Reading her words, he got a picture in his mind of her arriving back with the baby. The studio must have been icy after being empty so long, and the enormity of what she’d done must have hit her hard as the practicalities of sterilizing bottles, four-hourly feeds and wet nappies kicked in.
How did she summon up the nerve to go and register the baby’s birth? Wasn’t she afraid they had some way of checking the baby was really hers? And to put down the date of birth as nearly a month later than it was! That was such a risk, but he supposed she took it because she thought the police might look at all registered births around the time the baby was taken.
But Flora said nothing about any of that. Or perhaps by the time she’d begun her statement all that had faded from her memory, and she could only recall the joy of having a baby to love?
Tomorrow he would have to give this statement to Eva, and he wondered how she would react. At least it was clear that Flora had loved her deeply and that she’d been a far better mother than her real one would ever have been.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Patrick rang Eva on Monday afternoon. Using the excuse that he had a brochure of picture frames for them to choose from, he asked if he could pop round that evening if Phil was home. He didn’t want to leave Eva on her own after she’d read Flora’s statement.
Phil opened the door when he arrived at seven thirty. ‘You didn’t have to rush and get the picture done,’ he said. ‘But Eva will be pleased to have it hanging up again.’
‘I’ll be there in a sec,’ Eva called out from the kitchen. ‘Just finished the washing-up, and I’m making a cup of tea.’
They went into the lounge. Coronation Street was just starting as Eva came back into the room with the tea on a tray. Patrick thought she looked very pretty in a fluffy turquoise sweater and jeans. Phil had said she hadn’t been sleeping well after the fire, and he thought she was depressed, but she looked rested now. He hoped his news wasn’t going to set her back.
‘Is everything alright, Patrick?’ she asked as she put the tray down on the coffee table. ‘You look very tense.’
Patrick was tense, but he hadn’t thought either of them would notice. If nothing else, her question gave him the perfect opener – something he’d been worried about all day.
‘Selecting the right frame is a tough job, but someone’s got to do it,’ Phil joked.
‘Showing you this is an even tougher job,’ Patrick said, opening the battered old music case he used as a briefcase and pulling out the folder containing the statement. ‘It isn’t a catalogue of frames; it’s something my friend the art restorer found behind Flora’s painting.’
‘What is it?’ Eva asked. ‘You’re scaring me, Patrick, with that grim face.’
‘It’s the answer to all your questions about Flora,’ Phil said. ‘Written by her. I think you need to sit down and read it.’
Eva frowned in puzzlement. Phil turned off the television, and the pair of them sat down side by side on the sofa. Patrick handed the folder to Eva, then sat back in his chair to watch her reaction as she read it.
Patrick had found it hard to keep a lid on his emotions while he read it – even on the second and third reading it still had the same impact. He didn’t know how Eva would take it. She’d already been dealt enough bad cards this year; most girls of her age would have crumbled under the strain.
Yet as disturbing as this statement was, the truth – however unpalatable – was always better than supposition and half-baked theories. He really hoped she would see it that way.
Eva had tears running down her cheeks as she finished the first page and handed it to Phil. But she made no comment and carried on with the second page without once looking up. At the end of the third page, which Patrick knew was the part where she arrived as a baby in Pottery Lane, she handed it to Phil and put the other pages down beside her.
‘I know what she did was wrong,’ she said to Patrick, the break in her voice even more telling than the tears on her cheeks. ‘But why does it sound so right?’
Patrick had asked himself that same question too when he read it. ‘Because she gave you the childhood you deserved,’ he said. ‘Somehow I doubt you’d have fared so well with your birth mother.’
Phil had finished it too. He took Eva’s hand in his and for a moment said nothing, clearly overwhelmed by what he’d read. ‘Losing the second baby must have tipped her right over the edge,’ he said eventually. ‘Yet even if she was mentally ill at the time she did it, she sounded rational and calm as she wrote the story.’
