by Dawn Harris
That seemed to do the trick and Daniel was soon happily playing with his ‘snake.’ Meanwhile I took a proper look at his father’s black curly hair, the expressive kind brown eyes, the wide grin, and thought, Wow! Then I glanced down at Daniel and cursed inwardly. Married men were a definite no-go area in my book. I’d suffered the pain of a wronged wife, and no way would I inflict that on another woman.
When Daniel’s father told me his name was Tom Greening, I responded politely, while doing my best to keep my distance, for I was already aware this was a man I could fall for. A boy of Daniel’s age had joined the queue, and while Tom and I chatted, they entertained themselves, and everyone else, with their version of Thunderbirds. Smiling, I remarked to Tom that he and his wife must be very proud of their son, and learned that his wife had died when their son was still a baby. I was genuinely sad for him and asked gently, ‘Who looks after Daniel?’
‘I do, of course,’ came the firm reply. ‘I always have.’ My ex-husband would have unloaded that duty on to a female relative faster than the speed of light.
Surprise clearly showed in my face, for he emphasised quietly, ‘Daniel is all I have left to remind me of my wife.’ He didn’t need to tell me how much he’d loved her, the bleakness in his eyes said it all, and I knew, as certainly as if it had been tattooed across his forehead, that Tom had never cheated on his wife.
I learned a good deal about Tom’s life in the next hour or so, including the fact that he worked mostly from home. ‘There is someone I leave Daniel with when necessary,’ he said. ‘In fact, she’s meeting me here after she’s had her hair done....’ He stopped, as Daniel suddenly ran towards an extremely attractive blonde in her mid-twenties, who was bouncing along the pavement towards us.
‘Here’s Philippa now,’ he said, and as she gave Daniel a big hug, Tom’s face glowed with love. At that moment we reached the main doors, where everyone was being directed into separate queues, according to which expert they needed to see. As we were parted, Tom suggested, ‘Let’s meet in the snack bar afterwards and compare notes.’
The Roadshow expert expressed great interest in my painting and said he would like to interview me for the show. As the cameras rolled, he encouraged me to tell the story behind the picture. ‘This is a wonderful find,’ he enthused. ‘A local artist, whose work has become highly collectable.’
‘Really?’ I murmured, my eyes getting wider with every passing second.
‘Oh, yes. And this is undoubtedly one of his finest paintings. Do you have it insured?’ I blinked and shook my head. ‘Well,’ he went on, smiling kindly, ‘you should do so. At auction, I would expect this painting to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand pounds.’
How often I had watched those stunned, disbelieving faces reacting to the values given on the Roadshow. Never imagining it could happen to me. ‘You’re joking...’ I whispered, like so many before me. Everyone waiting in the queue stood grinning. Pleased for me. Someone called out jocularly, ‘Don’t get mugged on the way home.’
I responded with a weak smile, for my mind was in turmoil. What was I to do? If I sold it, my worries would be over. If I kept it, I’d landed myself with another bill I couldn’t pay – for insurance. And would I still have a wall on which to hang it?
I caught a glimpse of Tom as I hurried towards the nearest exit, but he didn’t see me. I ignored the signs directing customers to the snack bar, where I was supposed to meet him. Tom has been making a friendly gesture, following our long conversation, that was all. As it wasn’t just friendship I wanted, I fled. I refused to come between Tom and Philippa. Better then to leave his life as swiftly as I had entered it.
But Tom wasn’t easy to forget. Every time I looked at the artist in the painting I saw only Tom’s eyes smiling back at me. Fame spread fast though. A reporter from the local paper interviewed me, wanting a detailed history of my family tree, and my reaction to my good fortune. ‘Will you sell the painting?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t decided,’ I lied. There wasn’t any choice to my mind. As I told Henrietta, either I honoured my promise, or I kept a roof over my head. And as if she understood, she leapt onto my lap and purred.
Our local paper comes out once a week, so it was several days before I saw the report of my interview. I’d expected it to be tucked away in some insignificant corner, not splattered over the front page. As I stared at it in horror, the phone rang. It was the man who’d interviewed me for a job two weeks earlier. ‘Sorry about the delay,’ he said, ‘but I had to go abroad unexpectedly. The job’s yours, if you’re still available.’
