Patricia embarrassed herself by again bursting into tears. Julia had told Roland of her surprising reaction so he wasn’t alarmed, but just held her while she sobbed and told him it was, ‘wonderful.’
He carefully carried it home, still wet; the heavy oils would take days to dry. He wanted to involve his mother, perhaps make her less resentful. When he showed her, her reaction was not encouraging. The fact that Richard was ‘a half-brother to that wicked girl who killed your sister,’ was the strongest emotion it aroused.
In July 1946, Patricia arranged to take both portraits into town and have them displayed in the window of the art shop where Roland bought his supplies.
Roland was delighted when Patricia finally told him what she had arranged and he began making frames for the few pictures he had finished. Some of the war sketches had been developed into oil paintings but these he put aside. They were a different side of his work. Nelda and Leonard had willingly agreed to the portrait of their son being displayed for a few weeks, and, with Richard, they went to see the display. Leonard stared with admiration at the unusual portrait of their little boy, the sight of it in such an imposing setting giving it greater stature. He and Nelda proudly accepted the congratulations of those passers-by who recognised the child as the one in the portrait.
It was some time before Leonard looked at the other portrait, and, smiling out of the pinks of Roland’s patterns, he saw the face of his dead wife.
‘Where did you copy that from?’ he demanded of a surprised Roland. ‘You should have asked me before you took a photograph from the house. Patricia I suppose. Well, she could at least have asked me!’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s a portrait of Julia. Patricia’s friend in Rose Cottage.’
‘Who is she?’
‘You know her. She’s a retired doctor. I believe her grandfather once lived in Rose Cottage and started an ice cream factory there, many years ago’. Roland was edgy, afraid now Leonard would guess the identity of Julia.
‘She had a daughter?’ Leonard asked as realisation began to dawn. ‘A daughter called Donna?’
‘There was a daughter I believe, but she died quite young. There was a son, too. Marco, but you’ll have to ask her if you want to know anything else.’
‘Julia. Could that be Julietta?’
Roland frowned and shrugged. ‘I’ve never heard her refer to herself by that name. Why?’ He knew why, and was desperately trying to avoid affirming what Leonard had guessed: that Julia was his first wife’s mother, the grandmother to his girls, who had refused to acknowledge them.
* * *
‘I thought you said the woman’s name was Julia Llewellyn!’ he said to Patricia, when he saw her later that day. ‘How long have you known and why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what? Julia Llewellyn is the woman who lives in Rose Cottage, she isn’t a secret. She helped you when Sally Drew’s van was stuck in the ditch, remember?’ she smiled at the memory but it softened into concern as her father scowled at her. ‘You’ve known for years that she’s my friend. Dad, what are you shouting at me for?’
‘That woman’s name is, or was, Doctor Fearn. She was one of the high and mighty Andriotti family. Julietta Andriotti she was. She is your grandmother! Your mother’s mother who refused to acknowledge you and your sisters, who didn’t once meet me, and never saw your mother again after we were married. How dare you make a friend of her and not tell me!’
Patricia was stunned by the news. She knew her father wasn’t mistaken. Roland had given Julia the look of a much younger woman and even though the portrait was not a large ‘photograph style’, Patricia now saw quite clearly the likeness to her own mother, from the memories of her and the photographs she still kept. Why hadn’t she seen it before? White hair and a sixty-year-old face, she supposed. Her mother had been so young, and her hair was as black as her own.
She had known Julia’s maiden name was Andriotti and now knew it was the name of her great-grandparents, about whom her father would never speak. Julietta Andriotti had married Doctor Donald Fearn, and after his death she had become Mrs Llewellyn and had a son called Marco.
While her father continued to utter dismay at the intrusion into their lives of the woman he disliked above all others, Patricia decided that Julia knew and that was the reason she had come. She wondered if she had intended telling her at some stage. Perhaps this was her way of letting the secret emerge? She remembered Julia’s reluctance to agree to the portrait being displayed. Her agreement must mean that she intended this to happen.
She didn’t go to see Julia and ask her but went to find Roland. ‘I’ve just discovered that Julia is my grandmother,’ she blurted out, and her announcement was followed by another surprise.
‘I guessed long ago,’ Roland said. ‘That picture of her son that stands on the mantlepiece, he is so much like you that I guessed. She confirmed it but asked me not to tell you until she thought you were ready to face it.’
‘I saw him once, you know. The first time he came here he asked me the way to Rose Cottage. I thought then that he was familiar, and I puzzled over it but couldn’t think where we’d met. I know now. I see a shadow of him every time I look in the mirror, don’t I?’
‘My Italian beauty,’ Roland teased. ‘My Welsh-Italian beauty.’
* * *
Between them, Jacky Davies and Will Caradoc had kept the pre-war ice cream making machines going for several months, but eventually, even with Jacky’s skill in making new parts and Will’s determination in dealing with stubborn old age, they had to declare them beyond repair. The ice cream making plans were, for the moment put in abeyance.
