‘I’m sure you did!’ I gave up and was soon absorbed in Granny and Grandpa’s Russian adventure.
When she’d turned the last page I prompted: ‘And there I was when you got back home?’
‘Your poor father looked quite bewildered – as well he might! But then, you were a surprise baby. We didn’t think, after the mumps … and it were funny Valerie going off on her own down to Cornwall like that, and coming back with a baby. Bound to make talk!’
‘Did she? But if she didn’t know she was going to have the baby – I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it?’ (Though my subconscious certainly knew, even if it had been told to keep it to itself.)
Granny was frowning in an effort of memory. ‘I thought at the time she might have gone because she’d heard where that flighty sister of hers was – that Glenda what run off, but she said not. Just needed a holiday after nursing your father.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, the certificate was right, and Valerie was like a child with a new doll. I thought at the time the cat would make a better mother, though – and I was right!’
‘I’d like to see my birth certificate.’
‘It’ll be around somewhere. In the desk?’ she said vaguely.
The big desk in the corner is where Mother stuffs any bit of paper that comes her way. Any qualms I might have had about searching it were vanquished by the thought of her destroying, probably after reading, Fergal’s precious letters to me.
My life might have been totally different … Probably just as miserable in the end, but different!
So I began to rifle through the drawers, while Granny brought me a cup of cocoa and a chocolate biscuit and then returned to her film.
(‘Oh – Ashley! Ashley!’)I’d drawn a blank in the drawers and with the top compartment, when I suddenly remembered the so-called secret drawer.
The moulding depressed under my fingers and the drawer slid smoothly out, revealing a bundle of thin airmail letters addressed in a bold black scrawl, and under them a birth certificate.
As I stood up with them in my trembling hands the door opened and in walked Mother.
Her face filled with a sort of aghast fearfulness when she noticed the papers in my hands, and perhaps she thought I was about to leap across the room and strangle her, because she stepped back, baby-blue eyes widening and her hands at her throat.
Then she rallied, and a weak smile struggled for birth on her lips. ‘Leticia darling! I wasn’t expecting you, was I? Have you been here long?’
‘Long enough to find the proof of your lies, Mother. You ruined my life!’
Her face crumpled. ‘But I meant it all for the best, darling! He was no good. And he hadn’t even been to university – only art college – which shows! He would have tossed you aside when he tired of you—’
‘But I
loved
him, and it was
my
life, and
my
decision, not yours!’
‘You were too young to decide. I knew you’d soon forget him and find someone more suitable – and you did: you got your degree, and married dear James.’
‘Dear James of the lies and mistress?’
‘Not a mistress, Leticia darling – you’ve got it quite wrong!’
‘Knew it!’ Granny stated, without taking her eyes off Rhett. ‘Worked too many late nights. And never trust a man with that shade of blue eyes.’
‘Why didn’t you say, Granny?’
‘Wouldn’t have made any difference – you wouldn’t have believed me.’
Maybe not, but it might have made me watch him a bit closer!
‘I found letters from this girl in a box in the attic, and it’s clear he’s been having an affair with her since just after we moved to Nutthill – months. But he doesn’t seem to think it counts, since it’s just “a bit on the side”, while I’m his wife and he “loves” me. I think he must be mad!’
‘Surely …’ faltered Mother, sitting down rather suddenly and turning pale, ‘surely it was just a little flirtation? James wouldn’t – he hasn’t – I can’t believe it.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t show you the letters any more, because I gave them to Bob to burn.’ Except for a couple of Little Snookums’ most lurid renderings, of course, which I am keeping in reserve.
‘They must have been
old
letters, dear,’ Mother said firmly, rallying. ‘From before he met you. You shouldn’t have read them.’
I stared speechlessly at her. I’d call her brainwashed if I thought she had one to wash.
‘And is it surprising that poor James was jealous, when that Fergal moved in practically next door and he caught you holding hands with him over the fence? He just turned to Someone Else for sympathy.’
This was such a warped version of reality that it was hard to see a pattern in it.
‘You’re a complete fool, Valerie!’ Granny declared dispassionately.
