The Cottage

by Lisa Stone

  Without waiting for a reply, Moller pressed a buzzer beneath his desk and almost immediately Edie Moller came into the room. ‘I’ll see you out, Mr Jennings,’ she said with a tight smile.

  Ian stood and left the room.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Ian got into his car but didn’t start the engine. He was in no fit state to drive. While he accepted what Moller had told him, there was something about him and his wife Ian really didn’t like. They were smug, dogmatic, superior. Yes, that was it. The pair of them exuded a sense of elitism, as though they knew better than others … be grateful you are both healthy, intelligent and able to do well. You have me to thank for that, Moller had said arrogantly. Ian supposed that playing God for so long and giving infertile clients children had gone to his head. But Ian knew he had to speak to his mother, and it wouldn’t be easy.

  He took a swig of water from the bottle he kept in his car and, picking up his phone, pressed the number for his mother, Helen. She lived a two-hour drive away and he saw her a few times a year. She’d be at work now, caring for an elderly lady with dementia, but hopefully when she saw his number she’d take his call or call him back straight away if she was busy.

  She answered on the third ring. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked with a mother’s anxiety for her child, regardless of their age.

  ‘No, Mum, it’s not,’ Ian said bluntly. ‘I’m parked outside the Moller Clinic. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  He heard his mother’s silence and could visualize her face. He hated doing this to her. He loved her but now felt cheated and betrayed. How could she have lived with this secret all these years and not told him?’

  ‘Why are you there?’ she finally asked, her voice slight.

  ‘Because I have just discovered that the man I used to call Dad isn’t my real father. And I’m the result of donor sperm – a complete stranger you never even met. I can’t believe you did this to me, Mum, and didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Ian, it wasn’t like that,’ Helen said sombrely. ‘We wanted children and tried for years. But then we had tests and discovered your father had such a low sperm count it would be impossible for me to conceive naturally. We thought long and hard about what we should do before we sought the help of the Moller Clinic. Of course your dad was your father – he loved you. But we felt it was better you didn’t know.’

  ‘But why not tell me now, Mum?’ Ian asked, screwing shut his eyes. ‘You knew I was researching my genetic history so Emma and I could hopefully have a normal baby. Surely that was the time to tell me?’

  ‘I thought about it, but I knew it would come as a huge shock to you after all these years. I wanted you to remember your father as he was – your dad, the man who brought you up. He loved you and was so proud of you, son. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ian admitted. ‘He was a good man. I can’t fault him. But this has come as a huge shock, Mum, and straight after finding out Emma was conceived by donor sperm too.’

  ‘Was she? Really?’ Helen asked, surprised. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Neither did I until yesterday, although she’s known most of her life.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell you?’

  ‘Same reasons you and Dad didn’t.’

  ‘I can understand that. Which clinic did her parents use, do you know?’ Helen asked.

  ‘The Moller Clinic, the same as you and Dad.’ As Ian said this a new fear suddenly gripped him. ‘Oh my God, Mum, you don’t think Emma and I could share the same donor? If we did, it would mean we were related, half brother and sister.’ Bile rose in his throat and he flung open his car door just in time to throw up in the gutter.

  ‘Ian? Are you OK?’ his mother asked on the other end of the phone.

  ‘No,’ he said, wiping his mouth. He took another swig of water. ‘Mum, if Emma and I do have the same biological father it might explain why we look similar and can’t have healthy children. Some defects in DNA only appear if there is inbreeding.’

  ‘But Carstan and Edie Moller are professionals,’ Helen said. ‘They know what they’re doing. They wouldn’t have let that happen, I’m certain.’

  ‘Think about it, Mum. Sperm donors donate many times and can father hundreds of children. The Mollers couldn’t have predicted that Emma and I would ever get together. If I’d had any idea that Emma and I were the product of donated sperm and from the same clinic I would have checked with them before we married to make sure we weren’t related. Otherwise it’s incest, Mum!’ His stomach churned and he swallowed back fresh bile.

  ‘No! It’s not possible. I’m sure you’re wrong, Ian.’

  ‘How can you be so sure, Mum? You should have told me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I kept quiet for your father’s sake. I never thought it would come to this.’ Her voice broke.

  Ian was silent for a moment and then said, ‘I’m going back into the clinic now to confront Carstan Moller. I need to know the truth.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ian drew himself to his full height as he returned up the front path to the Moller Clinic and pressed the bell. No one answered. They were in all right but would be able to see him on the CCTV. He pressed the bell again, long and hard, then opened the letterbox and shouted, ‘I know you’re in there. I need to speak to you. I’m not leaving until I do.’

  Straightening, he pressed the bell again and kept his finger on it until the door opened.

  ‘Yes, what is it, Mr Jennings?’ Carstan Moller demanded. ‘You’re making a hell of a noise.’ Ian could see Edie Moller standing a little way behind him down the hall, her mobile in her hand, probably ready to call the police if necessary.

  ‘Could Emma and I have the same sperm donor?’ Ian asked.

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘I keep meticulous records. I always have done. We’re professional. That sort of thing can’t happen here.’

