Different Genes

by Claire Baldry

  “Very good, and it will give me a chance to show you off.”

  “Oh dear, do I need to wear my best suit?”

  “Don’t be daft. Night Simon xx”

  “Night, night Louise xx”

  Once again, the following morning, Louise watched Simon’s car swing round to the back of her flat. She had left the outer door open for him. ‘Should she give him a key?’ she wondered. Perhaps that was a bit premature. She heard his steps on the stairs before he opened the inner door. He was carrying an overnight bag and some shopping.

  “Hi, sweetheart.”

  Louise blushed.

  “I have rolls and cold meat and salad. Is that okay?”

  “Fab.”

  “Am I allowed to use your kitchen? Come to think of it which kitchen should I use? Your kitchen situation is very confusing.”

  “Even I get confused,” laughed Louise “Use the downstairs one, because the dishwasher is down there, but as it’s sunny, we could eat up here in the studio.”

  “As you wish,” and Simon headed downstairs with his carrier bag of food. Louise followed.

  “This is very kind, Simon.”

  “Pure self-interest. I am hoping for a home-cooked dinner tomorrow.”

  “Already planned,” Louise smiled.

  They carried their individual plates up to the studio and began to plan their next few days.

  “We could maybe take a walk this afternoon,” suggested Simon “Then dinner at the pub, and I thought we could have a day out tomorrow, before I taste your cooking. Is there anything you want to do?”

  Louise decided to ask Simon a favour, “I know this is using you, but I desperately need to go to the bungalow in Fairlight and make the final arrangements for the sale. Do you think we could fit it in?”

  Simon put his arm round her. “Louise, I am really sorry. I have been so excited about meeting you that I have completely ignored the fact that you have just lost your mum. Let’s go together tomorrow, and then have our day out on Thursday.”

  “That would be brilliant.”

  Fifteen

  An Intruder in Fairlight

  The drive to Fairlight on the following day involved passing the entrance to the Country Park.

  Simon slowed down. “Would you like to stop at the church?” asked Simon.

  “Yes, please.”

  He parked by the teashop and let Louise take the lead. She got out of the car and looked at him, “Please hold my hand.”

  “I thought I might be intruding.”

  “I want you with me.”

  They walked to the grave. There was no headstone yet, just a pile of freshly-dug earth.

  “I should have brought some flowers.”

  “We can bring them next time.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Simon.”

  “I do have to do this. It was Joan who led me to you. Take your time.”

  Louise stood by her mother’s grave for a few minutes and wiped away a tear. She turned to Simon, “Time to go.”

  Simon put his arm around Louise’s shoulder and led her back to the car. They sat in silence until the turn to Fairlight village beckoned, and Louise was required to give directions.

  “It’s just up here on the right.”

  The small detached bungalow was located in a quiet cul-de-sac of similar bungalows. Louise got the key out of her handbag. She opened the door and entered. She noticed that the desk was once again open.

  “Oh no, not again!”

  “Is everything alright?” Louise told Simon about her previous suspicion of a break-in.

  He shut the desk and started to jump up and down.

  “Simon, what on earth are you doing?”

  “I wondered if a vibration might cause it to open.” He jumped again and then banged the front of the desk with the palm of his hand. “It certainly seems secure. You stay here, I’ll have a look round.” Simon entered the kitchen, the main bedroom and then the smaller bedroom where Louise had slept.

  “Louise?”

  She walked into the bedroom.

  “Did you do that?”

  Lying on the pillow was a large cut-out photo of Louise’s face.

  Louise screamed.

  “No, I didn’t. Please believe me!”

  “I believe you. Who has a key?”

  “Only the neighbours.”

  “We need to get the locks changed.”

  Simon felt a moment of doubt about Louise’s sanity. It occurred to him that she might have planted the photo herself, but was sure he was wrong. He rang an emergency locksmith who promised to arrive within an hour.

  “Lou, you need to look round and see if anything else is different. I’ll come with you.”

  He took her hand and noticed she was shaking. “Have a really good look.”

  “I can’t see anything, Simon, just that bloody photo.”

  “Do you know when it was taken?” Louise thought for a long time, “Looking at my hair, I’d say it’s about two years old. God knows where it was taken!”

  The locksmith arrived swiftly and changed the locks. He gave Louise two sets of keys.

  “Should I give a set to the neighbour?”

  “No, I’ll keep all the keys.”

  Louise willingly handed the new keys to Simon. “I’m going to put the cut-out photo in the desk, is that alright?”

  “Yes. Will you lock up for me?” Louise began to feel sick and left the house. She took refuge in Simon’s car.

  “I was thinking I might come back tomorrow on my own,” said Simon, “Just to check things over. You can come as well if you want.”

  Louise and Simon drove in silence back to Robertsbridge. He led the way upstairs and poured her a large glass of wine. He insisted that they eat their evening meal in the pub. He wanted to believe Louise was not involved in the photo incident, but was still worried she might be. He resolved to keep her in his sights and go back to the house the next day.