‘Mother,’ I said with what patience I could muster, ‘I didn’t know Fergal had bought the Hall, and he didn’t know I lived in Nutthill. James was seeing this Wendy female ages before he moved into the Hall anyway, every time he stayed overnight with Howard. And Fergal was not holding my hand. We mean nothing to each other – you took care of that long ago!’
I found I was nervously turning the sapphire heart ring round and round on my finger. (It was now the only ring I wore.)
Granny’s eyes moved suspiciously from the ring to my face: ‘He’s not married, is he?’
‘Who, Granny?’
‘That Ferdy.’
‘Fergal. No, he’s not the marrying kind.’
‘There you are then!’ cried Mother triumphantly. ‘I did it for the best – you wouldn’t have found lasting happiness with a man like that. Why don’t you give me those old letters and I’ll—’
‘No – they’re mine!’ I clutched them to my bosom defensively.
‘I just thought … but never mind. Mummy was only trying to spare her little girl any upset. What is it you have there with them?’
‘My birth certificate. I’ve never really looked at it.’
A flicker of alarm – or was it just my imagination? – then a pained, forgiving smile. ‘Can’t you look at it here and then let Mummy keep it safe for you?’
‘I think I’d like to have it, thanks. I hadn’t realised until Granny told me that I was born in Cornwall.’
Glancing almost furtively at the small figure in front of the TV, Mother lowered her voice: ‘That’s right … you were my little Holiday Surprise!’
‘Why are you whispering?’ demanded Granny. ‘It’s very irritating! Go and whisper secrets somewhere else.’
‘There
are
no secrets,’ Mother said coldly.
‘Granny, Mother was just about to tell me about when I was born in—’
‘Good heavens!’ Mother broke in, and sprang to her feet like a particularly agile marmoset. ‘Is that the time? I must go and change. Dr Reevey’s going to take me to a lovely, lovely opera.’
She knows nothing about opera, unless you count
West Side Story
, which she thought sordid.
‘Flibbertigibbet!’ Granny commented, as Mother rushed out. ‘She won’t tell you anything, and I know, because I tried. There’s
something
– but if you want to know what, you’ll have to go and find out.’
‘Find out what?’
‘I don’t know, I was in Russia,’ she replied crossly.
The doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be Rose Durwin; she’s got the day off and she always comes and plays Scrabble with me.’
‘The district nurse? Is she good at Scrabble?’
‘Can’t tell her quagga from her quango, but she knows lots of long medical words. Let her in, will you?’
I let myself out at the same time, since I clearly was not going to learn any more that day. But I did have my certificate, my letters – and a few more tantalising doubts about my birth.
However, the certificate seemed plain enough, so the thing to do was to put it right out of my head, like Fergal’s letters, which I was certainly
not
going to read: no good would come of raking over old ashes.
No good at all …
Dawn was breaking as I finished the last one, and so was my heart: trite but true. The letters had begun with typical Fergal arrogance, but ended in despairing pleading and then anger.
He’d cared for me that much.
It was just as well Mother wasn’t still within reach!
I had to wear dark glasses when I went down to the shop, which is not usual in Nutthill at the start of November, but Mrs Deakin didn’t say anything.
They’re building a bonfire in the church field. Bob told me he added the box of James’s old letters to the pile, which seems appropriate. Bonfire of the vanities?
Fergal: November 1999
‘SECOND PATERNITY CLAIM FOR SUPER STUD ROCCO …’
Sun
This is getting monotonous!
Any more of it and I’ll be getting the
Trendsetter
Stallion of the Year Award next time.
It always seems to be women I’m pretty sure I’ve never even slept with, too.
So why do these women do it (especially in these days of DNA testing, when it’s easy to prove the truth)?
Is five minutes of fame enough?
It’s only a few short weeks since I threw James out, and already I’m getting my life organised: Bess and I are eating good mixed diets, some of which Bob produces in the garden, I’ve found an accountant who promises he can work wonders with my finances, Vivyan has acquired back all rights to my earlier novels and is negotiating over them with Lovecall, and my solicitor assures me things are in train to divest myself of James permanently.
