The Hidden Years

by Penny Jordan

  The scholarship brat was what they called him, but eventually had come at least some acceptance, and now with his father's death had also come a lifting of the joint burden of fear and anger he carried with his mother—her fear, his anger.

  At his funeral, watching his grandmother sob noisily for the loss of her precious son, he wondered why it was that he could feel nothing, no emotion—that he could find no memories of past tendernesses to hold on to in this the moment of committal of his father's body to its grave.

  When at last the coffin was covered, and her sons were leading away the grieving mother, she turned to Daniel's mother and said savagely, 'You were responsible for this. You killed him with your stuck-up ways. You… He should never have married you—aye, and never would have done so if you hadn't tricked him…'

  His mother, trick his father… It must surely have been the other way round? He couldn't understand why any woman would want to marry a man like his father, and yet still he felt guilt and shame that he was unable to feel any grief, any sadness, any loss.

  For a while after his father's death their lives continued much as they had done before, only now they were free of the burden of his father's presence. They were poor, but now his mother had started singing again… She smiled and she laughed too, and on Saturdays and Sundays, when she wasn't working and Daniel wasn't at school, they would visit the city's museums and galleries, or sometimes take the train to somewhere like Lytham St Anne's where he could gaze in awe at the posh houses and smile while his mother told him that if he did well at school one day he would own a house such as these.

  If he did, she would be living in it with him, Daniel promised himself. He wanted to give her all the things his father had not. He wanted to see her wearing pretty clothes. He wanted to stop her from working so hard and looking so tired.

  And then, at the beginning of the summer holidays, three months after his father's death, there was another death, and one which changed his life completely.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The letter arrived first thing on Monday morning, the handwriting unfamiliar and male.

  It was from her brother, Daniel's mother told him, opening it, her face suddenly paling.

  'It's your grandfather… He's dead…they buried him last week, and now Gareth, your uncle, wants us to go home, just for a visit… Mam needs me.'

  No other explanations, and something in her voice told him not to ask for any.

  They travelled by train to Aberystwyth, and from there by bus to the small village overlooking Cardigan bay.

  To Daniel, whose only experience of the coast was Liverpool with its docks and the flat wasteland of Lytham St Anne's, the beauty of the rolling Pembroke coastline was breathtakingly wonderful. Even when the bus stopped in the small dusty square and his mother got up, he followed her, but kept his eyes on the view first seen through the bus window.

  The square was empty and silent; alien after the bustle of Liverpool and the choking petrol-laden air of the street where they lived.

  In the square the bus moved off, continuing its journey along the coast road; another road plunged downhill towards the sea itself, and from its crest where he stood with his mother Daniel could see the harbour and the fishing boats.

  'This way,' she told him, touching his hand lightly. On the bus he had been fascinated by the accents of the other passengers, and now suddenly his mother's speech was like theirs, more lilting, more… more Welsh, he recognised as he turned to walk with her.

  The narrow road was empty, but here and there Daniel noticed the discreet twitching of a lace curtain, and then, just as his mother was directing him off the road and into the lane that ran between two of the houses, a car came racing towards them, stopping abruptly.

  The man who climbed out was a little over medium height, with sharp brown eyes and curly hair—there was something oddly familiar about him, although Daniel didn't realise what it was until later.

  At his side his mother made an odd sound in her throat, and then the man was coming towards them, arms open wide as he smiled at them.

  'Gareth…' his mother breathed tearfully. 'It's been so long. I never expected you to meet us…'

  'I would have been here sooner, only Becky Saunders started with her fifth… You remember Becky, she was at school with us. She married Simon Carruthers. His father farms over near Haverfordwest… and this must be young Daniel… Well, my boys are going to have their eyes put out when they see him. Barely sixteen, isn't he, and mine now seventeen and at least a head shorter than him. Anyway, come on inside the car with, the both of you. Mam's waiting in a fret of worry that you weren't going to turn up.'

  'How is she, Gareth?' Daniel heard his mother asking.

  'Bearing up well. You know Mam, and as we both know he wasn't always an easy man to live with.'

  'Daniel, you get in the front with your uncle,' his mother instructed.

  His uncle… so this Gareth was his mother's brother. Daniel inspected him thoughtfully as he got into the car, trying not to be overawed by its luxury. No one in the Ryan family owned a car, although Daniel was used to the sight of his schoolfriends being dropped off outside the school gates in a variety of expensive models.

  This one was a large Volvo estate car with new registration plates.

  'I wanted to let you know before the funeral, but Mam said not, said that it wouldn't have been what Dad wanted.'

  Daniel heard the note of apology in his voice and wondered why her father would not have wanted his mother at his funeral. He had already realised that for some reason his mother was estranged from her family, and, without knowing the cause, or feeling able to discuss it with her, since she had never voluntarily raised the subject, had assumed that it was perhaps something to do with his parents' marriage and that her family had disapproved of the union as much as he now realised the Ryans did.

