The Last Anniversary

Now, Jimmy Thrum the reporter was sitting at the Doughty family’s kitchen table, gulping down his second cup of tea and munching into his third biscuit with a spray of crumbs, which he quickly tried to clean up by licking his finger and dabbing at them.

From the way he was listening to her, it seemed that he wasn’t just interested in her story, he was positively enthralled by it. I hope he’s not making fun of me, thought Connie with sudden suspicion. Shouldn’t a newspaper man be a little less excited?

If he was faking it, he was doing a very good job. A couple of times he’d even slapped his thigh.

She took the opportunity to covertly study him while he bent his head to scribble in his notepad. He had a knobbly neck. Unexpectedly hairy forearms. There were curls springing up one by one from his slicked-down hair. He was writing in a mixture of what Connie assumed were shorthand symbols and words. She could read ‘Scribbly Gum Island’ and her own name, carefully spelled out: ‘Constance (Connie) Doughty. Age: 19’.

‘This is a great story.’ He looked up at her. She still couldn’t work out the colour of his eyes.

‘That’s good,’ said Connie, and thought, Don’t make him think you’re flattered, for heaven’s sake.

It wasn’t surprising that she was feeling a bit, well, to be honest…charmed. It was just a refreshing change to have someone with a bit of verve in the house, what with Dad the way he was, and Rose the way she was becoming. They both had such dazed, doleful expressions on their faces all the time that Connie sometimes seriously considered grabbing them by the scruffs of their necks and banging their heads together. Of course, Dad had very good reasons. As Mum used to sigh, France clearly hadn’t been a walk in the park. Whereas Rose: well, she just needed to bloody well snap out of it. Especially now there was a new baby in the house. A poor, defenceless baby who hadn’t chosen to come into the world at this inconvenient time.

Jimmy finished writing in his notepad, shook his head in wonder and said, ‘So, you say the kettle was actually boiling?’

‘Yes, and the cake was still very warm. It could only have been out of the oven a few minutes.’

‘What sort of cake?’

‘A marble cake.’

‘That’s the one with all different coloured layers, right?’

He looked hungry as he said it. All the biscuits were gone and there was nothing else to give him. Connie wished she could feed him up with a big roast dinner like they used to have when Mum was alive. It would be so satisfying, almost wickedly satisfying, to feed a hungry, appreciative man like that, to keep on dishing out steaming helpings until he pressed one hand to his stomach and protested, ‘No, no, I can’t eat another thing.’ One day, Connie would live in a house with a pantry full of food. It was not right. Skinny (handsome!) boys like Jimmy Thrum shouldn’t be hungry.

‘Different layers. That’s right.’

‘And the baby was just lying there, crying, I guess?’

‘No, no,’ said Connie, a bit irritated by that. ‘The baby was smiling. She woke up when we walked in and smiled at us.’

‘Poor little mite,’ said Jimmy Thrum sadly. ‘With her parents vanished from the face of the earth! Does she seem to miss her mum and dad?’

‘She’s too young to know any different,’ said Connie firmly. She wanted it clear that the baby was in good hands. She didn’t want any rich do-gooders reading this article and turning up to help themselves to the baby. ‘She’s thriving. We’ll take good care of her until her parents come back.’

‘If they come back,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘It seems unlikely, don’t you think? Don’t you suspect foul play of some sort?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Connie. ‘It’s a real mystery.’

‘A mystery, eh? An unsolved mystery.’ Was he giving her a keen, shrewd look? Was he holding her eye-contact for just a bit too long? Was he seeing right through her?

His eyes were the warm brown colour of cinnamon. Connie thought highly of cinnamon. After she fed him a roast dinner she’d like to feed him apple crumble with fresh cream. Later on, for supper, (before bed!) she’d give him a couple of very thick slices of sugary cinnamon toast and a strong cup of tea.

Perhaps she was misinterpreting his shrewd look. Perhaps it was actually an interested look. The dress she was wearing had a nice neckline and she’d noticed when she combed her hair that morning that her fringe had fallen just right across her forehead. Actually, he seemed more interested in the neckline than the fringe.

‘You know what this is like?’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s exactly like the Mary Celeste. Have you heard of the Mary Celeste?’

What luck. She wouldn’t need to supply him with the comparison. It was exactly the extra edge the story needed.

‘I think so,’ she said, and pretended to sound a bit uncertain.

‘The ship, right?’

‘Yes! It was sailing from New York to Italy about sixty years ago and they found it adrift. All ten people on board had vanished without a trace! No explanation. There are lots of theories, but nothing satisfactory.’

Not ten, eleven people on board, thought Connie. Ten adults. One little girl.

‘In this case, it’s a house instead of a ship.’

Well done for stating the bleeding obvious, thought Connie, but she forgave him for the bright, excited look in his cinnamon eyes.

He continued, ‘And of course, there is a survivor. The baby. But she can’t tell us anything, unfortunately.’

‘Unfortunately,’ agreed Connie.

‘The mystery of Alice and Jack Munro’s abandoned house. The Munro Baby Mystery. Our very own Mary Celeste.’

Connie smiled encouragingly at him. ‘Is this what you’d call a scoop?’ she asked innocently.

‘That’s exactly what I’d call it! The scoop of 1932!’ Jimmy looked delighted and bent back over his notepad to scribble some more.

‘Have you been a reporter for very long?’ asked Connie.

He seemed to sit up straighter and she realised she’d hurt his feelings. It made her feel tender towards him. ‘I’m a cadet,’ he said defensively, and smoothed his palm over the top of his head as if he’d just remembered how his hair was probably refusing to stay put.

So the newspaper hadn’t thought it was much of a story after all. Still, maybe Jimmy Thrum’s enthusiasm would be contagious.