When Beggars Dye

by Peter Hey

  After a thoughtful silence, Margaret and Julian asked a series of questions and Jane did her best to answer. Gradually the mood became lighter. Margaret expressed her delight that the family mystery had been solved more thoroughly than they could realistically have hoped. Julian agreed that Jane had earned her money and also her stripes as a professional genealogist.

  Shelley, however, thought it necessary to add balance to the praise. ‘It is what you were paying her to do, Julian darling. If you hire someone, you expect them to do the job.’

  Julian‘s response was to suggest they all adjourn to a nearby restaurant for a celebratory meal. Shelley looked uncertain and Jane declined the invitation. She explained she needed to get home in preparation for a long journey to the south coast the following day. Julian showed her to the door and walked down the steps with her to her car.

  As she climbed into the driving seat, he said his farewells. ‘Jane, you’ve been remarkable. I knew I’d found the right woman. You were a bit circumspect about what happened between you and Dean Smith, perhaps for my mother’s benefit, but I suspect you went above and beyond what might be expected of your average family historian. I think I’ve definitely got my money’s worth.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad you’re pleased. And I’m glad you’re back with your wife. She’s stunning. Looks like a movie star. Bye Julian.’

  The car rolled down the short hill and turned out onto the main road, and Jane found herself suddenly wincing at her reference to Shelley and her film star looks. She hoped Julian didn’t think she was bitchily hinting at an unwarranted comparison with James Smith. It had not been intentional, though she thought, maybe at some subliminal level it had.

  The ferry

  After a protracted period of disappointing weather, the forecast was for a fine weekend. Jane was en route for the south coast. Unfortunately, so was half the population. The motorway traffic was heavy but it moved more or less steadily. Even London’s M25 failed to live up to its reputation as an elongated car park, fulfilling instead the orbital intent of its designers. Jane was obliged to slow at times and feared an accident or roadworks ahead, but the delays had no apparent cause other than weight of vehicles, and she was soon on her way again. It was a phenomenon that Tommy had once explained as compression waves flowing through cars and lorries like sound through air molecules, but she’d never really understood.

  Any hopes Jane had of arriving at her destination in reasonable time began to fade when she reached a place called Rufus Stone, where William II supposedly met his suspicious end hunting in his Conqueror father’s then New Forest. The blue signs of the motorway network had just given way to the green of an A-road, and the traffic ground to a turgid crawl as car after car of eager sunseekers, beachcombers, surfers and boaters were funnelled and trapped on the main route across the national park and down to the seasides beyond.

  After one mile and nearly fifteen minutes, Jane pulled into a lay-by. The Mazda’s hood had been up for travelling at speed; she decided it might as well come down for a slow but scenic crossing of an area of quasi-natural beauty that was new to her. She also took the opportunity to silence satnav woman. It was a long trip and Jane had decided to put up with her, but now the traffic jam was trying enough on its own.

  From the A31, the New Forest appeared more open scrub and heath than ancient woodland. Jane vaguely remembered reading somewhere that forest meant a royal hunting ground rather than an expanse of trees, but the landscape stretched to the skyline and was a calming distraction as she and her fellow drivers nose-to-tailed their way forward.

  Eventually the jam thinned, and the traffic began to move freely. Jane resisted the temptation to speed. If she was late, she was late.

  She reluctantly had to re-enlist satnav woman for the final, fiddly part of the journey. She was directed onto a narrow peninsula of land, covered with expensive-looking houses and semi-tropical gardens. Beneath the bricks and soil lay a sandspit stretching across the mouth of a vast natural harbour, leaving only a narrow channel for the passage of boats and ships. Jane had almost reached the chain ferry that bridged the final gap, when she was told to turn right and, after a few yards, stop.

  Jane scanned the house names and saw the entrance she was looking for, flanked by high stone walls. She was able to pull off the road onto the start of the driveway, but her access was blocked by formidable iron gates. About four feet off the ground was an intercom, and she had to climb out of the car to reach the button.

