by Tony Walker
I was early for the appointment and stood outside the gate to the Priory. The ancient stone church must have been an impressive building in its heyday, though much diminished now. Checking the time was exact by my watch, I stepped inside the huge doors and into the cool, echoing space. It was quiet, but I could hear the wind worrying and fretting outside. Near the altar, a middle-aged woman arranged flowers. I looked and saw no one else and was about to approach her to ask where Dean Lovegrove was, when he appeared at my elbow.
He laughed. ‘Did I give you a start?’
He seemed an unaccountably jolly man, out of place in that house of sombre stone. I smiled, unable to think of a ready answer. I was ashamed how jumpy I was, but my anxiety had grown all morning, not helped by seeing that thing in my room the previous night. I nodded and introduced myself.
‘I guessed it must be you,’ Lovegrove said. ‘The time, the place. And…’ he paused and looked around theatrically, ‘we don’t get many visitors.’
He was bright-eyed, active and thin. He reminded me of a starling.
‘Yes, I’ve come to talk about Reverend Kirkby.’ I glanced away. ‘Would it be possible to talk somewhere more private?’
The Deacon’s office was Dickensian. Filled with old books, candlesticks, a bundle of new candles tied with string, an inkwell and two dipping pens. I noticed Reverend Lovegrove’s hands were stained with blue ink. He beckoned me to sit on one of three ancient seats of old wood upholstered in cracked leather. There was hardly room for three chairs and his desk in the narrow room. The ceiling was high though and looked to have been partitioned off from the main church in the middling past.
He reached for a big leather-bound book. ‘Reverend Kirkby wasn’t it? He’s the one you’re interested in?’
I nodded. I felt myself flush.
Lovegrove turned some pages then stabbed with his inky finger. ‘Here he is. I never met him. He was vicar here until 1900.’
My heart thumped. I leaned forward. ‘May I see?’ As if just seeing his name would somehow make him more real, and that would make me real too.
Lovegrove was watching me curiously. I supposed my emotion must be showing. I tried to compose myself, show a stiff upper lip, giving a brief nod. ‘Yes, that’s him.’
Lovegrove cut through all my acting. ‘What was he to you? He seems to mean something to you?’
I hadn’t intended to say anything, or if forced, to give a brief lie about researching someone’s family history for a solicitor tracing beneficiaries of a will, but Lovegrove stared at me bright as a bird.
‘He was my father.’ I blurted it out.
He tilted his head, questions forming but searching for the delicate way to put them, but I spoke before he could ask me.
‘Yes, my name is Starkey. I was adopted.’
And that said it all. Adoption of a healthy child was only ever for one reason — the terrible crime of illegitimacy. I had no complaints; the Starkeys brought me up well. My adopted parents were my real parents in every detail but blood, but now they were both dead, it had freed me to go looking for who I really was.
‘I see,’ Lovegrove said. ‘Like I mentioned, I never knew him. There may be others on the staff here at the Priory who would remember him. I’m from Lancaster myself — a stranger to Cartmel. I’ve only been here ten years.’
I ran my finger over his name. It felt strange. There he was, a real person. I read once that illegitimate children always doubt their right to exist, as if their lack of legality denies them the right to be a person at all.
I frowned. ‘Where did he live?’
Lovegrove pondered. ‘The Rectory, I suppose.’
‘You mentioned staff?’ I said. ‘Long-serving staff. Is there anyone there who would have known him?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He looked distinctly uneasy then laughed, going back to his empty-headed starling routine with bright blinking eyes. ‘There’s Mrs Thwaites, the cook. She’s been there forever.’
I returned to the subject of my father. “Is there a gravestone?” I asked.
He folded his arms. “Not that I’ve seen.”
Usually, the Church of England puts up a plaque in the church for any vicar who dies. And then it struck me, he might not even be dead. That was a shock, and in a sense that made it worse. If he were dead, then that was his excuse for never wanting to find me.
