He had died on a Friday, and the funeral was arranged for the middle of the following week; a service at the church followed by the burial at Layton Cemetery. Kathy went round to her aunt’s home on the Saturday morning to help to sort out certain matters. Sarah and Christopher stayed at home with Tim, who worked a five-day week.
‘We’ll have to find your dad’s will,’ said Winifred. ‘There should be a copy in his bureau, and the original one is with our solicitor. It’s pretty straightforward, though.’
Kathy knew that the house belonged jointly to her father, Winifred and Jeff. It had been bought with the proceeds from the sale of the hotel plus a contribution from Jeff. The house would now belong to her aunt and uncle, and after their deaths would be willed to Kathy. Also, the remainder of Albert’s share of the profit from the hotel and any other monies he had accrued in his lifetime would now go to his daughter.
‘I’ll have a look in his bureau, shall I?’ said Kathy. ‘Although I must admit I shall feel rather guilty, as though I’m prying. He was always very secretive about the contents of that bureau, wasn’t he? I know it’s always kept locked, and once, when I was a little girl, I tried to open it and he was furious with me.’
‘Well … yes,’ replied her aunt, evasively. ‘There were certain things that your dad was secretive about. Never mind about it now, Kathy love. I’ll see to it later. I’m not quite sure where the key is anyway.’ Winifred looked flustered and ill at ease.
‘It’ll be on that jug on his chest of drawers where he keeps – sorry, kept – his odds and ends,’ said Kathy. ‘I know his spare door key is in there and his football season ticket.’
‘Yes, perhaps so,’ said Winifred. ‘Go on, then, you’re his daughter. I daresay you’ve more right than anyone to look at his private papers.’ She looked doubtful, though, and more than a little anxious.
‘I won’t, if you really don’t want me to,’ said Kathy.
‘No, you carry on, dear,’ said her aunt. ‘It’ll happen be for the best.’
As Kathy had thought, the key to the bureau was in the pottery jug on her father’s chest of drawers, along with other odds and ends: pencils and biros, books of stamps, a screwdriver, a penknife, and his season ticket for Bloomfield Road, the home of his beloved football team. He had only used it a few times that season, and Kathy pondered that it would be a shame for it to go to waste. Jeff didn’t attend the matches regularly, and neither did Tim, who preferred to spend his free afternoons with the children and herself. Kathy decided, if her aunt approved, that she would give it to Phil Grantley, whom she knew was still an ardent supporter.
But there were other more important issues to be dealt with at that moment. The bureau, a solid-looking piece of furniture made from mahogany, was in her father’s sitting room. It had a pull-down front that served as a writing desk. The key turned easily in the lock, and Kathy looked inside for the very first time. Everything seemed to be very neat and tidy.
The first thing that caught her eye was what appeared to be several photographs in stiff cardboard covers. She pulled them out, then looked in amazement at what she recognised at once was the wedding photograph of her father and the mother she had never known. She gasped as she gazed at the young woman in the photograph, knowing that she might almost be looking at a picture of herself. The bride had the same dark hair that fell in natural waves, framing a rounded face, the same mouth and nose, and she guessed that the eyes, like her own, would have been brown. Kathy realised then that she had never before seen a photograph of her mother, and what was more strange was the fact that she had never even asked if she might see one; for the life of her, now, she could not imagine why she had been so lacking in curiosity.
The young woman was wearing a dress that was obviously a wedding dress, but not a conventional long one with a veil. It was impossible to tell the colour from the black and white image; it could have been a white dress, or possibly pale pink or blue. It had padded shoulders and a sweetheart neckline, a yoke trimmed with lace, puffed sleeves and a knee-length skirt. The small hat was trimmed at the side with a posy of flowers, and she was carrying a small bouquet of what looked like roses in bud. The bridegroom – Kathy’s father – was dressed in the uniform of a soldier; the three stripes on his arm denoted that he was a sergeant. What year had it been, she wondered? She was born in 1943, so it would be 1941 or 1942, she guessed. The war had been going on since 1939, and she knew it had been a period of quite severe austerity in Britain, hence the less-than-formal wedding dress.
