‘Yes. Frankie is my son.’
‘You’re Frankie’s mother?’ I said the words and they left my lips as though I’d just learnt a foreign language. I’d known that there was a secret about someone finding out who their mother was. That was in the letter I’d glanced at on my first day here. And Frankie had told me that Catherine wasn’t his mother. But this was unbelievable. That made Thora fifty-nine now yet she looked ancient. Why didn’t he tell me? He should have told me when he guessed I was pregnant.
She acknowledged my confusion by opening her hands. ‘Which means … your baby is my grandchild. Apart from a few long-distance cousins in New Zealand, your baby and Frankie are the only blood relatives I have.’
‘Does Frankie know that you’re his mother?’ I already knew the answer and flushed.
‘Yes. He needed his birth certificate for a passport. I’m listed as Mother and Frederick as Father. Frankie thinks that we had an affair, but we didn’t. It was easier at the time for Frederick to say he was his father even though he’s a few years younger than me. Frederick knew I was raped and that I didn’t want to keep the baby. We had a few months to sort out what to do. Catherine was desperate for a baby, they’d been trying for years, so everyone was … well, not happy but … That’s why they moved to London. Catherine insisted – in case I changed my mind. But I didn’t. I never wanted children.’
‘So Frankie doesn’t know who his real father is?’
‘No. So please don’t tell him any of this. That would be cruel, don’t you think? If you do love him, save him the anguish, please.’
‘Well … Yes, okay.’ I wasn’t sure that I should keep this promise.
Thora went to the kettle and filled it with water before putting it on the range. She brought a cake to the table.
‘Frankie suspected something when he was about sixteen. Him being fair, and not a blond hair anywhere in Catherine’s or Frederick’s ancestry. Me being blonde. When he found out, he came to get some of what he calls his “inheritance” out of me last Christmas. Told me Catherine and Frederick were awkward; that they were trying to stop him from living his life. He has trouble understanding responsibility. But you know that.’
It was all too much to take in, but I needed to know something else, something much more important. ‘Why did you want to get rid of your grandchild?’
‘I was testing you. Making sure you wanted the baby and that it was Frankie’s. I’m going to tell you more about Frankie to make sure that you still want to keep the child.’ She ate some cake and a minute dragged by before she said, ‘Frankie’s father was an inpatient. A man with severe mental health problems, a psychopath.’ She paused to make sure I understood.
‘So my baby’s grandfather is …’ The thought was unreal and disgusting that I had unknowingly inflicted these genes on my innocent child.
‘You’re sure Frankie is the father? Okay, sorry, I need to check, you appreciate that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, he’s the baby’s father. And I’m keeping the baby.’ My baby would have all the love it needed.
‘Well, that’s sorted then.’ She patted my hand, then took my cup and saucer to the sink.
The air had changed with this revelation. It was as if my history had stopped and I’d stepped into a new world.
‘I love Frankie and want to marry him.’ Frankie was half Thora, I mused, so there was some good in him. And it was down to me to nourish it.
Her shoulders stiffened. Something clattered and broke in the sink. ‘That’s not a good idea, Carol. You should raise your baby alone.’
‘My baby needs a father. My dad died, so I know that. And Frankie loves me. When he’s sure about our baby, he’ll be back, he’ll … change. Together we’ll be his family and we will –’
‘Children survive without their fathers. A child can grow up perfectly well without its father, and your baby need never know its father and so will not miss him. And you will marry a nice man, and he’ll be its father. Forget Frankie.’
‘But I love Frankie.’
Thora turned and shouted, ‘Frankie must not be part of your baby’s life!’
She faced me: her yellow skin fought to be pink and the woman I’d shown how to bake morphed into an alien. My child had her genes, and the fear that I would cause it harm if I chose Frankie as its father shook me. I had done this. I wanted to run away, but I’d tried running before and didn’t succeed.
‘I’m going home. I’ll see if Mr Cutler can give me a lift.’
‘No, don’t. I’m sorry. That wasn’t nice. It’s the opiates. They make me short-tempered. Forgive me.’
I knocked my shoulder as I sat, and groaned in despair. A feeling of claustrophobia overcame me.
