The Mill House

by Susan Lewis

  In March of 1980 he commented on his dislike of visiting George and Rene. He didn't say why exactly, just that, unlike Alice, he never felt comfortable in the house, though she obviously would, having grown up there. Later that month he wrote at some length about George's passion for the bible and how he, Douglas, resented being preached at down the phone, as though he were some recalcitrant schoolboy who needed to be swatted by hellfire and damnation to bring him back to God. Julia smiled as she read on, for he'd followed it up with how they, she and her father, would secretly laugh at God's Boy George, as

  they'd dubbed him, and he'd even added the silly rhyme they'd made up about him when she was probably no older than eight. Humpity Grumpity sat on a pew; Humpity Grumpity needed a poo, at which point she used to collapse into such helpless laughter that they could never get any further. It had clearly given him a lot of pleasure to remember that all those years later, and the rhyme was having a similar effect on her now.

  The following month, April of 1980, contained a delighted entry all about her first crush on a boy, and how thrilled her father was that she'd confided in him, so he'd bought a book of horoscopes to see how well she and the boy were suited, but they'd had to check out David Bowie too, because he was her real great love of the moment. He went on to write of how he felt she'd have little trouble in attracting boys, because she was clearly going to be an even greater beauty than her mother, whose looks, sadly, seemed to be marred by too many frown lines these days, and whose mouth had taken on a permanent curve of disapproval. I often wonder why Alice is so unhappy, he wrote, but my enquiries seem as unwelcome as my concern. I think I know, because for years it's been there at the back of my mind, but I never broach the subject and nor does she. I hope she never does, but I feel I have to be solicitous in asking, from time to time, if there's anything I can do to make her feel better. There never is.

  Julia was frowning herself as she read the last part of the entry again. What was her mother so unhappy about, she wondered. It seemed that her father had probably known, but had chosen

  neither to discuss it, nor commit it to his journal. Of course, he could be the cause of it, which might explain his reticence, but his words seemed not to display a burden of guilt, merely an unwillingness to confront an issue that might have lain dormant for years.

  She turned a page and read on. More accounts of her and what she was up to, either at school, or with friends. A little about Pam and how worried he was that she seemed to be taking after her mother in the way she was shunning him. He gave no reason for why it might be happening, or what could have triggered it, until the final paragraph, when he'd written, Alice tells me I love Julia too much. She makes it sound like a failing, rather than a father's natural affection and pride in a child who is, in truth, the greatest love of my life. I quite simply adore her, and will make no apology for it. As for Pam, who Alice accuses me of loving less, I try to deny it, but I know its true. Alice says I am wicked and sinful in my neglect of her, but how can it be wrong for a father to love his own child more?

  Julia blinked as her heart skipped a beat. She read the last line again and felt everything slipping out of kilter. Was he saying she and Pam had different fathers? Well, yes, that was exactly what he seemed to be saying, and as the meaning of it slid into her mind she thought of the way her mother had always sided with Pam; how different Pam looked to her; Pam's unwillingness to be close as sisters; her father's struggle to make Pam sit with him or even tell him about her school day. Then there was Pam's failure to care when he left; her refusal to come to the funeral; her father's

  neglect of Pam in his will. So did that mean Pam knew he wasn't her father? It certainly seemed to suggest that, but why keep it a secret?

  Julia lowered the book and stared across the room at the rain-spattered window. Why had no-one ever told her? It wasn't so terrible these days to have a child before marriage. Even when Pam was born, back in the mid-Sixties, illegitimacy hadn't carried anything like the kind of stigma it had a decade before - unless, of course, you had George Hope as a brother, and Julia shuddered to think of how her uncle would have viewed the disgrace his own sister was bringing upon his God-fearing family. She could see the manic gleam in his eye and the foam on his lips as he spouted his biblical damnation, shaming his sister and imploring God to visit all manner of suffering upon her for her sins. She could almost hear the Acts of Devotion he'd have forced her mother to learn by heart and recite at his will. Oh Gracious Lord Jesu Christ, I a sinner ... Trusting in thy mercy and goodness with fear and trembling... My heart and body are stained with many sins ...

  The scene at the time must have been terrible, even terrifying, for her mother, he might even have thrashed her, the way he had Julia, and locked her up refusing to let her see her lover ever again. The man was probably married, or wholly unsuitable, or Catholic, but whoever Pam's father was, and whatever George had put her mother through, Julia had to concede that he'd stood by her in the end, and never once had she seen him treat Pam with anything other than the same awkward fondness with which he'd tried to treat her.

  It was only then that she realised her parents had probably not been married as long as she thought. Either that, or her mother had become pregnant by someone else whilst already married to her father. It would perhaps account more easily for why her father had found it so hard to bond with Pam, if his wife had cheated on him then asked him to treat the child as his. A hole seemed to open up inside Julia as she considered her own late period and how Josh would react if confronted with the same nightmare dilemma - but she'd been under a lot of stress lately, and had never been particularly reliable in that department anyway, so she wasn't going to start scaring herself with that. Her body would undoubtedly kick back to normal any minute, and when, like now, she was attempting to deal with something else entirely.