Another photograph showed a wedding group. There were the bride and groom, a much younger Aunt Winifred, and another young man and woman whom she did not know – the bridesmaid and the best man, she supposed. She recognised her Grandma and Grandad Leigh who had died a few years ago, and there was another middle-aged couple whom she did not know. Her other grandparents? she pondered, the parents of her mother. Then why had she never met them or heard anything about them? Kathy realised now that a whole chapter from the past had been closed to her. When she thought again about her lack of curiosity, she recalled that she had never been encouraged to ask questions about her mother. Her father had always been evasive or short-tempered on the few occasions she had dared to broach the subject, and even her aunt had been unwilling to say very much. She supposed that eventually she must have understood that it was a closed book, and so she had stopped worrying about it.
There were two more photographs. In one of them her father and the woman she had now gathered was her mother were seated, and the woman was holding a baby, a very young one, wrapped in a shawl. The baby’s chubby face was crowned with a cap of dark curls, and the dark eyes seemed to be looking up at the mother, who was gazing at the child with a look of wonderment and love. Myself as a baby, thought Kathy, looking at the photo in bewilderment. The second one showed the same couple with the baby. In this one the woman was smiling straight into the camera, with the same look of joy and contentment in her eyes. Behind the couple, standing, were Aunt Winifred and, again, the couple whom Kathy had assumed were the bridesmaid and best man at the wedding, two people whom she had never met, at least not as far as she could remember. These, then, must have been her godparents, because these obviously were christening photographs. Curiouser and curiouser, thought Kathy, shaking her head in amazement.
She laid the photos to one side and took out a pile of foolscap envelopes from the next cubbyhole. She opened them one by one, no longer feeling that she was prying, but that she was gradually uncovering a mystery that had been hidden from her, but which she felt she had a right to know about.
The first envelope contained the marriage certificate of her mother and father. The marriage had taken place at the church the family still attended, on 27th June, 1942. She, Kathy, had been born in the June of the following year. So there was no question of it being what they called a ‘shotgun wedding’, she pondered. There was the name of her grandfather – Albert’s father – with his occupation, given as hotel proprietor. And for the first time she knew the full name of her mother. She had heard her referred to as Barbara, but here was her name in full: Barbara Jane White. Instead of her father’s name there was the name of a man referred to as her guardian, Benjamin White, presumably an uncle or a grandfather.
Opening the remaining envelopes she came across her own birth certificate; a baptism card, given as a memento to every child that was christened at the church – a custom they still followed; and the death certificate of her grandparents, Alice and William – Alice had died in 1960 and William the following year. She still hadn’t come across the will that she was supposed to be looking for.
She opened the next envelope and drew out another certificate covered in the black spidery writing that seemed to be the typical handwriting on all of them. Then she gasped, first in astonishment, then in gradually dawning shock and horror, as her mind tried to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. For this was a certificate of divorce – the divorce of her parents, Albert Leigh and
Barbara Jane Leigh, in the July of 1945. And there was the name of a co-respondent … Nathaniel Castillo. Kathy knew little of such matters, but she thought that the co-respondent was the person named as having committed adultery with the respondent. But this was not what really mattered to her. The amazing – awful – truth that was now being revealed to her was that her mother had not died, as she had always been told. Her parents were divorced, something that Kathy had been brought up to believe was a shameful thing. Her mother, in fact, might still be alive!
Her hands were trembling as she drew out another sheet of paper that was in the envelope. It was a letter from her mother to her father. It was dated January 1945, a few months before the divorce. Kathy could hardly read what was written there because her eyes were blinded with tears. She gathered, however, that Barbara, her mother, was agreeing to leave baby Katherine with Albert and was promising never to contact any of the Leigh family again.
She snatched up the letter and the certificate and fled from her father’s room, downstairs to the living room used by Winifred and Jeff. Her aunt was sitting motionless in an armchair. She looked up, her eyes full of apprehension, as her niece stormed into the room.