‘Let’s start again.’ Thora fetched a pen and writing pad and sat back down at the kitchen table. ‘I thought Frankie’s children would be the responsibility of Catherine and Frederick. I’d not thought I’d be involved at all.’
She picked up the pen. ‘Let’s get started. Frankie will not inherit any of my money or property. Even if you marry him, and I hope you won’t, although I won’t be able to stop you. He won’t get his hands on this …’ She waved a hand around. ‘He’s got enough money coming his way from his adoptive parents, so he’s provided for.’ She smiled. ‘Now I have a grandchild there is someone to inherit. I won’t be leaving it to you directly.’
‘Are you saying you’re leaving everything to my baby?’
‘To my grandchild, yes. In trust for now, but later on he, or she, will inherit – when they’re twenty-one.’ She scribbled something down.
‘So my baby will get this house? And we can live here?’ Thora nodded. ‘But I can’t live here. I can’t afford to pay the electric or –’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll have money for living expenses. Did you bring your birth certificate? We have a taxi booked for nine tomorrow. Let’s go upstairs to your bedroom. I’m getting the decorators in next week so you must choose wallpaper and curtains.’
She had written a few lines on her pad, with the word ‘Frankie’ underlined at the top. As we climbed the stairs, each visiting step turned to a possessive one: my carpet, my handrail, my bedrooms leading from my landing. Maybe Ruby Silver had spoken the truth. You needed to want something badly enough to get it.
Chapter 27
Tuesday, 1 September 1970
The solicitors’ office of Thwaite & Hamilton smelt of polish. Large heavy desks, bookcases and panelling crowded the narrow rooms and hallways. The stone flagstones, remnants of the former almshouse that Thora had told me about in the taxi, created a church-like feel. According to the brass nameplate on his door, Thora’s solicitor was Archibald Thwaite. The 16th-century graves of plague victims lay beneath the office and its grounds. I shivered at the thought.
I was out of my depth in these auspicious surroundings and felt that I was about to commit some crime by agreeing to whatever Thora wanted Thwaite to do for us. She was suggesting I’d have access to lots of money, property and land. The enormity of it sparked feelings of guilt, as though I’d become pregnant on purpose and was blackmailing her. My throat shrank and I needed the toilet, but I’d not manage on my own with my arm in its sling.
Thwaite opened the door. A big man, his stomach strained at the buttons of his shirt and his tie strangled an engorged neck. ‘There you are. Come in and sit down. You too, Hamilton. Take notes will you?’
A young man in an old man’s suit followed us into the room. He wasn’t much taller than me. He walked across and turned to look at me as he moved a chair for me to sit on. He had the most amazing eyes. Smoky, blue-grey circles dilated as they engaged with mine and then swept down my body. I wished I’d put a cardigan on over my faded summer dress. He smelt nice, had an air of freshness, of outdoors, horses and fields. His face glowed with health and he seemed strong judging by his unwavering stance. He hovered by the desk as Thwaite sat down behind it and indicated that we should sit.
Thwaite gestured towards the young man, his cha
ir creaking under his weight. ‘This is Hamilton junior, my partner’s son.’ Hamilton stepped towards Thora and shook her hand, then shook mine, the firmness in his fingers seeming to linger longer than necessary.
Thwaite shuffled through some paperwork and gathered a few more pieces from across his desk. The pages fanned out in a welcoming breeze from the window that overlooked an inner courtyard full of pot plants. Then Thwaite looked up at me and said, ‘Now, Miss Cage, as you know, Doctor Kent wishes to amend her will to make provision for you. We need to sort out the details. I should advise you to talk to your solicitor and take legal advice from him on this.’
‘She doesn’t need to do that, Archibald, so shall we get on?’ Thora sounded tired and irritable.
‘I have to advise that Thora … Ah, tea. Be Mum, will you, Hamilton?’ A lady in a blue tweed skirt and blue twinset placed a heavily laden tray on a table by the window. She nodded to Thwaite as she left.
Hamilton poured the tea. He wasn’t at all nervous but deftly sorted the cups and saucers. He put my tea on Thwaite’s desk, and then, assessing my sling, asked if I would like him to help me move closer. I declined. I was too nervous to drink. Hamilton settled back and picked up his pen and a yellow pad.