  An electronic beep prompted through the speaker.

  ‘Hi, it’s Jane. Sorry I’m late.’

  After a short delay a familiar voice replied. ‘I can see you, darling. Come on in.’

  Jane looked up to see a CCTV camera pointing down from a short mast. Her attention then switched to the gates as they rolled back, only the faintest whirr betraying their mechanical impetus. Jane climbed back into the Mazda and continued down to the end of the drive.

  All down the street, the houses occupied long, narrow plots and their architects had typically pushed close to the boundaries to make maximum use of the space available. As a result, Jane was very aware of the imposing mansion-like properties that sat to each side of the relatively modest bungalow in front of her. Strategically planted firs and palms provided little more than a token screen.

  Jane parked on a gravel area big enough for three or four vehicles. She climbed out, locked the car and then questioned the necessity when she saw the iron gates were once again barring intrusion.

  ‘Darling, it’s wonderful to see you again!’

  Jane turned back towards the front door. A glamorous woman, immaculately dressed and coiffured, looking older but not old, stood with her arms open in greeting.

  Jane smiled as warmly as her confused emotions would let her. ‘Mother, you’re looking wonderful. But then you always do.’

  ‘Thank you, darling. And you’re looking as nice as I’ve ever seen you. Our ugly duckling seems to have matured into something much closer to a swan. And your outfit… It’s certainly bright and colourful.’

  Jane felt her smile cracking. She didn’t care if her clothes were too gaudy for her mother’s taste. She should have taken the suggested improvement in her appearance as the compliment intended. Instead, all that echoed was the reminder of a plain child, with ‘shoulders like a boy’, forever in the disappointed shadow of a woman for whom looks were all-important.

  Jane blinked something approximating warmth back onto her face but didn’t reply. She stepped forward and gave her mother a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and let herself be shown through the door and into the main room beyond.

  ‘Wow!’

  Jane’s mood had instantly shifted from resentful melancholy to open-mouthed awe. The bungalow had been extended rearwards and the whole of the far wall was open. Bi-fold glass doors had been slid back such that the internal space merged with an external patio and then down into a beautifully manicured garden. A sprinkler rainbowed back and forth over a shining lawn that seemed to flow almost seamlessly into the glistening waters of the wide harbour beyond. Yachts bobbed at anchor on the opposite shoreline, and one skipper was raising his mainsail as he motored into the main channel towards the sea. Jane could see him frantically cranking his windlass as he passed less than 50 yards from where she stood.

  Jane was still spellbound. ‘Oh, Mother! The view’s stunning!’

  ‘It’s not quite Sydney Harbour, but it’s the next best thing. The neighbours have all built up and out, but I just wanted somewhere cosy. When you’re on your own, you don’t want too much space – it’s just more rooms to clean. But the view is wonderful here.’

  Jane doubted her mother did much cleaning herself and was almost surprised when she was led into a vast kitchen and her mother turned on a kettle.

  ‘You prefer coffee, don’t you, darling? Tiny bit of milk, but no sugar.’

  Her mother’s memory was accurate because it matched her own preference. Her supposedly big-boned daug
hter had also been obliged to eschew the fattening tyranny of sugar and too much milk.

  They chatted politely like vague acquaintances and moved outside to a pair of wicker sofas, the older woman having carefully donned a large sun hat to protect her complexion from the ageing rays. It was she who made the first move. She knew the responsibility lay with her, and it was a conversation she’d rehearsed many times. She’d no idea how it might conclude.

  ‘Have you forgiven me, darling? For not coming to your grandmother’s funeral?’

  Jane’s eyes didn’t meet her mother’s, focussing instead on the coffee in her hand. The elephant in the room had been unchained. ‘I still find it hard to believe you didn’t come. She was your own mother.’

  ‘Keith was so ill at the time. I know I could have just jumped on a plane, but Australia’s so far away. I didn’t feel I could leave him.’