So far, so good. I’m the Captain of my ship, the Ruler of my universe, and Mistress of all I survey.
Now I must learn to drive, and fast, because I’ll be absolutely stuck if I haven’t passed the test before the Incubus arrives. As it is, I’ve been doing a lot of my shopping at Mrs D.’s, because it’s so tiring lugging heavy bags around on the bus.
I asked her if she knew a patient driving instructor.
‘Instructress,’ she corrected, before going outside to give Bess a biscuit. She thinks Bess is wonderful now she’s got used to her strange appearance. Wonder if she’d like a puppy?
She came back with paw prints on her apron. ‘When it comes to patience you need a woman, and I know just the one.’
She produced a pack of trade-sized cards and shuffled them like a poker player.
‘Here – Dulcie Blacklock. She’s sort of a cousin, and she always gets her drivers through. And cheap too, not like those big driving schools what spend your money on fancy cars with big signs on and ads in all the papers.’
‘Thanks, I’ll give her a ring later.’
‘Saw your husband this morning,’ Mrs Deakin commiserated. ‘Coming out of the Wrekins’ flat, he was, with a tarty-looking blonde.’
‘Tarty?’
‘Leather miniskirt and white handbag: tarty. They got into his car and drove off.’
So he’d been lying about not seeing her, as well!
I shrugged. ‘It’s nothing to do with me any more – and he won’t be my husband much longer, either, if I can help it.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ she approved. She always knows everything. I’m almost certain she knows I’m pregnant, although she hasn’t said anything.
It will be all too evident soon. I don’t know how James is going to react, but I foresee scenes ahead.
I phoned Mrs Blacklock as soon as I got in. She has a deep voice and reassuring manner. My first driving lesson is on Tuesday.
Much though I love fireworks, I decided not to watch the Bonfire Night celebrations on the green because Bess gets hysterical when she hears bangs, and I didn’t want her getting in a state in her condition.
Toby couldn’t care less: he has now almost perfected the thundering noise the printer attached to my word processor makes overhead when it is in full flood, but that is preferable to his whistling kettle routine.
As it happened, it was James who got hysterical on Bonfire Night when charred bits of his love letters blew all over the village in the strong breeze. He accused me of making him the laughing stock of the whole neighbourhood, but I assured him he was perfectly capable of doing that himself.
When the day came for my first driving lesson I was a nervous wreck, though Mrs Blacklock was very good: big and jolly, and doesn’t mind repeating things over and over again.
She drove me to a quiet road, then we changed places and she showed me how to adjust the mirrors and the seat, told me what the pedals are for, and how the gears are changed. Then I started and stopped the car a couple of times.
Really, the hour passed by in a flash! She thinks she might get me to the test standard by March (the baby is due at the start of April), but it would be better if I had more than one lesson a week. I must see how things work out financially first.
She dropped me off at the bus stop: I simply had to buy something to wear! Nothing fastens properly and I look an indecent mess – and I also need a new bra, since I’ve acquired a bust like Britannia. My stomach seems to have popped out practically overnight, like a giant mushroom.
Maternity garments, strangely, are designed for middle-aged women with a penchant for pussy-cat bows and pie-crust collars. There wasn’t much choice even in the specialist shops.
Eventually I bought a pair of dungarees, a big baggy sweatshirt, and the pattern and material for more dungarees. I hate sewing (apart from patchwork, but that, like Topsy, just growed), but I’m not paying a fortune for clothes I won’t wear afterwards.
Maternity bras are all horrid, too, and either white or that colour laughingly described as ‘flesh pink’. Most had ingenious devices for opening the front of the cups, and looked like something you might buy in a Sex Shop. By the time you’ve unhooked and undone yourself, I expect the baby will have died of starvation.
Instead I bought sports bras with stretchy, wide straps. I only want to be comfortable, after all, so what’s in a label?
I really do look pregnant in my dungarees, and feel everyone in the village is looking at me and talking. Perhaps I ought to make some in patchwork and
really
give them something to talk about?
How long will it be before James finds out? I expect I ought to do the decent thing and tell him first, but I can’t summon up the feeling that it has anything to do with him (or anyone else).