  That night Louise woke up in terror. Nana had left her in the dark, and a tall man was carrying her towards a bright blue light. She woke Simon with a loud scream. “It’s alright, Lou, it’s just a dream.”

  She was dripping with sweat. Simon found her a towel and put on the kettle in the studio. “I’m so sorry. You must think I’m unhinged.”

  “Not at all,” lied Simon.

  The following morning he rose early. He had kept Louise in his sights ever since they left Fairlight, and he had the only keys.

  “Lou, I’m going to Fairlight again. Do you want to come?” Louise hesitated, “Yes, I don’t want to be left on my own.”

  He drove at speed to the bungalow and parked outside. He insisted that Louise stayed in the car and used the new key to open the front door. There was a draught blowing through the hallway. He stood motionless and listened, He could hear the outside wind blowing through the house. He walked back to the car, and spoke to Louise, “Something is not right. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

  “Did you doubt me?”

  “Maybe just a little bit. I’m going to walk round the back. Lock the car behind you, hold your phone and follow me.”

  Simon slowly walked to the back of the bungalow. The patio door had been forced open. “Take a picture,” he instructed Louise. “Are you brave enough to go in?”

  “If you go first, but please be careful.”

  “Perhaps we should go in through the front door.” Simon and Louise held hands as they walked to the front of the bungalow. He stepped into the hallway and peered into the lounge. The front of the desk was open. He pointed it out to Louise, “Look”

  She turned pale. They walked to the spare bedroom and found the photo of Louise back on the pillow. “Tell me I didn’t leave that ph
oto there.”

  “You didn’t leave that photo there.”

  They returned to the car, and Simon phoned the police.

  “No nothing missing, just a broken patio door lock and an enlarged photo on the bed. It doesn’t look like the work of kids.”

  Louise was as white as a sheet. “I feel really vulnerable, Simon, like someone is purposely trying to scare me.”

  “I think they are, Louise. There’s no point in my trying to reassure you. It is scary.”

  Thirty minutes later, a police car arrived. The police took Simon and Louise back inside the bungalow and interviewed them. With the incident back into perspective, it began to lose some of its gravity. A cut-out photo, an open desk and a broken patio door did not cause the police undue alarm.

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to frighten you?”

  “I can’t think of anyone.”

  “What about your ex-husband? Does he know about Mr Ellis?”

  “I don’t think he’d care if he did know. I’ve been divorced for almost twenty years, and he is remarried.”

  One of the policemen suggested again that it might be teenagers. He gave Louise a card and a crime number and instructed her not to enter the bungalow on her own. The police car sped away, and Simon secured the patio door before locking up. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  Sixteen

  Different Genes

  In late October and November 2016, the people of southern England were gifted an Indian Summer. Even on days when traces of windscreen frost began to emerge at dawn, clear blue skies were soon illuminated by persistent sunshine. While Simon and Louise were sitting at the table in her studio, each grasping a pre-breakfast coffee, shards of sunlight bounced off the windows and walls creating a kaleidoscope of rainbows. Simon stared around the room in admiration.

  “I do understand why you love this place so much, despite the treacherous staircase. The light is amazing.”

  “Light like this comes with a price,” explained Louise. “You need to be very high up with multi-aspect windows. Or, for a watery effect, you need to get up very early, drive to the coast, and watch the sunrise.”

  A voice from the Breakfast Time News interrupted their thoughts momentarily.

  “The Archbishop has apologised for any ‘hurt’ caused by adoption agencies acting in the name of the Catholic Church. The Cardinal told a TV documentary that the practices of adoption agencies reflected the social values at that time. More than half a million adoptions took place in the thirty years before a change in the law in 1976. Many adoptions involved babies born to young unmarried mothers, and voluntary organisations with religious affiliations often oversaw the process. Some of these young mothers have said they were pressured into giving up their babies for adoption.”

  “How awful to be forced to give up a baby,” mused Louise, “I’m glad times have changed.”

  Simon put his coffee cup down. He wanted Louise to tell him more. “It must have been terrible for the young mothers who had to give up their babies, but I suppose many of the infants then grew up in loving families.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Lou? You remember at your mum’s funeral that I was watching you from the tea shop?” Simon tried to sound casual.

  “Stalking me, more like, a clear case of voyeurism.”

  Simon grinned, “I would have done, if I’d known you. Seriously, Lou, I think I told you that a man from your family came over and chatted to me briefly. He was desperate for a fag. Can you remind me who he was?”

  “A bit older than me? That would be Michael, my cousin Karen’s husband. Well she’s not a proper cousin, second or third or once removed or something. I get confused with cousins.”

  “Do they live locally?”

  “You’re suddenly taking a lot of interest in my family.”

  “Well I was just thinking, if you don’t get fed up with me and banish me back to Battle, I might meet him one day. It would be odd.”

  Once again, Louise found herself blushing. It was the first time that Simon had hinted at a long-term future together.

  “I’ll have to arrange a family christening.” She avoided the word ‘wedding’, “I don’t see them very often these days. Karen and Michael live in Sawbridgeworth, near Bishop’s Stortford in Hertfordshire. That’s the area I lived in as a child. It’s a good three-hour drive from here, maybe less with you at the wheel.”