  The elephant began to stampede through the dark jungle of Jane’s mind. ‘It’s just that your men always came first. When I was growing up… You dumped me on Granny and Grandad. You always seemed to be away on holiday with some bloke. In Paris, Rome…’ Jane stopped abruptly, struggling to regain control.

  ‘We never really bonded, you and I.’ Jane’s mother was gazing distantly across the harbour. ‘I was very ill after you were born. They kept me in hospital for weeks. My mother looked after you. You and she were always much closer. And then there was your father, of course. You always loved your Daddy. You were his little princess.’

  ‘Pirate princess,’ corrected Jane emphatically, before regretting the seemingly childish distinction.

  ‘Gosh, I’d forgotten that. Yes, you were his little pirate princess and he was your pirate king. It seems so long ago and, in the scheme of things, was such a short period of time. But, I do understand, darling. When you’re a child years seem like a decades. And those years, they make us who we are.’

  Jane dabbed at her face with the back of her hand, trying to disguise the tears welling in her eyes. ‘Why did you have to drive him away, Mummy?’

  Jane’s mother hesitated before answering. ‘He was a brute of a man. A businessman he reckoned, but always doing dodgy deals, sailing close to the wind. He used to hit me, of course. I’m not the first woman to be attracted to a villain. It’s the gangster’s moll syndrome, I guess.’

  ‘I didn’t know he hit you. He never laid a finger on me.’ There was a clear incredulity in Jane’s voice. ‘Is that why you made him leave?’

  ‘I didn’t make him leave. He left of his own accord.’

  A white wall of steel suddenly began to enter Jane’s field of vision. Taken aback, she twisted her head to take in its full vastness.

  ‘It’s the Cherbourg ferry, darling. They come very close to the shore at this point. Everyday people gawping down on you. It’s still a breathtaking sight, though.’

  ‘I remember saying goodbye to him at the dockside,’ said Jane, as she was drawn into the image that haunted her. ‘Looking up at that huge grey ship, not understanding that I’d never see him again.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling.’

  ‘No seriously. I know I was young but it’s one of my earliest memories.’

  ‘He didn’t sail anywhere.’

  ‘But I remember the ship. Standing under the curve of the bows. Being scared it would topple over on top of me.’

  ‘No, darling, no. You’re getting confused. Grandad had been in the navy in the war. He took you to an open day at Portsmouth when you were about four. He told me how scared you’d been standing next to an aircraft carrier. The deck arched over you and there was an optical illusion that it was tilting. I remember your upset little face when you were talking about it.’

  ‘But I remember Daddy standing there with me.’

  ‘He wasn’t there, darling. You’re conflating two different memories. Your father never sailed anywhere.’

  But you and Granny always told me he emigrated to South Africa on a boat.’

  ‘It seemed kinder. You were always such a sensitive child. But did my mother never tell you the truth? After all these years?’

  ‘She always refused to talk about my father. She said it was better to let things lie. That I’d only upset myself.’

  The stern of the ferry shifted into view as she turned hard to port to follow the deep water channel. Jane’s mother’s eyes followed it for several seconds before she replied.

  ‘She always mollycoddled you. I’m afraid I’m not really the mollycoddling type.’ She hesitated again. ‘The bastard never went anywhere, or not far anyway. He found another woman and decided he wanted to make a clean break. He used to make a big fuss of you when it suited him, but having a child cramped his style. He never married me as you know, so he just upped sticks and took his fancy woman to London. That’s why I married Uncle Trevor so soon after. I needed the money.’

  ‘But London was only a couple of hours away, he would have come to see me,’ pleaded Jane.

  Jane’s mother paused between each word of her reply. ‘He, simply, couldn’t, be, bothered.’

  Jane no longer tried to hide her tears. ‘So he’s been in London all this time. I used to live in bloody London!’

  ‘I heard he moved to Spain, probably when you were in your teens. God knows where he is now. Hopefully he’s smoked or drunk himself to death. Or perhaps one of his dodgy friends has done for him. I don’t know and I don’t care.’

  ‘All this can’t be true. Granny would have told me.’