The atmosphere grew uneasy, and I went to the door. As I opened it, Lovegrove said, ‘Just one thing, old chap.’
I stopped. ‘Yes?’
He cleared his throat. ‘It’s a lovely place, this. And old. The people are very friendly.’
I wondered what he was driving at. I stood and waited for him to continue.
‘But,’ and he grinned as if embarrassed, ‘they don’t like you poking about.’
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry? You think I’m poking about?’
He raised his hand to placate me. ‘No, no. It’s just they have their secrets.’
I said, ‘I’m not interested in uncovering their secrets.’ And then I thought: only mine.
I decided to go to the Rectory to see if Mrs Thwaites remembered my father. Or in fact anyone who could tell me what kind of man he was. But on my way over, my nerves failed me. I was passing by the tea-shop. A squall of wind brought sudden rain. There were no birds in the air, no cats on walls nor dogs on the streets, and no people visible. I stood indecisively then went put my hand on the door-handle.
But then, movement to my right made me stop and turn, even in the rain. A woman stood, huddled back into a narrow alley between two grey houses. It was the woman from my room. She stared at me like I was the only person in the world that mattered. She wore no coat. I stopped and looked. Thin, sad, and with eyes full of regret, she lingered and said, "I'm glad you've come.' Then she vanished, as if she were snuffed out.
I had the strange sense that despite the words, she was telling me to be careful.
The bell above the door of the Bluebell Teashop rang as I pushed my way in and dripped rain onto their lacklustre carpet.
‘My , you’re wet,’ a woman said. Middle aged, thick-waisted with brown horn-rimmed glasses and fashionably turned hair. I stood dazed.
‘Take a seat and I’ll come for your order.’
Without speaking I went to a round wooden table, covered by a lace tablecloth. A bowl of sugar-cubes stood with a silver spoon, and a small Willow pattern jug of milk. The designs of the bowl and jug did not match; they were not a set. The silver spoon was jammed among the sugar cubes, not lying uniform aside on the table.
‘What would you like?’ she asked, notepad and pencil in her hands.
‘Just tea, please.’
‘Would you like one of our fruit scones with jam and cream? Locally baked and the cream’s from Harrison’s at Blenkett.’
I shook my head without looking.
She looked disapprovingly at the drips of water. ‘You can hang your coat and hat up on the stand.’
I did what she told me, then she brought me tea.
The door bell tinkled again and an old country type came in.
The woman said, ‘Hello, Joe. Goodness me, man, you’re soaked.’
The old man laughed, revealing yellow teeth. ‘It’s nowt, lass. It’ll soon blow over.’
She smiled. ‘You’ve seen plenty worse I suppose, all those years in the graveyard.’
He sat down at what I took to be his usual table. He had the air of a regular customer.
‘Tea?’
He grinned. ‘Scone too.’
‘Coming right up.’
He looked straight at me. ‘Ow do?’
I nodded. ‘Well thanks. Yourself?’
‘Mustn’t grumble. No point anyway—nobody cares if you do.’
I managed a laugh at that. He seemed quite a character and I needed something to pull me away from my ruminations on the woman I’d seen in the doorway.
‘Aye,’ the man continued. ‘Seen much worse than this. I was s
exton here for fifty years. When you dig graves in the rain, they fill up with water. So we rarely did it in bad weather. But then if someone needs buried, they need buried, and if you get a week’s rain, you’ve just got to dig, whether the hole be flooded or not.’
And then I thought perhaps his line in conversation wasn’t what I needed after all and I went back to my tea.
I trudged down the long path to the Rectory between the rose-less rose bushes, leaves up, sheened with rain. I had my collar raised and hat down as the drizzle sleeted in sideways. I stood at the door and pulled the bell and then after minutes and me thinking no one would come, a stout woman in a pinafore yanked open the door. ‘The rector’s not in. He’s away at Lancaster.’
I forced a smile, the rain dripping from the brim of my hat. ‘Mrs Thwaites, is it?’
She looked suspicious. ‘Aye. Who are you?’