‘Aunty Win …’ she shouted. ‘What can you tell me about all this?’ She waved the offending papers at Winifred. ‘You were going to tell me, weren’t you? I should hope you were! Don’t you think it’s time I knew about it?’
‘Oh … Kathy love, I’m so sorry,’ her aunt began. ‘I guessed it would all come to light now, although I didn’t really know if your dad had hung on to … everything. I wasn’t able to tell you. It was a promise I made, so long ago …’ Her aunt’s eyes, too, were moist with tears, but it made no difference to Kathy, her anger was so great.
‘But my mother wasn’t dead!’ she cried. ‘She might still be alive. Most probably she is …’
‘That’s something we don’t know, dear,’ said Winifred. ‘But I’m sorry, so dreadfully sorry.’
‘It’s too late to be sorry now,’ said Kathy, in a tone of voice she had never before used to her aunt. She couldn’t remember ever having a real quarrel with Aunt Winifred, but this was unforgivable. ‘You deceived me, Aunty Win,’ she yelled. ‘All these years, you’ve known about my mother and you never let on. I shall never forgive you.’
Scarcely knowing what she was saying or doing, Kathy grabbed her coat from the back of a chair where she had left it and fled out of the room, out of the front door. She leant against the garden wall, brushing the tears away from her eyes and trying to steady her breath. Her aunt had not followed her. She discovered she was still holding the papers and she shoved them into her handbag.
What should she do now? She had walked to her aunt’s house, although she was able to drive the car – she had recently passed her driving test. Perhaps by the time she had walked home she would be feeling slightly more composed. She would start crying again, though, when she saw Tim, and the children would be upset.
She decided to go and see Sally. Her former teacher had been a good friend to her over the years. Despite the difference in their ages – Sally, and Phil too, now must be in their fifties – they had a lot in common and were able to talk about all manner of things. Sally and Phil also lived in Bispham, but it was a fair distance away. Kathy decided she would take a bus, but before that it might be as well to let Sally know that she was coming. She popped into the nearest phone box.
‘Kathy, how nice to hear you,’ said Sally. Kathy had rung her the previous day, of course, to tell her of Albert’s death. ‘Yes … of course you can come round; I’ll get some coffee ready … No, I’m on my own; well, Phil’s out in the garden, taking out all the dead flowers ready for autumn, and the kids are out, as usual.’ Lucy and Daniel were now in their teens and were usually pursuing their own interests. ‘Are you all right, Kathy? You sound a little upset … Well, I suppose you’re sure to be, about your father … That was a daft thing to say.’
‘Actually, I am upset,’ replied Kathy. ‘Not just about Dad; it’s something else. That’s why I want to talk to you … Yes, see you in a little while …’
‘Come along in and tell me all about it.’ Sally ushered Kathy into the comfortable living room.
Sally Grantley had not changed much over the years. She was still a most attractive woman. Her silvery-blonde hair had kept its colour; it was a shade that turned to grey very becomingly. It was always beautifully styled. Kathy guessed that her friend could afford some little luxuries. She was now the headteacher of a nearby infant school, not the one that Kathy had attended. And Phil had moved on too, to become the head of department for English at a comprehensive school, where he also taught games and PE.
‘The coffee’s all ready,’ said Sally. ‘Go in and make yourself at home.’ Sally went to the kitchen and Kathy made herself comfortable in an armchair in the homely room. It was never over-tidy; evidences of Sally’s and Phil’s occupation were to be seen on the sideboard and in corners, mixed up with the usual teenage possessions: a pile of books waiting to be marked; football boots; an orange and white scarf; library books; and an assortment of long-playing records on top of the radiogram.
‘Now, what’s it all about?’ asked Sally, handing Kathy a mug of hot coffee and a plate. ‘You don’t mind a mug, do you?’ she said, offering her a biscuit, which Kathy refused.
‘No … thanks, and a mug is just fine. It’s what we always use … I don’t know where to begin, Sally, I really don’t,’ she started. She placed her mug on a mat on the small table next to her. ‘Well, perhaps it might be better if I showed you these, then you’ll understand … Not that I really understand any of it myself,’ she added. She unzipped her bag and handed the papers to Sally.