When I put the phone down, my thoughts flew to the painting and as the tears ran down my face, so the phone rang again. This time it was a cheerful female voice enquiring about the painting. ‘I’ve just seen the newspaper article and-----‘
‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupted politely, ‘but it’s not for sale.’ To me a promise is a promise. I’d never, ever, broken one, and I didn’t intend to start now.
The woman was clearly disappointed. ‘Well, I do understand why you don’t want to part with it. But I wonder,’ she went on tentatively, ‘if I might possibly come and look at it?’
‘Look at it?’ I echoed in astonishment.
‘Well, the thing is,’ she explained, ‘the artist is my great uncle.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ I cried. ‘Of course you must come.’
Half an hour later a car draw up outside and out stepped Philippa, Tom and Daniel. I opened the door in a daze and Philippa smiled. ‘I do hope you don’t mind my bringing my brother and nephew.’
I gazed up at Tom, and at last I understood why I saw his eyes every time I looked at the painting. Eyes which looked at me now in exactly the same way as his great uncle had looked at my great grandmother. I guess some things are simply meant to be. And whatever the future holds, I am certain of one thing. Tom won’t expect me to share his love with anyone, except Daniel.
AVENGING ANGELS
When I received Olivia’s letter, I called a council of war. Eve, the tough one, soft-hearted Melanie, and me, the supposedly calm and rational one.
I read the letter out loud: ‘Girls, I’m returning to town next month to start a new job and I want you to do me a big favour....’
Eve exploded. ‘A favour? After what she did? She’s got some nerve.’
Melanie put a hand on Eve’s arm. ‘Perhaps she’s changed. People do.’
‘Not Olivia,’ Eve retorted. ‘When didn’t she want some favour or other?’
I read out the rest of the short letter: ‘I’ll be at our old haunt, the George and Dragon, at 8p.m. on the fourth, and I’ll explain everything then. I’ve been alone in the world since my husband died in an accident, and we didn’t have any children. Please be there, girls. It’s very important to me.’
‘I bet it is,’ Eve sneered. ‘Still the same old selfish Olivia, I see. And not one word of regret for breaking up my marriage.’
Melanie frowned. ‘That was fifteen years ago, Eve. Surely life’s too short to bear grudges.’
‘You think so?’ Eve sniffed. ‘Well, I’d rather somersault across Niagara Falls on a tightrope than help Olivia.’
Melanie turned to me. ‘Polly, surely you........’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry. We can’t all be saints, Melanie.’
‘She hasn’t had an easy life. Her husband died, remember.’
‘Huh,’ Eve jeered. ‘She probably bumped him off.’
I tittered, but soft-hearted Melanie went on making excuses. ‘She has no children either, Eve.’
‘Children?’ Eve spluttered, incredulous. ‘Can you imagine Olivia being pregnant?’
The vision of Olivia resembling a beached whale had us helpless with laughter. I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t have children, she would never let anything ruin her figure. When we got our breath back, we speculated on what her new job could be. ‘When she left fifteen years ago, she was planning on being a film star,’ I recalled.
/> ‘I’m surprised she didn’t make it,’ Eve sniggered. ‘She would have been a natural on the casting couch.’
Melanie protested, ‘That’s a nasty thing to say.’
‘’Is it?’ Eve’s lips curled. ‘It was my husband she went off with but she would have gone with any man willing to pay her fare to Hollywood. She tried Ben first, remember?’
But Ben, my future husband, had simply told Olivia to grow up. Eve hadn’t been so lucky. And, although she had married again, produced two lovely children and was happy, she wanted her revenge.
Curiosity took us to the George and Dragon in the end. We saw Olivia at once. She looked as stunning as ever in a summer jacket and skirt, a delicate silk scarf arranged attractively about her neck. She thanked us for coming, bought us a drink and, in no time, had us smiling about old times. ‘We had some fun, Olivia,’ I said, ‘but you forfeited our friendship when....’
Olivia held up her hand. ‘Polly.... Eve....’she whispered. ‘You don’t know how much I regret what I did. You have every right to hate me.’