My voice wavered. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘You’re right. I don’t.’
‘It’s just I wondered if I could talk to you for a few minutes?’
‘What about?’
‘It’s a bit awkward.’
She didn’t let me out of my misery, just stared hard with bright blue eyes.
I continued. ‘It’s just that I think you might have known a relative of mine.’
‘Really? Where from?’
‘Reverend Kirkby. From here.’
And then her face softened. ‘The Reverend Kirby, as was Rector here?’
I nodded.
She said, ‘He’s been dead forty odd years.’ But her previous hard expression had gone.
So he was dead then. I nodded. ‘Yes. I mean I didn’t know that, but yes, I suppose.’
‘You didn’t know, but you say he’s your relative?’
I grimaced. ‘Sorry.’
She shook her head. ‘How did you not know that?’ But before I could answer she went on. ‘What was he to you?’
The quietness of my voice was a surprise to me. I said it like a small boy. ‘He was my father.’
She tilted her head as if she hadn’t heard right. ‘Your father?’
‘Yes. I believe so. My adopted father told me — just before he died himself.’
She stepped back as if some great revelation hit her. ‘So you never knew Reverend Kirby?’
‘No.’
Suddenly softened, she pulled the door wider. ‘You’d better come in.’
As I stepped through the door, she indicated the hat stand. ‘Hang up your coat and hat. I don’t want you dripping all over the floor. And you’d better take off your shoes too. They’re soaked.’
She said it in a stern voice but I sensed kindness underneath. I looked around. There were open doors to a neat, soul-less lounge and a tidy, empty-looking dining room.
‘Come through to the kitchen,’ she said.
The kitchen was more homely and there was a fire burning in the grate. A black cat, sleeping on the mat in front of the fire, looked up when I entered, then looked down again as if I was of no interest.
‘Tea?’ Mrs Thwaites asked.
I’d just had one, but I didn’t want to offend her by refusing. ‘Thank you.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Yes. Two, please.’
And so she made me a cup of tea and I gratefully dried my dampness by the fire. She offered me cake too, and I took a slice of home-made Madeira Cake.
When she sat down finally, she said, ‘I knew there was a child of course. Yes, and I think I knew it was a boy. Went for adoption.’
‘Yes. That’s me.’
‘Have you been happy?’ she asked, tilting her head.
I thought. Yes, I had been happy. My adoptive parents had been good to me. I nodded.
‘Good.’ She said, and I thought she meant I wouldn’t have been happy if I’d been brought up with my real father and mother.
She said, ‘Of course, they couldn’t keep you.’
‘Who?’
‘Reverend Kirkby and your mother. I’m sorry to say it was a scandal.’
I sat back. A scandal. I was a scandal.
‘I don’t mean to be unkind, but your mother was only nineteen and your father in his thirties.’
‘They weren’t married?’ I asked.
She looked at me hard, but not unkindly. ‘What do you think?’
‘I suppose not.’
She shook her head. ‘But still it was terrible. A terrible thing hereabouts,’ and then more quietly, she said, ‘I still see her sometimes.’
‘Who? My mother?’
‘Yes. I don’t normally mention it, not working for the Church and all, but my mother and grandmother were Wise Women. Folk used to come to them for charms and to have their fortunes told. I’ve got it too.’ She sipped her tea. ‘She hung herself in this house, you know?’
And I felt like I’d been punched. My mother hung herself?
Mrs Thwaites realised what she’d said and from my face how hard it had hit me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was blunt of me.’
She reached out and touched my hand. Just a touch of kindness then she pulled back and picked up her tea cup.
Hesitantly, I said, ‘Can you tell me about them? My father and mother?’
Mrs Thwaites looked as if she were considering whether telling me more was wise, but correctly concluded that the damage was now done, so she spoke. ‘Your mother, Lisa—Lisa Benn, was under-maid here when they had more staff. It was before the Great War. Your father came here, he was only here under a year and, I suppose you’d say they fell in love.’
She tutted. 'Well, it wasn’t done for a village girl and the Rector to go courting, so they kept it secret. And then…’ She wouldn’t meet my eyes. ‘Things took their natural course, as they shouldn’t have. And she got in the family way. He never denied it was his, which is what he should have done to save his position. He told the Bishop, and all hell broke loose.’
‘And then what happened?’ My voice was quiet.
‘They tried to keep it quiet, but this is Cartmel. And it wasn’t going to be kept quiet. It was a disgrace. She carried the child.’ She eyed me. She meant me.
‘And she was a thin thing, so the bump showed to the world. They sent Reverend Kirkby—your father—away. To Barrow, I think. And when she gave birth at home, they came and took you away for adoption. The Church did.’
I said, ‘But she hung herself?’
Mrs Thwaites nodded sadly. ‘When they took you away, she didn’t eat. Her old mother and father were worried sick, and they got the doctor, but he couldn’t help. Her heart was broken, you see. She’d lost her son and the man she loved.’
I didn’t know what I felt. Emotion rose in me like a huge black tide. It filled my heart and rose to my mouth, but I could not speak with the image of my mother’s sadness.
Mrs Thwaites went on. ‘And she let herself into the house. The Bishop and the new Rector had treated her most coldly after she gave the child up for adoption. Everyone said so, and in her anger and sorrow she came in here, went up to the attic where she used to sleep, and hung herself from a beam with an old rope she brought with her.’
She looked at me, reaching out once again to give my hand a brief touch. ‘I’m sorry, Mr…’
‘Starkey. John Starkey.’ I said. It was all I could do to mutter my own familiar name. But what was? Kirkby? Benn?
‘Can I fill up your cup?’ she said.
The brown china teapot had a hand-knitted woollen cosy warming it. Before I said anything she filled up my tea and put my milk and sugar in too, stirring the cup with a tarnished silver spoon. I watched the brown liquid swirl round and round.
Finally, I looked up. ‘But you see her, you said?’
She nodded gravely. ‘Not often. But she’s here.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘A thin girl with long brown hair, wearing a brown frock. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t give messages like some of them do.’
It was her. I suddenly st
ood. ‘I should go now.’
She looked concerned. ‘As long as you’ll be all right.’
I nodded, but as I went for my coat, I said, ‘Do I have any relatives? Cousins?’
Mrs Thwaites said, ‘No. Old Mrs and Mrs Benn didn’t have any family, just themselves. I think Lisa was a shock to them, coming late in life when they probably didn’t expect it. But they loved her. They never recovered from her death. They’re buried out there.’
She lifted a hand to point toward the Piory graveyard.
‘What about my mother?’
Mrs Thwaites shook her head as if I was ignorant. ‘She couldn’t be buried in consecrated ground. Not a suicide.’
Suicide. That word hurt me. Suicide. Bastard. Lots of nasty words. I said, ‘Where is she buried then?’
‘They took her away. I heard they cremated her and put her ashes somewhere. Not in Cartmel though. I don’t know. Your grandparents would have known, but they’ve been dead a long time now.’
‘And my father? Did he never come back?’
She frowned and fiddled with the handle of her teacup. ‘Well, yes, he did. But I didn’t know if I should tell you all of that.’
‘Tell me.’
She sighed. ‘He heard about your mother and he came back. It was against the strict orders of the Bishop and the new Rector, Reverend Keen wouldn’t let him in the house. There was a terrible row on the doorstep. Even though he was a clergyman, he cursed Reverend Keen saying how cruel he’d been to Lisa and how he’d driven her to take her own life. I was much younger then. I was standing, cowering in the house at the kitchen door, but I could hear it all and see it. There were tears streaming down your father’s face.’
As if trying to comfort me she said, 'There was no doubt that he loved your mother. It was just that the times wouldn’t allow it.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘But Reverend Keen wouldn’t budge. He kept telling your father to pull himself together and going on about discipline and how she was only a servant.’
