She was curious, too. Katherine loved nothing more than to sit at Essie’s dressing table, going through her jewellery box and asking her about each piece.
Just that morning, Katherine had sat beside Essie on the sofa, smelling of apples, sweat and cut grass, and touched Essie’s sapphire earrings.
‘What are these called?’
‘Sapphires.’
‘Are they from Grandpa Niall too?’
‘Why, yes … he had the stones made into earrings.’
‘I love the blue. They match your eyes. Blue is my lucky colour.’
Essie’s breath had caught in her throat. Then she said, ‘Mine too.’
Essie pressed her hands to her eyes to suppress the tears that threatened. She had no right to cry. No claim to this grief since she’d left London all those years ago. She and Gertie—along with the Yarwoods—had made a pact to never speak of that night in Piccadilly Circus.
‘You girls had best be moving on,’ Mrs Yarwood had advised in her tiny yellow kitchen. ‘It won’t be long before the police put two and two together. I’d say you could argue self-defence—we saw him raise a fist to you—but if his wealthy family decide to fight it, I’m afraid a judge would be more likely to side with them. You’ll be in gaol before you know it, Essie.’
‘But it was me …’ sobbed Gertie.
‘Shush, Gertie. You did the proper thing to save your sister. But, Essie, you need to get on that ship tomorrow. There are likely people who would be able to connect you with Mr Hepplestone.’
‘I can’t! I won’t leave.’
‘You must. Stay and you’ll go to gaol. Try to see this as an opportunity. Make the most of it. Don’t be looking back with regret. Gertie can stay with us—she’s like our own.’
Essie’s heart broke all over again. ‘Thank you. For everything. I’d be very grateful if you could keep an eye on Gertie. Come, let’s get you home to bed now, Gertie. Mrs Yarwood, I’d be grateful if you’d come with me while I settle Gertie, then I’ll explain to you and Ma my plan …’
Afterwards, when Essie bid her neighbour goodnight, Mrs Yarwood had clapped her hands and said, ‘Well, Mr Yarwood and I would love to assist. Now, I meant what I said. No regrets. Only love.’
And oh, how Essie had loved. She’d been married to a good man—a kind man—for over fifty years. She’d been a poor judge of a man’s character only once.
And yet …
It had been a shock to see yesterday’s obituary in newsprint—although the family had telephoned the news through some weeks before. Essie was far too old now to travel to London, so was unable to make it to the funeral.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the newspaper clipping she’d carefully cut from the London Times. Her hands were unsteady as she unfolded it. Eventually she flattened the clipping onto her lap.
OBITUARY
Ford, Gertrude Mary
1898–1994
Former City of Westminster Chief Magistrate Gertrude Mary Ford passed away quietly in her South Kensington home, aged 96.
Mrs Ford dedicated much of her legal career to the support of women and children who had experienced extreme poverty, disability or family violence.
During both the first and second world wars, she suspended study to volunteer in schools by day and hospitals by night, and built a fine academic and legal career in between.
Known as a champion of women’s rights, she was the first to appoint a female head of chambers and long campaigned for more women to sit the bar exams. ‘I’ll be forever grateful that kind people chose to give me my schooling. I believe everyone needs a second, third and perhaps a fourth chance.’
Lord Tony Rushsmith says Professor Ford leaves an indelible mark on the British legal system. ‘She will be missed as much for her sharp wit as her sage judgments. Many a disadvantaged minor has Mrs Ford to thank for their rehabilitation. She preferred to address the cause of the crime, rather than simply administer punishment.’
Gertrude Mary Ford (nee Murphy) was one of seven children born to Irish immigrants Clementine and Conrad Murphy. Ford was the recipient of scholarships to Cheltenham Ladies College and Oxford.
Not content with a formidable career at the bench, then in academia, Ford held her debut watercolour exhibition, Jewel, at the Serpentine Gallery last year. Each canvas depicted the female form rendered in gemstones. When interviewing Ford for The Sunday Times, art critic Joyce Oxley asked about the consistent use of a particular blue, to which Ford insisted the correct term be used: sapphire. In her opening speech, Ford dedicated this exhibition to her sisters, ‘who were true treasures’.
In 1937, Gertrude Murphy married Hubert Ford, a military surgeon who was killed in Normandy during World War II. She lost her daughter to cancer twenty years ago and is survived by granddaughter Lucy Scott of Suffolk and great-granddaughter Bella Scott.
Essie sat on her front stoop and studied the photo of Gertie in her academic gown and mortarboard, colours sweeping around her neck. Mr and Mrs Yarwood stood proudly on either side.
Gertie’s letter was tucked safely in a wooden frame in her study. It seemed only natural to keep the essential papers together. One day—when Essie was gone—perhaps one of these sparky girls might read them.
By then the sediment would have settled, and they wouldn’t be dragged into the muck. Though she was tempted to pull Gertie’s letter from its hiding place just to press it against her cheek—to have proof that her sister lived—she knew she wouldn’t. Besides, she’d read it so often until it almost tore along the fold lines.
Essie knew every word by heart.
Her memories were interrupted by shouts from Kate and Molly, who had spotted Essie on the steps. She poured them each a glass of lemonade from the jug and watched them gulp it down and put their hands out for another.
‘Tell us a story, Granny Essie,’ said Molly.
‘Ple-ease!’ added Kate. ‘Tell us the one about the jewels. That’s my favourite.’
Essie looked at the dishevelled girls sitting at her feet.
‘Alright, but we’ll have to be quick. Mrs Mackay will be out soon enough to fetch us for lunch. Your father will have turned the steak to cinders by now. I’ll have to take my teeth out to eat it!’ Molly exploded with giggles. Kate looked between her sister and great-grandmother, as if gauging how much she should laugh.
‘Alrighty. Do you believe in buried treasure? A long, long time ago, in London’s Cheapside, buckets and chests of jewels were pulled from a pile of rubble. The men that found it were so shocked, one of them tripped over backwards and fell into a hole.’
More giggles from Molly.
‘What was in the bucket?’ asked Kate, always one for detail.
‘I’m getting to that bit. Rubies and an emerald as big as your fist, strings of pearls, bags of diamonds. Brooches, fine necklaces that looked like daisy chains. When they held up a clump of dirt as big as your soccer ball it dripped with gold, sapphires, rings and buttons. I swear, you never did see so much sparkle in your life.’
Molly gasped. ‘What did they do with the treas—’
‘Did you touch it?’ interrupted Kate.
Essie paused, taken aback.
‘Who’s telling this story? No questions until the end, please. Now, where was I? Nobody was allowed to touch the jewels. But there was a man, with eyes as green as emeralds. He cast a spell on me.’ She tickled Kate’s tummy.