  It took very little time for her to decide that she didn't mind at all about Pam not being a full sister - if anything she was relieved, for it helped alleviate some of the guilt she'd always felt that her father had so clearly loved her more. On the other hand, a much more terrible spectre began to take shape. If Pam wasn't his daughter, might he have found it more acceptable to subject her young body to sexual abuse?

  The next shock came in the entry for 18th October 1980.

  I am renting a small bedsit in Edgware now. I had to take the money from George, though I hated doing it. If I hadn't I could have found myself in a lot worse trouble than I've already been in lately. I'm so full of hate and anger that I want to keep lashing out at the world around me. I don't understand why God would

  do this to me? Maybe because there is no God, and this proves it.

  I wrote to Julia, but they won't pass the letter on. I want to go to her school, kidnap her and run away with her, but I can't. I miss her as I'd miss a limb of my body or even my soul were it to be torn out. George has offered me very large sums of money to stay away from her. I won't touch it, but they have nothing to fear from me. I am no more desirous of her learning the truth than they are.

  The police questioned me two days ago about the abduction and rape of a young boy from Ealing back in March. I wasn't even in the vicinity. My life hadn't fallen apart by then. I suspect George of giving my name to the police. It's a warning to stay away from Julia. Julia, my Julia. Life is so empty without her.

  As the despair in his words seemed to lift up from the page, Julia's heart filled with the same emotion. Why were they going to such extremes to keep him away from her? What the hell had he done, except the unthinkable of course? However, that particular answer seemed less obvious than it might have done a few minutes ago. To her mind at least, his lack of concern about being questioned over such a heinous crime was giving rise to doubt now, rather than suspicion.

  She continued reading, page after page of almost illegible scrawl, evidently written by a man who was drunk most of the time, enraged beyond reason and so emotionally wrung out it was hard to make sense of it all. All she could r
eally deduce was that this journal was probably his only companion during that time.

  Then finally his writing started to become

  legible again. He seemed much more sober and able to wield a pen as he made sporadic comments about finding himself a job, spending hours in a library just reading, and holding onto George's cheques so that George would never know what he planned to do with them. There was an element of glee to those particular entries that intrigued her, for he seemed to be experiencing a sense of power that had been eluding him before. It could be blackmail, though clearly not in the conventional sense, because he hadn't cashed the cheques, in spite of needing the money. There was no record of him asking for payment either. So what were those entries really about? For the moment she was left guessing, as there was no more mention of George's money for a while. In fact nothing at all about George, her mother or her, until she reached the entry for 21st June 1981. It was a date that was later to remain indelibly stamped on her mind, though in itself it had no real significance - it was merely the day her father had chosen to reveal the true horror behind the events that had changed his life so completely.

  It's been a whole year now since I found them together, and not a day goes by that I don't regret walking into that room. I'd long had my suspicions, but I continually ignored them, and I would sell my soul to go back to that happy state, for I know now that ignorance truly can be bliss. The truth has been the worst kind of hell to live with, because in this case it has robbed me of the most precious part of my life. Julia, my Julia. Where is she now? What is she doing? Does she wonder why I left? Does it break her heart as it breaks mine for us to be apart? No father could love

  his child more, and even knowing she isn't mine hasn't changed that. I just pray that the worst she has to live with is my desertion, because learning who her real father is would surely destroy her young life, and I'd rather destroy my own than ever have that happen.

  What I saw that day still sickens me to my stomach, and always will. Alice and George ...

  Julia leapt to her feet and held the book away as though it might contaminate her. She could hardly breathe. Horror and revulsion were pulsing thickly through her veins. Please God this wasn't going where she thought it was. It couldn't. It was unthinkable, unbearable ... She must find out though, she had to force herself to read on. Still on her feet, and keeping the book at a distance, she made her eyes look at the words.

  I'd thought myself depraved for even thinking it, but that day I discovered I was right. All these years, all his bible-thumping hypocrisy, all her deceit... Their perversion has robbed me of everything, but nothing matters more than Julia. They have allowed me to think of her as my own. I know now that isn't true, which is why I cant take her from them. I have no right to her, and even though I fool myself sometimes into believing she's still mine, to prove it would be to put her through the worst imaginable hell, and should I turn out to be wrong, it is far better that she never learns the truth.

  Julia could read no more. Her stomach was churning so badly that she cast the book aside, and ran downstairs to the bathroom. Vomit spewed out of her, over and over and over, until there was nothing but dry, heaving sobs to wrench the disgust from her body and horror from her mind. But it was still there. It would never go away now.

  and as the sheer enormity of it washed over her again, she began to tear at her hair and scream from the very depths of her soul.

