by Janet Pywell
When I wake it is still dark and I’m lying on the sofa. My back aches and my wrist throbs. I stretch the length of my body from my toes and my arms. To my surprise Josephine has not gone to bed but has stayed awake. She is watching over me and watching me as I stir.
‘Good morning,’ she whispers.
‘Hello.’ I check my watch. It’s 5am. I have slept for three hours. I let her make me coffee while I rub sleep from my eyes. The fresh smell wakens me and as I sit up I know my decision is made. I will leave today. It’s time for me to get on with my life. The events of the past twenty-four hours will be my excuse and my reason for leaving.
Josephine brings us coffee and sits beside me.
‘Andreas will sleep until noon if I let him,’ she says.
‘There’s no hurry,’ I reply. I will not let their plans affect me.
‘There is something you should know. I should have told you before but–’
My mug is half way to my mouth. I hold my breath. It’s as if I have always known there is something else and I sigh. ‘Is this about Javier?’
She leans forward and clasps her fingers. ‘It has been a secret I have kept for over thirty years. No one knows. I have been so frightened.’
‘What is it?’
‘I wanted to speak to you and Javier together. But now, I want to explain–’
I do not want a confession. Not here, not now. There has been too much emotion. I want to escape. I want Javier to be here. She is his friend – not mine. They are the ones with a special bond. And it dawns on me this must be it. This is the secret that Karl Blakey talked about – the secret he is convinced that she’s hiding – and now she wants to tell me. But I don’t want the burden of her problems. I want to escape and to be alone.
‘Is this what Karl Blakey wants to know?’
‘So far, I have managed to keep it from everyone.’
‘Is it about the painting in Munich?’
‘Sadly, it’s not that simple,’ she pauses. Her eyes meet mine and I am drawn into the depths of her dark irises and I fear I may drown there when she says softly.
‘I have a child.’ Her face is ashen and her eyes are filled with pain. The strain of her secret like a tree in a storm has caused her to bend, her shoulders are hunched and she looks broken but she continues speaking.
‘I’m not the maternal type. Or rather, I wasn’t. I was a professional singer but I have changed and I’m different now and I hope – I hope – my child will forgive me – and will be my friend.’
‘J… Javier is my friend too,’ I stutter. Why do I think this has something to do with him?
‘I hope you will be…’ She reaches out and I hold her fingers searching for words of reassurance – nothing can be this painful, can it?
‘You need to confide in someone like Glorietta,’ I suggest gently and I want to add someone your own age but I don’t. She looks too broken for me to reject her. ‘Someone who can help you–’
‘I’m hoping my child will forgive me.’
It dawns on me then. All these months and all the interest she has shown in Javier. It makes complete sense. The way she has looked at him and behaved toward him and the opportunity she gave him to paint her portrait. I piece together what I know of Javier’s past. His father was married before – did they have children – was Javier illegitimate? Could Josephine?
‘I’m your mother,’ she says.
‘That’s kind of you to say so but–’
‘It’s the truth, Mikky. You were adopted when you were a few hours old. ‘I’m your birth mother. It’s why I came looking for you.’
I don’t know what to say. The events of the past twelve hours have been traumatic and perhaps she is unwell – unstable. Perhaps she has been affected by her past – by her accident last year and Raffa’s death.
‘I had to find you. I had to know that you were all right,’ she says, gripping my fingers as her words gush out as if the safety valve of her soul has been opened. ‘I needed to know that you were safe and happy. I wanted to make sure–’
‘But – Javier?’
‘I want you to know that I did it – that I gave you away – for the right reasons. It was the only thing I could do. I had no choice. It was the only way I could save you – the only way I could save my daughter. ’
‘Me?’
‘I’m so sorry, Mikky. I wanted to know that you had a good and happy upbringing and that they were kind to you. But when I met you, I didn’t know if you knew – if they had told you or if you had found out the truth.’
I shake my head. ‘This is impossible.’
‘I was frightened when you came to Dresden and I saw you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You had grown into such a beautiful woman. An adult. You were my baby.’
‘Josephine, I–’
‘I know this is must be a huge shock to you. I understand. I spent my whole life believing that I had given birth to a son that I called Michael. Your father told me you were a boy. He led me to believe that… he convinced me–’
‘A boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is not true.’ I move my hands away from her but there is something in her urgency that makes me pause. I cannot take my gaze from the anguish in her eyes.
‘It is true, Mikky. Please, wait! I have papers – proof. I’ll show you.’
I watch while she pulls a reinforced envelope from her suitcase and extracts a sheet of lined paper torn from a schoolbook. When she passes it to me her hands are shaking and I recognise my Mama’s neat handwriting. It’s dated 7th September 1984 – one month after I was born.
Dear Nurse Angela Morris,
I am glad to be able to tell you that I have registered Michaella McGreevy as my baby with my husband Franscisco Dos Santos as her father. She will have a far better life with us than with her mother. The opera, music and theatre are no place for a small child.
