‘How much longer are you here in England?’ I asked, heading for the next village where Diana lived in the tiny cottage she shared with her overindulged cat.
‘I’m supposed to do another year, really.’ Camilla paused, her next words unspoken.
‘But?’ I prompted.
‘But, I think I’m going to go home. I miss everyone, I don’t think I can stand another English winter and, besides, there’s really nothing here for me now.’
I glanced across at her. ‘What about Dan?’
‘I think both Dan and I know that it’s over. He hasn’t said, but I guess he’s as homesick for his wife as I am for Mum and Dad. You know, Harriet, I feel really bad about Grace. Going off with someone else’s husband was never on my agenda. He actually told me he and Grace were separated.’
Bastard!!
‘Anyway,’ Camilla continued, as we drew up outside Diana’s cottage, ‘I really need you to tell her from me how sorry I am. She was so welcoming when she invited me round to their house when I first arrived in Midhope – and then I went and did this to her.’
‘Not by yourself you didn’t,’ I said grimly. ‘Daniel played his part, you know.’
‘I’m so nervous about seeing your mum. I really don’t want to open a can of worms.’
‘Camilla,’ I sighed. ‘I think this is one can that has well and truly been opened already. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m actually terrified of facing her with this.’
I sounded the horn and Diana came out, almost tripping over the cat as he wove himself round her legs while she locked her door.
‘We were just saying, Di,’ I said, as she fought her way through the co-op shopping to find a seat in the back, ‘are we doing the right thing in telling Mum about Joy? Do you not think we might be better letting sleeping dogs lie? At least we now know Patricia actually exists, so Mum isn’t going completely bonkers. Being confronted with the result of what she got up to all those years ago could tip her completely over the edge, you know.’
‘No,’ Diana said firmly. ‘I really feel she needs to meet Camilla. I rang Dad this afternoon and met him up at his allotment. I hope you don’t mind, both of you, but Dad now knows that Patricia is a real person, not some figment of mum’s brain.’
‘Blimey,’ I breathed. ‘What did you tell him? What did he say?’
‘He actually had tears in his eyes after I’d told him about Camilla coming round last night,’ Diana said. ‘He said thank goodness Patricia actually exists. He really thought Mum was going completely round the bend.’
I hesitated before saying, ‘Well maybe a bit round the bend? Don’t forget she’s been talking to Granny Morgan, too.’
‘Granny Morgan?’ Camilla raised an eyebrow.
‘Mum’s mum. Mum has been having very one-sided conversations with her despite the fact that she’s been dead these last four or five years.’
Dad opened the door to the three of us and ushered us into the tiny lounge that still carried the faint odour of their midday meal, and where Mum was watching the end of Emmerdale. She peered over her glasses, staring intently at Camilla who had gone very pale.
Her hands, clasped around the mug that Liberty had brought back for her from a school trip to Haworth, were brown with the liver spots of old age. Putting the mug down on to the table next to her armchair, Mum placed her slippered feet squarely in front of her and sat bolt upright, never once taking her gaze from Camilla’s face.
‘Now then, Keturah, Diana and Harriet have brought someone to see you,’ Dad said, his breezy manner unable to hide the trepidation he was obviously feeling. ‘This is Camilla.’
‘Oh aye? And who might Camilla be then?’
‘Come and sit down, love.’ Dad motioned for Camilla to come forward and she sat down on the sofa. ‘Get yourself warm. It’s cold out there tonight.’
Diana crossed over to the scratched leather pouffe that had been a feature of my parents’ lounge for as long as I could remember, pulling it up so that she was sitting at Mum’s feet. ‘Mum, Camilla has come from Patricia. She’s Patricia’s daughter.’
‘Patricia? My Patricia?’
‘Yes, Mum, that’s right.’ Diana took Mum’s hand which had been fingering the chintz fabric of her armchair and held it tightly to stop the trembling which had started the second Patricia’s name was mentioned. ‘You’ve never told us about her before. Will you tell us now?’
Mum looked at Dad, real fear in her eyes.
‘Nay, lass, why didn’t you ever tell me about her? I wouldn’t have minded. You know that.’ Dad stood there shaking his head.
