Chapter Two

After that first gush of desire to see Ruben Strong I didn’t hang about. I applied a sweep of makeup, slotted in earrings and tamed my hair—regular things to do, and people always seemed glad I’d made the effort. Then I spent an hour in the stuffy heat of my car heading south on the motorway.

I knew I could be rash, impulsive and act without thinking. Matt had always said it was one of the things he adored about me—my sense of adventure—but I wasn’t so sure what he’d think now. Was I being foolish and irresponsible? Setting myself up for more heartache when already I’d had quite enough?

I arrived in the park surrounding the museum and from a distance assessed the stern, brick-built building. I beat down a wave of nerves, wondering if I had the courage to go ahead with my plan.

A bench, the farthest edge of it in the shade of a huge pink rhododendron bush, offered a vantage point to the front of the museum and around the side toward a long drive and ornate metal gates. It didn’t look particularly big—this collection of Northampton artifacts— nothing like the colossal London or Birmingham museums I’d been to. But it was a decent size—perhaps twenty or so sash windows over two levels, a green front door propped open with a big iron cobbler and a shallow roof that I suspected housed a dusty attic.

Summoning bravery and firming my resolution, I walked onto the gravel pathway, the crunch echoing from my soles to my ears. I darted my gaze about, looking for a man who’d suit the name Ruben Strong, but the hotness of the day had sent most people scurrying indoors. Two weeks into a heatwave and the novelty of sun worshiping had worn off for the majority of the population.

I took a seat at the end of the bench, in the shade, and watched as a couple of mothers with babes in prams approached. A gaggle of young children wandered behind them, licking melting ice creams and with their sunhats skew-whiff. They meandered lazily, not a care in the world, and for a moment, a pang of jealousy hit me. The desire to be like that again, absorbed and content with an ice cream and a trip to the park, was almost overwhelming.

How long ago had it been since I’d felt carefree? How wrong I’d been when I’d truly thought pushing a pram with Matt’s child inside it was part of my destiny.

They ambled off, leaving me alone as far as I could make out. The shrill call of what sounded like a peacock made me jump. I glanced over my shoulder, looking for it as I shooed a bug that was attracted to my lemony-colored dress. I hated big birds. The doves were fine, but anything bigger just gave me the creeps.

I should go into the park museum. That’s why I’d come here—to see him. Nothing else, just to catch a glimpse, spot him from a distance, satisfy my curiosity about what he was like. But how would I know who he was? What if there were lots of men in their thirties working here? Maybe there were hundreds? Well, no, not hundreds, but perhaps three or four.

Taking a deep breath, I stood and tightened the strap of my handbag over my shoulder. I had to do it. What would be the point in turning around and driving all that way back up the motorway? It would be a waste of time and petrol, not to mention I’d hate myself when I got home for wimping out. I could just picture how my evening would go. There’d be the usual moping around and tears, forcing myself to eat—because people always asked if I had—but on top of that, there would also be moments when I’d just want to kick myself or bang my head against the wall in frustration. Then I’d be planning a trip back to Northampton tomorrow. I’d suffer this all over again.

No, I had no choice. I had to see this through. There wasn’t one part of me that wouldn’t. I at least had to try to get a peek of him, this man who had a piece of what was mine—a very important piece too.

I smoothed my dress, checked that the front hadn’t tugged too low—which it was prone to these days—then walked toward the front entrance.

The peacock screeched again and I spotted it this time, out of the corner of my eye. It was parading on the lawn with its tail feathers spread and the dotty-eyed pattern shimmering in the sunshine. It appeared to be looking straight at me. Not only that, it was strutting toward the same door I was. I hurried a little, not wanting it to get too close but also quite fascinated by its haughty beauty and exquisite coloring.

The moment I stepped into the cool hallway, a dense silence enveloped me and thoughts of the peacock left my mind. Coolness drifted over my shoulders and clung there. I paused to let my eyes adjust after being in the dazzling outdoors and allowed the stillness that only museums seemed to emit soak into me.

“Good afternoon.” A female voice.

I swallowed—my mouth was dry. I licked my lips and teeth. “Hello.”

A middle-aged lady sat behind a low desk that held a cash register, several books of various sizes and a stack of leaflets, one of which she was offering my way.

“Would you like a map, dear?”