I told cousin Michael that we are going to live in Madrid and he is pleased, although I am not sure when that will be. We can discuss further details when we meet next week in London.
Yours sincerely,
Alisha McGreevy.
P.s. We have decided to call her Mikky.
‘My Mama never used her Irish name,’ I say. ‘I had forgotten it was McGreevy.’
From the same battered envelope Josephine pulls out a postcard. I gaze silently at the old picture on the front and eventually I meet her gaze.
‘Los Cibeles – Madrid – we lived near here for a few years,’ I say.
‘And I sang in the Teatro Real in Madrid for a whole season. I never knew that you lived so close,’ she replies.
I read the smudged ink–stained words on the postcard dated two years after the letter.
Querida Nurse Angela Morris,
We have settled in Madrid. It is warmer here and my husband has found work in a hotel. Although his parents are in Asturias we are near his brother.
Mikky is happy and learning Spanish very quickly. She has settled in to her new life here.
Thank you for all your help in making us a happy family.
Un abrazo,
Señora Alisha Dos Santos.
‘Alisha Dos Santos – my Mama,’ I say.
Josephine nods and passes me a copy of my birth certificate.
‘I’m your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘They registered you as their natural daughter.’
‘It must have been… illegal.’
‘It was.’
‘Where is this nurse now?’
‘She lives in Islington.’ She passes me a manila coloured folder.
‘I hired a private investigator to find you. I should have done this through an agency, Mikky. I understand you are in shock. There are professional agencies that can help, they offer counselling and will give us – you – support. We should talk about this and maybe we can go and see someone professionally to help us work things through.’
‘It’
s a little late now, isn’t it?’
She casts her eyes downwards and her shoulders droop as if she is defeated. She sighs before speaking. ‘I couldn’t wait any longer. It was killing me to be in your company and for you not to know. It’s been torture…’
‘But why now? Why come looking for me now, after all these years?’
‘I had to make sure you were all right. I had to make sure that you had a good life and that you were happy. I had to know I made the right decision.’
I look at her lips, her eyes and her nose. Are we alike? There are dark circles under her tired eyes and I doubt she has slept at all. Even her voice is weary.
‘But they didn’t look after you. I’m so sorry, Mikky. Can you forgive me?’
‘It’s not about forgiveness. It’s about understanding. Why? Why did you do it?’
‘Your father – Michael arranged it all. He was a doctor – an anaesthetist.’
My mind is whirling after the events of the past twelve hours and now this. I cannot make sense of anything. My head throbs, my wrist hurts and my shoulders ache. I rub my sore eyes.
‘I wanted – we both wanted – to protect you.’
‘Protect me?’ My laugh is ironic. ‘So you had me adopted?’
‘I was married then but your father – Michael was my husband’s father.’
‘What?’
‘Your father was my father-in-law. The shame would have ruined your father’s family and my husband Seán. They were Irish and the scandal would have killed them all if the truth had come out.’
‘You slept with your father-in-law?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was my father?’
‘Michael was the only man I ever loved. The only man who ever understood me but we couldn’t be together.’
‘And he told you, I was …a boy?’
‘I hired a private investigator to find you–’
‘When?’
‘Last year after my… after my – accident. I looked for you on the Internet but there was no birth record of you. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t understand why you were not registered as my son. He had told me that my son Michael was happy with a family in America–’
‘But my name is Michaella.’
‘That’s why I couldn’t find you. The investigator looked for information in the clinic where you were born and he managed to trace the nurse who had been with me – who helped deliver you.’
‘But why only last year? Why did you not look for me before?’
‘Your father – Michael – died last year and Seán, my ex-husband, blackmailed me into singing at his funeral in Dublin. He had found a letter in Michael’s possessions referring to our affair and because his business was in decline he thought that if I sang at his father’s funeral it would create prestige for him. But I was terrified that he had found out about my secret child. I was just reviving my career and about to audition for the role of Tosca. But when I arrived in Ireland he told me that Michael had found art treasures during the war and he threatened to tell everyone about my affair with his father unless I went to Munich to get the Golden Icon. And I thought that would lead to them finding you–’
‘He found art work during the war?’
‘That’s why I went to Munich and I saw the paintings in that apartment. But then Seán was killed and I wanted to make amends for Michael’s past and return the Golden Icon. It didn’t belong to him.’
‘But…I can’t take all this in, Josephine – I’m sorry.’ I shake my head. ‘All these people and the story I read about on the Internet were – are my family?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t want me.’
‘I wanted to protect you from the scandal. Life thirty years ago is vastly different to how it is today. And if I’m truthful, I was ambitious and so was your father. He wanted me to succeed. He wanted me to be famous and he encouraged me. He recognised my talent and would have sacrificed anything. He was more like a father to me… I was young and impressionable… I was in a foreign country with a modicum of talent and it went to my head. I’m so sorry, Mikky. I never wanted to–’
‘How can you not know the sex of your own child?’
