by Peter Hey
Jane’s silence again encouraged the older woman to expand.
‘I said this house drove a wedge between us. What I meant was that my mother and I had a god-awful row in this very room a couple of years after my parents bought it. She was a snob, basically, and said some horrible things about Barry. I didn’t talk to my family for years, not until my dad was very ill. We were reconciled to an extent, but it was always difficult.’
There was a long pause, and Jane sensed it might be kinder to move away from raw and relatively recent memory. She reached into her bag and pulled out her pad and pen.
‘As I said on the phone, Alan’s primarily asked me to research his mother’s family tree. Oh, do you mind if I take notes?’
‘Of course not. It’s why you’re here.’
‘Thank you. Alan wasn’t sure of your parents’, your adoptive parents’, full names, but I got them from your sister’s birth certificate, and that led me to their marriage certificate. I received it yesterday.’
Jane went into her bag again to retrieve a document. She handed it over as she carried on talking.
‘You’ll have known this already, but they were John Foster Shaw and Elizabeth Ruth Oakley. They were married on—'
‘December the sixth, 1930.’ Barbara answered while still in the process of putting on her reading glasses.
Jane smiled. ‘I knew you’d know. And it was in Southsea, on the south coast near Portsmouth. Alan thought it might have been Southend, but he was obviously confused.’
Barbara was now studying the certificate. ‘My dad is listed as an estate agent even back then. His address, Shawcross Mansions, is a large house on the seafront. My parents took me there as a little girl. The family had sold it some years before, but we looked at it. And the pier and the castle. I think having lived overlooking the sea and that old fort are what attracted him to this place.’
‘I had a brief look at that address online last night,’ said Jane. ‘It’s quite an impressive building.’
‘His father was a GP,’ said Barbara, still staring at the facsimile of 90-year-old handwriting. ‘He died before I was born. Pat might have had a vague memory of him. She definitely knew my father’s mother, though. She was a suffragette and, I know, something of an influence on my sister. Pat mellowed a bit in later life, but she was very left-wing in her twenties. She came back from Cuba a full-on communist.’
Jane decided to allow herself to be sidetracked. ‘How did Alan’s mother end up in Cuba in the first place?’
Barbara began stroking the back of her hand. ‘I said both Pat and I rebelled. We were sent to a small private school. Not at the same time, obviously. We didn’t get a wonderful education. We were girls – all that mattered was that we had nice accents and nice manners. The headmaster was an artist, basically, and his wife was Spanish and one of the teachers. Pat was always brighter than me – she left being able to speak fluent Spanish and I could paint. Anyway, that doesn’t answer your question. Pat went to secretarial college – a respectable job for a middle-class girl until she found a husband – and ended up in a relationship with her first boss. He was the same age as our father and an arrogant piece of work. He took her to Cuba as his, quotes, personal secretary. He had some sort of business dealings in the West Indies. My parents had their suspicions about it, to say the very least, but Pat had turned 21 by then and Pat did what Pat wanted to do. Once she got to Havana, she dumped the old lecher and got a job in a hotel. Next thing we know, well a few years later, she’s come home pregnant and singing the praises of Fidel Castro.’
Jane narrowed her eyes. ‘Did she talk about the father, I mean, Alan’s father?’
‘All she would ever say was that Alan was a “child of the revolution”.’
Jane wrote the phrase down, though it seemed nothing more than an empty slogan. She decided to change tack, for the time being at least.
‘And while we’re talking about Pat in that period, what can you tell me about her job in London? Did you ever meet, did she ever talk about, a friend called Cyn or Cynthia? Your sister wanted to leave her something, and Alan has asked me to try to find her.’
Barbara sighed apologetically. ‘I know Pat worked in London for a while. Something to do with railways. Was she a shop steward of some sort? I don’t know… Trouble is, that’s when I was estranged from the family. I know she lived the single life in London during the week, and our mother looked after that poor boy. Cynthia doesn’t ring any bells at all, I’m afraid. I’ve got Pat’s old letters, but, no, they’re all from earlier, from Cuba.’
‘Letters?’
‘Yes. Pat wasn’t good at keeping in touch, but she wrote home sporadically. I was only young at the time, but she does seem to have got quite wrapped up in the whole revolution thing. Most of what she sent were postcards actually, views of Havana. I found them in an old wardrobe when we took over the house. Pat and I were going through a frosty phase at the time, so I just left them there. I’ll dig them out. You might get an insight from them, and you can give them to Alan when you see him.’
The two women talked for another hour. Barbara had come into the Shaw family too late to remember any of her adoptive grandparents, but did meet aunts and uncles, though so long ago she could only recall scant details. Jane had brought Alan’s family photo album, and Barbara was able to identify some of the people portrayed. She had known the pictures as a child, if not the subjects themselves. She did not request copies. Jane asked about her birth parents, and Barbara said she had traced her mother some years previously. They had a limited relationship before death drew its line. As to her father, he was as unknown as Alan’s. She seemed content to leave him that way.