  ‘Have you checked your records for Emma and me?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know you were coming here today. You just turned up.’

  ‘So can you check now, please?’

  ‘It will take me a while.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  ‘I’ll phone you,’ Moller said. ‘But you’re worrying unnecessarily. It’s not my clinic that’s at fault.’

  ‘Please check now and I’ll wait in my car for your call. I’m not leaving until I have the answer.’

  ‘That’s your decision,’ Moller said, and closed the door.

  Ian returned to his car. Arrogant bastard!

  He was prepared to wait outside the clinic all day if necessary. He had the right to know if he and Emma shared the same donor, horrendous though that possibility was. If the clinic was keeping proper records as Moller had said then it shouldn’t be too difficult to find the information.

  Ian stared, unseeing, through the windscreen, angry, upset and fearing the worst. Five minutes later his phone rang and it was Carstan Moller. ‘I have checked our records and, as I thought, you and your wife don’t share the same donor.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘So why can’t we have healthy babies?’

  ‘I really don’t know. There could be many reasons. I’m sorry for you, but it has nothing to do with my clinic. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think you’re becoming obsessed with this. Take Emma’s advice and get on with your lives. Now I really need to do some work. Goodbye, Mr Jennings.’ He ended the call.

  ‘Arsehole!’ Ian cursed, and started the car. He didn’t like the man, but at least he had answered his question. He and Emma didn’t share the same donor, so that was a great relief.

  Ian drove the 200 or so metres into the village and parked outside the shop. He hadn’t smoked in years but now felt desperately in need of a cigarette. Discovering he’d come from donor sperm had been a huge blow.

  He was the only customer in the store and a teenage lad was behind the counter listen
ing to music. He took out his earphones as Ian approached.

  ‘A packet of Marlboro, please.’

  The lad opened the cabinet behind him and placed the cigarettes on the counter, the printed warning on the packet face up – Smoking reduces fertility.

  ‘That’s all I need,’ Ian sighed, taking out his wallet.

  The lad grinned. ‘You been to that clinic on the hill then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, how did you know?’

  ‘Most strangers who come in have been or are going there. Eleven pounds fifty pence, please.’

  ‘Jesus! Is that what a packet of cigarettes costs now? Just shows how long it’s been since I last smoked.’ He gave the lad a twenty-pound note and waited for his change.

  ‘What did you think of Mr and Mrs Frankenstein then?’ the lad laughed.

  Ian shrugged. ‘Why do you call them that?’

  ‘Mum says I shouldn’t, but you got to admit they’re a bit weird.’

  ‘Do you know them well then?’

  ‘No, they don’t come in here much and don’t really associate with us in the village.’

  ‘So why do you call them Mr and Mrs Frankenstein?’ Ian asked, tucking the cigarettes into his pocket.

  ‘They make babies, don’t they? And there are rumours around here they create monsters.’ The lad laughed again.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ian asked, with a stab of unease.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘Mum says I shouldn’t repeat this stuff, but rumour has it that sometimes things go wrong and the babies aren’t born right.’

  Ian took his receipt and left the store. The babies he and Emma had produced weren’t right – not by a long way. But they hadn’t used sperm from the Moller Clinic so they couldn’t blame the clinic for creating their ‘monsters’, unless …

  Unless Moller had made a mistake or lied, and he and Emma did share the same donor sperm. Then the chance of a genetic fault being passed on became possible again.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘You’re home early,’ Emma said as Ian came into the living room.

  Without replying, he threw his briefcase and jacket over the armchair and continued to the table where he opened his laptop.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Emma asked, concerned. ‘You’ve been smoking. I can smell it on your clothes. Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  ‘Yes, but I need to find out how to do a DNA test,’ he said, staring at his laptop screen.

  ‘Not that again!’ Emma sighed. ‘I’ve told you I’ll phone the clinic, but I have to be in the right mood.’

  ‘There’s no need to phone now. I spoke to them this morning. In fact, I’ve been there.’

  ‘You’ve been to the Moller Clinic?’ Emma asked, amazed, looking at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘It turns out it’s not just you but me too.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense, Ian.’ She closed the book she’d been reading and put it to one side.

  ‘I’m the product of donor sperm just like you,’ he said, tapping the laptop. ‘From the same clinic.’

  Emma stared at him. ‘What? How can that be?’

  Ian didn’t reply but concentrated on the screen.

  ‘Ian, I’m talking to you. Can you tell me what’s going on? You’re frightening me.’

  Ian paused to look at her. ‘I phoned the Moller Clinic this morning about tracing your donor and spoke to Edie Moller. She let slip that I was on their files too. I saw Moller himself and he said both our parents used their clinic. I called my mother and she confirmed that she and Dad had gone there.’

  ‘Strewth! That’s a coincidence. And your mum never told you?’

  ‘No, not a word.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, Ian. I can see how upset you are. It must have come as a huge shock to find out like that.’ She went over to give him a hug, but his attention was already on the laptop again.

  ‘You can see now why my mother told me early on,’ Emma said. ‘It wasn’t a shock for me. I grew up knowing I came from donor sperm.’

