by Susan Lewis
Trying not to be daunted Corrie was slightly cheered when they visited Covent Garden and roamed about the weird and wonderful stalls packed with hand-carved wooden toys, ornately embroidered cushions and exotic jewellery. They went to a concert at the Albert Hall, where they spent as much time laughing at the way the baby sat curiously wide-eyed in her sling while seeming to tap her foot to the rhythm, as they did listening to the music. They visited Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace and on Paula’s last night they went to the cinema where Beth slept through Cristos Bennati’s film starring Angelique Warne.
‘It’s funny how it all seemed somehow attainable when I was in Amberside, just dreaming about it,’ Corrie said when they came out into Curzon Street. ‘Now, even standing here, smack in the middle of it all, it feels like a zillion light years away. Am I doing the right thing? Or am I completely insane?’
‘Both,’ Paula laughed. ‘But you have to give it a try. And once you find a job, well, you’ll have more friends than you can handle, you see. And you can always come home at weekends, if you get lonely. It’s not far on the train.’
‘I don’t suppose you and Dave would consider moving down as well, would you?’ Corrie asked glumly.
‘Strap-hanging on the tube’s not for me,’ Paula winced. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed I’m just the right height for my nose to fit comfortably into the nearest armpit. I’d end up suffocating in BO.’
Laughing, Corrie hugged her. ‘Just be thankful you’re not a midget,’ she said. ‘Oh, I’m going to miss you.’ She didn’t add how terrified she was of Paula leaving tomorrow.
‘I’m going to miss you too,’ Paula said, swallowing the lump in her throat. She’d never said so to Corrie, but the very idea of life without her seemed intolerable. Dave knew that, which was why he had let her come to London, but how on earth was she going to say good-bye? Even worse, how could she let Corrie stay here alone in this dreadful place?
When Corrie got up the next morning Paula was on the telephone to Dave.
‘I’ve just asked him if I can stay until the end of the week,’ she said when she put the phone down. ‘Until after you’ve met your father. He said it was OK, but I have to go back at the weekend.’
‘Oh Paula,’ Corrie gasped. ‘That’s terrific. I was really dreading you leaving.’
‘I thought you might be,’ Paula laughed, and taking the toast Corrie had buttered for her she sat down at the gleaming white formica-topped breakfast table. She watched Corrie as she made more tea. Behind her the windows were steamy and a drizzly rain trickled down the outside. Paula had thought it rained a lot in Amberside, it seemed never to stop in London.
‘Corrie,’ she said after a while, ‘you don’t have to stay here you know. I mean no one will think any the worse of you if you change your mind.’
Corrie turned round, pulling the belt of her dressing gown tighter then stuffing her hands in the pockets. ‘It really is bloody awful, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It’s so gloomy, so depressed.’
‘It’s the recession,’ Paula said. ‘Not a good time to be looking for a job either.’
‘Just what I’ve been thinking. You know ninety per cent of me wants to go home with you – ninety-five per cent. But the rest of me would never forgive me if I didn’t at least give it a try now I’m here. But I’m not up for flogging a dead horse. I’ll give Uncle Ted a call, get him to set up a meeting with my father, then I’ll take it from there.’
‘Meaning if your father doesn’t come up with a job for you you’ll come home?’
‘Probably.’ Corrie laughed then at the look of relief on Paula’s face. ‘You’re supposed to be supporting me in this adventure,’ she said, ‘not willing my father to come up with zilch.’ She pulled a face. ‘I wonder what he’s going to be like?’
‘Do you think you’ll tell him who you are?’
‘That very much depends on him. On what my instincts tell me at the time.’ She pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I’ve been thinking about Mum a lot these past few days,’ she said, resting her chin on her hands. ‘Well, I don’t suppose that comes as any surprise, but I’ve been thinking about her life – about all of our lives really. I mean we’re all of us striving for the same thing really, aren’t we? A happy ending. But is there such a thing? There wasn’t for her, was there? I wonder if there is for anyone. I guess though that we have to keep believing in it or there would be no point in anything, would there?’
