They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

19 July 2007 — Looking back

Carolyn Smith’s office was small, and made even smaller by several piles of documents tied with pink ribbons on the floor, a row of filing cabinets against one wall, and bookshelves laden with legal tomes on the other. The window looked out and down onto the constant flow of traffic up and down West Street, and I caught the smallest glimpse of the sea, a quarter of a mile to the south.

The solicitor was a good-looking and friendly lady, with long brown hair. She was smartly dressed in a pale blue linen two-piece over a white blouse, and sat behind a glass-topped desk stacked with more documents, a computer and an elaborate phone-intercom. Facing the desk were two Perspex ghost chairs.

A Law Society practising certificate hung on one otherwise bare wall, and arranged along a bookshelf I could see a photograph of a fit-looking man in his forties, with short, dark hair and dressed in tennis kit, brandishing a racquet, and another showing two blond, curly-haired teenage boys. A third was of a spaniel, face almost squished against the camera lens, that looked like it was laughing. Strange what one remembers.

I read somewhere that years after you meet someone you might not remember their name, or even what they looked like, but you will always remember how they made you feel.

‘Gorgeous dog!’ I said.

‘That’s Jim,’ she replied. ‘The love of my life — well, next to my husband and my boys.’ She smiled warmly and held out her hand, shaking mine. ‘Very nice to meet you, Mrs Grace. So,’ she continued, seating herself behind her desk and moving into formal lawyer mode, ‘you’ve brought me some proof of ID?’

Sitting opposite her, I opened my blue handbag — which looked a little like the expensive Mulberry bag I secretly craved — that Roy had bought me last Christmas, and produced the envelope containing the documents I’d brought along and passed them across the desk.

She put on a pair of glasses and studied each one of them in turn, taking her time — taking so much time I began to wonder if I hadn’t brought what was needed. Then she called in her assistant and asked her to photocopy them, before looking back at me with a smile. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘that’s all perfect. I’ll return the originals to you in a minute. So now I can release this letter to you.’

Opening a pink file folder on her desk, she took out a sealed envelope with a row of German stamps on the plain white envelope, and handed it to me.

Typed on it was: Sandra Christina Grace, née Balkwill, Brighton, England.

I looked at her. ‘Do you know what it says?’

‘I don’t,’ she replied. ‘My job was to ensure it went to the correct addressee — we had to carry out a number of checks to establish there is no other person with the same name and background as yourself. You don’t need to open it now — it’s your private letter, take it home with you and open it later if you’d prefer.’

I was in turmoil. I desperately wanted to open it and yet, at the same time, I was scared. What if...?

It was a question I hardly dared ask myself.

What if it was a massive disappointment?

Equally, what if it was a vast sum of money? I would need to hide that from Roy and I was sitting in front of someone who might be able to help me to do that — legally.

The paper felt a little flimsy, like the airmail envelopes my mother used to correspond with her relatives in Germany, back in my childhood. But it also felt like there was more than just a single sheet inside. ‘I’d like to open it now,’ I said. ‘Just in case I need your assistance.’

‘Of course!’

I began to tear at one corner of the envelope. But, as I did so, Carolyn Smith reached across her desk towards me, holding a slim, elegant silver paperknife.

I took it from her and slit the envelope open with a shaking hand.