Different Genes

  By the time Joan’s parents were invited to stay in Sawbridgeworth, Peter and Joan had agreed a detailed story to explain Louise’s history. They rehearsed it so often that they almost began to believe it themselves. Peter’s severance payment from the Diplomatic Service had funded the purchase of their new home, and his salary in his senior civil service post had ensured a comfortable future for them both. Uncle Jack had agreed to look after the farm, so Joan’s parents could visit the house and stay in luxury for three nights over Christmas. Joan had insisted they come early and told them she had a surprise for them. Her parents assumed that the surprise would be a tour of the new property.

  Joan watched nervously for the Land Rover to pull into the drive. Peter stood beside his wife to give her support. This would be the first meeting between daughter and parents, since Joan and Peter had returned to the UK. The vehicle arrived. Heavy car doors swung open, and Lillian and Jim climbed out. Jim pulled back the cover and revealed boxes of fresh vegetables together with bags of wrapped gifts. As soon as he saw Joan, he put the presents down and hugged her, until firmly pushed aside by his wife. He shook hands with Peter, who then helped with the boxes, and the family group entered the house. Coats were hung up, and they all moved into the spacious living room.

  “Well, this is a fine-looking property, Peter.”

  There was no time to waste. A little person was being kept hidden by her Auntie Karen upstairs, but would not be quiet for long.

  “Mummy, Daddy, we have something to tell you. Please sit down.”

  Lilly and Jim sensed the urgency and felt a moment of concern. They sat as directed.

  “Look, we’re sorry we didn’t tell you before, but we couldn’t get permission to bring her home and show you.”

  “What on earth are you trying to tell us?” asked Jim. “Have you brought a dog back from Singapore?”

  Peter laughed out loud, “It’s my fault. I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m just going to have to say it, “We have a daughter, your granddaughter. Her name is Louise.”

  He had silenced the entire room.

  Karen tapped on the living room door. “Can we come in?”

  “Yes,” gasped Joan.

  Karen led the wide-eyed three year old into the room. Her blonde hair had been tied into curly pigtails with purple ribbons. She was wearing a matching smocked velvet dress with white ankle socks and shiny patent shoes. “Remember what I taught you, Louise,” instructed Karen.

  Louise walked slowly towards Lillian.

  “Hello, Grandma.”

  Lillian burst into tears, and Louise retreated back to the safety of her Auntie Karen.

  “Are you alright, Mummy?” asked Joan, “I‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Upset, me? Of course I’m upset. Jim, we have to go out now!”

  “But we’ve only just arrived,” protested Jim.

  “We’re going into Bishops Stortford. What time do the shops shut?”

  “Probably late afternoon on Christmas Eve. Why on earth are we going shopping?”

  “This is my first Christmas with my granddaughter,” sobbed Lillian. “She must have a present from her grandma!”

  Everybody laughed. “I’ll drive,” insisted Peter.

  “And I’ll bring the cheque book,” said Jim with a resigned smile.

  They departed almost immediately, leaving Joan, Karen and Louise in the house to recover their sanity.

  Lillian brought so many presents that Peter could barely fit them all in the back of his car. Her favourite toy was a large farm on a folding board with little velvet bags of wooden animals. She hoped that Joan would allow Louise to come and stay on the farm soon, and wanted to prepare the child.

  Louise woke at 7 am on Christmas morning, and the entire family gathered in the living room to watch the little girl unwrap her presents. Each adult took it in turns to fold the discarded paper. Jim remarked how one little blonde child had the power to unite a family in never-before-seen ways. He was at first worried that the group adoration of Louise would result in a lack of discipline, but soon realised that Joan had a natural no-nonsense approach with the child, which combined with Peter’s traditional notion of right and wrong would ensure a sensible upbringing. He would leave it to Lillian to offer unlimited indulgence.

  Karen had returned to her own family for Christmas Day, and, once the presents were opened, Joan took Louise upstairs for a rest. Lillian followed to watch the routine. Joan tucked Louise up in her bed and said she would return in an hour. The curtains were left open.

  “You’ve forgotten to close the curtains,” observed Lillian. “Oh, I don’t bother,” Joan told her mother. Louise settles better in the light. It took her quite a while to adjust to the new time zone, when we moved from Singapore.” Joan had created such a credible story about Louise’s birth, that she had become skilled at answering unexpected queries.

  “Apart from the occasional nightmare, she sleeps really well.”

  “Nightmares are a sign of a good imagination,” Lillian said.

  Louise slept while the adults drank milky coffee. Joan had boiled the milk and filled the silver coffee set which she had brought back from Singapore. There was a ring on the door. A ten-year-old boy stood on the doorstep holding a small wrapped gift. “Happy Christmas, Mrs Watson, I have bought a present for Louise.”

  “She’s asleep, Bob, but you can wait until she wakes, if you like. Come and meet my parents.” Joan lowered her voice, “Don’t forget the secret.”

  “I won’t.”

  Joan introduced Bob, and with Joan’s permission, Bob sat on the carpet and set out the little farm animals in anticipation of Louise’s reappearance. Joan suspected there were more toys for him in her house, than in his own home. At exactly midday, Louise’s voice was heard.