‘This dismal town is beginning to rub off on you already,’ Paula shivered.
‘No, but think about it. Is there such a thing as a happy ending? I mean we all die in the end, don’t we? Is that such a happy ending?’
‘Oh, Corrie!’
Corrie laughed. ‘Well who knows? Death might just be the ultimate experience. And if it is, what does it really matter what we do in life?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m trying to be philosophical about going to see my father – a man who’s destroyed at least one happy ending in his life.’
‘I’d say don’t think too hard. Don’t expect too much, and just hope that he’s not the lily-livered mother’s boy he was when he knew Edwina.’
‘God forbid,’ Corrie shuddered. ‘But we’ll see.’
Three days later Corrie was in Threadneedle Street with only a thin, but steady stream of traffic and a giant bolt of nerves between her and the imposing Victorian façade of the merchant bank of which her father was now a director. Beneath her coat she was wearing a new bottle-green suit from Next, white shirt and black low-heeled shoes. Her hair was loose, and held back by a black velvet Alice band. She wore no make-up or jewellery.
For the first time since she’d arrived in London it wasn’t raining, though the air was dank and the gutters still filled with murky puddles. She glanced at her watch. She was early, but decided that she must go in now before her nerve deserted her altogether.
She had started out optimistically, reminding herself that so far her move to London had in truth gone so smoothly – mainly thanks to Ted – that perhaps fate was telling her that this was right for her after all. ‘I mean,’ she had said to Paula that morning, ‘who else gets a best friend come to help them settle, an uncle who arranges for them to stay in a luxurious flat, and a father who might fix them up with a job?’ It was only the weather, she told herself now, that made things seem so bleak – and the fact that she missed her mother more as each day passed.
Uncle Ted had told her nothing of his telephone conversation with Phillip, so, as she was taken up to the fourth floor in a lift that one usually only saw in a 1940s film these days, Corrie had no idea that she was not only extremely lucky to be seeing her father at such short notice, but was extremely honoured to be seeing him at all. Ordinarily a man in Phillip’s position would never even have entertained the idea of giving fifteen minutes of his precious time to a doe-eyed girl from the sticks, who, along with thousands of others, had decided to try her luck in London. Indeed, when Ted had called and put his request Phillip Denby had refused, saying he was far too busy. Ted had persisted, so Phillip had offered the services of one of the bank’s personnel officers. Still Ted wouldn’t be put off, saying that he and Hattie would deem it a great personal favour if Phillip were to see the girl himself. Even then Phillip hadn’t been easy to talk round, which had momentarily surprised Ted, until he remembered the reputation Phillip had earned for himself over the years. But ruthless and highly respected as he was in business, Ted – or more accurately Hattie – had it on the best authority, that of Phillip’s wife, that Phillip remained an emotionally weak man. Using that to his advantage Ted had finally got Phillip to agree.
The lift clanged to a halt, and the wiry young man who had ridden up with her led Corrie along the central aisle of a computer boffin’s paradise, where a dozen or more people were going quietly about their business and didn’t even look up as they passed. She was shown into an office at the end, where she found more computers – a whole bank of them acro
ss one wall and several more on trolleys. They seemed so at odds with the austere, Victorian decor, Corrie was thinking, when a woman, in a neat navy suit got up from behind an enormous oak desk, and with a smile that transformed her otherwise homely face, held out her hand and introduced herself as Pam, Mr Denby’s personal secretary.
By now Corrie felt as though she was in a trance. It was the way she wanted to stay, since it was too late to turn back and the thought that her father, the man who had given her life, whose blood ran in her veins, was very likely sitting behind that ominous closed door to her right was too terrifying to contemplate.
‘… just through here,’ the woman was saying, and before Corrie could even think about fleeing to the safety of the street outside, she was being shown into her father’s office and the woman had closed the door behind her.
