by Jessie Keane
I hate my husband, she thought.
It was a startling realization. Daisy stopped walking. The hedgerows were dripping with moisture and thick with berries. Soon it would be Christmas . . . and she would still be miserable.
‘Daisy?’The voice made her jump. She turned, and there was Ruby, standing with her arm in a sling and a beige trench coat over her shoulders. Behind her was parked a large car, pulled in tight to the verge. There was a grey-haired someone sitting behind the wheel, and there was also that same beefy, sexy-looking young man standing beside the car, watching Ruby, as he always seemed to do.
Daisy hadn’t even heard the car approach, she’d been so lost in thought.
She paused, staring at Ruby. Then she said: ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘I know I shocked you. I know you’re angry.’
Daisy shook her head.
‘You didn’t just shock me. You pulled my whole life out from under me. Made a mockery of everything I’ve ever been told, everything I’ve ever believed to be the truth.’
‘You do believe me then?’
Yes. Daisy did believe her. But with that came other questions, unbearably painful ones.
‘How could you do that?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Ruby queried.
‘Give me up. And the other baby, your son, my brother. How could you do that, just abandon us that way?’ Daisy could feel herself shaking with the force of her anger. ‘I have children. I could never do what you did.’
‘Daisy, you don’t understand.’
‘No I don’t. I can’t. It’s a mystery to me, how you could have done it.’
Ruby took a gulp of breath. ‘I know you find it hard to understand. Of course you do. But those were different times. So different, you can’t imagine. I would have been an outcast. On the streets. Fending for myself. If I’d tried to keep you.’
Daisy shook her head even harder. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I still couldn’t do that. I could be thrown into the gutter and I would still never give my children up.’
‘Those are fine words, from a girl who has never known a moment’s poverty,’ said Ruby sadly. ‘I’m glad you haven’t, Daisy, and you know why you haven’t? Because I let your father take you from me. I had no choice. I had to think of you, not what I wanted.’
Daisy glared at Ruby. ‘I don’t want to discuss this. Go away. Leave me alone.’
And she turned and walked back to the house, the twins, her unhappy life.
‘So how is it now?’ asked Vi that lunchtime when she met up with Ruby.
‘What?’ asked Ruby blankly.
‘The arm. You didn’t tell me how it happened.’
‘Oh. It’s fine. I just slipped, it was stupid of me. It’s still a little sore, but the sling’s coming off the day after tomorrow, it’s getting back to normal.’
Unlike her life. It felt to Ruby that everything was caving in around her. Daisy hated the sight of her. Cornelius had tried to kill her. If she didn’t have Michael and the business, she felt like she would go stark, staring mad.
‘We’re having a weekend house party in ten days’ time,’ said Vi. ‘A shoot.’
‘Hm?’
‘You know. Pheasant shooting. Game shooting, silly. Anthony gets terribly excited, and that’s a very rare occurrence. You and Michael could come, we’d both love you to be there.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Oh, don’t worry. We girls don’t have to get involved, we can just hang about the house, drink tea and gossip, how’s that?’
‘Sounds fine,’ said Ruby. Over the years she had occasionally been to Vi’s country pile, but mostly they met up in town. A weekend away might do both her and Michael good. It would be a welcome distraction from all her many woes. She was very tense and – yes – very frightened these days. Just last night she’d been sitting alone, listening to records – the Hollies singing ‘The Air That I Breathe’ – and she’d found herself crying hysterically. Then Daisy had rejected her this morning. Yes, she needed a break.
‘That’s a date then. I guess Daisy reacted badly when you told her the truth?’ asked Vi.
Ruby sighed shakily. ‘I saw her this morning. She doesn’t want to talk to me.’
‘Give her time, she’ll come round.’
But Ruby didn’t think so.
125
Kit had always sworn that he would never go back to the place where he spent the first few miserable years of his life. But this was a job, he was doing it for Michael, and so he didn’t see how he had any choice in the matter.