“Yes, thank you.” I took the fold of glossy paper. I had words on my tongue and questions that sat heavily in my throat. Did she know Ruben Strong? Did he indeed work here? Was he on duty today? How was he?

But I said nothing. Instead, I pressed my lips together and bided my time. What if she said yes and quickly went to get him? What the hell would I say? I didn’t want to speak to him. I just needed to see him from afar. To be sure he was fit and healthy, and that what he had of Matt’s was serving him well, and that he was serving it well too. That was important to me.

“Most people start through that way,” the lady behind the counter said, pointing to her left.

I noticed she had a name badge with a tiny picture of the museum and the name Ethel next to it in bold black print.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Hot out there, isn’t it?” She picked up another leaflet and fanned it in front of her face.

“It is, yes. Do I, er, have to pay or anything?”

“No, no, dear, it’s all free. Go and have a look around and keep out of the midday sun. You know what they say about mad dogs and Englishmen, but I think these last few weeks have converted us all, don’t you?”

“Yes, it’s certainly been warm.”

She smiled, then a phone on the table trilled to life. “Oh, excuse me, dear. You have a nice little look around now. Any questions, just ask a member of staff.” She picked up the phone. “Hello, Ethel speaking... Oh yes, of course… I’ll man this desk while you sort that out then… The 1940s display? Yes, ten minutes. Okay.”

The first room I came to held several big dark wooden dressers stuffed with trinkets. I gazed absently at them—jewelry boxes, compact mirrors, pillboxes. They were pretty enough, but not what I’d come to see. On a stack of shelves were shoes and boots of various sizes and in an array of disrepair.

I hung around for a few minutes to make it look as if I were there as a genuine museum-goer, should anyone be watching me. After reading the small brass plaques beneath a half dozen portraits of stuffy-looking ladies in old-fashioned dresses, I moved through to the next room.

Taxidermy seemed to be the main theme in this high-ceilinged area. Instantly my guts rolled and the hairs on the back of my neck spiked. I hurried past a glass cabinet holding a snarling fox with milky eyes, then winced at several stuffed birds perched on twigs that looked like they’d been snagged from the park outside. I quickly exited through a dark doorway that had an enormous snowy-white owl glaring down from the top frame, not caring that I hadn’t lingered to appreciate whatever it was that dead, stuffed animals were supposed to offer.

I suppressed a shudder. The thought of being packed full from the inside like that was gross, as was doing it to animals that had once been living, breathing things. What kind of person picked taxidermy as a job? Who would want to work in a place that housed those things? Ruben Strong obviously didn’t mind them, not if this was where he spent his days. Perhaps he was a creep—a real weirdo. The sort who had odd collections of bizarre things— rare birds’ eggs with the insides sucked out or famous people’s toenail clippings. Yuk, I hope not. I wanted him to be normal, to be appreciative of what he had and to be enjoying his second chance at life by doing healthy, respectful things.

Absently I stared at a collection of black-and-white pictures showing the Northamptonshire countryside being farmed by horse and plow and the crops picked by hand. He didn’t have to be a saint—that was expecting too much—but he had to be good and honorable, otherwise what was the point?

I still hadn’t encountered anyone on my journey through the silent rooms. It really wasn’t the busiest of museums. It was a little dusty, too—a bit worn around the edges.

Beside a set of stone grinding wheels was an old oil radiator—as much an antique as the artifacts it was designed to keep warm in the winter. I noticed the paint peeling beside the window frame. An insipid green, its curling flakes revealed a dusty brick-like substance.

I moved through to the next room. It was dark, the walls painted black, and in the corner was what looked like a bunker and some kind of corrugated iron shelter. A sudden wail—an air-raid siren—blasted out of a speaker above me. The lights flashed on and off, and a deafening boom rattled across the ceiling and pounded up through the soles of my feet.

I clutched my handbag. Stepped backwards. What the hell…?

A loud voice hollered out. “Northampton during the Blitz. This is what it was like to live in the town in 1943.”

“Oh, shit, really?” My heart was galloping, and my bearings had slipped. I couldn’t see the way out, other than the archway I’d just come through. There was no obvious exit that would keep my journey progressive through the museum.

Another loud bang, followed by whizzing and an explosion that clanked several wall-hanging gas masks and jerry cans against one another.