The office, with its high ceiling, antique furniture and desk top lighting was even more imposing than she’d imagined. Every wall was a bookcase containing leather-bound volumes of … what? She had no idea. In truth she barely saw them, since her eyes were transfixed by the figure sitting behind the mahogany desk, head bowed as he wrote.
She stood there awkwardly, clutching her handbag to her chest and feeling lamentably dowdy in her brown tweed coat. His hair was thick and glossy, she noticed, and was the exact same colour as her own – brown. She’d expected him to be grey. His hands looked nice, artistic, she thought, watching them move across the page, and his face … Corrie’s heart turned over. He had lifted his head and was now looking at her – with her own hazel eyes. He was smiling with her own lips, even his nose, his cheekbones and chin were hers. The resemblance was so striking that she felt sure he must see it too. She felt momentarily cheated, since the almost masculine features she had lived with all her life and considered so plain were unbelievably handsome on him.
‘Corrie?’ he said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘Corrie Browne?’
‘That’s right,’ she mumbled, moving to the desk and taking his hand. The limpness of his grasp made her feel faintly odd.
‘Please, sit down,’ he said, waving her into a chair.
‘Thank you.’
‘Ted tells me you’re looking for a job,’ he said, sitting down too and resting his forearms on the desk. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know if I can be of any help, but perhaps if you tell me what you’re qualified to do I can make a few phone …’
‘Do you know who I am?’ Corrie said. She was so shocked by the words that she very nearly looked behind her to see who had spoken them. But her eyes remained fixed on her father, as her heart burned painfully across her chest. He stared back, impassively, but for one moment, so fleeting she couldn’t even be sure she’d seen it, a hunted look passed over his eyes.
And then it hit her. Of course he knew who she was, and now she was sitting here she couldn’t imagine why it had never occurred to her before. Ted Braithwaite calling him up, asking him to see a young woman by the name of Corrie Browne. Whatever else Phillip Denby was, he wasn’t stupid. He would have worked out who she was long before she arrived. But he was going to pretend he didn’t know.
The seconds ticked by, and with each one Corrie felt a hostility fill the air.
‘Should I?’ he said at last, his generous lips now compressed in a thin line.
Had he shown any surprise at her question, had there been even a glimmer of emotion in his eyes, Corrie’s response might have been different. As it was, feeling herself go hot and cold all over, she said, ‘I think you should. In fact I think you do.’
His eyes bored into hers. Corrie felt herself weaken under their pressure, but nothing in the world was going to make her look away now.
Phillip had used this look so many times in business, almost always to great advantage, but faced with the fervent challenge in Corrie’s eyes, the bitter accusation in the curl of her lips, he was the first to give up the battle. ‘You’re a friend of Ted and Hattie Braithwaite’s,’ he said, no longer looking at her.
Corrie knew she was breathing too fast. Her voice was being strangled in her throat, but she forced the words out. ‘I’m more than that,’ she said. ‘I’m Edwina Browne’s daughter. And you know it.’
There it was again, that look of persecution, and of … was it? Yes it was – a look of repulsion. He was very nearly physically recoiling.
The longest and most excruciating silence Corrie had ever known, followed – another of Phillip’s ploys. But Corrie held her own, determined that he should be the first to speak. When he did she immediately heard the higher pitch to his voice. ‘Then why don’t we come straight to the point?’ he said. ‘What exactly do you want from me?’
Corrie almost reeled with the brutality of his words. She didn’t know what to say. The question was so unexpected she had no answer. ‘I want an explanation,’ she heard herself say. She was far from feeling the confidence her voice portrayed, but thanked God that he had no way of knowing that.
‘For what?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I am your daughter, that makes you my father, just so that this is spelled out. Now, I rather think that means it’s for you to tell me.’