  George had fathered her. That warped, evil bastard she so hated ... It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. She put her hands to her burning cheeks and pressed in hard. Her blood was tainted. She was the product of incest ... She thought of Josh and then Dan, and her entire world collapsed. George and her mother and their ugly, filthy, despicable depravity were the cause of Dan's problems. Oh dear God, how was she ever going to tell Josh? How could he possibly look at her the same way again? He'd never be able to live with something like this, any more than she could. She thought of Pam and her own dear little daughter, Rachel, with Down's and epilepsy. Julia had no idea how much Pam knew, but it surely couldn't be the whole truth, because not even Pam could forgive the perversion that had resulted in such afflictions on her own precious child.

  Rage was boiling so fast through her gut now that to reach out for the phone was nowhere near enough. She was going to confront her mother and that abomination she called a brother, and when she did, God help them all. They were going to regret the day they'd conceived her, even more than she did, and right now that regret was profound enough for her to wish herself stone-cold dead.

  Rene had not long turned out the light when she heard a car pulling into the drive, and glanced at the digital clock beside her. Ten fifty-one. Instinct

  told her who it would be, and as a car horn started to blast, her suspicions were confirmed.

  Slipping out of bed, she went to peer through the curtains and seeing that indeed it was Julia's car, a small smile passed over her lips, for retribution was clearly at hand. It should have been Douglas himself, but Julia would do just as well.

  Though Alice's room was at the back of the house, Rene knew she couldn't fail to hear the din, and Rene took a moment's delight in the justice that had led George to his sister's room this night, instead of his own. Like Rene, they would know instantly it was Julia outside causing the commotion, and Rene could almost feel the fear creeping through Alice's incestuous bones. George would probably be out of bed by now, ludicrously stumbling into his pyjamas, wrapping his robe around his girth, and ordering Alice to stay where she was.

  From behind her curtains Rene watched Julia striding to the front door and starting to hammer with all her might. She felt sorry for her, but there was nothing she could do to alter the tragedy now, it was all far too late for that. Events would have to take their course, though she, Rene, had given them a hand the day she'd sent someone to see Douglas with photographs, and the real version of the truth. It hadn't quite worked out the way she'd expected then, but she had more confidence that it would now, and going to the phone next to her bed, she picked it up and dialled 999. It would take the police a while to get here, but never mind, it was always best to report an intruder.

  Not even the long drive, or the virtual three hours it had taken, had lessened Julia's horror or subdued her rage. If anything, her fury had intensified and as she banged on her mother's front door it was as though she was trying to push her fist straight through it.

  'Open this door!' she raged. 'Open it now or the whole neighbourhood's going to know what's going on in there.' She thumped and kicked it again, and stood back to look up at the windows.

  'For heaven's sake, control yourself,' George snapped, pulling the door open. 'Do you know what time of night it is ...'

  'Get out of my way,' she snarled, and shoving him aside she stormed into the hall. 'Where is she? Where are you, you fucking bitch. Come down here and face me...'

  'How dare you,' George growled behind her. 'I won't have that sort of language in this house ..'

  'Language!' Julia spat incredulously. 'You're worried about language, when you've been fucking your own sister! What kind of man are you? No, don't even speak to me,' she cried, blocking her ears with her hands.

  George's face was white. 'Come into the sitting room.' he said. 'We need to talk, and you ...'

  'I have nothing to discuss with you. I don't want you ever to come anywhere near me, but I'm not leaving here until she shows her face.'

  'Julia,' her mother said from the top of the stairs, 'please try to calm down.'

  Julia spun round and only fury kept her heart from breaking into a thousand pieces. 'How could

  you?' she screamed. 'I know what you've done, what you are ...'

  'Julia, please, come into the sitting room,' George persisted.

  'Don't touch me!' she hissed, jerking away as he tried to take her arm. 'Don't you ever touch me, you disgusting ...'

  'Julia, stop it!' Alice snapped, starting down the stairs. 'All this rage isn't going to get
us anywhere, now pull yourself together.'

  'Don't you dare say that to me. After what you've done ...'

  'Always the drama queen,' Alice cut in sharply. 'Always over-exaggerating a situation ...'

  Julia stared at her in shock. 'Mother, that just isn't possible,' she told her scathingly. 'Don't you have any understanding of what you've done? Doesn't it make you feel ashamed ...'

  'If you'd let someone else speak ...'

  'You think I want the details of your sordid little life, or to hear any more of your lies? What you've done to me, to my father ... And please don't try to tell me that sick monster there is my father, because I'll never accept it. Do you hear me, never! Douglas Cowan is the only father I've ever had, or will ever have.'

  'Douglas Cowan was...'

  'Don't you dare! If you go even one word towards trying to tell me he was a paedophile, so help me God I'll kill you.'

  'I wasn't going to say any such thing,' Alice objected.

  Julia was barely listening. 'All these years, when you knew how much I loved him,' she seethed.

  'how devastated I was when he left .. How could you? What kind of woman are you? You even set him up to be questioned by the police ... I've read it all I know what you did. Do you have no conscience, no shame? How can you live with yourself?'