Now, knowing that the old man called Andriotti, who was her own flesh and blood, had started here with even more ancient tools and machines, with no freezer, only salt and ice to reduce the temperature, made Patricia want desperately to rekindle the business for herself. She didn’t know how, but she would open her mind and listen for an opportunity. That one would come she no longer doubted. Her great-great-grandfather’s business. She was warmed with the thought. Now she had to face Julia and see her not only as a friend but as a relative.
Seeing Julia the following day Patricia was shy, and a little suspicious of her friend. What was she supposed to say? Fortunately, Roland had spoken to her first and had smoothed the way. Julia began with an apology…
‘I should have told you at once. But I couldn’t have asked you not to tell your father. That would have been wrong. But I knew that if your father was informed he would forbid you and your sisters to talk to me. I wouldn’t blame him for that. I’d be a fine one to complain about him bearing a grudge for years, wouldn’t I?
‘Would it help if I tell you I tried to explain? That time when we talked about my grandfather starting out and improving the lot of each consecutive generation. It was in my mind then to tell you, and make you understand why I wanted so much for you to succeed at something worth while. But in the end I couldn’t.’
Patricia was silent, her heart was thumping as if she were preparing for flight, but she felt only sadness at Julia’s story. Sadness at the wasted years and a strong empathy for this woman who was her grandmother.
‘I didn’t seem to make any contact with Elizabeth or Marion, they only saw me as an elderly lady who might be inclined to chatter interminably. But you and I, we’re friends, aren’t we? I was afraid to risk losing that friendship.’
‘Come, on,’ said Patricia, ‘let’s go and see Elizabeth. Then we’ll find Marion. It’s time you were properly intruduced.’
‘Do you think Roland loves me?’ she asked Julia when next they met.
‘How do you feel about him?’ Julia queried softly.
‘I’m afraid to face just how much I love him. I hid it for so long, doubting he could ever love me, and having to hide it now, when we might share it, I’m frightened. I’d be devastated if he went from my life.’
‘Do you think he might?’
>
‘Maybe.’ Julia wondered why she felt so insecure, but she didn’t question her.
Patricia was engulfed by unnerving thoughts. As Roland walked into the garden. She saw a handsome man smiling across at her and knew in that moment that whatever he felt for her, the love she had for him was deepening day by day. She avoided his eyes, knowing her feelings might show. If he wanted to be clear of entanglements to concentrate on his work, she must allow him that freedom. He showed them a newly-finished portrait and then discussed the news he had brought.
‘A gallery has been in touch with me, and they are willing to display my work.’ He sat beside Patricia, an arm casually around her shoulders.
‘He said I have to have at least a dozen paintings and I wondered if I should show the one I did years ago, of Vanessa.’
‘See what the man from the gallery thinks. It’s beautifully done and he might like to show other aspects of your work,’ Julia said. Roland looked at Patricia and saw that she was less enthusiastic. ‘Patricia?’ he encouraged.
‘I think it would make an important addition but I don’t think your mother would be willing to let you show it.’ In this she was correct.
* * *
Marion didn’t marry Jacky Davies, even though he proposed. Security was only part of her need to marry. She was making a success of her job selling insurance and although the wage wasn’t wonderful, it gave her enough for her needs with a little left over. Besides, he wanted to own a bigger garage and living above all that messy grease and noise was not how she saw her life. No, if she married she wanted fun, new clothes and enough money to enjoy herself now while she was young. Jacky was too serious about saving for a better life to enjoy the one he was living. Sensible? Most certainly, but sensible had never rated high on Marion’s list of priorities. It was a risk, abandoning perhaps her only chance to marry, but one she decided to take.
One day in August, she was walking up to Caradoc’s farm to visit Elizabeth and Will when she saw Matthew standing at the end of the lane leading to his cottage.
‘Hi, Matthew, what are you standing there for like the Wizard of the Woods?’
‘Can you give me a hand, Marion? I’m trying to move a tree from near the house and I need someone to hold onto a rope while I take off a branch. I don’t want it to fall on my head and there isn’t room to stand free of it.’
‘This should be fun,’ Marion chuckled, ‘I don’t think you’d trust me if you knew how useless I am at gardening, mind.’
‘It isn’t gardening,’ he smiled. ‘I just want you to support a branch while I finish cutting through. I was going up to ask Will, but if you don’t mind?’
‘Poor little me? Oh, all right, come on, take me to it and I’ll have a go. Don’t blame me though if you end up with a headache!’
The tree was growing only a few feet from the kitchen and fully leafed, was darkening the room. With great difficulty, Matthew struggled in between the trunk and the wall and began sawing through the last few inches of a heavy branch. A rope, looped over the branch of a nearby oak was supporting it and Marion was to take the strain and together they would gradually lower the branch once it was cut. Matthew fixed a second rope and between them they lowered the branch through the undergrowth and safely onto the ground.
‘Will you be cutting it up for firewood and going round with a barrow selling it to old ladies?’ she teased.
‘I think I’ll save it and have a big bonfire next November. Will you come and bring some potatoes to bake?’