  “Mummy,” Joan still felt emotional when she heard that word.

  “Coming, darling.”

  Joan climbed the stairs to Louise’s bedroom. Louise was sitting up.

  “Bob’s here.”

  “Bob Bob.”

  Mother and daughter slowly negotiated the stairs. Louise stared at the farm and shouted, “Manimals!”

  Everybody laughed. Louise walked up to her mother and said, “Paper, Mummy… please and crayons.”

  “You can use your new easel, Louise.”

  Joan erected the little artist’s easel, which she had brought Louise for Christmas. Louise smiled, “Like Nana’s.”

  “She has a pretend friend,” Joan explained to her own mother.

  Joan handed a box of fat colourful crayons to Louise. Her little fingers pulled out a purple crayon, and she carefully drew the outline of a large pig. She turned the crayon on its side and shaded the centre of the pig.

  “Purple pig,” she announced, “For grandma’s farm.”

  She carefully pulled the top sheet of paper away from the easel. She carried the picture to give to Lillian, then sat on the floor with Bob and played with the animals. Lillian scrutinised the picture.

  “An artist! You have given birth to an artist! This is really good for her age. You only produced scribble when you were three. Where does she get it from? Are there artists in your family, Peter?”

  “Not that I know of Lillian. Can you draw, Jim?”

  “No, but I can mend a tractor. Louise needs to learn to do something useful.”

  Louise picked up the toy tractor from her farm set. “Tractor,” she said, and everybody laughed.

  Twenty-Two

  Bob

  History has largely ignored the plight of post-war military babies. Many couples rushed into marriage and started families in the euphoria of sudden peacetime. Consequently, babies were born to mothers who barely knew their new husbands. Robert Cornelius Gresham was one such child. Born in February 1946, he wa
s the product of an impetuous post-war marriage between a recently-discharged, non-commissioned, soldier and a land girl. They struggled to make a living and to strengthen the shaky foundations of their relationship. When Robert’s father was finally offered a job as a mechanic at a riverside workshop in Sawbridgeworth, Hertfordshire, the family welcomed the chance of a fresh start. They managed to rent a reasonably spacious first-floor flat on the outskirts of town close to a prestigious more affluent area. Robert, known as Bob, was registered at the local primary school, and the family found some much-needed stability. Bob showed an aptitude for arithmetic, and settled into his new class. He was much loved by his pretty blonde mother, who soon fell pregnant again. The family looked forward to expanding their numbers. Sadly, however, Bob’s mother died in childbirth with a still-born child when Robert was seven. Bob’s father soon remarried, and Bob’s care was transferred to his father’s new, younger, wife, an equally pretty, but far less caring, twenty year old. Bob quickly learned to take second place to his stepmother’s needs, and later to those of his new baby brother. However hard he tried to please his stepmother, he was constantly criticised, and he felt overwhelmed with failure. Despite his continued success in lessons, he began to try too hard to make friends. The more popular boys bullied him, and the girls sneered behind his back. He became a lonely figure on the school playground.

  His greatest supporter was a distant neighbour, Joan. Shortly after Joan moved to Sawbridgeworth, and before Louise was adopted, she noticed the solitary boy wandering through the nearby streets and engaged him in conversation. Coming from an expat background where more affluent families were expected to take an interest in the affairs of their less fortunate neighbours, this seemed the natural thing to do. Joan and her husband invested time in Robert, and when Louise arrived, Bob was often included in tea parties and outings. He became devoted to Louise. He adored her blonde hair and gentle nature. He compensated for the lack of his own mother’s love by encouraging hugs from Louise. There were people who thought that Bob’s affection for Louise was slightly obsessive, but Joan dismissed their concerns. The young mother, who was used to Singapore-paid help from locals, appreciated the way the boy watched out for her daughter. She had no reason to criticise Bob. Joan was therefore surprised when, some years later, a pre-adolescent Louise began to reject Bob’s attentions. However much Joan tried to encourage Louise to include Bob in her plans, Louise started to refuse.

  “He’s creepy, Mummy, and he stands too close to me when I am painting. I don’t like him any more.” Joan expressed her disappointment to Peter.

  “I have to say, Joan, I think Louise is right. She is at a stage when she needs to mix with girls of her own age. I’ve often thought Bob’s interest in Louise was a bit odd. He’s a young man now, and should be building a life of his own.”

  Joan very reluctantly agreed to reduce her contact with Bob. As a young child, Louise had loved Bob. He played with her toys and helped her to hold her crayons. It was Bob who helped Louise have confidence in herself and set aside her fear of men. By the time she was ten, however, she flinched when he tried to hold her hand. She pushed him away to a distance. Bob accepted his dismissal, but always harboured a desire to recapture her affection. Even when Louise left for Sussex University, he sent her cards at Christmas and birthdays, and once paid her a visit. Having met Charlie, however, he knew his ambition was impossible. He accepted his rejection, but began to compensate through fantasy, combined with self-imposed isolation. He kept a scrapbook of childhood photos of Louise, which he looked at every evening. His one advantage, he told himself in his deluded loneliness, was that he knew Louise’s secret. Joan was not Louise’s real mother, and Louise was not to be told.