‘I was very ill after the caesarean. There had been complications and I lost a lot of blood. I was sedated. I wasn’t well. But they are all excuses…’
‘Did you hold me?’
‘He wouldn’t let me. When I saw you, you were wrapped in a baby blanket. This is all I have.’ She takes an old and crumpled photograph from the envelope and hands it to me. I am a baby: tiny, black curly hair, eyes closed, vulnerable. I could be a boy or girl. I’m just a baby.
‘This is all I had to remind me of you. Michael took it when you were barely a day old.’
‘So my life has been a sham – a complete lie,’ I say.
‘No, Alisha and Paco were – are your parents.’
‘But you’re my mother.’ I stand up and walk to the window. I tilt the shutter. Outside a storm is blowing. Rain and wind hurls a paper bag along the gutter and a car splashes into a puddle and it washes across the pavement and I realise the enormity of her confession and the impact for her and her child if this became public knowledge.
‘It’s no wonder, Karl Blakey follows you,’ I say, ‘with a secret like this...’
‘He doesn’t know. He follows me because of the artwork in Munich but that’s an old story. You are my secret. I will not let him find out about you. I want to protect you and look after you.’ She looks stricken with guilt and pain.
‘And Michael?’ I cannot bring myself to call him my father. ‘How did you–?’
‘He was sixty when we met – I was twenty-two. We were together for six months. After you were adopted we didn’t stay in touch. He lived in Dublin. He contacted me after my break down became public four years ago but I wouldn’t speak to him. Karl Blakey was destroying me and delving into my past. Cesare, my voice coach, brought me to live in Lake Como but Karl followed me and I was frightened. I didn’t want him to find out about you and destroy your life as he did mine.’
‘Did you ever think about me?’
‘All the time, but Michael had led me to believe… I thought you were my son – living in America.’
‘He lied to you.’
‘Yes.’
I pick up the postcard then the letter and the copy of my birth certificate and read them all again very slowly. ‘Is that why you banned Javier from speaking to Karl Blakey?’
‘I couldn’t take the chance–’
‘And the portrait? How did that come about? Was that for real? Did you really want a portrait?’
‘When the private investigator told me that I gave birth to a daughter and you were adopted illegally I was shocked. Michael had lied to me. I had a daughter and I was excited but I didn’t want to approach you directly so I thought if I became your friend you might like me but I had to find a way to get to know you...’
‘So you devised a plan for Javier to paint your portrait?’
‘You were difficult to find, you travelled a lot and then I didn’t know how to meet you. Knowing he was your flatmate, the investigator searched for information on Javier and he came across an article last year in the Sunday Times after he painted the portrait of–’
‘Lady Rushworth.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you invited us both to Dresden?’
‘I wanted to meet you. I wasn’t well enough to travel and I wanted to see if you were happy and if I had made the right decision.’
‘You must have been horrified at my bad behaviour.’
‘You were angry and I wanted to help…I felt responsible. I am responsible…’
‘It’s not your fault I’m antisocial and have bad manners.’
She smiles. ‘I don’t believe you are. I see a beautiful, talented, kind and loving woman. I’m very proud of you and I hope, one day, you will be able to forgive me.’
I can’t give her reassurance or guarant
ees but I’ll listen to what she says. I stretch my arms trying to free the knotted lumps in my shoulders. ‘I’ll make breakfast and you can tell me all the gory details and don’t leave anything out.’
And, for the next three hours, while Andreas is asleep and Javier is in hospital I listen as Josephine tells me how she had an affair with her father-in-law, became pregnant, divorced her husband Seán and became a world famous opera star.
Spent of emotion and exhausted I insist Josephine sleep in my bed and by ten-thirty I’m in a taxi heading toward Islington. Today is the first day of March and one of those days that stays resolutely dark and dismal as if it will never be light again. Rain drizzles persistently against the window and the wipers move lethargically backwards and forwards: backwards thud, forwards thud, backwards thud.
She could be lying.
Thud. Lying. Thud. Lying. Thud.
The private investigator followed me. He may know everything. Josephine could be after the Vermeer. Had I known I was being followed I would have taken more care. Had he seen me go in and out of Mrs Green’s house? Had he followed me? Did he know I had worked in Bruges? Has he pieced it all together?
I turn the letter and postcard in my hand and although it looks like Mama’s writing it would be easy to copy it. It could be forged. I have spent my life imitating, copying and cloning. It isn’t hard. Everything can be faked including – so it would seem – my life.
But I will not be fooled easily. Is it a coincidence that she has come into my life when all my plans are in place – at the precise moment I’ve taken the world’s most famous stolen painting and I’m planning on leaving the country?
How can it be a coincidence?
She has planned it.
I had thought her bond had been with Javier. In Dresden she had pulled him into her web of celebrity charm. She had fooled him. She had won him over. But now she says it had been a ruse to get him to paint her portrait so that she could get to know me. She is not to be underestimated. She is manipulative and controlling.