by Isabel Wolff
I’m very sorry that we didn’t get to see each other in London. I felt so sad as the plane took off, but consoled myself by deciding that I’d write to you, so that I could convey to you at least some of what I would have said, had we met.
Firstly, I’d have asked you about yourself – about your career, your family and your friends. It would have felt strange, having to ask my own daughter such basic questions, but I know so little about your life. Then I’d have told you a bit about me – in particular, that I was widowed six months ago and am still adjusting to that sadness. I’d have told you that I live near a small town called Busselton, not far from Perth, on a winery that was started by my wife’s parents, and to which it had always been her intention to return. I never entirely shared her enthusiasm for this plan, but in the end, coming here became a means by which to escape an intolerable situation. Because, as you know only too well, I’d made a dreadful mess of my personal life.
‘Of course,’ I muttered. ‘I know the whole story.’
When I first contacted you, Ella, I said that I wanted to try and explain. I hoped to be able to sit down with you and tell you why I behaved as I did all those years ago. I also wanted you to know that I did try to remain in touch: but all my airmails came back, unopened, with ‘return to sender’ written on them in your mother’s neat hand.
I felt my insides coil.
I wrote to you many, many times. In these letters I told you that I was living in Australia, but didn’t say why, because you were too young to understand the circumstances that had led me here. I knew that your mum would have told you that I’d simply abandoned you both, which, to my eternal shame, is true. But I wanted you to know that I still loved you, and missed you, and wished with all my heart that it had been possible for me to be with you.
Of course it would have been possible – if he hadn’t run off with someone else!
I must say I didn’t have my wife’s blessing in any of this. She was very upset at what had happened.
I wanted to laugh. She was upset?
Frances said that if I wanted to ease my conscience I should simply open a bank account for you that your mother could access. I did so, but your mum ignored my many requests for her to sign and return to me the forms that I’d sent her. So then I began sending cheques to her, but she’d send them all back.
Her pride wouldn’t allow her to take his money. Perhaps her pride had also made her refuse to seek maintenance from him after they divorced. I read on.
Then I heard that your mother was leaving her flat –
What did he mean ‘her’ flat? It was their flat.
I discovered this from my old colleague Al, with whom I’d stayed in touch. Al bumped into your mother in the centre of Manchester a couple of years after I’d left. She told him that she’d recently married, and was moving to London. She mentioned that she was no longer dancing – Al assumed that this was because she was very obviously having another baby.
So my father knew nothing about her accident.
I was glad to know that your mother had found happiness with someone else, and I prayed that he’d be a good stepfather to you, Ella. But I still wanted to be in touch with your mum, not just because I intended to provide for you, but because it was my dearest wish to see you again one day. I hoped that you’d be able to come and visit me when you were old enough, though I’d have to have handled that very carefully, as Frances, had found the whole situation so painful.
She’d found it painful? Having seduced my father away from his family and dragged him Down Under?
So when Al told me that your mother was moving to London, I wrote to the Northern Ballet Theatre asking them to forward to her a letter that I enclosed – but I didn’t hear from her. I then placed an ad in The Stage, with a box number, but she didn’t respond. Your mother was clearly never going to forgive me for the way our relationship had ended.
Their ‘relationship’? What a weird way of putting it.
I’m sure she must have told you how she and I met. It was after a performance of Cinderella, in which she had danced the role of the Winter Fairy, in a beautiful tutu that sparkled with ‘ice’. Frances loved ballet and had bought special tickets that included an invitation to the cast party afterwards: so we went along …
My father had gone to see Cinderella with Frances? Mum had said only that he’d been there with ‘a few other people’. So that would explain why Frances had hated Mum – because she’d liked John too, but it was my mother who he fell in love with.
I’d gone to get Frances a drink, and when I came back with it she was chatting to your mother; so Frances introduced us.
This all tallied with what Mum had told me.
By then Frances and I had been married five years. I stared at the sentence.
I loved Frances. I’d never been unfaithful to her.
It was my mother who was ‘the other woman’.
Ella, this will be hard for you to read, but it’s important that I tell you the truth, which is that I never meant to become as deeply involved with your mother as I did. But she was captivating, and I was weak.
Now I thought of the hotel bill that she said she’d found in my father’s pocket, and the love letter – it had been the love letter of a wife to her husband.
I’d often try to end the affair, but she’d become so distressed that I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her. Six months after we’d met, I told her that it had to stop. It was then that she told me she was pregnant.
I closed my eyes, then opened them again.
I was distraught, because I didn’t want to hurt Frances, or lose her. I was also shocked – which you’ll think is naïve; but I’d never imagined that Sue would risk her career by having a baby; she was young, and very ambitious. It was only then that I realised just how powerful her feelings for me were. I told her that I would never leave my wife. But Sue knew that Frances couldn’t have children, and she must have believed that once I’d bonded with the baby then my love for Frances would fade.