  Bob never married. When he left school, he qualified as an accountant and worked for a small finance company. He was regarded as a typical bachelor. He kept to a strict routine. He played cards with male companions every Tuesday evening, was occasionally invited to lunch with Joan and Peter, but otherwise lived a solitary life.

  Joan never really understood Louise’s assertion that Bob was ‘creepy’. Bob had always seemed normal to her, and she enjoyed his company. When Peter died, and Joan moved to Fairlight, Joan was pleased that Bob moved to Hastings a few months later. He bought a van and spent his days visiting boot fairs and charity shops, hunting for bargains. None of his neighbours or acquaintances had been invited into his house, but they suspected he had become something of a hoarder. Joan would invite Bob for Sunday lunches, and tell him all about Louise’s successes at work. She shared her disappointment with Bob, when Louise and Charlie divorced and later showed Bob photos of Louise’s new studio. He would often borrow photos of Louise and offer to frame them for Joan. She was unaware that he also took copies for his expanding collection of scrapbooks.

  When Joan fell ill, Bob began to feel more assertive towards her. He clung to the idea that he alone shared the secret of Louise’s adoption. After years of rejection by Louise, he suddenly felt powerful. Joan’s illness had made her vulnerable. He began to regard her as a broken bird in his garden, against whom he was allowed to peck. He combined his historical positive relationship with vindictive threatening, and Joan was too weak to resist. He told Joan that she owed him for keeping silent all his life about Louise’s adoption.

  Twenty-Three

  Meeting Karen

  Simon had returned to his house in Battle for a couple of days. He told Louise he had some business to sort out, which, in one sense, he did. He picked up the telephone and keyed in Karen’s number. He had decided to use his landline to appear more credible. A female voice answered the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Could I speak to Mr Michael Wentworth, please?”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “My name is Simon Ellis.”

  “Just a moment please.”

  Simon heard Karen call her husband. “Michael, there’s a guy called Simon Ellis on the phone. It might be about our glazing quote. Do you want me to deal with it?”

  “No, I’d better come. It might be technical.” Simon imagined Karen rolling her eyes at Michael, as she passed him the phone.

  “Hello, this is Michael Wentworth.”

  “Oh, hi, Michael. We have met, but you may not remember me. I am Simon, a friend of Karen’s cousin, Louise.”

  “Oh yes, she mentioned you. Is she alright?”

  “She’s fine, but I need your help to solve a mystery.”

  “Of course. What can I do for you?”

  Simon took a deep breath, “Michael, do you remember at Joan’s funeral you spoke to a man outside the tearoom while you were having a cigarette?”

  “Vaguely,” lied Michael. He remembered very well.

  “That man was me.”

  Michael suddenly felt his heart beating in his head.

  “And now, by pure coincidence, I have met Louise, and we are sort of becoming an item, and I’m a bit confused about something. You told me she is adopted. Is that true?”

  “I’m not sure what to say,” Michael spoke quietly. There was no time to invent a deception. “Yes, she is adopted.”

  “You know she doesn’t know?”

  “I know she doesn’t know.”

  “So how do you know?”

  “Because Karen stayed a lot with Joan and Peter shortly before and after they brought Louise home from Kent.”

  “Kent, not Singapore?”

  “Yes, Kent.”

  “Why wasn’t she told?”

  “As far as I can remember, the welfare people said not to tell her. I’m really sorry I told you.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry too.”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. She has dreadful nightmares about her past. I feel I am deceiving her by keeping the secret. Can I come and talk to you in Hert
fordshire? It might help me decide what’s best.”

  “Yes of course, but first I will have to tell Karen that I let out the secret. She won’t be pleased.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Simon.

  “Don’t be sorry, you are right. We need to talk.”

  Simon had a good relationship with both his sons, but more especially with his older boy, Joe. Joe was now thirty-two, and as much a friend to his father, as his offspring. They were enjoying those magical interim years when neither father or son requires a carer.

  After Simon had finished the phone call with Michael, he phoned Joe.

  “Hello, mate. Everything okay?” Their communication was always to the point. “Look I need to run something by you about Louise.”

  Joe hadn’t yet met Louise, but he had heard a lot about her.

  “Just marry her Dad, I don’t mind. You haven’t got her pregnant, have you?”

  Simon rolled his eyes, “She’s sixty-one years old, and I’ve only known her for five minutes. But, seriously, I do have a problem, and I’d like a chat.”

  “Sounds like this needs a couple of rounds of real ale. You can pay. I’ll be at The Bull at eight this evening, after Sophie’s gone to bed.”

  That evening the two men were sitting together in their local on Battle High Street. No one who saw them would have doubted that they were father and son. Both were tall and lean with square jaws. The younger had more hair. The older had more life experience.

  Simon looked at his son and told the story of the funeral, the optician’s letter, the nightmares, the phone call to Michael.

  “Christ almighty, you’ve really got yourself into one this time. Are you sure you want to take this on? It could turn very nasty. You could walk away and just not deal with it.”