Chapter Twenty-six
The year 1921 was certainly going to be different: I had no job, but I didn’t need one; I had no man, but I didn’t need one. Instead, I had money and plans. And I had my daughter, and Amy.
It was Amy who accompanied Lila and me when we went to look over a house in Putney early that year; Amy who witnessed my signature on the leasehold. But before that, and perhaps more important, it was my father, Theodore Godley, who looked over the lease.
I had received a Christmas card from him, an address on Cheyne Walk printed beneath the handwritten With Very Best Wishes, Theodore G. At first, the card and sight of his name had unsettled and irked me. Did he really think we could be friends—or that I would ever address him as Theodore? The man was more presumptuous than I’d thought. He would remain Mr. Godley, and there could be no Christmas card in return.
However, curiosity got the better of me, and not long after Christmas, I found myself standing outside that address. It was a murky afternoon and the traffic along the Embankment moved slowly. Blackened coal barges sounded their horns on the Thames, and beyond them, across the river, the vague outline of St. Mary’s Church, where my mother and Kitty lay, rose up in the gloom. So close, I thought. And moving my eyes to the Albert Bridge, following the pavement back toward the fine redbrick house, and me, I imagined my mother’s hurried tread.
But I did not go to the door that day. Instead, I walked home. Only later, when Amy sensibly suggested I should have a lawyer look over the leasehold, did my thoughts once again turn to Theodore Godley. For a few days I pondered, working through the potential ramifications, the turmoil and disturbance it might cause to my newfound equilibrium. But Amy was right: I needed advice—and I knew no one else.
I stepped from the cold winter’s night into the warm hallway. A maid took my coat, hat and gloves. She showed me to the first-floor drawing room, told me, “Mr. Godley won’t be long.” And I could hear his mellow tones, strangely warm, drifting up from a room below.
And the place was exactly as I’d pictured it: filled with polished antiques and gilt-framed paintings. A woman upon a gray mare peered down at me from above the black marble fireplace. She sat sidesaddle, dressed in an old-fashioned riding habit, with a top hat, and a sprig of white heather pinned to the lapel of her jacket. I stared at her haughty expression—her smile that wasn’t quite a smile, her dark eyes—which seemed so knowingly fixed upon me. But I was nervous, and my imagination was playing tricks on me, because there was something uncannily familiar about her mouth, her nose and even the shape of the eyes.
“Do you see . . . see the resemblance?”
I turned to Theodore Godley and made a point of shaking my head.
“Really? But you look so like her.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Your grandmother. Georgiana Godley.”
He moved over to a table, a silver tray with a decanter, and poured something into two glasses. Then he came and stood next to me. And as he handed me a glass, I asked, “Where is that place?”
“Ireland.”
“You grew up there?”
“No, but my mother did. I grew up in Somerset.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit Somerset.”
He smiled. “I was hoping . . . Well, I’m very pleased you’ve come.”
I wanted to tell him that my call was strictly business. I wanted to say that I had come to him only to ask if he’d look over the document inside my bag. But already we had broken a boundary and crossed over into new and uncharted territory. And any such statement from me would have been disingenuous. With or without any documents, I would have found a reason, an excuse to step inside my father’s house.
“Please, do sit down.”
I sat. He stood.
I said, “I’d always assumed I looked like my mother. My aunt said I wasn’t like her, but . . . Well, I thought that was because of what happened.”
“Lottie was fair,” he said, frowning and looking down at his shoes. “With pale skin that freckled in summer, a soft voice and serious nature . . .” He paused, glanced up at me. “She was a sensitive soul, overly contemplative . . . and perhaps too principled. And she was bright, very bright, articulate and intelligent, and quite wasted in her role as . . .” He petered out, looking away from me again. “Yes, fair and bright,” he whispered.
And thus, the shape of my mother finally emerged. And I realized that my vision, my fantasy, the more perfect version of me—the earnest girl with pale skin and a soft, whispering voice—was not Arabella Godley; it was and always had been my mother.
He sat down. “When did you first learn about me?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I suppose the first clue was when I found the announcement of Arabella’s birth among my aunt’s possessions. But that was a long time ago . . . and for some reason I became fixated on her name and not yours.”
“And I had no idea.”
“No idea about me? Or about my mother and what happened to her?”
“I knew she’d passed away,” he said, staring into his glass.
“She didn’t pass away; she killed herself. Drowned herself—out there in the river,” I added, gesturing to the window.
“Yes.”
“And what about me? Did you know? Did you not know she’d given birth to a daughter only hours before she took her own life?”
He ignored my question. He rose to his feet and said, “It’s important that you know I cared about her. I cared about her very much.”
I bit my tongue. Already I was angry. I wanted to shout, to say again, And what about me? Did you not know? Did you not care?
But in the hour that followed, I said little. Instead, I listened as Theodore Godley told me more about my mother. He had employed her as a parlormaid, and she had been with him for almost a year when he married, by which time they had given in to what he called a rare chemistry. The affair had stopped around the time of his marriage, but not my mother’s employment. And perhaps that was the mistake, he suggested. Because the affair began again not long after.