Mum had me in order to get John to leave his wife. That’s why she’d said she was ‘so happy’ to be having a baby. Now I remembered her fury when Chloë had contemplated getting pregnant in order to force a commitment from Max. Mum clearly knew, from her own experience, that to do so would be – how had she put it? ‘Too big a risk.’ I read on.
Despite my huge anxiety, Ella, I was thrilled when you were born and immediately felt a deep love for you. But your birth marked the start of a double life that was so stressful that at times I wondered how I’d survive it. In saying that, I’m not appealing for sympathy; I’m just trying to explain how I ended up causing so much hurt.
So much, I reflected.
Your mother urged me to tell Frances the truth: but I refused to do so because I was terrified that Frances would leave me. I loved her. I loved all three of you – my wife, your mum, and of course you, my precious baby. I simply didn’t know what to do. So, like many men in that situation, I did nothing. I’d visit Sue and you after work during the week, and at weekends, whenever I could. I’d drive down West Street and I’d see your mother standing at the window of her flat, looking out for me.
I remembered how she used to call out to me, ‘Daddy’s here!’ Now I realised why she always referred to my father ‘arriving’; because he didn’t live with us. So many of her elliptical remarks suddenly made sense.
You had no idea that your mum and I weren’t like any other parents. I’d push you on the swings and take you swimming; I could easily have been spotted by someone that Frances and I knew, but I loved you so much that I was willing to take the risk: sometimes I’d take you to the theatre to see your mum dance. I’d read to you and paint and draw with you. I became so deeply attached to you that I decided, many times, that I would leave Frances. But then I’d agonise all over again, because I didn’t want to lose her.
So, instead, he lost me.
Then Frances began to feel unwell. When she discovered that she was pregnan
t, it seemed a miracle, not just because she’d been told that it could never happen, but because by then she was forty-two. We were both so happy but I was terrified of telling Sue. So I didn’t tell her. I hadn’t even told my parents about you, because I was worried that they’d tell Frances.
So that was why I never met my paternal grandparents. And that was why Grandma was around so much – because my father wasn’t in a position to look after me, given that he had to get back to his wife every night.
Then in 1978 Frances began to plan for us to return to Australia. At that point my life became hell. How could I go there, when I had you? But how could I not go when I had Lydia, who was by then eighteen months? I was so stressed at the thought of having to choose between my two families that I’d often want to kill myself or just disappear into the bush – anything not to have to face up to such an awful situation.
By now I felt only pity for my father.
Your mother increasingly demanded to know why I was still with Frances. It was to be another year before things came to a head. I’d told Sue that I’d take her and you for a picnic – it was a beautiful Saturday in early September. But I couldn’t get away and instead went for a walk with Frances and Lydia. Perhaps you know what happened next, Ella. Perhaps you even remember it.
‘I do,’ I whispered.
Suddenly there you were, running towards me, looking so delighted and surprised. I remember you chatting to me, then peering at Lydia with innocent curiosity. Then your mother caught up with us, clearly distressed. Frances was staring at you, Ella, then, as she took in the situation, she gave your mother a look of utter loathing, picked Lydia up, and went into the house.
So the situation wasn’t the wrong way round at all. Frances had had every reason to hate my mother.
In that moment all the complexity of my life fell away. Awful though it was, I felt a huge relief that from this moment there were no secrets – only the terror of the decision that I would now have to make. Even up until then, with many of our possessions already being shipped to Australia, I’d been torn as to whether I’d actually go. Some days I’d imagine myself staying in Manchester with Sue and you. At other times I’d see myself boarding the plane with Frances and Lydia. But the events of that day meant that I would finally have to choose. So I chose …
‘To desert Mum and me.’
… to stay with my wife. That choice – and the terrible way I handled it – has haunted me ever since; because the truth is I didn’t have the guts to tell your mother what staying with Frances would actually mean. I didn’t know how to tell her. So, to my shame, I didn’t. I just collected my things from her flat, and then left, because I knew no other way to do it.
‘You ran away,’ I murmured.
So it’s not hard to understand your mum’s bitterness towards me, or her determination to cut me out of her life. This, of course, suited Frances. She forbade me from telling Lydia about you, because she didn’t want Lydia contacting you in years to come, in case that should bring Sue back into our lives. So Lydia grew up knowing nothing about you, Ella. I wonder at what stage of your life you were told about her. Perhaps you’ve known for a long time.
‘A very long time – three weeks!’
Lydia found out about you a year ago. It was only then that Frances, knowing how very ill she was, at last told her the story. Lydia said nothing about it to me at the time, but a month or so after her mother had died, she told me that she wanted to find you. I felt a kind of euphoria, swiftly followed by dread, because I believed that you’d want nothing to do with me. Who could blame you, if you didn’t?
‘Who could blame me?’ I echoed dismally.
