Blast from the Past. Cathy Hopkins

He wouldn’t wear the antlers’ horn headband they gave him; he couldn’t let go of maintaining the proper image. He never accepted any of my friends, and soon I was reluctant to have them round for fear of him criticizing them later. Although I thought Marcia had some whacky ideas, I didn’t like hearing Richard call her and Pete a couple of old hippies. He just didn’t get them, and was jealous of anyone who took my attention away from him. He even thought something was going on with Stuart, and watched him like a hawk if he ever dropped by the house. As if. I realized that what Richard really wanted was a stay-at-home wife who was there to cook his meals, keep his (my) house tidy and sweet-scented, plan his social diary, be there for him and him alone. I got bored with the predictability of our life – a G and T at seven, supper at seven thirty, a concert midweek, a theatre outing on Fridays, a proper roast lunch and walk on Sundays. The stability I had craved was suffocating me, and I began to feel like rebelling, not that I ever did. I toed the line and, with it, shrank inside from my true self.

      When Richard sipped at his one, and only one, glass of fine wine with supper, I started to feel as if I’d like to polish off the whole bottle, then dance on the table. Anything to evoke a reaction. He disapproved of smokers, which made me want to go out and buy a pack of Marlboro and smoke the lot. He insisted on regular exercise and a long walk on Sundays, which made me want to slob about in my pj’s, watching trash TV, instead of one of his high-minded documentaries. I wanted to eat crisps and marshmallows instead of his only allowed TV snack, which was a bowl of olives from a deli in Kensington. And I was pretty sure his mother disapproved of me. She never thought I was good enough for her golden boy, though helping myself to the potpourri – thinking it was a bowl of crisps – when we first met, didn’t help improve her view of me. In the last year we were together, the cracks had begun to show in our relationship, and I was slipping down and through them. When Richard started telling me what to wear and advised me to cut up my credit card, I’d decided that was enough. I wanted my life back.

      Was he the one I’d let go? Definitely not. He was a decent man, kind when he wanted to be, but we were done. Saranya Ji had said a true soulmate might bring challenges, but I’d breathed a sigh of relief when Richard had moved out and I never looked back.

      *

      After lunch, Ben, Freya and Ruby disappeared up to their rooms; others settled on sofas to snooze, others helped with the washing up.

      ‘Pete’s been online,’ said Marcia, as we cleared plates from the table and stacked them in the dishwasher.

      ‘What for?’ I asked, as if I didn’t already know.

      ‘Billy and Grace.’

      ‘Ah. I thought he said it was going to be impossible to find them.’

      ‘True. It’s not easy but there’s so much information online now, we have made some headway.’

      ‘And how many people with those names have you found?’

      ‘Loads. You were right, Bea, both are common names, but I did find a whole family with the surname Harris who lived in Ireland then Manchester then in Cambridge. Pete’s going to get on to it in the New Year. When he has time, he’s going to do some more research for us. Is there anything else you can remember from what Saranya Ji told you that might be helpful?’

      ‘I told you everything.’

      ‘OK. Any places you’ve ever felt a feeling of déjà vu when you’ve visited them?’

      ‘Can’t say I have.’

      ‘Maybe you should try and contact Saranya Ji, see if she had anything else to add?’

      ‘She was on tour in India, wasn’t she? She’s probably gone from Udaipur by now. How did you find her, Marcia? Was it online or did someone recommend her? Has she got a website?’

      ‘Not that I know of. It really was coincidence, as if meant to be. Someone at work told me about her ages ago and then, when we got to India, I saw a leaflet in one of the hotels advertising her tour in India.’

      ‘So how did you get in touch?’

      ‘I called the number on the leaflet and a man told me where she was going to and when and, amazingly enough, she was in Udaipur the very same dates that we were. Why? Do you want to contact her?’

      ‘No. I just wanted to know more about her, to see if there were any reviews about her.’

      ‘I don’t think I kept the leaflet but I’ll look. In the meantime, think back, Bea: is there anything else that you remember from your session; anything you didn’t tell us?’

      ‘I don’t think so. Second World War and … actually, I do remember something. She said Grace worked as a dressmaker in London.’

      ‘Bea, that makes all the difference. I seem to remember that the census records show occupations. It could narrow the search down significantly.’

      I sighed. ‘OK, but say you did find one of them, or both of them, as I keep saying, so what? All it proves is that two people of that name existed, end of story.’

      ‘You don’t know that. You’d have made a crap detective, Bea. You look at clues, one leads to another. Anyway, I’m not giving up. So. London. Excellent. Second World War and Saranya Ji said that he went to war and didn’t return. If they were to be married, chances are they were quite young.’

      ‘Not necessarily. They may have met later in life.’

      It was no use. Marcia was away. ‘The dates of the Second World War were 1939 to 1945. If I allow for them being engaged as young sweethearts, they could have been eighteen, nineteen or early twenties, and often young men of that age went away to war.’

      ‘Apparently some lads of only sixteen went to fight.’

      ‘Doubt if they’d have been engaged to be married at that age, though. And what was the maximum age for soldiers?’

      ‘I seem to remember it was forty, but older if called for Home Guard duty. I know because Richard was always watching documentaries about the war.’

      ‘But Saranya Ji said he went away to war, right? So he wouldn’t have been in the Home Guard.’

      I nodded. ‘I think she said that. I didn’t make notes because it’s a load of baloney, Marcia.’

      Marcia ignored me. ‘Hmm, but you’re right, Grace could have been in her thirties or forties.’

      ‘Unless he liked older women. He might have had a mother complex. She might have been ancient.’

      ‘I’ll get Pete to find out. I’ll ask him to look up the exact age men were no longer eligible to go to war so that we’re certain. He’ll probably already know but, by my reckoning, it gives us about twenty-five years as a time frame to look at. Men between sixteen and forty, women the same. If Grace was born around 1919, she’d have been around twenty when the war began. We can begin with that, and the fact that we’re looking in London also narrows the field. Other facts, her name and that she was a dressmaker will also help. I’m sure Pete will find her.’ Her face looked flushed with excitement. ‘Don’t you see, Bea, we’re making progress.’

      I laughed. ‘Not we’re making progress: you’re on your own with this. I’m really not interested.’

      ‘Spoilsport. Where’s your sense of romance?’

      ‘As you know, that died a long time ago. Look, you go ahead, but don’t ask me to get involved.’

      ‘Too late,’ said Marcia, ‘you already are. Now, have you thought any more about your list of past lovers, though of course, we may be barking up the wrong tree looking back in time. It may well be that you are yet to meet this special man, so keep your options open, be on the lookout. In the meantime, though, how’s the list? Have you started it? So far, we have Andrew Murphy, and the recent ones like Richard and before him, Michael O’Connor, Joe Wilding and Graham, of course, plus the odd one I can remember from our earlier days. Pete might be able to track them