“I was an adulterer. I was weak. I betrayed my wife, my wedding vows. But Lottie . . . Well, she was special, beautiful inside and out.” He paused, sighed loudly; put down his glass, and then picked it up again. “When she told me she was expecting a child, my child, I went into shock. I panicked.” He shook his head. “But I assured her I’d help—financially.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
“No. And she was right. She deserved more.”
“And so?”
“And so . . . she resigned from my employ. I came back one day and found out. Later that same evening, I confessed everything to Diana—my wife.”
“And she forgave you.”
“Forgiveness takes time. Has to be earned. But yes, over time I regained my wife’s trust, and love.”
He had paced about the room, intermittently sitting down and then rising back to his feet as he spoke. Now he sat down once more. He said, “It was then, during that time, I learned about my wife, who she really was . . . Yes, I think that’s when I truly began to love her. You see, her reaction was not as I’d anticipated. Her perspective was different. Her main concern was Lottie, her well-being, and the well-being of her unborn child,” he added, glancing at me. “She spoke about our predicament, our moral duty . . . as though my transgression were something she had a share in, had played a part in. The child’s future had to involve us both, she said.”
“What did she mean by that?”
He smiled. “She meant exactly what she said. That she wished to be involved—to know you.”
I said nothing. He went on. “So, one evening, a few days later, I went to your grandfather’s house. He wouldn’t allow me inside, to see or speak to Lottie . . . He called me an arrogant toff; told me he’d like to string me up. And I didn’t blame him.�
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“Henry,” I said, imagining the scene.
“Yes, Henry Gibson . . . I explained to him that my wife knew everything, that we had talked it all through and that it was our wish for Lottie’s child—my child—to grow up in our home, be part of our family.”
It was time for me to pace. I rose from my chair. “What did he say?”
“Only that he’d have to talk to his sister.”
I turned to him. “Did you meet her—Kitty?”
“No, not that night, but I later did. It was Kitty who told me what had happened—to Lottie. She came to my office . . . Came all the way to the city to tell me in person,” he added, wincing at the memory.
“And your offer—your offer to take me in? What was said about that?”
He stared at me. “Kitty told me the child had died.”
I shook my head. “But I don’t understand. Why—why would she tell you that?”
“I’ve pondered on this a great deal since you came to my office. And you’re right; it makes no sense. Not until one remembers your great-aunt’s situation.”
I sat down. “Her situation?”
“Her childlessness. You see, I can only conclude that she simply wasn’t prepared to give you up, to part with you.”
My father kissed my hands and asked me to forgive him, then saw me into a taxicab. But the only person I thought of on that short journey home was Kitty. And the only person I thought of as I lay in my bed later that night was Kitty: God-fearing, honest and abstemious Kitty. My beacon, my light; a woman whose example I could never live up to. She had kept me for herself and invented a lie, a lie that had lasted seventeen years and taken another thirteen to uncover. That night, her betrayal seemed so great that I hated her—and I cursed her out loud, because I could have had a different life, I thought; I could have been someone.
The next day, my thoughts and emotions shifted and settled. Forgiveness began to creep in. I realized that without Kitty, I wouldn’t be me. There would be no Pearl, Kitty’s precious pearl. I would never have gone into service; never have known Ottoline, or Ralph. Never have had Lila.
A few weeks later, shortly before Easter, I moved in to my new home in Putney. Amy helped me choose the furnishings. She helped me paint my new sitting room pink and my bedroom gold, and when I asked her if she’d like to move out of her Maida Vale lodgings and live with us, she did.
At around the same time, I began voluntary work at a home for ex-servicemen situated nearby. Each afternoon, I wheeled a trolley of books through the wards and convalescent rooms, helping the men to select something, and then later, after my rounds, reading to those who’d lost their sight or for whatever reason found it difficult to hold a book or focus. It was infinitely more rewarding than selling overpriced brassieres, and I enjoyed it immensely. I made a note of anything requested that we didn’t have, and others—mainly classic novels—I thought should be there.
Almost every day I arrived laden with books—until the trolley was too small for the collection and Matron suggested I shouldn’t bring in any more. But then, happily, someone called Ellie Brook donated a bigger trolley: a proper library trolley with shelves so that the men were better able to survey the titles. And she kindly sent a fine selection of English novels with it, including many of the works of Dickens, Hardy, Trollope, Eliot, Austen and the Brontës. We were all very grateful to Miss Brook, particularly those men who thirsted for escape.
I couldn’t help it; I had my favorites and had ended up on a first-name basis with a few. But there was one, a youngish man whom face burns had disfigured and who had lost both legs. He refused any books—and never spoke; simply shook his head each time I wheeled the trolley toward him. He stared out from his bath chair, which was always situated by a window. And I had been there for some time when I heard the matron say his name and realized.
I never said anything, never acknowledged that we’d met or had known each other before, and, at first, neither did he. But one day, after I’d persuaded him to allow me to read him some poetry, and without looking at me, without so much as turning to me, he said, “We know each other, don’t we?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Scotland, wasn’t it? . . . Delnasay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still see her, Ottoline?” he asked.
