quiet. Liked watching the trains. Lost interest a little when the line closed. I think the last time we saw him he must have been thirteen or fourteen. Probably busy with school, or with his dad.’
‘Was Victoria married?’
‘Not that we ever knew,’ Aunt Gert said. ‘She never stayed here with a man.’
‘And her son never visits her now?’
Aunt Gert shook her head. ‘No one comes to see her except a few of those weirdo fans of hers. The trainspotter types.’
Uncle Gus let out a loud cackle. ‘Must be quite the paradox for her, all glammed up and that, getting hunted down by all these bookworms in orange anoraks. Right, who’s dealing?’
