“That’s only nineteen sixty-eight, Mrs. Oliver. Four years ago.” “That’s about right,” said Mrs. Oliver, seizing it and taking it back to the desk. “That’s all for the present, Miss Livingstone, but you might see if you can find my birthday book somewhere.”
“I didn’t know…” “I don’t use it now,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I used to have one once. Quite a big one, you know. Started when I was a child. Goes on for years. I expect it’ll be in the attic upstairs.
You know, the one we use as a spare room sometimes when it’s only boys coming for holidays, or people who don’t mind.
The sort of chest or bureau thing next to the bed.
“Oh. Shall I look and see?” “That’s the idea,” said Mrs. Oliver.
She cheered up a little as Miss Livingstone went out of the room. Mrs. Oliver shut the door firmly behind her, went back to the desk and started looking down the addresses written in faded ink and smelling of tea.
“Ravenscroft. Celia Ravenscroft. Yes. Fourteen Fishacre Mews, S.W. Three. That’s the Chelsea address. She was living there then. But there was another one after that. Somewhere like Strand-on-the-Green near Kew Bridge.” She turned a few more pages.
“Oh, yes, this seems to be a later one. Mardyke Grove.
That’s off Fulham Road, I think. Somewhere like that. Has she got a telephone number? It’s very rubbed out, but I think–yes, I think that’s right–Flaxman.., Anyway, I’ll try it.” She went across to the telephone. The door opened and Miss Livingstone looked in.
“Do you think that perhaps–” “I found the address I want,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Go on looking for that birthday book. It’s important.” “Do you think you could have left it when you were in Sealy House?” “No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Go on looking.” She murmured, as the door closed, “Be as long as you like about it.” She dialed the telephone and waited, opening the door to call up the stairs: “You might try that Spanish chest. You know, the one that’s bound with brass. I’ve forgotten where it is now. Under the table in the hall, I think.” Mrs. Oliver’s first dialing was not successful. She appeared to have connected herself to a Mrs. Smith Potter, who seemed both annoyed and unhelpful and had no idea what the present telephone number might be of anyone who had lived in that particular flat before.
Mrs. Oliver applied herself to an examination of the address book once more. She discovered two more addresses which were hastily scrawled over other numbers and did not seem wildly helpful. However, at the third attempt a somewhat illegible Ravenscroft seemed to emerge from the crossingsout and initials and addresses.
A voice admitted to knowing Celia.
“Oh, dear, yes. But she hasn’t lived here for years. I think she was in Newcastle when I last heard from her.” “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I’m afraid I haven’t got that address.” “No, I haven’t got it either,” said the kindly girl. “I think she went to be secretary to a veterinary surgeon.” It did not sound very hopeful. Mrs. Oliver tried once or twice more. The addresses in the latest of her two address books were no use, so she went back a bit further. She struck oil, as you might put it, when she came to the last one, which was for the year 1962.
“Oh, you mean Celia,” said a voice. “Celia Ravenscroft, wasn’t it? Or was it Finchwell?” Mrs. Oliver just prevented herself in time from saying, “No, and it wasn’t redbreast either.” “A very competent girl,” said the voice. “She worked for me for over a year and a half. Oh, yes, very competent. I would have been quite happy if she had stayed longer. I think she went from here to somewhere in Harley Street, but I think I’ve got her address somewhere. Now let me see.” There was a long pause while Mrs. X—name unknown—was seeing. “I’ve got one address here. It seems to be in Islington somewhere. Do you think that’s possible?” Mrs. Oliver said that anything was possible and thanked Mrs. X very much and wrote it down.