He drove over there, got out of his car in the parking area and looked up at the place he had once called home. His guts were churning with tension as he walked up the same steps. He was remembering running down another set of steps on the day of his sixteenth birthday, the day when yet another home could say that their duty towards him had at last been discharged.
He was remembering how he had swung out of the gates, laughing out loud with the joy of being free. But that evening, he had started to realize what freedom meant. Sixteen years old, and sleeping rough on a park bench with newspapers stuffed down his jacket to try and keep out the cold. Next day he’d tried to find a place in a hostel, but they were all full.
He came down with a bad chill, and after a week of freezing cold weather, of fending off assaults and threats, he turned up wheezing and sneezing at the Salvation Army place, where at last he was taken in. Then he started to take on low-paid menial jobs. From then it had been a step up to the bed factory and the Corona lorries. If Michael Ward hadn’t got hold of him after that, he didn’t like to think how he would have ended up. Dead in a ditch, probably. Or worse.
‘I’m here to see Miss Page,’ he said to the thin middle-aged woman who greeted him in the reception area of the hall. He’d phoned ahead, spoken to the Principal; she was not, thankfully, the same one who’d been here when he stayed. That one had been a tyrant – Mrs Anderson, he would never forget the name – with hairy warts on her chin and a beige twinset.
Jesus, he’d hated it here. He looked around – there was the same big mahogany staircase he’d got the cane for sliding down. The big stained-glass window above it, with its soaring angels and In God We Trust. Hadn’t he put his foot through that once, kicking out in frustration at all the rules, all the regulations? The cane again, for that.
Three boys of about ten years old came hurtling down the stairs and ran off across the hall, ignoring him. Kit glanced at his watch. Lunchtime. He nearly gagged at the thought of the slops they’d served up back in the day. Spam fritters and watery shepherd’s pie. Tapioca and thin custard. And the awful fucking greens, boiled to death and placed in front of him. On one memorable occasion, he’d refused to eat it, and the old bitch of a dinner lady had forced the stuff into his mouth.
There had been no privacy anywhere. Dormitories to sleep in, never a room of your own. He breathed in the smell, it was exactly the same. Cabbage and feet.
‘Come with me,’ said the woman with a smile, and he was led through the back hall and to the Principal’s office at the far side of the building. He’d been back here for punishment, lots of times. Everything looked smaller, but otherwise the same.
She knocked at a richly embellished wooden door with a brass PRINCIPAL sign upon it.
She entered, ushering Kit in with her.
It was spooky being in here again. He had this weird sense of déjà vu. The same fireplace and the same fireguard, the flowers in the wheelbarrow tapestry, faded with age now. Framed certificates on the walls, books and sofas. Different sofas. Not the old red ones, these were cream-coloured. Flowers on the Principal’s desk, that was different too. Mrs Anderson hadn’t cared for flowers. Or for any damned thing, as far as he recalled.
‘Mr Miller?’
The woman who rose from behind the desk, gave a warm smile and extended a hand, couldn’t have been more different from the Anderson woman. She was thirtyish, verging on plump, in a royal-blue
dress and crocheted white cardigan. Her hair was dark and styled in a messy pageboy, her nose was shiny from lack of make-up, and her eyes were alive with curiosity.
‘Miss Page,’ said Kit, and shook her hand.
‘Please, take a seat.’
They both sat down and Miss Page smiled across at him as she patted a wad of files on the desk.
‘Records,’ she said in explanation. ‘Raeburn Lodge prides itself on keeping records on all children who are admitted, ever since the place was built at the turn of the century.’
‘This one was admitted some time after Manor Park burned down,’ said Kit. He told her about the Principal at Manor Park, that she’d taken the blame for the fire and been sacked, and secreted a child – the only surviving child – at home with her. When she’d been taken off to the loony bin, the child had come here.