Thwaite looked up at us. ‘Now, Thora, your will. Have you written to the trustees of Maytree Hospital to make them aware that you’re changing it?’
‘No, I haven’t had time. Can you write to them for me? Tell them I’ll leave them a thousand. They’ll have to find another location for their halfway house.’
Thora crossed her legs, winced, and uncrossed them. ‘The pieces of family jewellery I inherited from my mother, and the sum of three hundred each, go to my two distant cousins in New Zealand. Everything else goes in trust for my grandchild until he or she reaches twenty-one.’
‘But …’ Thwaite’s face reddened. He sat back and pushed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Not wishing to be rude but –’ he looked at me ‘– how do you know that Miss Cage is pregnant with your grandchild?’
Hamilton looked up at me. His face did not convey that he was shocked. He wrote something down.
‘For our purposes, Mr Thwaite, change my will, trust, whatever it is, so Miss Cage, for the rest of her life, can live in Oaktree House and have the benefit of the whole of the estate. Ensure that she can live comfortably and that all repairs, maintenance, et cetera, are carried out as they fall due. That is what we discussed yesterday.’
‘Yes but –’ Thwaite attempted to intervene.
‘And when Miss Cage gives birth, her child will be registered as the inheritor of my estate, which will be held in trust until the child is twenty-one. The child shall enjoy the benefits until then. You know very well what I intend and how to process this.’
‘Yes, but your estate is substantial …’
Thora rubbed her hands and shook them before placing them on her cheeks and drawing in a long breath. ‘Yes, and it’s mine to do with as I wish. I leave everything to Carol’s child, except a provision for Carol to live in Oaktree House with an allowance. In the unlikely event that the child is not my grandchild … well, then, more fool me! But it won’t matter to me or you or anyone else by then. Any mistake I’ve made will be my lookout. Leave in the provision for the Cutlers to have a continuing rental of the fields, and access over my land and the streams, at the price we agreed as before.’
‘And when Miss Cage marries ...?’ Thwaite assessed me, a curl to his lip suggesting that might never happen.
‘If and when Carol marries, there must be no chance of her spouse inheriting – absolutely no chance whatsoever. Specifically, Frankie Dewberry must not be allowed to inherit even though he’s my natural son. This trust must be foolproof; otherwise he’ll spend the lot in seconds. Also, exclude any children he has with other women. They can have Frederick and Catherine’s money.’ Thora looked at me, and I realised that Thwaite didn’t know that Frederick Dewberry wasn’t Frankie’s father. I felt guilty, a party to a conspiracy.
‘And if the child dies?’
Thora wiped her face and looked up out of the window, then shrugged her shoulders with an impatient gesture. ‘Well, Carol still lives in Oaktree as before. Then the property would revert to the trustees of Maytree Hospital when she dies. Perhaps you can tell them?’
She watched Hamilton write, then became very agitated. ‘No! Don’t tell them that. The estate must not go to Maytree Hospital. Forget I said it.’ Hamilton drew a line through what he had written. ‘Someone might kill her. There are too many mentally unstable psychiatrists. Sometimes the lunatics run the asylum.’
‘Are you serious, Thora?’ Thwaite leant back and laughed.
‘Very serious. I will not place anyone in danger. If the child dies, then the estate goes to Carol… in trust, for her lifetime. She can pass it on to whoever she wants. Who cares, I’ll be dead and she’ll be dead. Let someone else have it. Not Frankie Dewberry, though.’ She looked across at me. ‘You understand that, don’t you, Carol?’
I nodded, not knowing what else to do, my mind numb with the enormity of it all. I looked at Hamilton, and he had a look that appeared tinged with awe and respect, and I guessed that the circumstances of my pregnancy could be overlooked as the enriching consequences played out.