‘Your Granny Morgan said I must never tell anyone.’ Mum looked first at Diana and then at me. ‘She said I was a dirty little trollop and if anyone knew what I’d been up to I’d never get anyone to marry me. Oh, but I didn’t want to give her away – she were so lovely. But they made me. Your Granny Morgan said I couldn’t come home if I kept her. I had no money, you see, and nowhere else to go. I couldn’t look after Patricia, could I?’
‘Why did you go to the Isle of Man?’ I asked.
‘Well, I went looking for her, you know, but I couldn’t find her.’
‘No, Mum, I mean why did you go to the Isle of Man to have the baby? Why didn’t you stay here and have her?’
Mum looked a bit bewildered for a moment, but then became quite lucid, taking her hand from Diana’s and folding her arms crossly.
‘When I found out I was carrying, I had to tell your Granny Morgan. I didn’t know what else to do. Ooh, she was cross. Wild she was. I thought she was going to kill me. She went and had a word with the parson of Leygate Baptist and together they shipped me off to the Isle of Man to one of them mother and baby places there. Run by t’church it were. It were a dreadful place. I thought I were going to die on that ferry going across the sea. It was winter – so cold and I was so sick all the way there. Ooh and homesick I were too. I’d never been away from your Granny Morgan before.’
‘Where did Granny tell people you were?’ I asked, curiously. ‘Surely they wondered where you’d gone?’
Mum shrugged. ‘Said I’d got a job in one of the bed and breakfast places on the Isle of Man. In the years after the war a lot of young girls were restless and moved about a bit. The war changed everything, you know.’
Mum leaned forward in her chair. ‘You’re very bonny, love,’ she said, scrutinising Camilla once more. ‘Is your mum pretty too?’
‘She’s really beautiful,’ Camilla gushed, desperate for Mum to know more about the baby she gave away. ‘Look, I’ve some photos of her.’
Mum took them with shaking hands, silently staring at the black-and-white images. ‘And is she still on the Isle of Man? You’ve got a bit of a funny accent, love, if you don’t mind me saying so – is it an Isle of Man accent? I did look for her, you know. I made Kenneth take me there when we got married. Of course, I never told him why I wanted to go there.’
‘Mum emigrated to Australia when she was adopted,’ Camilla smiled. ‘We live near Canberra.’
‘Australia?’ Camilla might as well have said ‘Mars.’ ‘Eeh, that is a long way away. Fancy. Australia. No wonder I never found her.’
I went to stand behind Mum, looking once more at the photographs Camilla had shown for the first time the previous evening.
‘She is pretty, isn’t she?’ I smiled.
‘Like her dad, love. She looks just like her dad.’
‘Mum,’ Diana asked quietly, ‘who was Patricia’s dad?’
‘Her dad? Well, it were Young Mr Frank, of course.’
‘Young Mr Frank?’ We all stared, especially Dad, who’d been straining to hear what Mum was saying.
Mum chuckled. ‘Well it certainly wasn’t Old Mr Frank. He must have been nearing seventy by then. Eeh’, she said almost dreamily, ‘We all fancied Frank in them days.’
‘Frank who, Mum?’
‘Frank Goodners of course. From Goodners and Sons Mills.’
‘This is getting more like a Ba
rbara Taylor Bradford novel every minute,’ Diana hissed, closing the kitchen door so Mum wouldn’t hear us discussing her past as we made tea.
‘You mean, “trouble at t’mill” again?’
‘You’re not kidding. Do you reckon she had to tug her forelock before dropping her knickers for Young Mr Frank?’
‘Diana, that’s awful!’ I gasped, shocked by her flippant words. ‘You can’t talk about Mum like that.’ Despite the shock brought on by Mum’s completely unexpected disclosure, Diana’s remark was in danger of setting off a fit of nervous and inappropriate cackling. It was the same as at Granny Morgan’s funeral: one glance at Great Aunt Edna’s disconcertingly phallic hat had rendered both Diana and me speechless with uncontrollable chortling. It really was about time we both grew up.
‘You do know who Frank Goodners is, don’t you?’ I asked, sobering up. ‘Well was. He’s dead now.’