‘Well, that comes of writing it down sixteen years later. I doubt she’d have presented it so clearly at the time,’ Patrick said. ‘She doesn’t say very much about the first few weeks with you, Eva. I’d say that was because she was overtired, like all new mothers are. But that book of sketches she did of you is proof enough that she held everything together and that the pair of you bonded well.’
‘I can’t imagine how anyone with no experience of newborn babies could cope alone.’ Eva’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘Especially when the baby isn’t your own. I’d be terrified if it wouldn’t stop crying.’
‘As she makes no comment on that, I think we can surmise that the joy of taking care of you wiped out her depression. The bit that puzzled me most was how she had the nerve to go and register your birth as her child. I think most people would be far too afraid of getting caught out to do that. I didn’t know anything about the process of registering, so I made some inquiries. It seems she must’ve had some prior knowledge, because the only documentation needed is a marriage certificate in order to put the husband’s name on the birth certificate. Without that, the section for the father’s name is left blank – unless he accompanies the mother. I suppose she rang them and asked what was necessary in advance. It seems a doctor or midwife’s signature isn’t needed.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Phil said. He shook his head as if in disbelief. ‘But then, I suppose the people who set up birth registration never imagined anyone would lay claim to a baby that wasn’t theirs?’
‘I’m sure that loophole must have been closed by now, since computers have started to take over,’ Patrick said. ‘Anyway, to move on, the next part is about meeting Andrew – and Flora was clearly back to her normal self by then.’
Eva looked at Phil, then back to Patrick. ‘Can you just tell us about it, and we’ll read it all later?’ she suggested. ‘I’m finding it hard to deal with hearing her voice in this. It will be easier if you tell us.’
Patrick knew exactly what Eva meant; there was a rawness in Flora’s writing that revealed how painful she found it to open up. Yet she had clearly been determined that she must tell the truth and justify her behaviour to herself – that she hadn’t been mad, or bad, but motivated only by wanting to give the baby love and care.
‘OK then. But when you read this part yourself, do take it slowly. Try to put yourself in her shoes as a single mum who has been forced to cut herself off from all her old friends because of her guilty secret. She’s lonely, and desperately needs someone to talk to. Most new mums I’ve known can’t wait to show off their baby, but she couldn’t do that straight away as she had to build a back story for herself that was entirely plausible. You must also remember that back in the early 1970s there was a stigma attached to being an unmarried mother.
‘Anyway, to get back to her story, she met Andrew at the end of June. It was a hot day and she’d stopped for a drink at The Prince of Wales and sat outside with the pram –’
‘Andrew told us that too,’ Eva interrupted.
‘I expect he put his own spin on it, and I’m going to tell you how I think it was,’ Patrick said. ‘I suspect from what she says that she went there on purpose, hoping to get into conversation with other adults and make new friends. She must have been delighted when Andrew began chatting to her. He was, after all, young, handsome and single. Flora pointed out that he was rather serious, but she seemed to see that as a plus. She also liked the fac
t that he was attentive and seemed very caring – he even asked if he could hold you.
‘From then on, it sounds like he really wooed her. He turned up with flowers, toys for you, they had picnics in Kensington Gardens, and cosy dinners together. He moved in with her after just a couple of weeks, and soon asked her to marry him.’
‘Did she say she loved him?’ Eva asked.
‘Not exactly. She speaks of respecting him, that he was the marrying kind. That they were good friends, and that he loved you, but not that he made her weak at the knees! She didn’t agree to marry him straight away. That came about when you were almost two, Eva. I got the idea that she thought he was almost too good to be true. Perhaps she wondered why someone as eligible as he was would want a woman with a baby?’
‘Lots of men are attracted to the idea of a ready-made family,’ Phil said. ‘I think it’s because they don’t have to do the home-building stuff or take any responsibility.’