Her friend perused them. ‘Good gracious!’ she muttered, after a few moments. ‘I don’t wonder you’re upset. Have a drink of your coffee, love. It’ll do you good. This has knocked you for six, hasn’t it?’
Kathy sipped at her coffee, feeling the warmth flow through her. She had felt cold all over, although it was quite a pleasant autumn day. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ she said in a small voice. ‘You know that I was always told she was dead. She might still be alive.’
‘And your aunt never said anything, never even hinted?’
‘Not a word. I’m afraid I’ve fallen out with her, the first time ever. I stormed out … and came here. Tim doesn’t know yet.’
‘I’m glad you came,’ said Sally. ‘It’s a shock to me as well.’
‘When you were friendly with my dad … you didn’t have any idea then?’ asked Kathy. ‘You didn’t suspect that his wife might not be dead?’
‘No, never,’ said Sally. ‘I must admit I found it rather odd, though, that he would never talk about her. I mean … a lot of men lose their wives, don’t they? But they get over it in time. I remember, though, when we were dancing at the Palace, soon after I’d met Albert, he got quite upset when they were playing … now, what was it? “As Time Goes By”; I think that was the song.’ She began, softly, to sing the first line … ‘Yes, that was it. I wondered if it might have been “their song”; you know what I mean. He said something about it bringing back memories.’
‘I can’t understand why I never asked any questions,’ said Kathy. ‘But I suppose, as a child, you accept what you are told. My mother was dead, or so I’d been led to believe, and they as good as told me not to ask any more about it. My aunt always assured me, though, that my mother had loved me very much.’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘But she deserted me, didn’t she? It looks as though there was someone else involved. This … Nathaniel Castillo. What am I to make of that? He sounds like an Italian to me …’
‘More likely to be American,’ said Sally. ‘The Americans entered the war in 1941.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Kathy. ‘Then she … my mother … she committed adultery. Maybe … maybe she was a “bit of a flibbertigibbet”, as my father used to say about some women! All the same, she was my mother.’
&nbs
p; ‘We can’t conjecture,’ said Sally. ‘We don’t know all the facts. I’ll say one thing, though, Kathy … Your father wouldn’t have been the easiest person to live with, would he? If you’ll forgive me for saying so.’
Kathy gave a wry laugh. ‘You can say that again! Although, in all fairness, he did improve a lot as the years went by … and I shall miss him,’ she added wistfully.
‘Of course you will,’ Sally smiled at her. ‘But now, I really think you should go and sort things out with your aunt. I know you’re angry with her, and you have every reason to be. But Winifred’s a remarkable person, you know, Kathy. And I’m sure she believed she was acting in your best interests.’
‘Yes …’ agreed Kathy, meekly. ‘I’m sorry now. She’s been like a mother to me. That’s how I always thought of her, and I know she’ll be feeling dreadfully upset.’
‘She’ll be able to explain everything to you,’ said Sally. ‘I daresay she’s wanted to do so for a long time … Oh, here’s Phil.’ Her husband had just come in from the garden; he had not seen Kathy arrive.
‘Hello there, Kathy,’ he greeted her. ‘I was sorry to hear about your father. Sally and I will be there, at the funeral. Is that what you’ve come to tell us about?’
‘Partly …’ began Kathy. ‘But there was something else. Sally will tell you about it …’
‘Yes, Kathy’s had a shock,’ said Sally. She told her husband, very briefly, about what had happened. ‘And I think, Phil, that Kathy needs to go back now to sort things out with her aunt. You’ll take her back in the car, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Phil. ‘Right away. Oh dear, Kathy. I’m so sorry.’ He shook his head, as bewildered as the rest of them. ‘You never know, though. Good may come out of this.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ agreed Kathy. ‘It feels like a dream at the moment, but whether it’s a good one or a bad one, I’m not sure.’
Time Goes By Page 22