Eve gave a harsh laugh. ‘And believe me, I do, Olivia.’
The old Olivia would have flounced out. Instead, she said, ‘Fair enough.’ It was an Oscar-winning performance. This favour must be very important to her, I thought. And if we weren’t careful, we’d do what she wanted, just as we always had. ‘Okay, Olivia,’ I declared abruptly, ‘what do you want?’
‘Straight to the point, as usual, Polly,’ she smiled. ‘I want to make a success of this new job.....’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘And, to be candid, gossip about my earlier indiscretions would make my position very difficult. I’d be really grateful if.....’
‘Tough,’ Eve sneered. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better than to make your life difficult.’
Olivia sat gazing into her glass. ‘If that’s how you feel, then I must make the best of it.’
‘That’s right, Olivia.’ Eve was enjoying herself. ‘Just like I had to.’
I asked, ‘Was that the favour? Keep quiet about the past?’
Olivia nodded. ‘I was afraid it would be too much to expect.’
‘You bet your sweet life it is,’ Eve agreed vindictively, and hauled me off to the bar for some more wine.
Waiting our turn, I said, ‘Scandal wouldn’t only hurt Olivia -- what about your husband and children?’
‘I know.’ She heaved a huge sigh of regret. ‘I can’t do it, of course.’ Then she grinned. ‘But Olivia won’t know that. And, oh brother, will I enjoy watching her sweat!’
Back at the table, I asked Olivia what she’d been doing since we last saw her, and she said, ‘After my husband died, I went to college. Before that.....’ she twisted the stem of her wine glass in her fingers. ‘Well, the film star thing soon fizzled out. Then I got married and went wherever my husband’s job took us. Africa, mostly.’
‘Africa?’ It was Melanie who spoke, but we were all surprised. ‘Who did he work for?’
Olivia named a well-known charitable organisation and I gasped, ‘You mean he was involved with famine relief?’
‘Yes, and at first I hated it. But I stayed and eventually it changed my life.’
Melanie was the first to find her voice. ‘I knew there was something different about you, Olivia.’
Olivia flashed her a grateful smile. ‘It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve finally learned to give instead of take.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Melanie,’ I chimed in, ‘can’t you see what she’s doing? She’ll take over your life again.’
Melanie shook her head vigorously. ‘What’s your new address, Olivia? I’d love to visit.’
‘Thanks, Melanie. It’s near St. Mark’s Church....’
I burst out, ‘But that’s the best area in town.’
Eve gave a cynical laugh. ‘Fallen on your feet as usual, eh, Olivia?’
Olivia’s lips twisted. ‘Not in the way you mean, Eve.’ And she removed the silk scarf from her neck.
We stared at her, dumbstruck. But we could see why she would be living near St. Mark’s Church. Olivia was wearing a dog collar.
THE HIDDEN TRUTH
Everything important in my life has happened in the autumn. It’s when I was born, married and had both my children. Yet, when the leaves start their annual fall, my first thoughts are always of a Sunday in late October, back in the fifties. When, at fourteen, I found out I was adopted.
Sunday was my favourite day as a child, for that was when Auntie Jean came to visit. She never missed, no matter what the weather. After lunch, out we’d go, just the two of us. Sometimes for a long walk in the woods, occasionally to the ice cream parlour on the sea front, or if it was raining, to the pictures. And how we’d talk; on and on for hours.
Auntie Jean was my godmother. She was also the youngest of Dad’s six sisters, and the only one unmarried. Mum told me once that auntie Jean’s fiancé had been killed in the war, but forbade me to mention the subject in my aunt’s presence, on account of her never having got over it.
Although I loved Auntie Jean almost as much as Mum and Dad, I simply couldn’t imagine her being eighteen and in love. She had kind eyes and laughed a lot, but I don’t think she had ever been really pretty.
On that unforgettable Sunday, Gran was staying with us. She spent two months of the year with each of her children. Apart from Aunt Lucille who, with her husband, Uncle Blair, was on the stage. They weren’t famous, but seemed to be perpetually on tour, so we saw very little of them. Still, I liked Aunt Lucille, I suspect mainly because she always remembered to send me a ten bob postal order for birthday and Christmas!