‘Don’t be stupid! Of course I know who Frank Goodners is. I can’t hear the fucking Goodners’ name or pass their mill without thinking of John and how he reckons his life was ruined by Frank Goodners’ daughter.’ Diana poured milk into a jug before glancing at me. ‘And now she’s got her claws into Nick.’
When I didn’t say anything, she sighed and went on, ‘What on earth is it that has made our family such a target for the Goodners family? Because that’s what it seems like, don’t you think? First Mum, then you – yes, Hat, I knew all about your schoolgirl passion for Amanda – and then poor old John and now Nick.’ Diana shook her head in disbelief.
‘Frank Goodners was actually very nice when I met him all those years ago. He once gave me a lift home in his Roller or his Bentley or whatever it was.’
‘So nice that he abandoned Mum when she was pregnant,’ Di pointed out crossly.
‘I can’t work this out any more,’ I said, when she didn’t say anything further. ‘Does this mean that I’m now related to my husband’s possible mistress?’ My brain, befuddled by pregnancy hormones, general tiredness and the shock of all these relatives crawling out of the woodwork, was heading for meltdown.
I was trying to cast my mind back to that day, so many moons ago now, when we’d performed in the school play at Midhope Grammar and then been invited back to the Goodners’ mansion. Back in the other room, I passed a cup to Mum and said casually, ‘Mum, do you remember that time when you came to my school to watch me in a play? I was Ratty in Toad of Toad Hall?’
‘Aye, and you went back to Frank Goodners’ for tea. And he brought you back home in his fancy car.’
‘Gosh, you remember?’ I felt humbled. My mother had kept this secret all her life and told no one, so ashamed she’d been of having a baby as a young unmarried girl. She must have gone through such a lot without telling a soul.
‘’Course I remember.’ Mum sounded bitter. ‘I’d no idea his daughter were at your school until that day. I knew he’d married some woman from down South, but I’d heard his wife hadn’t been able to have children. Like me and your dad, I reckon they must have been married for a long time before they actually had any children, and I think she was the only one they had. So, aye, it were a bit of a shock, like, seeing him sitting across from me at that school of yours.’
‘Didn’t he say anything to you?’ Camilla asked. ‘Did he see you?’
‘Oh aye, he saw me alright. You have to remember, I hadn’t clapped eyes on him for nigh on thirty years – our paths never crossed, him being such a bigwig, an all. Seen him in t’ local paper of course – he were a magistrate and Tory councillor, even tried to become an MP at one point – but I’d not seen him in the flesh as it were, until that afternoon at your school.’
‘And? Did he speak to you, lass?’ Dad was getting a bit agitated.
‘Just came over and said “How are you doing, Keturah?” and asked which was my daughter.’ Mum cackled. ‘I reckon it must have been a bit of a shock, his old mill-worker’s daughter being at the same posh school as his daughter. And that was it. I seem to remember then he spent a lot of time talking to Grace’s mother – I think he must have known her socially.’
‘But didn’t he ask you about the baby?’ Camilla was clearly upset now.
‘He never knew about Patricia!’ Mum spat angrily.
‘What, you never told him?’ Diana, Camilla and I spoke as one.
‘No. Your Granny said it’d do no good. They’d probably deny it were anything to do with t’ boss’s son. It wasn’t just me who worked there – had done since I were fourteen – but your Granny and Grandad worked there too. We all worked there, and your Granny didn’t want any boats rocking.’
‘Oh bugger me,’ Diana shouted angrily. ‘Sorry, Mum, excuse the language, but you weren’t living in the dark ages. There’d been a war. It was the 1950s for heaven’s sake.’
‘Your Granny knew there were no way the Goodners family would have let him marry one of his workers – even if he’d wanted to, which I don’t suppose for one minute he did. She didn’t want anybody to know what I’d been up to – like I said, she told me I was disgusting, called me a whore, used goods. As soon as she found out, she virtually threw me out. I had to go somewhere where no one knew me, where “t’consequences”, as she called it, could be dealt with.’ The line of Mum’s mouth hardened. ‘I never forgave her for making me give my little girl away.’