  Ian nodded.

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Trying to find out how to get our DNA tested. Testing is far more sophisticated now than it was when we were conceived, so it may show up something that wasn’t picked up before. Also …’ He hesitated. Did she have to know this? Yes, she did. ‘We’re nearly the same age, so I’m guessing our parents must have used the clinic quite close together. I need to confirm we don’t have the same donor.’

  ‘What! You mean there’s a chance we may have?’ Emma stared at him, horrified.

  ‘Not according to Carstan Moller, but I want to check. If – heaven forbid – we do have the same donor, it could explain why we can’t have healthy babies.’

  ‘But Mr Moller told you we didn’t?’ Emma said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he’s not likely to have made a mistake with something so important.’

  ‘He may have and now he’s lying to cover his back,’ Ian said, concentrating on the screen.

  Emma stared at him incredulously. ‘You think that’s possible?’

  But Ian was still engrossed in what he was doing. ‘Here’s what we need,’ he said, tapping the keys. ‘Websites offering DNA tests. This one looks good – MyGeneticHistory.com – £60 each. They send us the kit to take samples of our saliva. The results are back in three working days. Perfect. Can you pass me my wallet, love, it’s in my jacket pocket. If I order now, we should have the kits at the weekend.’

  ‘And then what happens?’ Emma asked. ‘Will you be satisfied or will you not believe them either? I am sure you’re wrong, Ian. This is all taking over. Here’s your wallet. I’m going for a shower.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jan wasn’t nervous about living in the cottage as Chris had said, she told herself. His comments the evening before were still annoying her, together with his behaviour – first at the restaurant and then denying he’d seen a figure running from the cottage. She still had no idea what had got into him, but today she was going to prove him wrong and show she wasn’t nervous, by taking Tinder for a walk in Coleshaw Woods. DS Matt Davis had said how lovely the woods were at this time of year and that she was missing out. So now, empowered by hurt pride and daylight, she was going!

  Not wholly at ease with her decision but determined to give her confidence another small boost, Jan tucked her phone and keys into her jacket pocket and with Tinder beside her, tail wagging, she left the cottage. She set off along Wood Lane in the direction of Merryless. It was midday and the wintry November sun was as high in the sky as it would get, flickering through the bare branches of the trees she passed.

  A good walk should also clear her head, she thought, after all the wine she’d drunk the night before. The evening had held such promise but had turned into a disaster. Oh well, another one bites the dust, she thought stoically.

  Pleased to be off the lead, Tinder ran on ahead, then stopped every so often to look behind him and wait for Jan to catch up. Partway down Wood Lane was the turning on the right that led into the deepest part of Coleshaw Woods that ran behind the cottage. Jan had never ventured down it before, although Tinder often glanced longingly towards it as they passed on their way to the village. Jan didn’t know if Camile ever walked him there, she hadn’t told her. Her instructions had said that Tinder should be let out in the garden three times a day, and to take him with her when she walked to Merryless, but not to take him in the car as he got travel sick. Jan had only used her car twice since arriving and it was parked on a concrete standing to the right of the cottage, now covered in leaves.

  ‘Come on, this way, Tinder!’ Jan called. He’d gone past the turning.

  He stopped, looked back and, unable to believe his good luck, ran full tilt towards her.

  ‘Come on, you softie. We’re going to walk in the woods today.’

  She ruffled his fur and they began along the track. Jan knew from reading about Coleshaw Woods that most visitors came in s
ummer and entered through the road on the other side of the woods where there was a car park, picnic area and signposted walks. There was also a flooded quarry where anglers fished. The woods on this side were at their thickest, and although there were tracks like the one she was on, they were rarely used. But if she kept to it, she shouldn’t get lost, and even if she did, she had her phone with her so could call for help.

  Despite the reassurances she’d given herself, it wasn’t long before Jan began to feel slightly anxious by the complete isolation. It was eerie to be so alone. She’d spent all her life in towns and cities where you were never alone, even at night or in parks. Now there was just her, Tinder and the occasional rustle of woodland life in the undergrowth.

  Digging her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, Jan continued resolutely along the track. The air was certainly fresh, fresh enough to get rid of her hangover, she thought. Yet there was also a pungent, damp smell that you didn’t get in Wood Lane, which Jan supposed was caused by the fallen, rotting leaves. Tinder didn’t seem to mind. His short legs were disappearing into the mulch as he sniffed around, and pieces of leaves and twigs stuck to his fur. But although he didn’t mind the litterfall sticking to his coat, Jan noticed he was keeping very close to her. He seemed apprehensive and she supposed it was because he was in unfamiliar territory.

  While it was somewhat creepy being all alone, Jan reminded herself that nature wouldn’t harm her. She wasn’t sure how far the track went, nor where the cottage lay in relation to it. She knew it would be on her right, but that was all. A few moments later she made a snap decision to try to find the cottage. Leaving the track, she turned right, further into the forest. Tinder stayed close and their pace slowed as the piles of rotting leaves deepened. In some places there were such small gaps between the trees she had to step around them and part bracken and ivy to forge a path. There was no sign of anyone else having ever been here.