Yet, I often longed for them to have Gran too; anything to shorten her stay with us. Gran was a crabby old goat, forever nagging about something, and never offering me so much as a thank you for giving up my bed. We only had two bedrooms, which meant I slept on a camp bed when she was with us.
The minute Gran arrived she’d start complaining. ‘None of you want me, pushing me from pillar to post. I’d be better off in a home.’
‘Now, Ma,’ Dad would tease, ‘you’d have no-one to order about in a home.’
Then Mum would come in, all smiles, with Gran’s favourite parkin and a pot of tea. ‘Want a drop of you-know-what in your tea?’ Dad would grin.
Gran had a passion for Tia Maria, and always brought a bottle with her. Dad used to get some vodka in special to mix with it. He’d add cola and ice, from our new fridge, and only then did she mellow a little.
As Gran munched her parkin, she’d invariably bark, ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Veronica. Put your Grandad in his usual place.’ And for the next two months, the familiar vase, with a pattern of red roses on the outside, and Grandad’s ashes on the inside, stood on our mantelpiece giving me the creeps.
I once asked Auntie Jean why Gran took Grandad’s ashes everywhere with her, and with a queer little smile, she said, ‘A woman will hang onto anything that reminds her of the man she loved.’ And I knew instinctively she was thinking of her own fiancé.
On that Sunday, I was playing my new Elvis Presley record, dancing to the music all by myself, when Gran came into the room. She didn’t like Elvis. Disgusting, she called him. ‘I’m not listening to that tripe,’ she announced in her usual dictatorial manner, crossing the room to turn it off.
‘No,’ I cried out. ‘Don’t.......’ That was how she’d scratched my Buddy Holly record, but in my haste to stop her, I tripped over the hearthrug, frantically reached out to stop myself falling, and knocked Grandad’s ashes onto the stone hearth. The vase smashed to smithereens.
‘Now look what you’ve done, you stupid girl!’
Fear and the rare sight of tears rolling down Gran’s cheeks made me stammer, ‘I’m s-s-sorry, Gran. Honest.’ I tried to help her rescue all that remained of Grandad, but unfortunately, some of the contents had fallen onto the carpet. And that was my undoing. Mum always hoovered that room on Sunday mornings and, despite my very real fear of the consequences of what
I’d done, the vision of Grandad’s ashes disappearing into the vacuum cleaner, was too much. And I giggled.
Her face like thunder, Gran sobbed, ‘You wicked, wicked girl. God will punish you, mark my words.’
He didn’t, but she did, even though I honestly was sorry I’d upset her. When Dad came rushing into the room to see what was going on, Gran spat out the fatal words with vicious vindictiveness. ‘I warned you no good would come of adopting that girl.’
‘Ma!’ Dad’s face went white.
I looked from one to the other, my mind refusing to believe the implication of Gran’s words. ‘What does she mean, Dad?’ I whispered in a scared voice.
Gran opened her mouth, but Dad silenced her with one look. Putting an arm round my shoulders, he said, ‘Your mother and I couldn’t have children of our own, so we adopted you as a baby.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘If you’d been our own child we couldn’t have loved you more.’
I looked up at him and knew he spoke the truth. Ours was the happiest of homes, even when Gran was there. Yet, such was the shock that I was as breathless as if I’d been running. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because your real mother wouldn’t let him,’ Gran butted in venomously.
Dad’s voice went very quiet then, but there was no mistaking the steel in it. ‘Ma, if you say one more word, you’ll leave this house and never return.....so help me.’
Everything was happening so fast, I couldn’t take it in. I was trembling from head to foot, but I had to go on. ‘You mean, you know who my real mother is?’ Dad nodded reluctantly. ‘And my....father?’
Gran snorted, but said nothing, and Dad, picking up an empty vase from the windowsill, said gently, ‘Look, Auntie Jean will be here any minute, so let’s put this mess to rights first. Then tonight, after she’s gone, you and I will talk it over with Mum.’
That evening I learned my natural father was dead, and that the whole family had promised to keep my real mother’s identity secret until I was 21. I couldn’t have had better parents, but I felt I had a right to know the truth. ‘Surely it’s different now,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m not a child any more.’