by Meg Carter
‘Another reason to move to Scotland, then.’
‘You’re not wrong.’ Brian laughs. ‘She mentioned Pete helped her find it and was so taken with the place he might buy one in the same block, if another one came up – for Elizabeth, as an investment.’
‘That’s Pete,’ Alma replies, dryly. ‘The perfect father.’
29
Holborn, May 2016
Zeb stares at the envelope. It isn’t the expensive grade of the paper that holds her attention. Or its creamy richness. It is the embossed lettering neatly centred across the flap on its reverse. Michael Jenkins & Partners LLP. A name she’s never heard of, and can’t remember Dad mentioning, ever. Yet it turns out this firm has been her family’s solicitor for years.
It is Mr Jenkins himself who has just handed her the envelope. An elderly man whose half-moon specs teeter precariously on the brink of his Grecian nose. The guardian of Dad’s secrets. Protector of the smokescreen to Alma’s disappearance and the events leading up to her own birth. What’s the word he used a few moments earlier? Fabrication.
The man was so coy, she can’t help but be impressed that he managed to say it without even a hint of irony.
‘Thank you,’ Zeb answers, vaguely, her gaze drawn from the interior of this airless, top-floor garret in a Georgian terrace to the window, through which she can see the upper portion of a blossoming cherry tree.
The sudden knowledge that their time is nearly up – that she will soon be able to leave this dreary, fusty building – is reassuring. She glances towards her glass but she’s drunk all the water. Either that or it’s evaporated. When – if ever – would Mr Jenkins, or more likely his secretary, get round to adjusting the radiators to a spring setting?
Zeb reaches for her bag.
‘Actually, before you go, Ms Hamilton, there is one last thing.’
Dutifully, she straightens up.
‘This.’
Zeb reaches for a second sealed envelope being passed across the desktop. On the front, the address, which is handwritten, is Dad’s. Before her fingers get close enough to take it, the solicitor’s hand stops.
‘It is a letter your father received last year. It was sent by the mother of the child who died while in your mother’s care, Alma.’
‘She’s still alive?’ Zeb gasps.
‘The woman, Cynthia, married Phil Hamilton, your father’s stepfather. Phil married your late grandmother, Patsy, when Pete was very little and raised him, which is why he – and you – share that name. But around the time your father left school, Phil left Patsy for Cynthia. They had a baby, Tony – the child who died.’
Cynthia. Zeb thinks for a moment but struggles to recall why the name seems familiar. ‘OK. But I don’t see—’
‘Cynthia wrote to your father last year when she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The letter is here, for you to read at your leisure. Your father was very specific that I should keep it safe and, when the time came, pass it on to you.’
‘Thank you,’ Zeb mutters, before dropping this letter and the larger envelope of Dad’s papers into her handbag. She reaches for her coat.
Rising from his desk, the solicitor accompanies her to the landing to bid her farewell. ‘Good luck,’ he declares, shaking her hand in a grandfatherly sort of way, though his grip is formal; his palm cool. ‘Go through everything in your own time. There’s no rush.’
The spring sun blinds Zeb as she steps out onto the paving stones. Doughty Street – a road now inextricably linked to the story of her real father: the Pete Hamilton she didn’t know.
At the thought of her dad here, standing where she is now, Zeb’s anger starts to ebb.
She sees another text from Fraser – his third that morning. Still off work, recovering, he’s been in London a fortnight teeing up prospective business for his outward bound courses. And as Zeb has struggled to come to terms with everything that’s happened, which she knows she must do before her life can move forward, his presence has been a welcome distraction.
Having finally managed to persuade Richard that she had not taken leave of her senses by going back to Scotland, she’s only just got Matty back and finding a way of looking after her son full-time is her top priority. Kirsty, her boss at the gallery, has refused to accept her resignation and she’s been granted compassionate leave. Apart from this, she wants to delay any other important decisions or firm conclusions – for now, at least.
After the will’s been read has been her personal mantra for weeks.
Zeb clicks on the text.
See you in the cafe by the sandpit, she reads. PS Matty’s hungry (again!). And Evie, as usual, needs little persuading.
Zeb turns to her right and starts to walk.
The wide street, which has cars parked nose-to-tail along either side, is unusually still despite the steady buzz of engines from Gray’s Inn Road just a block away. With a shake of her head, she loosens her hair, relishing the fledgling sun as it warms her face. And as she savours the vague sweetness of nearby blossom she experiences a curious sensation, like being roused from a deep sleep.
Heading north towards Camden and home, Zeb walks briskly. It’s way too warm to wear her coat, which she has wrapped through the handles of her shoulder bag, and as she turns onto Guildford Street her shoulder aches beneath its weight.
At the first traffic lights she crosses into the shade.
A few minutes later she passes some railings beyond which, through the bushes, spring flowers are just visible along the far side of a flat expanse of grass. As she stops at an iron gate, she looks up at a vapour trail, hanging in the sky like a gleaming question mark.
A nerve twitches in her neck. What is it about staring up at a narrow strip of blue like this that seems so familiar? How many times have I done this before?