‘I’d never thought of it that way,’ Patrick replied. ‘There could’ve been an element of that in Andrew’s mind, but I’m afraid I’m more of a cynic. You see, house prices began to rise around the middle of 1970. Later on, in 1972, it got quite crazy. I remember reading about it in Canada. Andrew worked as an estate agent then, and he would’ve been aware of this happening before the man in the street started to notice.’
‘So you think he was a gold-digger?’ Phil said.
Patrick grimaced. ‘It’s difficult for me to imagine any man not loving Flora just for herself, but I’ve got a feeling from the moment Andrew got his feet under her table, he saw the main chance. It also transpires – something I never knew – that she had money stashed away. I always thought she used all her inheritance to buy the studio, because that was what she implied. But she says in the statement that she had over twenty thousand pounds in the bank. And that of course explains why she didn’t get a job while in Scotland, and how she was supporting herself. With a house and that nest egg she was rich by the standards of the early 1970s.’
Phil let out a low whistle. ‘Quite a catch then!’
‘So who did Andrew think was my father? Presumably he didn’t find out the truth for a while?’
‘Like he told you, a brief affair in Scotland,’ Patrick said. ‘It was a smart explanation on her part, as most men feel less threatened by a casual fling than a serious relationship which might not be quite over. Everything appeared to be fine between them. Flora only admits to a certain wariness just after they got married, when he suggested they should both make a will. She said Andrew sulked for days when she told him she’d already made one, and that she wanted the studio to go to Eva. She said he made a big thing out of her not trusting him. He said that if anything happened to her, then he would take care of you.’
‘And we know how well he did that,’ Phil said drily.
‘Moving on, Flora was all for it when Andrew suggested they move out of London. The studio was getting too small for a growing child. Andrew landed a job in Cheltenham and then they found The Beeches.’
Patrick took the statement and riffled through it. ‘I’ll read you this section, as it is the bit that explains so much,’ he said.
I loved The Beeches as soon as I saw it, even though it was in a terrible state, and I could also see its huge potential. Andrew kept on grousing that we couldn’t manage a big mortgage. But I pointed out we’d only need one for a short time, because we could sell the land at the back of the house. That money would not only pay for all the work needed to restore the house, but we could pay off the mortgage too.
Andrew came round to the idea then, but he wanted me to sell the studio for the huge deposit we needed. I wasn’t going to do that – I wanted to let it out, and keep it for Eva – so I had to tell him about my inheritance money and use that. But in order to safeguard it, I insisted The Beeches was put in both our names.
Patrick looked from Eva to Phil. ‘It wasn’t common practice to have property in joint names back then. Men were considered to be the breadwinners and therefore they mostly took the sole responsibility of a mortgage.’
‘So was she suspicious of him?’ Phil said.
‘It doesn’t sound like it. But Flora always had a keen sense of the value of money,’ Patrick said. ‘We were all so poor at college, and she hadn’t had much as a child either. All her parents had of value was their home, and she would never have risked or squandered what they left her. I dare say that was why she never told me that she had twenty thousand tucked away along with owning the studio. Perhaps she didn’t trust me not to suggest doing something extravagant with it? But what I do get a sense of in this part of her statement is that she is very aware that Andrew wasn’t putting anything into the pot. I think that was what made her cautious.’
‘He used to boast to our neighbours about his “foresight” in buying The Beeches,’ Eva said indignantly. ‘Mum never said anything, so it never occurred to me she was the driving force behind it. Why didn’t she ever insist on getting the credit for it?’
‘The reason for that becomes clear later on,’ Patrick said.
‘Then carry on reading,’ Phil said. ‘I’m dying to know more.’
Patrick cleared his throat and continued to read the next section.
We stayed in a lovely hotel in the Cotswolds for a couple of nights while we completed on the house and took possession. Eva stayed with Andrew’s parents. I can only put my stupidity in telling Andrew about Eva that night down to the excitement of the move, having a break from Eva, and getting rather drunk. It seemed to me, as we were married and starting a new life in a new town, there shouldn’t be any secrets. So out I came with it, while sitting in the hotel garden after dinner with another bottle of wine.
