Memories of the Past

Lucas Hall frowned as he looked up at Saint Damian’s Care Community. The large, drab building was not what he would consider inviting; its boxy frame and tinted windows reminded him more of a cheap office than an assisted living facility. But then, he supposed its occupants — many of whom never left — might not care. What was important lay within.

Walking through the automatic glass door and into the lobby, a brown folder in his hand, he glanced up at a somewhat worn banner hanging over the front desk: Happy New Year 1998. He idly wondered if they used the same banner last year, or whether they realized the New Year was already a month past. It didn’t seem altogether unlikely that they kept the banner up year-long, only pasting a new number at the end once every twelve months. Inwardly, he made a note to tell his family that, if in the distant future they ever considered putting him in a home, to shoot him first.

A young, bored-looking woman at the front desk glanced up from her book. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, adopting a pleasant tone. “I’m looking for someone, a ‘Deirdre Marsh’. My records indicate she lives here.”

The receptionist grunted and turned back to her book. “All visitors need to sign in,” she said, pointing to a sheet of paper on the desk. “Try asking one of our staff in the common room if you don’t know where to go.”

“Thank you,” Lucas managed politely. He signed his name and turned from the front desk.

The common room lay adjacent to the entrance lobby. It was surprisingly spacious; several elderly residents milled about on walkers, sat at tables and placed down Scrabble tiles, or picked at heated meals with plastic utensils. A few of the facility’s ‘Care Associates’ moved from table to table; Lucas discretely spoke with one who, after some confusion, pointed him towards two figures sitting in front of a bulky television.

A woman sat with a cane resting against her upholstered armchair, ignoring the television as she attempted to knit, her hands shaking. She must have been at least eighty. Next to her sat a man looking just as old and twice as wrinkled, staring at the program on the TV.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Lucas uttered as he came up beside them. “Are you Deirdre Marsh?”

The woman kept knitting. “Are you here to sell me something? I’ve told you all, I’m not interested in your flashy little doohickeys.”

“No, ma’am,” Lucas replied. “I’m here because of your association with the Air WAC.”

The woman’s hands stopped. Slowly, she looked up.

“Ah,” she breathed. “Now that’s a different matter.” The corners of her eyes crinkled gently as her face broke into a gap-toothed smile. “Come to hear stories about the war, have you?”

Lucas smiled back. “In a way, I have. I understand you were part of the Signal Corps, Division 12.”

“Part of it?” the woman said with a chuckle. “I ran it!” She set down her needles, now fully engaged. “Not at first, of course, mind you,” she added. “When they began the Women’s Auxiliary Corps back in ’42, the men had to do all the training. Heck, none of us knew anything about the Army! But it didn’t take long before we started to get a hang o’ things and could start running the show ourselves.” She winked up at him. “And since I was one of the first to volunteer for the Corps, they put me in charge.”

The man sitting next to her squirmed in his chair. “Be quiet, woman, I can’t hear the TV!”

“Oh do pipe down,” Deirdre said, playfully swiping at his leg with her cane. “You can listen to Mister Barker again tomorrow. It’s not every day I get to tell my stories to new people.”

The man grunted. “No, dear, most days you tell them at me.”

“If you were in charge of the division,” interrupted Lucas, “then perhaps you would remember the others who worked at the camp as well.” He knelt down next to her chair and opened his folder, taking out a glossy picture, handing it to Deirdre. “Did you know this woman?”

Deirdre studied the picture in her hand. Lucas didn’t need to look at it himself; he knew it by heart. A photograph of a young woman with lush shoulder-length brown hair, sharply dressed in a military uniform and flight cap, looking up with pale blue eyes, her hand under her chin, a calm, inscrutable expression on her face. And behind her, the blurry image of a military aircraft. The photograph had been tastefully colorized, like a gravure still or a poster from a Lauren Bacall film.

This photograph was the puzzle. And, perhaps, Deirdre could solve it.

“This is a fantastic picture of her,” she exclaimed, “much better than a Kodak.” She looked over at Lucas, a curious look on her face. “Where did you get this? Are you an archivist, for the Library of Congress perhaps?”

“No ma’am,” he replied with a smirk. “Nothing so respectable. I’m a private investigator.” He took out a pad of paper and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. “You do recognize her, then?”