Her thoughts turn to a spring long, long ago. She was lying on her back in a garden. The world was so much bigger then, as she stared up through trees, their wadded branches thick with leaves, towards a distant silver dart. A plane, though she was too young to know. Captivated, she’d stared upwards, rapt, as an adult’s face had eclipsed her view. A woman with light hair and pale eyes who hummed a tune as she lifted her from her pram. And from her throat dangled a silver chain.
Your mother, Dad told her when she was little and used to ask if he remembered, too. It was her, yes.
Where did this memory come from? Wishful thinking, perhaps. Or a film she’d watched on TV. Either way, she now knows it is false. When she was seven she was told her mother was dead. Then, three decades later, she discovered that was untrue. Either way, though, Alma couldn’t have been with her because she’d been in prison – which made the memory of that morning just another lie.
Until not so long ago, memories were something Zeb simply took for granted. Like faded snaps in old photo albums kept under the bed. Why wouldn’t you trust them? But it isn’t just Dad’s lies that have changed all that; it’s the thought that in some way she is equally culpable. If her memory of that morning was always just wishful thinking, how could Dad be to blame for colouring it in?
Her thoughts turn to the weeks between his funeral and her first journey to Scotland. She remembers most of it now, though she still has eight hours or so unaccounted for – between the time she fled the Round House and when she was picked up by Jean. A conscious act of editing, perhaps. A protective shutter to help her deal with having provoked Davy’s attempted suicide. Maybe she will never remember it all. But even if she does, it won’t matter, because nothing will change.
‘You going in, or what?’
Zeb looks down at a skinny boy of nine or ten who is standing in front of her with a football under one arm. He is dressed in a spotless Chelsea kit at least two sizes too big, with his thick white socks double-rolled at each knee. The lace of his left trainer is undone.
‘Sorry?’
The face morphs to an impatient scowl. ‘In there. Chorus Field.’
The child points behind her into the pa
rk where the large patch of grass stretches away beneath tall trees, towards an under-5s play area. To the right of this, through a wall of bushes that are still winter-thin, she can make out a number of half-size football pitches. An articulated lorry thunders along the road just a couple of yards from where they stand. As it draws near, it belches diesel fumes.
‘Yes, sorry. Here you go.’
Zeb holds open the gate for the child, then follows him inside. They walk together for a minute or two along a gravel track. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand.
‘I’m late. See ya.’
‘Bye,’ she calls as the child runs off towards the sports pitch. He slows just once, to hitch up his shorts.
Zeb turns towards the play area, locates the sandpit and the cafe which overlooks it, then walks in that direction. Coram’s Fields. A children’s park built on the site of the old foundling hospital. Though she’s read about the place, she’s not been here before.
Fraser waves through the cafe window. Beside him sit Evie and Matty. They appear to be eating sandwiches out of decorated cardboard boxes. Zeb waves back, then tugs the larger envelope from her bag and holds it up to show him. She heads towards an empty bench, intent on reading while the children are occupied. She sees Fraser smile and nod.
Zeb tugs free a handful of papers. The first to fall into her lap is a bundle of photocopied newspaper cuttings, to which a handwritten letter is attached with a large, silver bulldog clip. There is the copy of her birth certificate, which she was unable to find a few weeks earlier. And yes, it gives Alma’s name. There is a smaller sealed envelope, too – also addressed to her – written in a familiar hand.
Zeb opens it quickly.
Her father’s message is written in the grey-blue ink of the Mont Blanc pen she had bought for his last birthday. As she starts to read, she remembers with a stab of guilt the way he always wrote the date numerically, month before day then year, American-style. Only once she’s logged every distinctive quirk does she start to read.
Dearest Zeb,
Can you remember the Easter of your last year at junior school, and the week we spent in north Wales at that bed and breakfast in Portmeirion? You made friends with two girls, I forget their names but they were the daughters of the couple who ran the place…
Susan and Kate, flame-haired sisters who looked like twins, though really they were three years apart and loathed each other with a preternatural intensity.
…I’ve thought many times about what happened that week, not how you could have done what you did, but how brave you were owning up to it…
Tears begin to fall. Her face feels hot.
The letter was Susan’s idea. Just a joke on Kate, she’d said, handing Zeb the kitchen scissors and a pile of Sunday supplements. All you’ve got to do is cut up the words, the girl urged, slyly. And I’ll do the rest.
As soon as Zeb read the anonymous message the other girl had written she’d known it was wrong. Nevertheless, she’d done nothing. Just stood by as Susan sealed the message inside then addressed the envelope in anonymous block print. Allowed herself to be frog-marched to the post box where she was made to post it, too. Susan had laughed as they did it, though Zeb had felt only regret at the realisation there was no taking it back as soon as it was gone.
When the letter arrived the next day, the girls’ mother rang the police. It was the latest – though most upsetting and extreme – in an offensive series of anonymous letters sent to local residents, it turned out. Luckily their mother had snatched it away before her younger daughter had a chance to read it properly. Only a pervert could have sent something so nasty, the woman said.