‘At least, that’s the information I’ve been given,’ he said. ‘As I explained, I’m looking into this on behalf of a friend, Ruby Darke.’ He fished a piece of paper out of his breast pocket. ‘These are her contact details, she’ll verify what I’m saying. She lost touch with this child at birth, it was taken from her without her consent. She’s been trying to find him ever since.’
Miss Page took the slip of paper, looked at it briefly, then tucked it away in her desk drawer. She glanced down, then back up at Kit.
‘I hope you understand that I can only verify that the child was here,’ she said. ‘I can’t supply forwarding addresses or anything like that.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Then let’s have a look.’ She opened the folder at the top of the file. ‘What date was the fire?’
Kit told her.
She closed that file and sorted through another three before selecting one. ‘But he didn’t come straight here,’ she said, busy turning pages.
‘It could have been months later.’
‘Ah.’ She paused, smiling up at him. ‘Well, this could take some time.’
‘I’m in no rush,’ said Kit, settling back.
‘Perhaps you’d like to leave it with me . . . ?’
‘No, that’s fine.’This had all the hallmarks of another dead end. Kit sighed. He’d hoped he could have pulled this out of the bag for Ruby, but it didn’t look too hopeful. If this last try went tits-up, that was it, there would be no more going forward. He’d have to abandon the attempt.
Miss Page was silent, shuffling papers, bent over them with complete concentration.
She paused. ‘Um . . . didn’t you say on the phone that this child was of mixed race?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Only we would list that as MR, with Afro-Caribbeans as AC and Asians as A, or C for Chinese. And CA for Caucasian.’
‘Right.’
‘Oh, here we are. The only MR admitted in the six months after the fire’s date was a little boy who’d been christened as Miller.’
Kit stared at her. Miller?
‘Didn’t you say your name was Miller? Are you a relative, then?’ Miss Page was frowning at him.
Kit leaned forward, feeling suddenly dizzy with bewilderment. Obligingly, Miss Page turned the pages so that he could see the words. Admitted, male approx two years old, MR. Christened & named as Kit Miller.
The words seemed to dance in front of his eyes.
‘Mr Miller? Are you all right?’ she asked, her eyes anxious and kind. ‘Do you know someone by that name? Do you know this Kit Miller . . . ?’
Kit gathered himself. He felt like he’d been gut-punched.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t. Can you get me a copy of that?’
‘Of course.’ She went out into the corridor to the Photostat machine while Kit sat there, numb with shock, staring at nothing.
All this time.
All this time, he’d been looking for Ruby’s lost son.
And not once, not once, had he realized that he might be looking for himself.
126
It was another charity fundraiser organized by Vanessa. She seemed to split her time almost equally these days between charitable events and the garden at Brayfield.
‘What do you mean, you don’t want to go? Of course we’re going,’ said Simon when Daisy objected.
So Daisy went, and sat there blank-eyed with boredom as the haw-haws around the table, who had paid monstrous amounts of money for the privilege of being here among the aristos and the celebs, drank too much and bid crazy money for this item or that.
Vanessa, up on the podium in sky-blue chiffon, was flushed with excitement and success.
Daisy watched her with a curious detachment. Her mother. Only not her mother at all. Her in-laws were on the same table as her and Simon, his father Sir Bradley puce-faced and jovial with pleasure, Lady Collins tight-lipped and sending Daisy dirty looks.
Daisy wondered if Simon had confided in his mother about her revelations. Certainly, her ladyship’s attitude had changed towards her. Where once her whole manner had been fawning, now it was distinctly chilly. Maybe Simon had told her they were having problems. Which they were, that was true enough.
The thing was, Daisy couldn’t imagine now why she had married Simon in the first place. All she knew was that she had been in a bad place at that time, deeply unhappy and weary to the bone after the gatehouse party. So she had allowed her father to steamroller her into the marriage, and then while she was thinking What have I done? Simon impregnated her, and then there had been the twins, she was a married matron, she had the big house, the ambitious husband, the children, the nanny – and she was still thinking How did this happen?