She nodded. “Oh yes indeed. A quiet one, she was, most of the time. Mousy. I remember when she first arrived, she had nerves so tight you could startle her with a knock on the door! But she relaxed after a few weeks.” Deirdre looked quizzically down at the picture. “What was her name again? Michaels? Masterson?”

“Adams.”

“Don’t talk back to your elders,” she said, shoving finger at him. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I think she came to enjoy her work at the WAC. Yes indeed, she had a real enthusiasm for getting things done. She started in a secretarial position or something like that — most of the girls did — but we eventually moved her into…what was it? Some technical field — I don’t quite remember which — but she was good. Why, she found talents she never knew she had…are you sure this isn’t a picture from some fancy magazine?”

“Four hundred!” man in the chair shouted at the television. “Four hundred dollars!”

Lucas took a breath. So far, so good. Now, to the most important question.

“Did you know someone called ‘The Inspector’?”

Deirdre’s brow creased. “We had a whole gaggle of inspectors coming to that base. I couldn’t possibly remember them all.”

“You didn’t know anyone specifically referred to as ‘The Inspector’? Someone who would know this woman?”

She chewed on her lip. “No, I can’t say that sounds familiar to me. I liked the girl well enough, but we weren’t close, you understand. Like I said, she was a quiet one.” She handed the picture back. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you anything about this ‘Inspector’ person.”

And then, she leaned down on the arm of her chair, a smug and conspiratorial look on her face.

“But I think I know who could.”

***************************

Three days later, Lucas sat at the dining table of a modest apartment in a charming neighborhood of San Francisco. The table was occupied by several potted plants; in fact, most of the apartment was filled with all sorts of greenery. He wondered just how much time was spent each day just watering them all, and perhaps if one with the fan-shaped fronds would look good in his front hall.

Across him in the apartment’s kitchenette, a brightly-dressed woman hummed to herself as she worked with a French press. She must have been in her mid-seventies, but looked at least ten years younger, and had the energy of someone even younger than he was. If there were one word to describe her outfit, it was accessories — a dozen jangling knickknacks hung from buttons and clasps. He imagined they made for a convenient conversation starter.

“I hope you like this blend,” the woman said as poured coffee into two mugs. “It’s a bit more earthy than you normally find in artisan coffee, but I’ve grown quite partial to it.” She sauntered over and set one mug down in front of Lucas. “Gives off a vibrant aura.”

“Thank you, Winnifred,” he said, taking the mug. It was shaped like a cat.

“Please,” she replied, “call me Winnie. I never did like my full name. Always seemed too stuffy.” She blew on the coffee in her own mug, little fox ears sticking up from the rim. “But don’t let me distract you, or we’ll be talking until sundown.” Despite her warning, she clearly would have liked nothing better than to entertain company all day.

“You said you wanted to show me something?” she inquired.

Smoothly, Lucas took out the picture of the woman in uniform and silently slid it over to the other side of the table.

For the first time since he’d met her, Winnie sat still. Then she whistled. “I never thought I would see this again.” Her fingers lightly traced across the woman’s face, a strained smile on her face. “Funny, how seeing a simple picture brings back all those memories at once.”

“You knew her well, then?”

Winnie laughed. “Oh, you could say that. I think, of all the women in that camp, I must have been one of the only ones who really knew her at all.” She took a sip, her former spirit returned. “She was so quiet and distant when we first started our work, I thought she might be the unfriendly type. So unlike all the other girls! I think I must have taken it as a bit of a challenge,” she mused, a gleam in her eye. “And I wasn’t about to lose to stiff Miss Matthews.”

Lucas frowned. “I thought her name was Adams.”

Winnie shook her head. “No, she was always Miss Matthews to us. I always liked the sound of the double ‘M’s — it felt like blowing kisses!” She giggled.

“It turned out,” she continued, “we made quite the pair. I coaxed her out of her shell, got her to start talking, though it took some doing. You’d never think such a quiet girl would have so much to say! Talking about her family and how they made all her decisions for her, and how working with the WAC felt like the first time she actually felt important. I think those years in the Corps were the first time she didn’t feel constrained, like she could just be herself.

“And, in turn, she kept me grounded.” She gave Lucas a mischievous look. “Well, most of the time.”

He smirked. Winnie must have been a real handful in her day. Heck, she seemed like she could be a handful now.

“You said you’ve seen this picture before?”

She nodded. “January of ’45. She showed it to me shortly before she was transferred to the Pacific for the last phase of the war. They needed good radio operators,” she explained. “Many of the girls were transferring abroad by that point. But I think she had a harder time of it than most; she cried terribly the night before leaving.”

Lucas made a note in his pad and took another sip. It really was good coffee.

“How is she?” asked Winnie suddenly.

He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid she passed away eight months ago. Kidney failure.”

Winnie looked back down at the picture of the woman, frozen in time. Her entire body seemed to age as she pursed her lips.

“I would have loved to talk with her again,” she managed. “We kept in contact after the war, but eventually the letters between us just stopped. I’m not quite sure how it happened. It was probably my fault.” She sighed.

Lucas sat quietly, watching her. Winnie was clearly a passionate and heartfelt woman. He could imagine the conflicting emotions that reliving her past was bringing to the surface. But, he had a job to do. One more puzzle to unravel.

“Winnie, who was the Inspector?”

She looked up at him, searching his eyes. Slowly, the corners of her mouth turned up into a secretive smile.

“Oh, my dear man. If that isn’t a story of its own…”

***************************

In an area off the beaten path of downtown Concord, a well-maintained brick-and-mortar building contains a tranquil cafe. At the rear, old wooden tables and chairs lie along a spacious courtyard, canopied by sycamore trees. Cafe patrons can often be seen filling every chair and bench, taking a quick lunch or spending a few hours to read; however, at the early hours of the morning, the grounds are mostly empty.

At seven o’clock every Sunday morning, a old man in a plain jacket sits at a table in the corner with a newspaper and blank pad. He glances at the headlines, lights up a cigarette, and then takes a pencil to his pad — and draws. His hand moves with practiced skill, sketching a tree or a gate, or another patron, engrossed in her book. Sometimes, he spends the morning creating a fantastic scene taken from the depths of imagination. A few hours later, the man bundles up his drawings, discards his expended cigarettes, and leaves. It is the same routine every week.

But not today.

Today, the man did not take up his pad. His hands lay still on his lap as he stared down at an old picture. A familiar picture. An ageless image of a woman in uniform. Time stood still as his eyes traced over the familiar curve of her cheek, the fine line of her brow. The serene and yet stunning expression on her face.

Lucas studied the old man sitting across from him. With his hunched shoulders and creased forehead, he reminded Lucas of a shabby dog in his twilight years. Tired, but resigned. His breath came in starts as he looked down, his shoulders shuddering. Finally, he looked up with misty eyes.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice breaking.

The man had such a simple sincerity to his words. Lucas swallowed. “My client had it in her possession.” Gently, he reached across the table and turned the picture over. On the back was written a short message in flowing ink.

Forever a star in my eyes.

And signed,

Your ‘Inspector’.

Lucas pointed at the signature. “Your handwriting. Correct?”

The man nodded. “It was a private joke between us.” He gave a short laugh. “Her fault, really.”

“I’d love to hear it. If you feel up to it, that is.”

The man nodded again, wiping his eyes. Composing himself, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

“I was a postal delivery driver during the war,” he began. “Of course, I enlisted to fight with the army. We all did.” He paused for a drink of water. “I was rejected. Weak heart. But what can you do?” He shrugged.

“Part of my route was making deliveries to the local WAC facilities. Food, small machine parts. Letters from the front. There was always so much going in and out, my truck could barely hold it all. I must have been there almost every day — drive up to the requisitions center, notify the staff on duty, and they’d get a few girls to help me unload the truck.

“One day, there was a new girl working at the front desk. She must have been only a year or two younger than myself, but she had a rather serious look to her, as if she were actually far older. I remember thinking she looked a little too serious. When she asked me if I were the personnel inspector, I decided to tease her a little. ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘I hear you ladies are being too efficient. We inspectors have to make sure you aren’t making us men look bad.’ “ The man emphatically wagged his finger as he spoke, taking on the persona of a haughty busybody. And then he broke out in tense laughter. “She saw through me right away. And to my surprise, she started to play along. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry Mister Inspector’, she said, ‘I do so understand how difficult it is for you men to look good in comparison.’

“From then on, whenever I made deliveries, I’d act the Inspector, harshly criticizing her work ethic, and she would mirthfully apologize, swearing to meet my high standards for inactivity. She was a sharp one,” he said, his eyes looking far away. “And I fell completely in love with her.”