Jane stood on the doorstep and glanced sideways towards the sea, hoping one last time to see an elusive dolphin cresting the waves. Only white horses and bobbing seagulls broke the choppy grey expanse. She thanked Barbara for her time and for the background she had been able to provide. Jane confirmed it had been worth the journey and that she was sure Alan would send her a copy of the Shaw family tree when the work was complete.
Barbara smiled and then her expression became troubled, as if she were forcing herself to face up to something difficult.
‘I haven’t really asked,’ she said. ‘How is Alan these days? Did he seem okay?’
Jane thought briefly before answering. ‘Yes. I’ve only met him the once so far, but he seemed charming. Absolutely charming.’
‘Good,’ said Barbara with palpable relief. ‘I went to Pat’s funeral, but it was packed. I was shocked how bald Alan had got. Didn’t get that from his mother’s side. Anyway, there were all these local bigwigs and dignitaries. And he was very, very upset. Distraught. I didn’t get chance to talk to him. Not properly. I still send cards at Christmas and birthdays. He doesn’t reciprocate, but that’s men for you. His wife left him, of course.’
Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘He mentioned something about that.’
‘She was an awful lot younger than him. Very pretty Thai girl. Poor thing had to live in that house with just Alan and his mother. No wonder she ran off.’
Pictures and views
Jane arrived home just after 8:00 pm. Rain had set in and it had been a long, dirty and tiring drive home. The downpour ceased when she reached the East Midlands, but the roads were still wet and the combination of spray and glaring headlights meant her eyes and neck were strained from concentration. She climbed out of the Mazda having decided on a bath and an early bed. Nonetheless, she found herself scouring the street for the black Jaguar that had caught her attention a few days before. As far as she could see, it still hadn’t returned. She had wondered if one of her neighbours was out to impress with an expensive new car. It seemed not. It was probably just a visitor and was no doubt parked outside a more upmarket address in another part of town or beyond.
Jane unlocked her front door and walked into the house. Under her arm was an old shoe box containing the postcards and letters Alan’s mother had sent from Cu
ba some 60 years before. Jane had glanced through them with Barbara and had intended to study them properly when she was fresh in the morning. They told the story of a young woman’s politicisation and brush with rebellion and history. Jane found herself sitting at her kitchen table and opening the box. The bath could wait. She flipped over the first card and began to read.
Sunday 17th Feb
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
The picture shows the pool at our hotel in Jamaica. Isn’t it glorious! And we went swimming earlier. Outside in February! It’s so hot! The flight here was very exciting, though a “bit bumpy” due to “turbulence” over the Azores. Mr Carter says the Stratocruiser is by far the best plane he’s ever been on. See you soon.
Love, Patricia
Sunday 24th Feb
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
We’ve flown to Havana! 1957 is the first year they’re having a Cuban Grand Prix, and it’s taking place tomorrow, just outside our hotel! The picture shows the Malecón, the seafront road (we’d call it the Promenade) where the cars will race. Havana very hot and very exciting! And I get to use my Spanish!
Love, Patricia
Friday 1st March
Dear Mummy and Daddy,
There’s not much space, so I’ll have to be brief and try to write small. I have resigned from Mr Carter’s employment. I’ve got a job as a receptionist in the (wonderful) hotel shown overleaf, and they are providing accommodation. I don’t know how long I shall stay, but I obviously need to earn enough for my fare home. I wanted an adventure and am having it. Don’t be angry.
Love to Barbara, and please, please don’t worry,
Patricia
Saturday 23rd March
Dear Mummy and Daddy,
We did hear some gunshots last week, but the Presidential Palace is a long way away and we were totally safe. The Times is right, the rebellion was crushed and any of the surviving conspirators will be hunted down. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes. The police here are a bit different from our British Bobbies. Don’t worry. Life goes on as normal. All is fine.
Love to Barbara,
Patricia
Monday 1st July
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
Glad to hear you are all well. I am too. I have made lots of friends at the hotel and am really enjoying my job and the lifestyle. There is music everywhere, and the people are so friendly. As you’ve probably guessed, I have met a boy and have never been so happy.
Love to all,
Patricia
Tuesday 1st October
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
Still at the hotel. No real news and no plans to come home just yet. You must stop worrying. Hope Barbara is doing well at school.
Love to all,
Patricia
Havana
January 31 1958
Dear Mummy and Daddy,
Trust you had a nice Christmas and my little present arrived in time. I thought I would write a letter for once as I owe you a proper explanation and more words than can be squeezed onto a pretty picture postcard. Also, a sealed letter is not so easily read by the prying eyes of a postman, or any other government official for that matter. I still work at the hotel, though we have fewer guests than we used to. The accidental killing of the American tourist during the student attack on Batista’s palace has put many people off. Others are prepared to take the risk. They still want to gamble in the casinos and visit the theatres and the seedier quarters of town. President Batista assures them he has everything under control and all is safe. To demonstrate it is business as usual, he has made sure the grand prix will be going ahead next month. The drivers are all coming back: Fangio, Moss and the rest. Did I ever tell you I met the world champion, Señor Fangio, last year? That seems so long ago, when I was an impressionable little girl in the thrall of that awful man, John Carter. Please believe me when I say I have finally grown up.
