The Old Bakehouse Read online

  Back downstairs they returned to the original shop area where a door in the back wall led into a small kitchenette; beyond it was a large square room with a flagstone floor where the bread would have been baked. It was obvious from the state of the room that it had not been used for many years. Two huge industrial electric ovens stood on one side of the room opposite freestanding cupboards; an old Belfast sink sat beneath a deep sill and a dirty window covered in cobwebs. Near to the sink a half-glazed door led into a large porch which looked to be a recent addition to the house. The porch led into the back garden which to Sandra’s delight appeared much bigger than she had anticipated from pictures shown on the agents’ website. It was surrounded by high stone walls and overgrown with weeds and brambles; a granite bird bath sat beneath an apple tree and a broken bird table stood amongst tall seed heads of grass in an area which had once been a lawn. There was also a large outhouse with an old wooden work bench and tools hanging from the walls draped in cobwebs and peppered with dust.

  “So, what do you think?” Bill asked his wife as they sat in Taffeta’s Tea Shoppe to mull over their thoughts.

  “I liked it. It’s roomy and airy and I think it has great potential. With four bedrooms the children would be able to have one each and I’m itching to get out in that garden to knock it back into shape.”

  Bill smiled. “I knew that would appeal and I agree with you about the house. A new bathroom would have to take priority and of course getting central heating fitted, and even if we had to pay the asking price we’d still have enough money to pay for the renovation work including having a wood burner fitted in the big sitting room because I know you’ll want that.”

  “Good heavens, yes, and it would look fantastic in that large inglenook fireplace.”

  “What about the kitchenette? Could we manage with that until we got the old baking room converted into a kitchen?”

  Sandra nodded. “Of course making do would be all part of the fun.”

  “And what about the children? Do you think they’ll like it?”

  “Without doubt. All three of them are so eager to move down here I think they’d even be happy living in a wooden shack.”

  Bill drained his coffee mug and placed it back on its saucer. “We better put an offer in then because we know there is a lot of interest in the old place and as there’s no time like the present, I’ll do it now.”

  Lottie was delighted to hear that Bill and Sandra liked the Old Bakehouse and had already put in an offer before they returned to Primrose Cottage for lunch. She was happier still when Bill received a phone call later that afternoon to say the offer had been accepted.

  “I can’t wipe the smile off my face,” she said the next morning after Bill and Sandra had left for the drive home, “It’s just too good to be true. Little did I realise when we all came on holiday in 2016 that we’d all end up living here.”

  “Well don’t count the chickens before they’re hatched,” advised Hetty, dreading that her sister might yet be disappointed, “as all sorts can go wrong when it comes to buying and selling houses. Although I suppose with the Old Bakehouse being empty and Bill and Sandra’s buyer being pretty solid there’s no reason why it should fall through.”

  Lottie stood up. “Let’s go down to the charity shop and see if we can find out a bit more about Joe the baker then I can pass it on to Bill and Sandra.”

  “Good idea, but we must be subtle as we don’t want to look too nosy.”

  “So, what can you tell us about the wives of the late Joe Williams?” Hetty casually asked Maisie and Daisy as they arrived at the village charity shop on pretence of looking at the books.

  “Not a great deal,” admitted Daisy, “because I don’t remember either. Joe’s first wife died in childbirth and that was before I was born, poor soul. The second did a runner when I was very young. Sadly, I don’t know any more than that.”

  Maisie nodded. “Same goes for me. I wish I knew more as it’s the talk of the village at present but it’s no good trying to wrack my brains because I know there’s no memory there to recall.”

  As if on cue, Tess Dobson, a lady who worked part-time in the bar of the Crown and Anchor and who was well acquainted with village gossip, entered the shop.

  “Ah, here’s someone who might know something,” teased Daisy as the latest arrival closed the shop door. “We’re talking about Joe Williams and his wives, Tess. What have you learned?”

  Tess smirked. “Funny you should ask that because I’ve just bumped into Lucy Lacey and it occurred to me that her being in her seventies, she might remember the wives and what it was like here when the bakery was a going concern.”

  Daisy produced a chair from behind the counter. “Sit down, Tess. We’re all ears.”

  “Thank you. Well Lucy doesn’t remember the first wife, the one who died in childbirth but she knows the child was adopted when a few weeks old because Joe wouldn’t have been able to have coped with a baby and run the bakery business as well.”

  Maisie nodded. “Certainly, would have been very difficult.”

  “Was the baby a girl or a boy, do you know?” Hetty asked.

  Tess shook her head. “Lucy wasn’t sure.”

  “I wonder why the wife’s parents didn’t look after the child,” puzzled Lottie, “or Joe’s parents for that matter.”

  “That’s exactly what I said to Lucy and her response was she recalls her mum mentioning that Joe’s mother was in poor health so it would have been too much for her and as for the parents of Joe’s late wife, it appears they disapproved of the marriage and so wanted nothing to do with the child anyway.”

  “That seems rather harsh,” cried Lottie, “poor little mite. I hope he or she went to a good home.”