Thwaite was not so enamoured and had turned a mottled shade of red, the capillaries lining his nose merging so that it appeared to throb with frustration. ‘But Thora … your estate is worth hundreds of thousands …’
‘Yes, and the trust will be paying you handsomely to ensure it’s invested wisely. Is that clear? – because I’m tired.’ She picked up her bag and retrieved another handkerchief before snapping the catch shut with impatience. ‘Archibald, when you are dying you will realise three things. One, you have nothing to lose no matter what you do. Two, your wealth means absolutely nothing, and three, you’re powerless to stop your fate from playing out. I thought my son, Frankie, would marry someone who his father and Catherine would approve of. Those children would inherit that family’s wealth. I never thought that I would be involved in any grandchild’s, or mother’s, welfare. But now, in my dying days, there is a grandchild, and its mother, who are dependent on me and are my responsibility. I still have breath in my body and can make a difference. This is my legacy. Now, while you prepare this for signature, Carol and I will go shopping and get some lunch. We’ll be back at, say, three?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, but it won’t be drafted today. Far too complicated.’
‘You have been aware of my wishes for a few days already. Surely you have started it when you know its importance and that time is of the essence? I was going to take the papers back with me to give to my witnesses.
‘Yes, yes, I’m … If you return tomorrow with your witnesses ...’
‘I won’t be fit enough. Can you come to me, or send Hamilton? I’ll get William Cutler and Sadie Fisher to call in and witness it if you phone with a time.’
‘Well, yes, we should be ready by late afternoon. Sadie Fisher’s address is the Cleave Inn, Chewton Road?’
‘Yes. Make sure it’s completed and let’s hope I don’t die overnight.’
‘No doubt Miss Cage will keep a close eye on you to ensure that you don’t. I’ll need your birth certificate, passport and proof of address, Miss Cage.’
I put my birth certificate and a wage slip from the supermarket on the desk. He noted that I didn’t have a passport. Thora wobbled as we stood so I took her arm and she put her hand on mine as she clung to me. I looked back at Thwaite in an attempt to convey that I thought him a nasty snob, but inside I was panicking: what if Thora did die tonight? I’d miss my chance of becoming the mistress of Oaktree House.
Chapter 28
Saturday, 5 September 1970
The will and trust have been witnessed and will remain in the safekeeping of Thwaite and Hamilton Senior forever. My imminent wealth helped alleviate the devastation of Mum’s marriage to Mr Philips, which had taken place at noon at the regist
ry office.
We were at the prestigious Kings Hotel for the wedding breakfast. My bridesmaid’s dress, sleeveless and gathered under the bust, had soft fluid lines, minimising the small round of my stomach. Almost no one knew I was pregnant, and those who did wished it kept private. I’d no problem with that. Until Frankie was by my side, I didn’t want to be talked about in derisory terms.
I was supposed to go to Sarah’s house earlier so that we could get dressed together in our bridesmaid’s attire, but I made an excuse not to go. Besides, Alice had stayed with her the previous night as her parents and Matthew had to make an urgent trip to Ireland because Sarah’s gran died. Matthew had inherited the grandmother’s hotel on the Irish coast, and Sarah was not happy that she only got some jewellery.
Peter Philips made a point of seeking me out between courses during the meal to ask for reassurance that his disappointment about my pregnancy had not caused my accident. What could I do other than nod and shake my head at appropriate moments during his self-centred dialogue? The thought that without my pregnancy I would be living with him and mum sickened me. They were so wrapped up in themselves that I didn’t share the news of Thora’s will with them. Instead, I told them that I was moving in with Thora to nurse her. Mum patted my hand and told me that I was a good girl with a good heart, and that I was welcome to live with them as soon as Thora passed. This loudly spoken sentiment was a speech made to impress anyone listening. She didn’t hug me. She hadn’t for a long time. She hugged Peter and his rich friends, people who could give her something that her failure of a daughter couldn’t. It was amusing watching Mum struggle to be as snobbish as the wives of Peter Philips’s business associates. They were to leave for their honeymoon at five, so I planned to leave before then.
Sarah walked past and lifted her hand to give a little wave as she headed out. She was going to the restroom. I wanted to join her for a chat but was afraid I might tell her I was pregnant, or that I was to become the ‘caretaker’ of Oaktree House. Sarah looked glamorous in her bridesmaid dress. She’d lost a little weight and seemed taller.
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