BERNADETTE CYNTHIA HEALY
I copy the information for both the church and the school anyway, it doesn't hurt to have any leads and I hope that Keith can find something more useful in these documents than I have. It shocks me to think that three hours have passed without my awareness or any boredom. Though I haven't worked in years it seems I still have a knack for enjoying the investigation, and it makes me smile to think that I would quite happily still be working after all this time.
The Saturday afternoon has clouded over and as I step outside after giving the librarian manager a piece of my mind for their disorganisation, the first of many raindrops falls to the dry ground. I want to grumble about getting wet on the walk home, but I do have an umbrella with me and the earth needs the rehydration, the winter was rather dry.
I know I can't get in touch with Summerbees Solicitors until Monday, though there is no harm in drafting my reply; no doubt it will be the first of many letters. I open my birthday present from Polly and Jack and wait for it to turn on, while rereading the letter from Bernadette Cynthia Healy. I want to try and figure out whether she had any clue as to why she spent the rest of her childhood in Scotland.
'I had always been told my parents were killed in the bombing...'
This certainly gives the impression that she didn't completely believe everything she was told. I dislike the fact I'm beginning to sympathise with my husband's ex-mistress, but there is a sense of horror of the thought of a thirteen year old girl being abandoned because she wasn't worth the effort. My children have always been my pride and joy and to think of them being held anywhere away from me, would destroy me. The thought of willingly walking away from Polly or Jack isn't even worth thinking about, and as I reread Bernadette Cynthia Healy's letter I feel a stab of guilt for what I forced her to do.
Making the most of my new computer, I enter the name of the church into a search engine to see what else I can find. There is mass tomorrow at 10:30. It's an Anglican church, which was my parent's chosen religion, if not mine, though I still remember how the order of service goes. I make a note in my diary to attend a mass tomorrow morning, though I don't think I'll let the Rector, Charlie Moore, know before hand, like it suggests. I'd prefer it if my visit was as inconspicuous as possible.
The rain continues to patter on the roof of my home, and I watch the garden delight in the shower; the spring colours are vibrant and soaking up the rain after a long, cold winter. The house feels very empty after Polly and Jack's visit this morning. The kitchen has been tidied but there are still a few cake remnants giving clues to Polly's wanderings around the house with a cake in her hand, leaving crumbs to mark her trail.