‘You know, Mum, Camilla says Joy – Patricia – has done really well in Australia. She’s a doctor,’ I said, wanting my mother to know that things weren’t all bad. That by giving up her daughter she’d allowed her to have a good and very productive life.
‘I think Patricia will want to come over and see you, Keturah. Would you let her do that?’ Camilla was beginning to relax.
Mum’s face softened. ‘Ay, love, I’d like that more than anything. So I could just tell her how much I’d loved her. How I’ve thought about her every single day since she was born.’
Mum paused and then looked at all three of us girls before saying fiercely, ‘Never, never give your baby away. You look after it, love it, and care for it. No matter what happens, it’s your baby, your flesh and blood, and you keep it.’
And then she began to cry.
And, once I was in my own bed, so did I. I cried for my poor mum, for my marriage, for my husband who wasn’t there and probably wouldn’t be again, for my lovely house that we might have to leave and for my bewildered children. But most of all I cried for my baby. My baby that I simply could not keep.
Chapter 23
After an incredibly mild start to the month, the latter part of November sought its revenge, plunging the whole country, but particularly the North, into a sudden and premature winter. While no snow had fallen, the local weathermen, anxious to avoid being caught unawares, were being absolute drama queens, behaving totally over the top as they warned of icy Arctic blasts heading our way.
After watching Paul Hudson – Look North’s jocular resident weatherman – on the early evening news, Kit suggested it might be a good idea if we battened down the hatches and not go to school for a few days, ‘just in case.’
‘Just in case, what?’ I asked, clearing the kitchen table so I could catch up with a pile of marking and preparation.
‘Just in case he has a French test,’ Liberty intervened, throwing Kit’s exercise book at him.
‘When am I going to ever need French?’ Kit groaned. ‘I don’t get it. How do you know if a ruler is feminine or a book masculine?’
‘Those magazines at the back of your wardrobe have got enough bare bosoms in them for you to know they most certainly are feminine,’ said Liberty, neatly dodging the missile’s returned flight.
Kit reddened. ‘Back off, Birdbrain. Anyway, if I have to learn a strange language, it ought to be Italian.’ Kit had his head down, avoiding my eyes.
‘Why’s that, Kit?’ I asked softly, finishing one pile of books and reaching for another.
‘Well, if I’m to be the victim of a broken home, and Dad is going to be living in Italy with his
fancy woman, I really ought to know the Italian for “You bastard.”’
In the week since Camilla had become part of our family, very little had happened apart from the day-to-day ritual of everyday life. Sylvia had turned up a couple of days later and unpacked her bags before setting off again with a huge case and a similar-sized grin on her face.
‘Now, dear, I hope I’m not letting you down,’ she’d chirruped, ‘especially with Nick away so long, but I’ve been invited to join a house party in Barbados.’
House party? Blimey, when did anyone still call them house parties? And who had invited her? Lucky old Sylvia. What wouldn’t I give to be lying on a hot, tropical beach for two weeks, my every need attended to by a bevy of drink-carrying waiters.
With the house phone still in casualty and all the mobiles out of credit because of a lack of funds, there’d been very little contact with Nick. He’d tried to ring me once at school, but when I was finally able to leave my class and had dashed, breathless, to the office in order to take the call, Valerie Westwood had replaced the receiver, unaware that my recalcitrant husband was on the other end. There’d been one postcard, addressed to the children, saying how much he loved them all, but wouldn’t be seeing them for a while as he was unable to leave Italy just at the moment.
Oh Nick, come home, I’d whispered to myself turning the card over to reveal Milan, at night, in all its splendour. Your children need you. I need you.
I’d managed to get Grace alone one morning before school in order to tell her about Dan’s visit, but she’d been very cool with me, said she knew all about it: Dan had spent the previous evening round at her place and they were ‘in discussion.’
With the phone out of order, my day’s absence from work, and Grace away from school on a course, as well as being interviewed for that deputy headship she’d applied for, there had been little opportunity to tackle the cold war that had sprung up between us since the potting-shed incident.
I suppose I was also keeping my distance because there was no way I could tell her that I was pregnant with a baby that I was not going to keep. That would crucify her, and more than likely put an end to our friendship for good.
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