The Girl in the Scrapbook by Carolyn Ruffles (reading women TXT) 📕

Foreign Office, you know. Anyway, I digress. These newspaper cuttings…. there was one from 1930. August, I believe, and I remembered that you were particularly interested in that period. Oh, by the way, how did you get on with Daisy? Isn’t she marvellous? I hope I’m as sharp as her when I’m that age. Such a shame she suffers so with arthritis.’

They waited patiently for Angela to draw breath when Emily swiftly leapt in. ‘Yes, it is and we got on really well, thank you. Daisy remembered the man and the young girl in the photograph I showed you. He was called Arthur Fletcher and the girl was his daughter, Iris.’

At the mention of the names, Angela paled and sat heavily down on a chair.

‘Are you alright, Angela?’ Jennifer asked, concerned by her sudden pallor. ‘Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water?’

‘No, no, I’m fine. It was just a shock hearing that name, Fletcher …’ Her voice tailed off and she looked directly at Emily. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. It’s just that it’s such sad news and now I know that … well, the story may be about one of your relatives … oh, I am sorry. I should have handled this better.’

‘Angela, perhaps you should just show us what you found,’ Jennifer inserted gently. ‘There’s no need for apologies. You’re only trying to help.’

‘Right,’ Angela nodded. She walked over to a dresser and picked up a plastic wallet. ‘It’s just here. I put it with the rest of the photos you wanted to look at.’

Jennifer stood up and took hold of Alex’s hand. ‘Let’s go look out of the window to see what we can spot,’ she said. ‘Oh look, Alex. There’s a robin- see his red breast. Look how he’s bossing those sparrows away from the bird feeder.’ He stood obediently beside her, listening and pointing, repeating unfamiliar words, while she distracted his attention away from Emily. Jennifer could feel the heaviness of the silence behind her, the weight of a tragedy unfolding.

‘That’s so sad.’ Emily’s voice, when it finally came, was small and slightly husky.

Jennifer turned and regarded her anxiously. Her face was composed but her eyes were beginning to film with tears. ‘Here.’ Emily stood and handed her a tiny slip of yellowed parchment covered in small newsprint. ‘You read it. Right Alex, tell mummy what you’ve seen in the garden.’

Jennifer read the stark headline. Boy killed in Quarry. She took a deep breath and read on:

A two-year-old boy, James Arthur Fletcher, was killed on Tuesday when he fell into one of the chalk quarries in the village of Great Chalkham in Suffolk.

The boy went missing at approximately 3pm and his body was discovered by his father, Arthur Fletcher, a farmworker, on Wednesday morning. He died from a broken neck.

This is the second incident regarding the quarry. Three years ago, two teenage boys also slipped and fell, sustaining injuries to their arms and legs.

Villagers are now calling for the chalk pits to be fenced off.

The words, so plain and stark, were filled with such terrible import. In her mind, she pictured the young family in the photograph, smiling serenely at the camera, unaware of the fate yet to befall them. She turned over the paper where another news story, parts missing where the scissors had cut, had a date written across it in flowing black ink. August 25th, 1930. Drawing a shuddering breath, she squeezed Emily’s shoulders as she showed it to her. ‘It is, it’s terribly sad. Poor Norah and Arthur. No wonder Iris never spoke of it to Daisy. I wonder if she even knew she once had a brother.’

‘There are two other articles concerning the chalk pits.’ Angela’s voice interrupted their thoughts. ‘Apparently, they were finally closed in 1954 and then in 1990 there was an environmental scheme to turn the area into a wildlife haven. The pits were flooded and now, of course, we have the lake. I can find them up for you if you’re interested.’

‘That’s ok.’ Emily gave her a watery smile. ‘Perhaps we could just take a quick look at those other photographs and then we’ll be out of your hair.’

‘Yes, yes, they’re right here.’ She handed Emily the plastic wallet containing three more brown envelopes, each meticulously named. ‘I’ve had a look myself and I’m not sure there’s anything there of interest to you but, well, I’ll leave you to have a look.’

The first envelope was labelled Turner and contained numerous, recently taken artistic views of the village. Emily sifted through them quickly and set them to one side. The next, marked Watson, held numerous black and white and also colour photographs of events such as fetes, Remembrance Day marches and, as Angela had said, pictures of the Queen’s visit.

‘That must have been such a wonderful occasion,’ said Angela, craning her neck to see the images from across the room.

The final envelope, Williamson, looked more promising. There was a thick bundle of black and white pictures and Emily scoured each one avidly, handing it in turn to Jennifer when she had finished with it. There were some of wartime, young men dressed in uniform, smoking cigarettes, saying goodbye to loved ones, returning home and Emily paid these photographs particular attention. Was Iris one of those young women? Was one of these young soldiers the man whom Iris had loved and who had been so tragically killed? She could not tell. With a sigh, she handed the final photograph to Jennifer and smiled once again at Angela.

‘Would you mind if, at some point in the future when I’ve maybe discovered a bit more about my family, I came and looked at all the photos, and the news clippings again? There could well be pictures of my relatives but I just don’t know it yet.’

Angela rubbed her hands in delight. ‘Of course, my dear. Obviously, I will need to return all these originals to their owners but I will certainly keep copies of