He was shocked of course, but he said he was glad I’d told him. And I felt so relieved, because keeping the secret had been such a huge burden. He said we should change Eva’s name to his, and we should tell people we’d got married in 1969 so that everyone would think she was his child. That made me ridiculously happy. I felt that all the sadness and anxiety about the past was over.
The first couple of years at The Beeches were wonderful, so exciting and fulfilling. I found a property developer interested in buying the land at the back, saw to all the legal stuff, and I did all the negotiations with the Council for planning permission for The Beeches. And I found the right tradesmen to do the work. Although I say it myself, I was the brains and the creative force behind it all. Andrew was too staid, unimaginative and often too churlish with people who needed to be won over.
I almost forgot about my art, because along with Eva to look after, there was so much to do in restoring the house and working on the garden. There were banisters and doors to strip, workmen to oversee, materials to be sourced. It was me who repaired and made new pieces of cornice where they were missing, to match the original design. I was really happy too. I felt I’d found my niche in life, creating something beautiful, a ‘forever’ home.
Andrew was as proud as punch when Ben was born. He was considerate towards me, he was happy at his job and, as we’d paid off the mortgage when we sold the land at the back, there were no money worries either. I thought then that I’d picked the right man to marry and settle down with. We seemed the perfect team.
Everything was fine between us right up till when Sophie was about a year old. We’d more or less finished the work on the house, and the garden was beginning to look beautiful too.
I certainly hadn’t expected to get pregnant again so quickly after Ben, and when Sophie was born I was very tired and run-down. I put the changes in Andrew down to that; he often got annoyed when he came home to find toys all over the floor and the kitchen a mess. But then he began picking on Eva about nothing. She was only little and the things he complained about – such as her making crayon marks on the kitchen table, or spilling drinks – were so petty. We had a row about it one night, and he hit me for the first time. His message was clear: ‘Don’t you dare criticise me, or else.’<
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What he was implying was of course that he’d tell the police about Eva. I couldn’t really believe he meant it, but it frightened me. So I tried harder to keep things in order, just to appease him. But I am what I am: I was never a great housekeeper, and I needed creativity to be happy. He came in once and found me painting in the kitchen, and he went mad. He threw all my paints on the floor, crumpled up the canvas, and said he didn’t want a crazy artist for a wife.
That was the start of what was to become my life of walking on eggshells. He would tell me what I was to cook for dinner; he decided which of the neighbours were to become our friends. On occasions if I’d met and liked another mother at the playgroup or school, he would check out who she was, where she lived, and if he didn’t approve he said I wasn’t to see her. If I ever tried to challenge him about this, he hit me.
Patrick looked at Eva’s stricken face. ‘You didn’t know he hit her?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I had no idea. He was like she said – telling her what to cook, who to invite round and stuff – but I thought she did that because that was the way she was.’
‘She says he was always careful where he hit her – never her face, or people would know. If she said one wrong thing when they had visitors, she knew he’d punish her as soon as they’d gone,’ Patrick explained.
‘I saw bruises on her legs and arms sometimes,’ Flora exclaimed. ‘I believed her when she said she’d banged into something. But after I was about nine or ten Andrew never let me go into their bedroom when she was dressing. He was nasty to me once and said adults needed privacy. But that was so I wouldn’t see anything, wasn’t it?’
Patrick nodded grimly. ‘I would say so. Let me read out another bit where she tries to rationalize it.’
Looking back now, I don’t know why I didn’t recognize he was a control freak as soon as I met him. Even at the start he liked everything to be his own way. But of course I had the power then. It was my studio and he was living with me. I just thought he was a bit bossy and critical – nothing more – and I could tease him out of it. While we were doing all the work at The Beeches it was impossible to be tidy and organized, and he seemed OK about it then.
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