To think it is nearly 12 months since I arrived. On the face of it, Havana hasn’t changed. There are still huge Chevrolets and Cadillacs cruising the Malecón, and the sun continues to shine on the rooftop swimming pools. American companies still run the telephone company and the sugar plantations and just about everything else. But things are happening on the streets, away from the tourists and the nightclubs and the hotels. One of my friends was killed. Manolo was such a sweet, gentle boy. He was my best friend. I could talk to him like he was another girl. I don’t mean he was “that way”. To be honest, perhaps he was. I don’t care. There are far more important things to worry about in this life. They have described how he was found, what was done to him, and it was awful. You cannot imagine. But that is what they do here, in the shadows but sometimes in broad daylight. They want people to be afraid. But some of us refuse.
Someone who worked at the hotel tried to help Manolo and has had to run away. Some policemen were killed. I cannot say more. There are different worlds in Cuba: the decadence and the skyscrapers of Havana, and the rest of this huge island, where people scrape a living in the dirt and dust of the sugar and tobacco fields. The very rich and the very poor. All Batista cares about is lining his pockets. And those around him want their share of the loot and will happily tread on anyone who gets in their way. But there are rebels gaining strength in the Oriente Province in the far south of the island, and they have the sympathy of many of the ordinary people.
I would ask that you do not try to contact me for a while. Even sealed letters can and will be opened. Most of the American girls in the hotel are thinking of going home. Even some Cubans are looking at the boats to Miami and thinking they should pack their bags and take a long vacation until this is all over. I feel I want to stay. I cannot explain. I know you must be worried, but I cannot help but think of all the boys who went off to the War. It was what they had to do, and their parents accepted it. I know I am supposedly of the weaker sex, but there are girls fighting amongst those rebels. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything silly like taking up a rifle and becoming a soldier. But I am not going to run away. Daddy, your mother would have understood. I feel this is where I belong now. I feel I would be betraying this country and my new friends if I scuttled back home with my tail between my legs.
As I said, please do not write to me, at least for the time being. I will let you know I am still okay. There are pictures of Havana amongst the hotel’s selection of cards that you have not yet seen.
Trust me and pray for me. Love to Barbara. I hope she will be a better daughter to you than I.
P.
Friday 28th February
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
I am well. I met an old friend, and he was kind. Havana is hot and beautiful.
Love to all,
Patricia
Thursday 1st May
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
I am well. Havana is beautiful and hot.
Love to all,
Patricia
Tuesday 1st July
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
I am well. Havana is beautiful and hot.
Love to all,
Patricia
Tuesday 2nd September
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
I am well. Havana is hot and beautiful.
Love to all,
Patricia
Saturday 1st November
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
I am well. Havana is beautiful and hot.
Love to all,
Patricia
Monday 15th December
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
I am well. I wish you a merry Christmas and sincerely hope for the happiest of New Years.
Love to all,
Patricia
Havana
January 3 1959
Dear Mummy and Daddy,
It is all over. We have won! The city is rejoicing. The rebels led by Comandantes Guevara and Cienfuegos entered Havana yesterday. I met Che (Guevara). He is Argentinian, so handso
me and a doctor. He is dreamy – Barbara would understand. And my friend from the hotel who had to run away is back with me and a hero of the revolution. I know the pain I have caused you, but you don’t need to worry anymore. Everything will be wonderful when Fidel Castro arrives and starts to build a new government. He is visiting all the towns as he crosses the island and is greeted by joyous crowds everywhere he goes. He is a very great man. Batista has fled the island, and most of his henchmen have run away too. Che said we would hunt down the torturers who are left and they will be shot for their crimes. Cuba will be a free and prosperous country. Viva Castro! Viva La Revolución!
Your daughter,
Patricia
PS Sorry if my handwriting is a little untidy, but we have been celebrating so much and the rum has been flowing. I even smoked a cigar!
Monday 15th June
Dear Mummy and Daddy,
Thank you for your letters. It was good to hear the news from home and apologies for being so slow in replying. But I do feel you’re nagging me to come back to England, and – I’m going to be blunt – the last thing I want to do is to live in a cold and rainy little backwater of the second city of a faded and corrupt Empire. My life is in Cuba now. I’m sorry if you can’t accept that.
Patricia
Havana
December 23 1959
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Barbara,
Happy Christmas to one and all. I know this won’t reach you in time, but they sent your card on from the hotel, and I felt I should try to build bridges. It is supposed to be the season of goodwill and family after all. I did mean to respond to your earlier letters, but you know how it is. And I think there have been problems with the postal service. We have been so busy reorganising and building a better Cuba. I live in a fine apartment in the new part of town. There is so much change. Practically all the Americans have gone. The mobsters, in particular, will not be missed. Fidel has broken up the great estates and plantations, and he has redistributed the land to the people. He gives these wonderful speeches and carries everyone with him. He talks for hours, and no-one wants to leave. He is so intelligent and fair. There is nothing that man can’t do, can’t understand. You say you’re worried that he is a socialist. Some might think that is not such a bad thing, but Fidel has explained that this is a “humanist” revolution, not tied to traditional ideologies. I will quote you some of his exact words: