The Lost Twin

by Diana Finley

  ‘Will you go on calling me Donal, Anaïs?’ I whisper.

  She looks at me contemplatively for a long time. Her dark eyes fill with tears. She rests her head on my chest and strokes my shoulder.

  ‘Yes, of course I will call you Donal … always, I will call you Donal, because that is the name you were always meant to have. It is the name your mother, Marie, called you when you were born.

  ‘It is what she always called you when she spoke of you, which she did very, very often, and still does, because she has loved you – and longed for you – every day of her life, every single day since the sisters forced her to give you away …’

  Anaïs sits up and looks at me. ‘And, Donal, you should know that I too have fallen in love with you.’

  She holds me, holds me tightly, while I weep.

  Chapter 45

  2004

  Donal

  Anaïs does not go back to Blackheath that night; she remains with me in my apartment, in my bed. Neither do we have much sleep; there is so much for her to share with me, and so much for me to share with her. We talk and talk.

  Firstly, I tell her more about Barry’s initial letter to me, requesting that I meet him; I actually show it to her. I tell her how taken aback I was to receive it, to hear of a brother of whose existence I knew nothing at all.

  I explain about my initial reluctance to meet him, and my subsequent decision that I would meet this only relation that I knew of. I tell Anaïs of my excitement and thrill – as well as my terror – at the prospect of meeting him and getting to know him. She strokes my forehead sympathetically.

  Next, I tell her the full story, the details of what happened the day I first went to meet Barry in Durham, and how odd he looked with his beard and his hat and his sunglasses.

  ‘No!’ Anaïs exclaims several times during the account. ‘He pretended he had glaucoma?! Ah, so now I know why he grew that beard suddenly. We all wondered why he decide to grow one. I suppose he didn’t want people to see you together, looking the same, hmm? Looking like twins.’

  I remind Anaïs how the newspaper article had got some crucial details wrong: of course it was not me, ‘Robert Carlton’, who had been found dead in the heather on the top of a remote hill in the Cheviots as the paper claimed – it was Anaïs’s ex-husband, my brother: Barry Tully. She exhales and shakes her head to imagine the scene.

  I go on to explain that when I found Barry dead, I was very shocked and deeply frightened, and totally unsure what to do next. Up there on that isolated, cold place, it was only after a while of fear, sorrow and confusion, that a tentative idea developed, and ultimately became a decision to change clothes, and temporarily change identities, with my brother. At first, I had been tempted simply by a desire to be close to Barry, to hold him and embrace him, even though I knew he was dead. Yes, I admit, then I was finally drawn predominantly by my longing for the contact with a real family, above all, a mother.

  I describe for Anaïs my former life: the harshness and emptiness of my childhood, the lack of any warmth or love until Len and Betty took me to their home and their hearts, only to die before I was old enough or ready enough to live confidently in the world. She shakes her head in sympathy. She presses my head to her breast, and murmurs ‘Mon pauvre, mon pauvre Donal.’ Her tears scald my cheeks.

  ***

  Anaïs tells me how Barry had been possessive from the very start of their relationship. At first she had thought it was due to the depth, the intensity of his love for her. She was initially flattered. As time went on he had become increasingly controlling, checking up on her every move, isolating her from her family and friends. To the outside world he appeared a devoted husband – but at home his obsession with her and his unpredictable mood swings became oppressive, and more and more threatening.

  He kept his drugs habit concealed during the early years of their marriage, but gradually Anaïs began to suspect. When she asked him about her suspicions, he became uncontrollably angry, and violent towards her for the first time.

  It was Marie who confronted Barry about his drug-taking, and his abuse towards his wife, and his impatience and anger, even with his infant daughter Nina. Furious with her son, Marie responded with threats of her own by telling Barry she would disinherit him if violence, or threatened violence, ever occurred again – thereby targeting one of the areas that she knew meant the most to him: money.

  To Marie’s sorrow, the marriage had been crumbling day by day. With her support, they separated – Anaïs and Nina moving to their small house, and what they hoped was a place of safety. Barry was not provided with keys. He sold his flat in Putney, and moved to one in north London, some distance away from Blackheath – the flat she and Donal now inhabited.

  For the first year or two apart, Anaïs’s trusting nature led her to hope that in time Barry would somehow be helped to come off drugs, regain his failing health, and see the error of his ways. She even hoped that, one day, perhaps a reconciliation might be possible.

  She could not be so tolerant or forgiving of his threatening behaviour towards their child.

  ***

  Eventually, physically and emotionally exhausted, Anaïs and I drift into sleep for a few hours. It’s an unbelievable joy for me to wake in her arms, lying in her gentle embrace the following morning – to know our union has been real and not a dream.

  Having breakfast together that morning is a new experience for me. Apart from the brief time with Tracy, the last time I’ve had company at breakfast was when I lived with Len and Betty.

  While Anaïs showers, I rush round the corner to buy some fresh croissants. Seeing her in my dressing gown, pottering contentedly in the kitchen to make a pot of coffee is sheer delight for me. There’s an intimacy in the simple activity of preparing breakfast together – almost greater than our lovemaking. It brings a lump to my throat. I feel intensely happy, ridiculously happy. I put my arms round her and hug her, breathing in the soft scent at the base of her neck.

  ‘What?’ she says, turning to face me with a smile, returning my embrace.

  ‘You’re wonderful.’

  ‘You are wonderful too …’

  Chapter 46

  2004

  Donal

  My mother, Mum, Marie – how strange and how lovely it is to have someone to call Mum! I love saying all her names. She is such a wise, warm-hearted woman, such a brave woman too. I don’t have to think about whether I love her. It’s as if I always have. It’s hardly two weeks since we met, but it feels much, much longer. A part of me feels I have always known her. Yet, if only we could have come together sooner, how wonderful that could have been. All those sad and difficult years gone by … But, as she said, we shouldn’t grieve for what hasn’t been, we should be happy with what has happened now. She’s right, but how different life could have been for both of us if we’d never been separated. I know how much she’s suffered through missing me, her son – and I could certainly have done with her love and support – just her maternal presence over all those many harsh years.

  How I wish she had both her sons, both restored to her as she’d yearned for … but that’s never to be, never again. We’ll both miss Barry for ever more.

  With Mum’s guidance, by the end of our day of family discussion, we’d decided to engage a lawyer and to contact the police in Newcastle. We agreed I would be open and honest about all that has occurred. It feels somehow redemptive and liberating to know that everything is to be revealed; there will be no more secrets. But it also feels a risky and frightening path for me to follow. It scares me, but it’s Mum who gives me strength.

  We found a lawyer specialising in complex family enigmas and disputes. He quickly grasped the situation and was encouraging in his absolute agreement with our plan to reveal the full truth of Barry’s and my identity, exactly what occurred at our planned meeting in the Cheviots, and what has happened since then.

  Mum was relieved to learn that a full post-mortem has confirmed absolutely that Barry died
of natural causes – kidney failure leading to a heart attack. There was no question of foul play. Mum was assured his death would have been sudden and quick, any suffering brief, for which we were all thankful. Barry’s body is to be released for the family to arrange a funeral as they wish.

  The police talked to me in strong terms about the seriousness of identity fraud, but they concluded that I was not motivated by financial gain, nor other sinister purpose. The excellent lawyer also explained that I had been extremely shocked and distressed to find Barry dead, and therefore could not be regarded as acting rationally. So, to my enormous relief, the police decided not to charge me.

  All the family agreed that no one has suffered by my initial deceit in pretending to be my brother. In fact, Mum asserted that Barry had himself benefitted greatly from educational and financial advantages, and the generosity of Erna Goldstein for nearly forty years – advantages which I, as his twin brother, should strictly have shared. So, it is agreed that any financial gains I might have briefly acquired by adopting Barry’s identity should be sorted out within the family.

  The Crown Prosecution Service decided that, in the circumstances, nothing is to be gained by pursuing a prosecution. I am free to go, they said. We are all free to go and get on with our lives. A huge weight is lifted from my shoulders.

  ***

  Barry’s body is brought to London for the funeral. Mum wants him buried near her friend and his, Erna Goldstein, who had been so fond of Barry. I get the impression that Barry’s feelings for Erna were the nearest he came to loving anyone, but I don’t share that thought with Mum.

  It’s a sad little ceremony – Mum, Anaïs, Nina and me – and Mum’s good friends Sylvia and Elsie, whom I’d met last week. My family’s growing bigger by the day! So, that’s it: six mourners. Not much to show for nearly forty years of life – but probably more than I would have attracted if I’d died before making contact with my family. Apart from dear Belle, bless her.

  Once the funeral is over, it feels as though we can all look to the future. With everyone’s agreement, I let it be known to my small circle of new friends and acquaintances, who know nothing of my background or Barry’s – people like Oliver at the café, Hector the runner downstairs, and Esther my other downstairs neighbour – that I’ve decided to change my name from Barry to Donal. It was my original name, I tell them – the last untruth I ever want to tell.

  I don’t feel it’s necessary to tell these recent contacts the exact truth about having taken my brother’s name and identity, but neither do I want any further lies to persist. So I just explain that I’d been named Donal as a baby by my birth mother, but that my adoptive parents had given me a different name, as was their right. Now that I’m in close contact with my birth mother, it feels right to use my true original name. Nobody expresses suspicion, or even surprise, at this news. My explanation is accepted without question, and gradually people become used to calling me Donal.

  Mum and I arrange to get a duplicate birth certificate sent to me. Now Donal Tully really exists – I’m Donal, and he’s me! No one can argue with that. My newfound proof of identity enables me to replace my fake driving licence with a real, official one in my true name. I’m able to register with a GP and a dentist, even request a passport. As Robert Carlton I had never attempted to obtain any of these documents, other than one allowing me social security payments.

  I’m suddenly aware of how very fragile my hold on existence had been. As the official documents build up, so too does my confidence, my sense of my own reality, my own identity.

  Step by step we arrange other changes to my life. Much as I like Barry’s apartment, I want a home that’s mine, Donal’s not Barry’s. I want to be closer to Mum, and above all, I want to live with Anaïs and Nina. We agree there have been enough changes in Nina’s young life for the time being, and that one stability we can arrange is for the three of us to live together in Anaïs and Nina’s house in Blackheath. After a couple of years, we may consider moving somewhere different, but there is no urgency for that step.

  Chapter 47

  2005

  Marie

  Donal and I have long discussions together. We had so many years to catch up on. It’s his suggestion to arrange a visit to Ma in Ireland as a priority, before it’s too late. I show him a letter, left for me by Erna Goldstein just before her death, in which she urges me to make contact with my family, to arrange to visit them before it’s too late. Not that I hadn’t tried before, but Da ruled the roost at home, and had told Ma and all the family I’d emigrated and was out of contact. It was only after his death they discovered that was untrue and I’d written regular letters home, all secretly hidden away in Da’s desk. Since then, Bridie and I have been in weekly contact. She, Ma and my brothers and sisters couldn’t wait to see me and ‘the boys’. Sadly, I had to tell them all of Barry’s passing, but they all longed for the rest of us to visit. At eighty-seven Ma’s too frail to make the journey to England.

  ***

  So here we are – Donal, Anaïs, Nina and I – just arrived at the airport in Ireland. My brother Jack meets us and drives us the distance to the village I left as a girl of barely eighteen. I’m amazed at the wide new roads that have replaced the narrow, rough lanes, and the smart new houses that have grown up at the edge of the village. I notice the green is still there; the site of the fair all those years ago, the site of my ‘downfall’. There’s a bright, new children’s playground on one side, and at the edge, colourful flower beds that hadn’t been there before. The pub has a few more tables outside, but is otherwise unchanged. Jack drives out of the village and on to the farm. I’m astonished to see the little house has been extended and two new barns built across the yard. How grand it looks!

  Sadly, my eldest brother Shaun had died in an accident with the tractor some years before. It’s Jack who runs the farm now. Bridie had said all the family are dying to meet us. They’re all there; Ma of course, and Bridie, Nuala, Grace and Ava, my ‘little’ sisters, now ageing ladies like myself! Also Jack’s wife, my four brothers-in-law and my sister-in-law, Shaun’s widow, and all the great horde of their children and grandchildren. Donal can’t believe he’s part of such a large tribe! No way can we match them in numbers, but our little family group is reinforced by Anaïs – now Donal’s wife – who was eager to come with us, and Nina, of course.

  There are hugs and tears galore, and plenty of good Irish craic. Nina is passed from her grandmother to her aunties and great-aunts, to be admired and kissed and chatted to. She impresses them all by changing from speaking French to English and back again at the drop of a hat.

  Two long tables are fair groaning under all the food, and there’s gallons of drink to ease the conversation along, not that we need it. Neighbours from miles around arrive to have a jar and cast their eyes on the family’s ‘English contingent’. Half the night is taken up with music and dancing, and the wee ones skipping about in the middle of it all ’til they’re shooed off to bed or drop asleep on the floor. I’d nearly forgotten how we Irish can enjoy a shindig.

  Ma and I can hardly take our eyes off each other. She keeps a hold of my hand all the evening long, shaking her head in wonder from time to time, her sodden handkerchief clutched in one hand, the tears a steady stream down her cheeks.

  The days that follow are taken up with catching up on family news that stretches over the previous thirty-five years or so, our throats sore from the endless talk.

  ‘I wish I could have met Mrs Goldstein,’ Ma says to me as we’re preparing to leave. ‘I’d have thanked her for taking in my precious daughter, sure I would, and poor baby Barry, bless him.’

  ‘I thanked her enough times for both of us, Ma,’ I tell her.

  ***

  Just as we’re setting off for home, Jack tells us to come and look what he’s given Ma. It’s a fine-looking computer.

  ‘You’ll never need be out of touch again,’ he says. ‘Skype. You’ll be able to talk and see each other, just as if y
ou’re in the room together. We’ll show you how to do it, Ma.’

  Ma nods happily at the thought, but I must have looked anxious for a moment. I’ve never progressed beyond the little colour television Erna had given me years before – still working, but a bit fuzzy these days. I’ve never moved onto computers. Would we manage all the fancy new technology? Donal steps forward, smiling. He puts his arm around me and squeezes me.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum, Jack and I have been talking about it. I’ve already ordered a bigger colour television for you, to replace your little one. And we’ll get you all set up with a simple computer and all you need for Skype at home. I’ll show you just what to do. It’s easy when you know how, and Jack’s been showing me.’

  ***

  And so it is. I talk to Ma four or five times a week. There she is on my screen; we can see each other just like in the flesh. What a miracle technology is! Another visit to Ireland is planned for Christmas time too.

  And Donal? That miracle doesn’t need technology at all. He and I see one another every other day and I still can’t get enough of him! Next month the four of us – Donal, Anaïs, Nina and I – are going to France to visit Anaïs’s family, and have a holiday in the golden sunshine of the south.

  The loss of Barry is a deep pain I’ll have to live with for ever, I know that. He had so many positive qualities, but like most of us, he had his flaws too, and perhaps he allowed those to dominate sometimes. I hope he knew how much I loved him, and that I always will.

  Gripped by The Lost Twin? Don’t miss Finding Lucy, another unputdownable novel from Diana Finley. Available now!

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  Acknowledgements

  My huge thanks and appreciation go to my dedicated and meticulous editor, Cicely Aspinall, for her consistent expertise.