On the last evening of their stay, Zeb was invited to eat supper with the girls in the farmhouse kitchen, which was usually out of bounds to guests. All these years later, she can still see Susan seated opposite, pinning her to her seat with a cold, unblinking stare as the girls’ mother spotted the newspaper remnants Zeb had placed in her coat pocket.
Honestly, love, Dad confided, sadly, on the long drive home. I’d never have thought it of you.
Zeb turns back to the letter.
…What you did was wrong, of course, he continues. But it took great courage to own up to it when you could have passed the blame. I only wish I’d been as brave and not taken quite so long to come clean…
Here it comes, she thinks, quickly scanning the paragraph that follows outlining Dad’s lie.
…You asked why she went away, when you could see her. Didn’t she love us any more? he writes. You were crying. I was conflicted. Guilty. Upset. Saying she was dead simply fell out. But I was the adult and I should have known better…
Tears well in Zeb’s eyes. Yes, it was true it had just slipped out. As young as she had been, she had seen his shock and anguish at her response.
Was it me? she’d begged him, feverish and quaking, again and again before she’d fled upstairs to hide beneath the blankets. Because if you died when you gave birth to someone, surely that meant whoever you gave birth to was to blame. If she’d not arrived when she had, maybe Mum would have been OK.
Daddy, please, she’d cried, over and over. Did Mum die because of me?
Zeb turns her attention back to the letter.
…There was an important reason why we felt it best for you not to know what really happened, Dad writes. And now I’m gone, my lovely girl, it’s more important than ever that you know the truth. But first you have a choice to make…
There is a second, separate letter containing her mother’s contact details which Zeb now takes outs.
…Before you decide what to do, think long and hard, he counsels And while you do, remember that your mother was – still is, above all else – a good person caught up in a situation beyond her control. Think of a photograph, Zeb…
Immediately, she thinks of the photo Alma sent of her and Pete in London, taken some time during the early Seventies. How young they both looked, and how in love.
…is an image trustworthy because it is of something that looks real, or because someone we trust made it? Or a news report. A good reporter, however honest, decent and truthful, will highlight some things over others. I wasn’t perfect, but I did my best. As Alma did, too.
You must understand she came from a good family and led a very sheltered life until she came to London.
But she had spirit, a passion for life – and courage, too, when I think of what she had to go through, and how strong she was once she came out the other side. I still think of the day I told you that Wendy and I planned to marry. I cried that day, remember? Tears of shame. Because it was hard, us being without her for all that time – harder than I ever imagined. And eventually I had to decide, for both our sakes, it was time to move on.
Remember, Zeb, if nothing else, your mother deserves the second chance she never had from me…
‘Excuse me, but are you here alone?’
A thick-set woman with blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail is standing a few paces away peering at her suspiciously through wire-framed glasses. Zeb puts down the letter.
‘Sorry?’
‘Did you come in on your own?’
‘Just now? Yes.’ The woman folds her arms. Like a bouncer, Zeb thinks. If you’re name’s not down, you’re not coming in. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Adults are only allowed in when accompanied by a child,’ she repeats, impatiently. ‘Didn’t you read the sign outside? It’s the rule.’
‘No I didn’t, sorry,’ Zeb replies. ‘But when I said I came alone I meant I’m meeting my son – he’s eating lunch with my friend in the cafe, inside.’ She waves towards the window where Fraser is still sitting. He waves back.
‘All right then,’ the woman concedes. ‘But as I hope you understand, these days we have to check.’
Zeb rereads the letter.
There isn’t much else, really. She mustn’t judge Alma too harshly. Nor should she trust the way t
he papers painted it. How Alma’s decision not to be a part of her life was proof of her love for her daughter, not lack of it. How he wished he could tell her all this in person but that, of course, was now impossible. He mentions his various bank accounts – Michael has all the details – half of the contents of which are for her and Matty.
…As I don’t know how you will be fixed when you read this, I’m going to leave how you deal with it up to you. But what I want to make known is that the other half should rightfully be Alma’s. After everything she’s been through, it’s the least we can do. When you’ve thought it through, let Michael know.
I know you’ll make the right decision.
Be strong, girl.
All my love,
Dad
Zeb refolds the letter then turns her attention to the second envelope containing the letter Cynthia sent a year ago. Only as she rips it open does she recall why the name seems familiar. And in an instant she is back in Christine Allitt’s flat having tea, gazing at the letter her neighbour had stolen from the stranger who turned up, uninvited, at Dad’s funeral: Cynthia Purnell.
Quickly scanning the letter’s opening lines, Zeb reads how this old acquaintance of Dad’s is reaching out, as there is something on her mind.
…I’ve now been told that I am dying, Pete, though at times the twenty years since Phil’s passing were not much better than a living death, Cynthia writes.
Often, I dream about how different life could have been – if he’d died sooner, or if my precious little Tony had lived. But life’s not fair, Pete, as you know better than most.
Phil seemed generous to those he cared for but at his heart he was a bully, only doing what he did to please himself. I know you and he never saw eye to eye, but you don’t know the half of it. Which is why, in the light of present circumstances, I felt that at last I should get in touch. It was Phil who killed Tony, not Alma. I am sure of it.