So I resumed the search. But none of the Gabriella Sharps that I found online were you, and so I assumed that your name had been changed. But without knowing what your name was, or what you did, it was impossible. So then I tried to trace you through your mum, but could find no reference to Sue Young and assumed that she used only her married name – a name I had no reason to know. And then I happened to click on an article in The Times. For a split second I was confused, because I thought I was looking at a photo of Lydia. Then I saw that it was you, and I was … overcome. Lydia was so excited that she wanted to e-mail you herself, there and then; but she quickly realised that she couldn’t do that until you and I had re-established contact. I warned her that this might very well not happen, but told her that I’d write to you, via your website. But when I sat down to do it, I found it impossible. The words just wouldn’t come.
I felt a pang of sympathy for him.
So Lydia said that I should go to London: she believed that you might agree to see me if you knew that I was close by. So I booked my trip then sent you my first message. There was no answer, so I e-mailed you again. As each message drew a blank, I’d tell Lydia that it wasn’t going to work. She then said that I should suggest a specific meeting place, near your studio, and she found the Café de la Paix online. So that’s where I waited – I waited right up to the very last minute, but you chose not to come. Lydia’s desperately sad about it, as am I.
‘As am I,’ I echoed.
Now I feel both better and worse – better for having at least tried to see you, and worse for being rejected. Ella, when I first got in touch with you I wrote that I wanted to ‘make amends’. Of course I can’t. All I can do is to tell you how sorry I am for all the pain and hurt I caused you: I only wish that I’d been able to say it to you face to face.
With every loving wish,
Your father, John
TEN
I read my father’s e-mail again and again. As I finally closed it, a wave of anger with my mother rose up, but then, to my surprise, quickly subsided, leaving only an intense pity for her that she’d felt she had to conceal her true place in my father’s life. Unhappy with the role she’d ended up with, she’d re-cast herself as the wronged wife, a part she’d played with such passionate sincerity that I’d never questioned it. I almost admired her for having maintained the illusion for so long. She’d achieved this, I reflected, not so much through lies – though I now knew that she had lied – as through evasion and deflection. She’d either refused to talk about her relationship with my father, on the basis that it was too painful for her to do so, or she’d cleverly equivocated, allowing false impressions to stand.
I realised that my mother had never used the words ‘husband’ or ‘wife’ but had constantly referred to Frances as ‘the other woman’ – which, in one sense of course Frances was. She’d also avoided giving direct answers, responding instead with statements that weren’t exactly lies, but weren’t the truth. She’d suggested that what I’d innocently referred to as her ‘first marriage’ hadn’t taken place in church because my father wasn’t a ‘believer’, rather than admitting that they hadn’t been married at all. She’d never spoken to me of her ‘divorce’, but had let me refer to it without ever correcting me.
Now I understood how my father had been able to hide the emigration papers from her, because they would have been sent to his home address. I understood why there’d been no maintenance order, and no wedding photos – not, as my mother had claimed, because the photos had got lost, but because there’d been no wedding to take photos of. I also understood the real reason why we couldn’t take proper holidays with my father: because he’d been unable to get away from his wife and daughter for more than three days.
My mother had inverted the love triangle with tremendous subtlety and, at times, audacity.
That would have been cosy, wouldn’t it – the daughters of the wife and the mistress being playmates! Would you have wanted that, Ella …?
I marvelled at her mental complexity: or perhaps she’d convinced herself that she had been married to my father, and this is what had enabled her to carry on the charade with such vehement commitment.
I was the wounded party! I was!
As I went wearily down the stairs to bed, I thought about my mother’s apparent familiarity with the fru
strations of being a mistress. It was here, I now realised, that she’d nearly slipped up. She would often warn Chloë that married men ‘never’ leave their wives. Yet this was an odd thing for her to say, given that she, supposedly, had been left. Most of all, I understood why Mum had had it in for Max – not because he’d betrayed his wife, but because he’d stayed with his wife, just as John had chosen to stay with his.
He’d tell me about the lovely house we’d buy, the holidays we’d have and the life we’d lead – when all the time …
This I realised was the real reason why my mother had always been so censorious about adultery – because it hadn’t worked out for her. Or was her indignation simply part of the performance, because it strengthened the impression that she herself had been a wronged wife?
As I got into bed, I tried to work out what I felt about my father. The fact that he hadn’t been married to my mother didn’t make what he’d done any less inexcusable. He’d had two families and had abandoned one of them
– and that would never change. But I now realised that Polly had been right: there had been another side to the story. My father hadn’t left us in a cold, calculated way, but in a blind panic. He was a weak man who’d got himself in a mess. And he had tried to keep in touch
– that he hadn’t was one of my mother’s few overt lies, but it was a lie that had been essential to the case she’d built against him.
As I turned out the light I thought of my father’s letters going out, then coming back to him, like boomerangs. Then I went to sleep and dreamed of my mother, in her long white tutu and bridal veil.
When I woke the next morning to the sound of my mother’s voice I thought I was still dreaming.
‘Ella?’ I heard her say. ‘El-la …?’ I’d slept fitfully and was so exhausted that I half-expected to see her standing by my bed. ‘Please pick up, Ella – I need to talk to you.’