She had floated around, teetering out of control, her whole life. Drink, drugs, anything to fill the void, to alleviate that feeling of being unloved, of being not quite what was looked for in a daughter. She was off all that now. She’d been clean ever since some fool had injected her with heroin; that had frightened her badly. But with a head free of drugs and drink came an awful, sick-making, anxious clarity. She was sitting here looking like a prosperous happy woman, but she was living a total lie. She was so, so glad when the evening drew to a close.
She wanted to go home alone, to look in on the twins, to be peaceful for once. But there was Simon, stomping around the master bedroom while she sat at her dressing table removing her earrings, staring at her reflection as if at a stranger.
‘You see? It wasn’t so bad, was it?’ he asked, taking off his shirt and throwing it aside.
Daisy pursed her lips. ‘Simon,’ she said, ‘it was fucking awful. And what have you said to your mother?’
He jerked to a standstill and stared at her. ‘What? What do you mean?’
‘She was looking at me all night like she wanted to kill me,’ said Daisy.
‘Oh, take no notice. Just in a mood about something, I expect.’
‘You haven’t told her anything? I mean, about what I told you, about Ruby . . . ?’
‘God no. She’d go mental.’
‘She doesn’t like me.’ Daisy had felt this for a long time. Sir Bradley, on the other hand, liked her very much. He was always trying to feel her up when he thought no one was looking. Maybe that accounted for his wife looking daggers at her.
‘The less she knows about that, the better.’ Simon’s face was closed off, uncommunicative. ‘And as I told you, I don’t want to hear any more about it either. It’s just rubbish, I’m sure.’
Daisy said nothing. Ruby didn’t talk rubbish, she was sure of that.
‘Simon,’ she said.
‘Mm?’
‘I think I want a divorce.’
127
Kit drove down to Southend after he left Raeburn Lodge, trying to make sense of all these new things that were zinging around his brain.
He itemized them, laid them out one by one while he walked by the windblown shore and listened to the shriek of the gulls flying overhead. One: Ruby Darke was his mother. Therefore, two: that fruitcake Daisy was his sister. How could that be? Daisy was white as snow; he was dark.
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Jesus, hadn’t she come on to him? Hadn’t she given him the green light?
He picked up a handful of stones and spun them so that they skipped out over the grey, white-flecked water. Three bounces, four . . . and oh shit, that was right, she had tried her level best to seduce him.
He’d heard that could happen. That somehow, deep down, people ‘recognized’ long-separated siblings or parents or cousins or aunts, and found them attractive. He didn’t understand the colour difference between them, he couldn’t make sense of that at all. But yes, Daisy had flung herself at him. And thank Christ he’d been tied up with Gilda, or he might easily have weakened. Daisy was gorgeous, but crazy. Usually he liked his women older . . .
Older.
It didn’t take a shrink to work that one out, now, did it? He dropped the rest of the stones, rubbed the sand and salty moisture from his hands. Stared out at the pounding waves, let the breeze cool his overheated face.
Well, now he’d found his real mother, and he felt . . . he didn’t know what he felt. Like he wanted to see her. Also that he wanted to beat her brains out. Also . . . that he wanted to ask her why, why, did you do that to me? Abandon me that way? How could you, how could anyone, do that?
He thought of all those long, miserable years in the homes. Ruby Darke had condemned him to that. He thought of the bastard with the gas mask, who had fully intended to kill him but had died himself. And the fire! He turned his hands over, looked at the seared skin of his palms – Tito’s handiwork. He’d always been so terrified of fire, of burning. Somewhere back there in his brain was a memory of the fire at the kids’ home, he was sure of it.
And Ruby had condemned Daisy, his sister, to another sort of hell. He knew that Daisy had never felt that she measured up to her parents’ – or more specifically her mother’s – expectations. Maybe that was why she had behaved like such a lunatic, maybe all that had been a cry for help, a Hey, look at me. Please pay attention to me.
Maybe.