  'Well, now, we hear it's a clever lad you've got yourself here, our Megan… a good scholarship, and good reports from his school, so Mam tells us… Been boasting about him all over town, she has.'

  It was said with such affection and such a lack of resentment or contempt, the smile his uncle gave him so very different from the bitterness he was used to seeing in his father's eyes, that Daniel stared at him, unaware of the thoughts running through Gareth Rees's head.

  Poor little sod, he was thinking. Just as well that father of his went and got himself killed. And that Pa's gone too. He should never have treated Megan the way he did… If he himself hadn't been working away in America at the time… Well, it was all in the past now. John Ryan was dead, and their father as well, and as for the lad, well, although he had what he knew to be the Ryan looks with his dark hair, it seemed that there was blessedly little else of his father in him.

  'You know that Sarah and I moved into the house when Dad retired. He and Mam bought a bungalow on a new development.'

  'Yes. Mam wrote me about it. Said that the stairs at the house had been getting too much for Dad anyway.'

  'Yes. His heart had been weak for years, and that temper of his didn't help.

  'Well, here we are,' he announced, bringing the car to a halt, slowing down and then turning into a drive thickly edged with rhododendron bushes. The house at the end of the drive was stone and solid-looking, with large windows either side of the front door.

  Daniel stared at it in amazement. Was this where his mother had grown up? He thought of their home, the small terraced house with its stained bath and sink, its cracked linoleum floors, its front door that opened straight out on to the street and the back one which opened into a minute back yard.

  This house had what seemed to be an enormous garden—he could even see what looked like a tennis court.

  The front door of the house opened and a slim, dark-haired woman came hurrying out. As his mother stepped out of the car she was already embracing her, drawing her towards the open door.

  This must be his uncle's wife, Daniel realised, studying her. She was probably around
the same age as his mother, maybe even older, but she looked so different… Her clothes were different, for one thing, and she didn't look tired the way his mother always did. Her nails weren't broken from scrubbing floors and her hair was thick and glossy.

  'Megan… it's been so long. Come in. Mam's waiting for you… I've sent the boys over to a friend's for tonight, thought it would give you time to get settled in a little. You'll be staying at Mam's of course, but we thought… well.'

  'Don't forget this young man, Sarah,' his uncle was saying, one hand resting comfortingly on his shoulder as though he knew how alien he felt, how unsure of himself and awkward.

  'Of course not… Come on in, Daniel. Mam's been driving us all mad telling us how clever you are.'

  Somehow or other they were marshalled inside, through a shabby large hallway cluttered with heavy furniture and into a warm sunny room, equally over-furnished, and yet somehow warm and welcoming.

  A small still dark-haired woman was sitting in a chair, her face turned towards the door.

  She didn't get up as they walked in, and Daniel realised that she was actually in a wheelchair and that her hands were gnarled and twisted, the knuckles and joints badly swollen.

  'Mam…' He heard the emotion in his mother's voice and felt tears prick his own eyes as she hurried towards the wheelchair and its occupant.

  'There, there, Megan, my lovely. There's no need for tears… Come and sit down here beside me and tell me why it's taken you sixteen years to bring my grandson to see me.'

  'I couldn't, Mam… I just couldn't, what with Da and John…' Her voice broke, and, remembering the bruises he had seen on her face, the fear he had seen in her eyes, Daniel felt a sudden hot resurgence of his hatred for his father, and for all men like him, who used violence against others weaker than themselves. What kind of man had his grandfather been, that he had not known how his daughter had suffered, that he had not cared enough to find out what her life was?

  'Daniel, come here and say hello to your grandmother.'

  Obediently he went to his mother's side.

  'So this is Daniel…' Clear grey eyes the same colour as his own searched his face, and one twisted hand covered his own. The skin felt paper-thin and hot to his touch, and he knew without knowing how that those swollen joints ached and burned with pain, and that behind her calm smile this woman who was his grandmother had known many hours of emotional and physical suffering.

  'He's a fine boy, Megan. A fine boy, and a clever boy as well.'

  Daniel felt himself flushing with embarrassment. He had never felt able to forget that it was his mother's hard work and his grandmother's generosity that had made it possible for him to take up his scholarship, and yet now, when he wanted to thank her, when he wanted to tell her how conscious he was of that debt, there were no words… He could only stand there feeling awkward and foolish.

  'You'll be staying for a while?' Daniel turned his head as his uncle addressed his mother.

  'Well, we'd like to…'

  'You've always got a home here, Megan, you know that. You always have had.'

  Daniel saw his mother shake her head. 'No, not while Da was still alive. I couldn't… I hurt him so badly when I married John.'

  'Well, he had such high hopes for you… He wanted you to follow in Gareth's footsteps, to become a doctor.'

  His mother, a doctor… Daniel stared at her. He had never known, never guessed when she had spent those long hours helping him with his school work, encouraging him… His mother, a doctor…

  She could have had so much… but she had married his father instead.

  Daniel was no fool. He was sixteen years old and he could count. He had been born five months after his parents' marriage. His heart bled for his mother. How had she felt when she discovered that she was pregnant, when she had known that she must marry his father? She must have loved him then, unthinkable though it seemed now.