I had to get out of there. It smelled musty, and it was so dark and loud I could hardly think.

Spinning, I came face to chest with another person.

“Sorry,” I said, the need to flee now overwhelming. “I’m just…”

I glanced left and right. Staggered slightly.

“Hey, are you okay?” He cupped my elbows, steadied me.

I looked up through the shadows into dark eyes. “Er, yes, I think so. It just made me jump, that’s all. It’s a bit loud.”

“I’m sorry. It’s supposed to be noisy but this is too much.”

“Yes, it’s ear-splitting.”

Bomb sounds were raining down on us with gusto. Screams and shouts were mixed into the soundtrack now, adding to the chaos.

“Which way is out?” I asked.

“Through the army camouflage curtain, just there.”

Shadows sliced across his face but were lost momentarily when the lights flared again, simulating explosions. I reckoned he was about my age, maybe a little older. He had a straight, long nose, wide mouth and a flat, brown mole on his right cheek.

“Okay.” I was about to step away but realized I’d placed my hand on his chest, right next to a small badge that had a picture of the museum in the left hand corner. Also on that badge, written in bold black letters, was the name Ruben.

I snapped my hand away. Had I felt the thud of a heart beating beneath my palm? Panic raced through my body, starting in my fingers and shooting up my arm. It went into my lungs and belly, weakening my knees and softening my spine.

It was him.

I knew it was.

How many Rubens could possibly work here? Not only that, I’d touched him. Hell, he was still touching me. This wasn’t my plan, not at all. No way.

Gasping, I moved back, still staring at his badge, at his chest. Beneath that neat white shirt, his skin and bones, was Matt—Matt’s heart and lungs. Beating. Inflating. The heart that had loved me so much.

Oh, God.

My plan had gone terribly wrong. I was only supposed to see Ruben from a distance, not speak to him, definitely not touch him.

“I have to…” I said, bumping into the plastic-molded bunker and the side of the Anderson shelter. “Go.” I straightened, just…my body didn’t feel like mine. I was shaking, hot and cold, my brain infused with fear and fascination.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

What the hell was the matter with my vision? I couldn’t peel my attention away from his chest, his name badge, the way his shirt hung down, flat against his long, lean body. It was buttoned at the top, the collar sitting neat against his neck. There was no scar that I could make out, but there would be one. I knew that much.

“Are you sure?” he asked over the din.

“Yes.” I managed to move toward the exit he’d indicated. “You really should get this volume turned down before you give someone a heart attack.”

He laughed as another flash filled the room. “The kids love it, but yes, you’re right. I was actually just fiddling with it.” He turned and disappeared into the room with the plow and the grinding wheels.

I stared at the space he’d just occupied—at a place in the world a piece of Matt, that wasn’t ash and dust, had just been. Tears filled my eyes. I clenched my hand into a fist, imagining I was trapping those beats of his heart I’d possibly just felt. I needed them. They were mine. They used to beat for me and only me—so he’d said.

Dashing at a tear that had over-spilled, I rushed from ‘Northampton in the Blitz’ and found myself in a room dedicated to shoes and the local cobbler factories. But it held no interest for me. I just needed to get the hell out of there. Confusion swirled inside me. Guilt poked at me like an accusing finger, at the same time as a need to know more about Ruben tugged me. I shouldn’t be here. I had to be here.

Next was a narrow corridor lined with eerie-looking mannequins dressed in dusty, stiff outfits. I rushed past them, and as I did so, I heard the distant bombs stop falling. I needed fresh air and to take stock of what had just happened back there.

Thankfully, the next section spat me out at reception. A wide set of steps with brass grippers hugging a thready, bottle-green carpet offered the way up to more display rooms—Northampton’s sporting achievements, the Romans, the canal network.

“Are you going up, dear?” Ethel, the lady on reception, grinned at me. Her hair was shifting. She’d turned on an electric fan and it was catching gray wisps and floating them over her cheek.

“Er, no, I’m done, thanks.”

“Oh, okay.” She looked a little put out. “But will you come back another day? You’ve only seen half of the exhibits.”

“Yes, perhaps. Is there anywhere around here I can get a cup of tea?”

Her face softened. “Yes, of course, go right out of the door, past the aviary and the bandstand and there’s a café. You should be able to find some shade.”

“Okay, that’s great. Thanks.”