  ‘She used to write telling me that the sensitive little girl had been become a sensitive woman. You’ve been ill, darling, I know you have. Perhaps she didn’t want to make things worse. Maybe I should have been more careful just now. But—'

  ‘I don’t even have a picture of him,’ interrupted Jane. ‘I know he was big, with lots of black curly hair. Whenever I smell cigarettes on someone’s clothing it takes me to that dockside and him towering over me. Only now you tell me that never happened. But I don’t really know what his face looked like. I don’t know what my own father looked like!’

  Jane’s mother stood and walked slowly back into the house. Five minutes later she returned holding a single photograph. She laid it on the table in front of her daughter.

  ‘There he is. Stephen Jones, your father.’

  Jane picked it up and studied it through her still moist eyes. There were two figures: her mother looking young and beautiful in an elegant evening dress; next to her a huge man, with thick, black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, his heavy-set body squeezed into a smart dinner suit with a bow tie round his bull-like neck.

  The face wasn’t handsome, nor was it ugly. Jane recognised it immediately. It was her own. Bigger, stronger, harder, but the family resemblance was incontestable. And there, in the photograph, was the one thing she remembered about her father above all else: the black triangle acid-etched onto her consciousness. Like the pirate he seemed to have been, he wore a patch strapped in place over his brutally scarred and ruined right eye.

  The lychgate

  Dean Smith was sitting watching the lunchtime news on TV. He prided himself on keeping abreast of current events, and he liked to swear at the liberal, left-wing bias he saw in most of the reports. As always, Steve’s living room smelt of sweaty men and cigarettes. Obliviously, Dean drank cheap lager from a can while Steve played a game on his mobile phone.

  ‘Oi, Steve. Listen to this.’

  The programme had switched to a local newsreader, a face once familiar to national breakfast-time audiences, but now reduced to stories about traffic congestion and human interest on a regional scale. He was talking about a father and his young son being reunited with an elderly American relative. They were filmed visiting an American war cemetery. Buried there was the American’s brother, who was grandfather to the British man. It was made clear that the Briton had a serious long-term illness, and a lot of focus was on his delightful child, though the boy’s charm was lost on Dean.

  The local connection w
as through a Derbyshire woman, born in the village of Dowley, who had married an American airman during the war. It was his grave that was depicted in the short clip. The woman was named as Mary Dye.

  ‘I’m pretty certain that was my grandmother's name, you know, before she was married,’ claimed an excited Dean. ‘This is it! This is what that heir-hunting bitch meant when she said she’d found a way of getting back at me. They’re making it clear the old Yank’s got pots of money and he’s going to leave it to that poof so he can look after his brat.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Steve.

  ‘Fucking karma, mate. Justice. I’m due a cut and I’m going to get it.’

  Steve looked unconvinced. ‘What if she’s done something, you know with records and stuff, to do you out of it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past the slag, but I’m not going to be cheated. I’ve been shat on all my life – my mum pissed off and left me, and my dad was fucking loser. Useless bastard!’

  Dean suddenly threw the TV remote and it smashed violently against the wall. One final, perceived injustice had cracked the dam holding back a lifetime of grievance and rage.

  ‘And he made me a fucking loser too,’ he snarled. ‘Well, this is my chance to have something for once. I will not be fucking cheated this time! Do you hear me?’

  Steve had never seen his friend so out of control. It frightened him.

  ‘What can you do, Deano?’ he said, nervously.

  ‘The Yank’ll be back in America, out of reach. But I’m going to track down that sick waste of space. What was his name? Chris Aimson. And I’m going to lean on him so fucking hard, him and his precious kid, that he’s going to be begging me to take what’s mine.’

  ‘But how will you find him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Facebook, everyone’s on fucking Facebook. I’ll pay someone to ferret him out if necessary. But I’m telling you, mate. Not this time. I will not be cheated this time. I’ll kill that bastard before I let him steal my fucking birthright! They can lock me up forever – I’ve got nothing to lose. Literally, nothing.’