  His grandmother was saying something about a drink of tea before they left for her bungalow. Sarah was exhorting them to stay for their evening meal. Daniel let their conversation flow over him, going to stand by the window and stare outside.

  'All right, son?'

  The kind voice and gentle touch of his uncle startled him.

  'Yes—yes, I was just wondering if you could see the sea from here—it's so different here from at home…'

  'You can see it from the attic windows. I'll take you up there some time. I'm sorry about your father. I never knew him—'

  'I'm not.'

  The denial came thick and bitter, causing him to flush and clench his fists, this uncomfortable sign of impending manhood, the startling change of his voice from boyhood to manhood, embarrassing him, just as other manifestations of his adolescence also did.

  He held his breath, fearful that his uncle would question him, knowing with an instinct that needed no definition that his mother would not want the painful bones of her marriage to his father laid bare before the compassion of her family, knowing that her pride would never allow her to tell them just what kind of husband John Ryan had been.

  They had been staying with his grandmother for just over a week. He had become firm friends with his uncle's twin sons and had begun to feel as though he had finally found a place where he was actually accepted, when he looked up from the book he was reading at his grandmother's kitchen table to hear her exclaiming in a pleased voice, 'Here's Robert Cavanagh—he must be over to visit Nora's folk. Daniel, get up and let him in, will you? Your legs are younger than mine.'

  As he got up, Daniel happened to see his mother's face. It had gone the colour of old putty, drained of all the healthy warmth which these last few days had put into it.

  The transformation within his mother had amazed and delighted Daniel. Since coming home she had seemed to shed years… She laughed and sang as she worked in his grandmother's kitchen, her eyes shone and she even moved differently, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and now in the space of half a dozen seconds she had once again become the woman she had been in Liverpool—cowed, nervous, frightened. Why?

  He opened the door before the man approaching it could knock. Tall, dark-haired, he had the lightest, most piercing blue-grey eyes Daniel had ever seen. His skin was weatherbeaten and tough like that of a man who worked out of doors, and yet he was dressed in a dark suit and crisp white shirt and he looked as though they were the kind of clothes he wore all the time. He wore them with the same ease which Daniel had already noticed in the fathers of his schoolfriends, as casually as his own father had worn his own workclothes. This was no suit donned for a special occasion. This man had wealth and power, Daniel recognised. He also recognised that for some reason his arrival had terrified his mother.

  She had her back to the door now and was busy scraping potatoes for their lunch. He saw the man smile at his grandmother and then stiffen slightly as he saw his mother. A second's hesitation before he walked in and embraced his grandmother, saying calmly at the same time, 'Megan. What a wonderful surprise. I had no idea you were back.'

  'She's only been here a week, Robert, and this is her son, Daniel.'

  'Daniel.'

  The firm handshake, the man-to-man smile, the cool, brief meeting of their eyes told Daniel a lot and yet kept a lot hidden from him as well. This man was astute, astute and cautious. Daniel could not sense the hotheaded streak of violence which had been so powerfully obvious in his father. This man was obviously well liked by his grandmother, and yet he could almost feel the waves of fear emanating from his mother as she resolutely kept her back towards the visitor.

  Robert Cavanagh didn't stay long. Just long enough to commiserate with Daniel's grandmother on the loss of her husband and to refuse the proffered cup of tea.

  In all he could hardly have been in the house more than ten minutes, and during that time, although she had finished scraping the potatoes soon after he had walked in the door, Daniel noticed that his mother kept herself busy at the sink, refusing to join in the
conversation despite both her mother's and Robert Cavanagh's attempts to include her.

  Only when he had gone did she make any comment, asking in a voice that was unfamiliarly hard and flat, and which fell sharply and discordantly against Daniel's sensitive ears, 'And where was his wife, then—I see he doesn't bring her to visit with her folk…'

  'Heavens, Megan, didn't I say? Poor Nora's dead. Her bad spells had been getting much worse recently. She'd gone into hospital again for more treatment and it was while she was there… she just walked out and went straight under a lorry… Instant, it was, the doctor said. Of course Robert blamed himself but there was nothing he could have done, poor man. A good husband he'd been to her. There's many a man who would not have stuck by her the way he has. It was losing the child, of course. She was never the same after that. There's many a time when they were here that your father was called out in the night to her. And she was such a pretty little thing when they married, and both of them so young.'

  When they were on their own Daniel asked his mother, 'What was wrong with Mr Cavanagh's wife?'

  What he really wanted to know was why his mother was frightened of the man and why no one seemed to be aware of it but him.

  They had gone for tea to his uncle's, and when his grandmother had mentioned Robert Cavanagh's visit, immediately both his uncle and aunt had been full of enthusiasm and praise for the man.

  It seemed that his father had been the local builder, and that on his death Robert Cavanagh had taken over the business and built it up into a much larger concern. So large in fact that he had moved to Cardiff where he had become very successful indeed.