I hesitated. “No, not anymore.”
“Well, if you do, if you do happen to meet with her, don’t tell her. Please, don’t tell her about me. I wouldn’t want her to see me like this. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course, Mr. Cowper.”
I didn’t want to leave, not even for a few weeks, but I had—as I say—made plans. So I called on Myrtle Dalby and asked if she’d be prepared to cover for the duration of my holiday. Like me, she was a bookish sort, and in the absence of any other work, and with the added incentive of a few shillings and travel expenses, she agreed.
I had delayed my trip for long enough—and mainly because of Lila’s school. But I waited a little while longer, until the first week of June. It was almost the end of term anyway, and my great-aunt who resided in Scotland had taken ill, I told the head teacher; Lila and I were all she had. The following day, Lila, our new spaniel puppy and I climbed into the Lagonda motorcar I’d purchased a few weeks before—and which came with various warranties and an RAC membership. And with windows wound down and the wind in our hair, we headed for the Great North Road.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I have to say, Rodney’s bungalow was immaculate—by any standards, but particularly by comparison to the house I’d left Amy in charge of. But as soon as we arrived, as soon as Rodney showed me about the place—with its newly fitted pale-colored carpets—I was worried about our yet-to-be-trained puppy, Sammy, a dog possessed by the spirit of a kangaroo and with no idea of propriety.
“He can sleep in the car.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine.”
“He can sleep in the car.”
“Sammy can’t sleep in the car, Mummy—he’ll be all alone and scared.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Rodney again.
I set my alarm. Took Sammy outside minutes after the ringing of each hour.
Rodney’s new carpets remained unstained, and after only one night we journeyed on—playing I Spy and singing old songs like “Pack Up Your Troubles,” “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” and “After the Ball Is Over.” Lila knew them all word for word and sang each one with gusto.
North of Newcastle, and without so much as thinking, I turned off the Great North Road. I picked up the familiar lanes of my memory. I knew each incline and bend, every cottage, copse and tree. And when Lila asked, “Where are we going, Mummy?” I said, “I’m going to show you the place we used to live.”
But the gates were closed, chained and padlocked, with a sign: PRIVATE—TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. “I don’t like it,” said Lila, pulling a face and shaking her head as though she had been asked to taste something unappetizing.
“No, it doesn’t look very inviting. But no need for you to get out, darling,” I said, turning to her as I tied on my rain cap. “You stay here; I’ll take Sammy. We’ll only be a minute or two.”
I stepped out of the car and into the Northumbrian drizzle. As Sammy ran about the overgrown verge, I walked up to the chained gates and placed my hands on the cold, peeling paint. A sea fret rolled in over the weedy driveway; its damp air diffused the light, coating the stone of the old building and rendering it darker. And as I held the wet iron in my hands, as I stared back at the place—chained, sealed, shuttered and seemingly dead—a queer reverberation took hold of me. I felt a raw stinging on the back of one of my heels, heard the clip-clap of a delivery wagon, and then the faint echo of whistling—someone whistling in the distance.
Sad, silent, forgotten, the place belonged to time now, and I turned away from it and to the small
face staring at me through a wet windscreen. It wasn’t what I had wanted her to see. But what had I wanted her to see? The place as I had once seen it—as it had been that day I’d arrived in the summer of 1914? Pristine and loved, with velvet striped lawns bathed in dappled light, and windows pulled open and draped in gold, and Rodney, and Ottoline . . . Sweet, fragile Ottoline? Yes, perhaps that’s what I had imagined my daughter would somehow see. But like her, I saw only a sad, gloomy place, abandoned and belonging to another era.
“I’m very glad that we don’t live here anymore,” said Lila as I climbed back into the car and handed her wet dog over to her. “It’s horrible, Mummy. It looks like a haunted house.”
It did, and it was. But I couldn’t give up.
And so from there we drove down the dripping lanes to Mrs. Lister’s sister’s house. Rodney had given me the address, and we found it easily enough. We left Sammy in the car, for it was a small place with small windows, and so dim and universally brown inside that even Mrs. Lister confided in whispers she liked to spend as little time as possible there. She was, however, delighted to see us, and completely mesmerized by Lila—the baby she had looked after so devotedly.
She served us tea in the front parlor, a room so cramped with furniture and china ornamentation that one had to move very carefully and slowly as one squeezed into it, to an antimacassar-covered armchair. Then, without pausing, she brought me up-to-date.
“Mollie Rankin’s just had her fourth. Another boy, mind you. But I suppose we need them now. Called her first one Harry, she did. But he had rickets, had to be put on a special diet. And little Sissy Fender—I think you’ll remember her—she married the butcher’s boy . . . the one with the spots and funny eyes? And Mrs. Carney—now I don’t think you ever met her—she’s working for a titled family in Yorkshire. Big house. Huge place, she says. John was killed, of course. She says they’ve had such trouble with servants, they’re going to try having all men now. Well, I suppose you have to do something . . .”
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