  “That’s just what I said,” Tess acknowledged, “but sadly Lucy has no idea where the child went. It might not even have been somewhere in Cornwall.”

  “Was the first wife a local girl?” Hetty wondered, “I ask thinking there could be some of her relatives still around.”

  Tess shook her head. “No, apparently Joe met her during the war and they were married up country somewhere or other then after the war they returned to Pentrillick.”

  “So who baked the bread during the war?”

  “Joe’s parents, I assume. I get the impression it was after the war that Joe took over the business. His parents lost a son in 1941. Killed in action as they say and it badly affected his mother’s health.”

  “So Joe lost a brother.” Lottie tutted: “how sad.”

  “Was he married?” Hetty asked. “The brother, that is.”

  “No, he was younger than Joe and only in his teens. Lucy recalls her parents talking about him with affection and for that reason it always brought a lump her throat when she heard his name read out amongst others in church on Remembrance Sundays.”

  Daisy sat down on a pile of books which needed sorting. “Okay, we get the gist, Tess, so please continue.”

  “Well, there’s not really much more to say but Lucy reckons it was when she was about ten years old that Joe married again. His new wife was called Eve and they had a son called Norman. Lucy said Eve worked in the baker’s shop and was ever so nice. She often went in there you see because Joe made fantastic pasties.”

  “So Joe did pastry as well as bread.” Hetty was surprised.

  “Oh yes, he was the proper job.”

  “It must have taken him forever to produce enough to feed a village this size,” reasoned Lottie.

  “Well, I suppose not everyone shopped in the village and I think the Co-op used to deliver bread as well, I remember my mum telling me they did that when she was a girl. Then on top of that the village was smaller back then as lots of places weren’t built ‘til after the war.”

  “Of course. Anyway, what happened next?”

  Tess shrugged her shoulders. “Lucy said nobody quite knows for sure but it’s said that one day Eve suddenly packed her bags and left. It’s rumoured she left a note for Joe sayin
g she’d met someone else which ties in with what’s being said on the grapevine today but I don’t know whether that’s true or not. Anyway, after she left Joe closed the bakery and it’s been closed ever since.”

  Hetty tutted.

  “So what did he do after that?” Lottie asked, “I mean, he would only have been a young man surely so he’d have needed to work to live and pay the bills.”

  “That’s right he did and he went to work as one of the groundsmen at Pentrillick House and Lucy’s father would have known him because he was working there too. In fact that’s probably why Lucy knows a bit more than most as I daresay her parents talked about Joe and his circumstances.”

  “Hmm, so if Joe and Eve’s son was born when Lucy was around ten years of age then there’s every chance that he’s still living,” mused Lottie, “I wonder where.”

  “What did you say his name was, Tess?” Hetty asked.

  “Norman, Norman Williams and Lucy reckons he’d be in his early sixties now.”

  Chapter Three

  Norman Williams sat on the sitting room floor of the Dawlish home he had shared with his parents for as long as he could remember. In his hand he held the death certificate of his recently deceased mother and was searching for the death certificate of his late father so that both could be stored together. He found the certificate sought in a large brown envelope along with condolence cards and the invoice and receipt from the undertaker who had conducted his father’s funeral.

  Realising his mother had seldom spoken of the past he looked to see if he could find his parents’ marriage certificate for he was ashamed to admit that he’d no idea where they had married and when. He found an envelope marked birth certificates and another containing the deeds of the house together with his mother’s driving licence but there appeared to be no sign of a marriage certificate. As he puzzled as to where it might be there was a knock on the back door and the familiar voice of his next door neighbour, Jackie, who had helped to nurse his mother during the last months of her life.

  “Only me, Norman,” Jackie called, her head poked around the door.

  “Come in, come in,” he shouted so that Jackie would hear, “I’m in the front room.”

  She entered and found him sitting on the floor surrounded by the contents of the empty drawer by his side. “Having a clear out?”

  “Hmm, yes and no. At the moment I’m actually looking for my parents’ marriage certificate but for some reason I can’t find it.”

  Jackie sat down on the floor with legs crossed and surveyed the mass of papers, envelopes and old photographs. “Perhaps they never got married then. Have you ever seen pictures of their wedding?” She glanced up at the walls where a few photographs hung above an overloaded bookcase.

  Norman frowned. “No, now you come to mention it I haven’t. How strange.”

  “Yeah, it is because people from your parents’ generation usually have pictures of their weddings on pianos, sideboards or whatever so it looks to me like they never tied the knot.”

  “But they must have been married. I mean back in the fifties it’d have been frowned on if they weren’t, especially after I was born.”

  Jackie giggled. “Yes, living in sin I think they called it.”

  “Ah, but they were definitely married because Mum always called herself Mrs Williams.” Norman picked up several envelopes and returned them to the drawer.

  “Well I suppose she called herself Mrs Williams so that everyone would think they were married. I mean no-one would have reason to doubt it, would they?”

  Norman shook his head, then he smiled. “No, but I can prove they married because the name on Mum’s driving licence is Evelyn Florence Williams and you can’t fake that.” Norman pulled the licence from the brown envelope and showed it to Jackie.