  Simon assumed that Louise didn’t want to discuss her adoption and changed the subject.

  “Shall we go down to the coast today? I promised you a day out and I hear they have staged some peculiar modern art exhibition at the De La Warr Pavillion, which I’m sure you would enjoy. We could have brunch on the seafront.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  They drove to Bexhill and parked on the seafront. The tide was out, and the persistent sunshine was reflected in the emerging sand. Louise produced a small sketchbook and sat on a bench. She traced an outline of the watery shapes, until the chill wind drove them indoors for brunch. Simon immersed himself in her company, and felt a rising sense of well-being. All his doubts about her sanity were banished by the growing closeness between them. Everything they encountered together was a new experience. He looked forward to their return to the studio and the chance to watch Louise transpose the images from her sketchbook onto the paper attached to her easel. He hoped their evening together would result in close physical contact, followed by a dream-free night. He was not disappointed.

  Simon woke early the following day and left Louise in bed while he went to the local shop for bacon. On his return, he brought a letter from the lobby up to Louise. She was sitting up in bed, and he handed her an envelope with an optician’s logo on the front.

  “Oh, that’ll be my eye test. I have to have my eyes seen annually, because my mum had glaucoma. The appointments come round ever so quickly.”

  Simon gave her a quizzical look. “Who did you say had glaucoma?”

  “Mum, my mum, Joan Watson.”

  Simon tried not to look surprised. He thought quickly and responded, “It’s amazing how much these medical people take account of family history.”

  “It’s a flippin’ nuisance,” complained Louise.

  Thoughts rushed around inside Simon’s head. Michael had definitely said she was adopted. He didn’t think Michael had meant it as a joke.

  ‘If Louise is adopted, SHE DOESN’T KNOW,’ His mind was working overtime in confusion. ‘How can someone live for sixty-one years and not know she is adopted?’

  Louise opened the fridge door. “Dammit”

  “Problem?”

  “I forgot to ask you to buy milk.”

  “We can have it black.”

  “No, thank you, I’ll go and buy some.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “I need the exercise.” Louise dressed quickly, grabbed her purse and headed downstairs. Simon noticed she had left an address book by the phone. He picked it up and flicked through the pages. The name Karen jumped off the page. He looked at it and felt guilty. Then he grabbed an old receipt from his pocket and took a pencil from beside the phone. He wrote down the phone number, address, and Karen’s surname. He folded the receipt and put it back in his pocket. He carefully placed the address book and pencil back in position. He instinctively moved to the other side of the studio, before Louise reappeared.

  “You were quick.”

  “I don’t waste time when I need a cup of coffee.”

  He tried to put his concerns to one side, before they enjoyed another day together.

  Seventeen

  Patricia Makepiece

  (1940–1955)

  Patricia was clever. She was a wartime baby, conceived when her father was on leave from the airforce. Flight Lieutenant Donald Makepiece had
swept Patricia’s mother, Cathy, off her feet in a whirlwind pre-war romance before his impending placement brought forward their wedding to 1939. Pilot Donald Makepiece survived several airborne missions until fatally shot down in 1943. He had met his daughter, Patricia, only rarely. His widow, Cathy, was, however, well supported financially by her family and received a generous pension from the airforce, which she supplemented with sales of her watercolour paintings. Sadly, but not unusually for wartime, Cathy also lost her brother in the war and, a few years later, both her parents to pneumonia. She found herself increasingly isolated. Nevertheless, the little family consisting of only a mother and a daughter and fortnightly visits from Cathy’s younger cousin, Ruby, grew in strength. Occasional men approached the mother in the hope of adding a masculine touch to the family. Cathy longed for a male companion, but could never accept an outsider being allowed to take a role in Patricia’s upbringing.

  Cathy filled with pride when, aged eleven, Patricia passed the scholarship for Rochester Grammar School. She took her daughter to London and paid for two full sets of uniform in navy blue. She also purchased a hockey stick and leather satchel. By the time Patricia, at fifteen, was allowed to catch the public bus from school to home on her own in the dark, after Thursday art club, she had outgrown her third adult-sized gymslip. The satchel and hockey stick were, however, still the originals.

  At the end of art club, Patricia would carefully wash and dry her sable brushes before wrapping them in a cloth and placing them in the front compartment of her battered satchel. She would leave her paintings to dry in the school art room, grab her satchel and hockey stick, and run with friends to the bus stop to catch the ten past five bus. When the bus reached central Rochester, Patricia would be the only uniformed passenger left.

  Her routine at the end of the final art club before the autumn half-term break was no different. Her satchel was packed with holiday homework, as she struggled to run for the bus. She still managed to clamber on board and climb the steep steps to the upper deck with her heavy load. When she alighted in Rochester, the first shimmer of Kentish night frost had appeared on the pavement. Her footsteps slowed as she carried her satchel and hockey stick across the slippery path in the churchyard to take the shortcut to her house in Penhurst Crescent. Like all the women in her family, she was tall, and looked older than her teenage years. It was only her gabardine mac and blue striped scarf which indicated her true age.