‘Let’s have a bonfire tonight,’ she said. ‘Why wait for an excuse for a party? Liven the cottage up it would, and lighten up the corners, burn away the shadows. What d’you say?’
‘It’s a bit short notice. Who could we invite?’
Marion was bored. The war years had been fun but now everyone was settling back into the old routines and there was no longer the desperation that made some people live each day is if it were their last. The soldiers she wrote to were no longer interested in hearing from her, except Norman, who she never wanted to hear from again! Jacky was working overtime every weekend, working to save for his garage. He no longer had time to give her the attention she craved. Life was utterly dull.
Now, here was Matthew, older and more mature, but unattached and ready for laughter. She could just feel that he was ready to abandon his grieving for Vanessa.
‘Who could we invite?’ She repeated his question thoughtfully. ‘Well now, Matthew. What about just you and me?’
Matthew was immediately tempted. The loneliness of loving a woman he had abandoned before her death was beginning to pall and he knew he couldn’t stand many more visits to Mrs Drew. The friendship with the dead girl’s mother had been his undoing. While she remained convinced of his continuing love for Vanessa he was caught up in the belief that for him, the prospects of a new love were lost for ever.
Looking at the attractive young woman invitingly suggesting an evening spent alone, he decided it was time to end that fallacy and face the world once again. There was no future for him with Patricia, that had been a mistake, but her sister Marion, well, that was worth investigating.
‘I think that’s a good idea,’ he smiled. ‘Just you and me and a bonfire.’
Marion abandoned her intention of visiting her sister and went home. She gathered a few potatoes as a gesture and dressed attractively in a swing-back off-white coat with a shawl collar which served as a hood. Completely unsuitable for walking through the lanes to the cottage, utterly ridiculous for attending a bonfire party of two, but she knew instinctively that this evening wasn’t an occasion for common sense.
It had been Matthew’s intention to sit on a bench near a roaring fire and listen to Marion’s lively chatter. But Marion’s white coat, the dampness of the ground, the chill of the night with a sprinkling of rain, sent them scurrying indoors where the fire in the grate was equally welcoming, and the armchairs offered greater comfort.
The first kiss was casually offered and taken, but within an hour, the kisses became more fervent and Matthew wanted her with an urgency that alarmed him. She was young. Too young for him but, looking into her eyes, mysterious in the firelight, he saw that age was irrelevant and for the two of them the desire was paramount.
What had begun as a game for Marion grew into a dangerous situation. She had broken her own rule, coming here to such an isolated spot with a man she knew very little about. There was no one to hear if she called for help and Matthew was alarmingly strong. She pushed him aside and smiling asked if she could have a cup of coffee.
At once he was contrite.
‘Marion. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I got a bit carried away. I’ll – I’ll make that coffee. Please, don’t go. It won’t happen again.’
Two weeks later he asked her to marry him. She accepted and insisted they married in secret.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Your father won’t object, will he?’
Marion remembered how they had all tried to persuade Patricia not to marry him, declaring that he was a weak man and would not make a caring husband. She didn’t tell him that, but instead said, ‘It’s the Drews. I think they would make a big fuss and we’d both be upset. You have a right to happiness, Matthew. What happened to Vanessa wasn’t your fault.’ She stared at him and hoped she wasn’t upsetting him as she added softly, ‘It would have happened sometime, wouldn’t it? Vanessa would have ended it all sometime whatever you had done. You can face that unsavoury fact, Matthew, but I don’t think Mrs Drew ever will.’
He smiled and relished the idea. Marion was so exciting and in this she was so right. A secret wedding would be something for the locals to enjoy and would kill the ghost of Vanessa once and for all.
For Marion, her strongest reason for a secret wedding was not the excitement or the Drews; she didn’t really care how they felt about it. It was Patricia. How could she tell her sister she and Matthew were getting married? What would Patricia feel watching her preparing to marry the man
who had jilted her?
Chapter Ten
The news of Matthew and Marion’s wedding was met with amusement and a sense of fun by most of their friends. It was only Patricia, Elizabeth and Leonard who were upset and hurt by the event having taken place without their knowledge and involvement.
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Patricia asked when the couple returned from the registry office both wearing new gold rings. ‘Did you think we wouldn’t support you and enjoy the preparations?
‘What about a wedding breakfast?’
‘What about presents?’
‘Where are you going to live?’
The questions came fast and Marion held up her hand and laughingly said, ‘Wait a minute, let us catch our breath. We haven’t come back down to earth after the ceremony! Now then, one at a time we’ll answer you. Right, you first, our Dad. We thought it would be better to do it this way because of Patricia and because of Roland and Mrs Drew. Next?’
‘I supose you’ll be living at the cottage?’ was Patricia’s question, and she felt no sadness at the thought of Matthew living there with someone else, although her sister being his wife was still hard to accept. After all, Marion had tried really hard to persuade her that Matthew was not a man to marry. Weak, she’d said he was, so what had changed? He was still wrapped up in grief, sharing his sorrow with Vanessa’s mother and, until the day of his wedding, had declared his continuing love for the dead girl whom he had jilted.
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