  “Hmm, but then perhaps Williams was your mother’s maiden name, if so it wouldn’t have changed, would it? After all it’s quite a common name.” Jackie was confident she was right.

  Norman shook his head. “No, I don’t think it was Williams, in fact I’m sure it wasn’t.” He reached for the envelope marked birth certificates and looked inside.

  “Johns,” he chortled, triumphantly, “of course, that’s right, I remember now her maiden name was Evelyn Florence Johns and she was born in Cornwall.” He passed the birth certificate for Jackie to look at.

  “Alright, I’m convinced, and if you still can’t find the marriage certificate but want to know the details you could always check it out online anyway.”

  “Can I? How?”

  “By going on one of the ancestry search websites. I’m a member of one because I’m doing our family tree for Mum and Dad so the search won’t cost you anything if I do it. Shall we have a look?” Jackie scrambled to her feet.

  “Yes, I think we should because I’d like to get to the bottom of this.”

  Norman fetched his laptop from the kitchen and Jackie logged into her account. “Right, so what are your parents’ full names and when might they have got married?”

  Norman shrugged his shoulders. “Mum was Evelyn Florence Johns and Dad was Oscar Patterson Williams and I was born in 1956 so I suppose they were married a year or so before that.”

  Jackie typed in the names for 1955. Evelyn Florence Johns came up but the only Williams on the page was a Joseph Percival Williams.

  Norman scratched his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Dad was definitely Oscar Patterson Williams. Patterson was his mother’s maiden name.”

  “Do you have his birth certificate?”

  “Yes, of course,” Norman took the certificate from the envelope and handed it to Jackie. She scratched her head. “Hmm, you’re right. How strange.”

  “Try the year earlier.”

  Jackie typed in the names of Norman’s parents for 1954 but there were no matches for either.

  “Shall I order a copy of the marriage certificate for Evelyn Florence Johns and Joseph Percival Williams?”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Of course. It’d have to be paid for but will be worth it to clear the mystery up. I’ve ordered several certificates for my family in recent years and they’re quite fascinating.”

  “Well we could do but it’d be a waste of money if it turns out they’re not the right people. I mean Dad’s name was Oscar there’s no doubt about that.”

  “Do you have your birth certificate?” Jackie asked.

  Norman’s face brightened. “Yes, of course. That’ll confirm Dad’s name, won’t it?”

  When he took the certificate from the envelope and read the name Joseph Percival Williams, his face dropped. “I…I… don’t understand.”

  Jackie looked over his shoulder.” And you were born in Cornwall the same as your mum.”

  “Yes, so I was. I didn’t even know that.”

  “Have you never read your birth certificate before now?” Jackie looked confused.

  “No, not really. The only time I recall needing it was when I applied for a provisional driving licence but that was years ago and I daresay Mum dealt with most of the paperwork. She usually did because she knew I hated filling in forms and stuff like that.”

  “Hmm, or did she volunteer to do it so that you had no reason to see the certificate yourself?”

  Four days later when Jackie arrived home from work her mother said there was a letter for her; she instantly recognised the envelope propped up on the kitchen table between the pepper and salt. Knowing it would be the marriage certificate she ate her dinner with gusto, said goodbye to her parents and then hurried next door to see Norman. His fingers shook as he attempted to open the envelope and twice it slipped from his hands.

  “Give it me, butterfingers,” said Jackie understanding his anxiety.

  She opened the envelope and handed its contents to Norman without looking at it. He gasped. The certificate confirmed details of the marriage between Evelyn Florence Johns aged twenty and Joseph Percival Williams aged thirty-six. The wedding took place on June 11th 1955
at St. Mary’s Church, Pentrillick, Cornwall. Evelyn’s occupation was machinist; Joseph was a baker.

  “So…so, the man Oscar who I’ve believed to be my father all these years, wasn’t my father at all.” Norman sat down, the colour had drained from his face.

  “It certainly looks that way.”

  “I suppose that’s why I could never see any similarity between me and the man I thought was my dad. I mean, he was always nicely dressed and didn’t like getting his hands dirty where as I’m the outdoor type when I’m not at work, that is. He was also on the short size and thin where as I’m…,” Norman looked down at his pudgy waist, “well, I suppose I’m a bit porky.”

  “But you’re tall so you can carry it off,” said Jackie kindly.

  Norman smiled. “Fancy a trip to Cornwall? I’d like to find out a bit more about this Joseph Percival Williams.”

  “You’d like me to go with you?” Jackie was surprised and flattered.

  “Yes, because you’re into this family history thing.”

  “Then the answer’s definitely yes because I’ve never been to Cornwall.”

  “You don’t think your parents will mind, do you?”

  “Norman, I’m not a baby.”

  “No, of course not. I’ll tell them what it’s all about anyway. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “No need because I already have,” said Jackie, “and they’re as intrigued as you and me.”

  “Really! So when shall we go?”

  “Well, if you’re game we can go this weekend because I’ve got the weekend off for a change. We can set off after you finish work on Friday and then leave to come back on Sunday afternoon.”