With a gesture of impatience he sat back in his chair. ‘What do you want?’ he repeated. ‘Or should I say, how much? As I recall your mother’s price was a hundred thousand …’
‘How dare you!’ Corrie seethed. ‘I didn’t come here for money, I came here to give us a chance to know each other. Perhaps to catch up on all the years we missed. I now find myself thanking God that we did miss them. Just what kind of a father would …’
‘Your mother ran out on me! She took my father’s money and left. What kind of mother …’
‘If I were you I’d be very careful what I said next,’ Corrie warned. She drew breath to speak again, but amazement snatched her words as with no warning at all he suddenly seemed to slump before her very eyes.
‘Blackmail,’ he groaned. ‘You’ve come here to blackmail me. You want to destroy my life, to make me pay for what I did to your mother. Well you won’t get away with it, do you hear me? I’ll pay you once, but if you think …’
‘I don’t want your money,’ Corrie shouted, but he wasn’t listening.
‘I always knew this would happen,’ he was muttering. ‘I knew you’d come one day. I thought you were a boy. I always believed Edwina had given me a boy. But you! You’re not …’
‘Just a minute!’ Corrie interrupted. ‘Are you telling me that you knew my mother was pregnant when she left? That you …’
‘You don’t even look like her,’ he rambled. He rubbed his hands across his face. ‘I thought she’d come back to me. That she’d bring me my son … But she hated me, she never forgave me, and now she’s sent you to torment me … Doesn’t she understand? Won’t you tell her …’
‘My mother is dead!’ Corrie cried.
Phillip’s face turned white. He stared at Corrie, but she knew he wasn’t seeing her. ‘Edwina,’ he murmured. ‘Edwina, dead?’ His eyes focused on Corrie. ‘Oh God, if only you knew how difficult this is for me.’
Corrie eyed him with disgust. Not a thought for her, his daughter, that she had lost her mother. Not a trace of compassion, only pity for himself. And suddenly she found herself wanting to hurt him as deeply as she could.
‘How did she die?’ he asked dully. ‘When? Oh God, I can’t believe it. Did she ask for me? Did she …?’
‘I don’t think you have a right to any answers,’ Corrie sneered. ‘I’ve wasted my time coming here today, I won’t bother you again.’
‘No! No, wait,’ he cried, as she started for the door.
Corrie spun round, a very real temper flashing in her eyes. ‘There’s nothing to wait for,’ she seethed. ‘You won’t be hearing from me again. As far as I’m concerned you really are dead.’
Seconds after the door slammed behind Corrie Phillip heard Pam let herself quietly into his office. He was sl
umped against the desk, his head buried in his hands. For the moment he was too stunned by what had happened to look up. All he could think about was Edwina – and his guilt, which, over the years had grown to monstrous proportions. He had always hoped, prayed, that one day she would come back to him. That she would tell him she forgave him, and give him the courage to tell Octavia that he had never loved her, that he had only ever loved one woman in his life, a woman Octavia had never even heard of – Edwina Browne. It was what had kept him going throughout the misery of his marriage. But now Edwina was dead. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. If he did, there would be nothing to hope for anymore. Nothing to dream of. He would be stuck forever with Octavia – Octavia who was so like his mother …
But Corrie had come, she had sat there across his desk and told him that Edwina was dead. And all he had seen then was the person responsible for killing his dreams. In those fleeting moments he had hated Corrie. Even now he didn’t want to believe she was his daughter. Edwina had given him a son, he was sure of it. The son he had always wanted. But she hadn’t. She had given him Corrie, and he had been unable to disguise his resentment not only that she hadn’t been a boy, but that she hadn’t even looked like her mother. Corrie had cheated him. Corrie had annihilated his dreams.
But then he had seen the pain in Corrie’s eyes. Had suddenly felt an overriding compassion for what she must have suffered since her mother had died. His heart had gone out to her, but it was already too late. He had seen, had heard, the contempt as she’d told him she wouldn’t bother him again. And she wouldn’t, he knew that, and already it was breaking his heart.
‘Oh Edwina,’ he cried silently. ‘Edwina, forgive me.’
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into Pam’s face. Pam, a woman who cared for him deeply, who never sat in judgement of him, who wanted only what made him happy.
A sudden blinding rage surged through his veins. He looked at Pam again.