The man turned the picture over again, looking once more at the woman’s face. “We started spending time together when she was off-duty. She talked to me about how her family dictated every aspect of her life. How she had always felt small and powerless, unable to make her own decisions. She told me how much she loved going to see the pictures, looking up at the faces on the screen, and imagining that she could become someone so stunning and fearless. She spoke about how much the Women’s Auxiliary Corps had made her realize what she was capable of, that she could become her own person. She told me how much she had needed people who could just listen.”

His voice dropped. “She told me how much I meant to her.”

Lucas was writing in his notepad. “It must have been difficult, meeting up when there was a war on.”

The old man took another drag from his cigarette. “Most things were difficult during the war. Rationing. Friends gone away. We made the best of it. Although,” he added, “as the war went on, she found herself with less and less time to herself. They had moved her into a more demanding line of work. I no longer saw her during deliveries. During the few times we could spend together, I could tell the workload was starting to get to her.

“So, one day when she was off-duty, I told her to put on her uniform and meet me near the repair yard. I had borrowed a photography set from the nearby college and taught myself to use it. She must have felt so awkward posing for me, but you’d never know it from just looking at her — she had a natural elegance.

“Months later, on Christmas Eve, I gave her this.” He gestured to the picture again. “I had spent hours carefully painting it to look like a poster from one of those war movies the theatres were showing at the time. Something grand and glamorous. I wanted her to look at it and feel like a star.”

A bittersweet smile crept onto the old man’s face. “She kissed me. Deeply, passionately. I’m sure her parents would have considered it scandalous. But to me, it was the perfect moment.”

The sycamore leaves above rustled in the morning breeze. Off in the distance, a church bell chimed. In the courtyard of that cafe, the world stood still.

“I don’t know where I went wrong,” he muttered. “A few weeks later, she told me she was transferring to another airbase abroad. She had clearly been crying, her eyes were bloodshot. She said that she appreciated our time together, that she’d always remember me, and told me never to try to contact her again. And then she left.”

The old man put out his cigarette. “I tried to find her after the war, of course. I contacted the head office of the WAC. I made inquiries around the nearby cities. But there was no one who could lead me back to Miss Beverley Matthews.”

He looked up, a sunken look in his face. “Is she…”

Lucas nodded. “Yes. Eight months ago.”

His composure crumpled. “I never did know why she left. I don’t suppose I ever will.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the air. Looking at the old man, Lucas could put the pieces together. An artist by trade, twice wed, twice divorced. No living family. Would it be better if he never knew? The truth could hurt. But, perhaps, not as much as he was hurting now. Carefully, Lucas took a breath.

“She was married.”

The old man looked up.

“Miss Beverley Adams was married in 1941, in a match chosen by her family, to a man she barely knew. Shortly after, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and her husband went off to war. When she decided to join the WAC, she did so under her maiden name. Not even the records office was aware of her marital status.

“Before she went off abroad, she told her closest friend at the WAC everything. How her marriage was loveless one. How much happiness you gave her. How much it hurt to have to go back.” Lucas closed his notepad. “She didn’t leave because she wanted to. She left because she felt she had no choice.”

The old man tightly shut his eyes, his tears leaving streaks down his face. He grasped the picture in front of him, holding it tight to his chest.

“When she died in the hospital,” Lucas continued, “the nurses found her holding your picture just as you are now.” He put his notepad away in his pocket, pushed his chair back, and stood. “You know, you said you have a weak heart, but I don’t think that’s true. I think only someone with a strong heart could have such a lasting effect on someone like your Beverley. That’s why my client hired me to find you. To find who had meant so much to a respectable woman like her.”

The old man sniffed. His lips twitched as he sat, deep in thought.

“I don’t know whether to thank you or not. I’ve spent so long trying to forget about her. It’s going to take me some time to come to terms with all of this.” He reached forward and took another drink of water. “What now? You go back to collect your pay?”

Lucas smiled. “Not at all — I took this job Pro Bono, so to speak. A favor for an old woman’s family.”

The man’s eyes opened wide. He stared up at Lucas as the private investigator took out his card, set it in front of him, and then grasped the old man’s hand warmly.

“If you have an evening free, give me a call,” he said. “My wife and I would love to have you join us for dinner. You would be most welcome.”

He turned away. “And perhaps,” he added, looking over his shoulder with a smile, “you could tell her more stories about her grandmother.”