by Mary Gibson
At sight of her he stood up. Her brief glimpse of him in Bermondsey Street had been deceiving. Now, at closer quarters, he looked older than his thirty-seven years. The pale, freckled face was thin and full of fine wrinkles, and his wavy, sandy hair had begun to recede into a widow’s peak. But the hooded blue eyes were bright and vital as they first narrowed, then widened to take her in.
‘Hello, Dad.’ She hesitated in the doorway.
‘Katy? My little Katy?’
She was struck by a powerful longing as she remembered he’d been the only person ever to call her Katy. He opened wide his arms and she ran into them. Powerful arms that wrapped around her, clasping her tight against his muscular chest. He didn’t speak as he held her, but she heard his heart pounding. Perhaps a sign that he’d been as nervous as herself. Eventually, he held her at arm’s length.
‘You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman, Katy. The image of your poor mother.’
His voice sounded so different to her memory of it. Deeper, more cultured and assured, but to her his Bermondsey origins were still evident in certain words, and she was glad he didn’t sound like a complete stranger. Now, after all the years of anticipation, she was struck dumb, overawed by his presence. He led her to the armchair opposite his own.
She was facing the bow window and could just see the muddy Thames flowing fast and high beyond. It suddenly struck her that opposite this office, downriver a little, on the south bank, was East Lane. What if one day she’d been looking out of the dormer at the lights on the north side and one of them had been his? She felt sad at the thought, and angry too.
‘To think that all these years you’ve been just across the water.’ She turned her eyes from the window, back to his. ‘Almost touching distance.’
‘Katy, I’m sorry. Sorry I never came for you. Sorry I believed Sylvie when she said you hated me. I know now what a fool I was, but I thought it was for the best not to upset you…’
She dropped her head, studying her tightly folded hands, noticing the knuckles had turned white. ‘I never hated you,’ she whispered, then went on as he leaned forward to catch her words. ‘I always loved you, Dad, and I always knew one day… one day… you’d come back.’
‘It makes me feel so much better to know that. Nora’s told me a little of what you went through and I can’t help blaming myself. I knew Sylvie was a money grubber, but I never expected she’d treat you so cruelly. I hear you’ve been nothing more than a servant in that house.’ His large fist curled and he thumped the arm of his chair. She hadn’t found him cool, as Nora had warned he might be. He’d greeted her warmly and now the blue eyes flashed and seemed to burn. ‘Treating you like a skivvy! My daughter!’
She was wearing a green shift frock, with short sleeves and a white-trimmed collar. He seemed to be scrutinizing the frock and she felt an instant’s awkwardness at its cheapness. Without warning, he stood and in one quick stride was beside her. Lifting her arm, he asked, ‘Is that an old injury?’
The long white scar hadn’t seemed to fade over time. It stood out a stark reminder of that violent encounter with her aunt.
‘Oh, that. It’s not old. Last year I give Janey a broken nose for saying bad things about Mum. So Aunt Sylvie give me this.’ She twisted her forearm so he could better see the scar. ‘Stuck a kitchen knife in me. But that’s in the past. It did me a favour!’ she said, affecting a false, bright tone. ‘She chucked me out and I’ve been a lot happier living on me own, fending for meself.’
His eyes narrowed, so that the hooded lids almost obscured their brightness. Smoothing the scar with his powerful, pale hands, he said in a low voice, ‘Sylvie will regret she ever laid a hand on my child.’
If only he knew how many times she’d felt that hand. But she wouldn’t tell him, not now, nor ever.
‘And did they always disparage your mother?’
‘I never believed them, Dad.’ She’d called him Dad, but the word seemed to mock her dreams of this day, for he didn’t seem at all like her dad.
‘They were against her from the start. Always complaining I’d married beneath me.’
‘But you didn’t think that, did you?’ she asked.
He shot her a questioning look. ‘How could I? I loved your mother!’
He let her arm drop and went back to the armchair. ‘But now I want to hear everything. Everything you remember from your childhood to this day, everything that happened at Sylvie’s. All the unkindnesses, all the slights, all the pains.’ He’d obviously seen through her pretended unconcern. ‘What’s your earliest memory?’
He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned in closer. The large hands massaged each other and his intense blue eyes seemed ready to record every incident of her life. She felt her heart swell. She drank in the attention. This was what she had wanted, what she’d imagined it would be like to have him back. He was interested in her. Finally, she was happy.
‘I remember the day you left…’ She paused, and he interrupted.
‘No, before that. Surely you must remember when you were very small and we lived in the garret?’
She smiled. ‘I remember little things. Mum reading me fairy tales – she had such a beautiful soft voice – and even the scary bits didn’t bother me, because she was there…’
She had noticed, while sitting with him, that his energy was channelled into a constant motion. He was either kneading his hands together or jiggling a foot or rubbing his face. But now his whole body was stilled. ‘Yes, your mother was a great reader. Unusual for someone of her upbringing and heritage. The tragedy robbed you of so much – I wish you’d known her for longer. Remember anything about me from those days?’ he asked, raising a thick, sandy eyebrow.
He seemed eager and she didn’t want to disappoint him by saying ‘you were always away’, so she said, ‘I remember when you came home you always made a fuss of me, and I remember how Mum used to give you all her attention and then I had to sleep in my own bed. I used to get a bit jealous!’
He laughed, the first time she’d heard that laugh in twelve years. It was more like a small explosion.
‘You were always her little darling. There was nothing to be jealous of. From the day you were born, you were first in her affections.
‘And the tragedy, do you remember that? I wasn’t a good father to you then… I didn’t explain, I was so wrapped up in my own grief. I’m sorry.’
She noticed he had twice referred to her mother’s dying as ‘the tragedy’, as if it was easier for him to deal with a tragedy than a death.
‘I don’t, remember much about that night. Just the next morning when Aunt Sarah told me Mum had gone to heaven. It felt so lonely without her, and I remember I wouldn’t let go of your hand. After you left me, being lonely just become a way of life.’
He reached across the small distance between them, taking her hands in his, and with fierce urgency said, ‘You’ll never have to be lonely again.’
13
Mudlark
She wanted to tell everyone. But most of all she wanted to tell Aunt Sarah, the one person about whom her father had expressed interest. At his office, when Kate had mentioned his eldest sister, his face had clouded with sadness.
‘I would have liked to stay friends with Sarah,’ he’d admitted. ‘She did a lot for me when I was a boy. I was only twelve when your grandmother died and Sarah brought me up. But it turned out her and Sylvie are cut from the same cloth when it comes to money. As soon as I started making a success of myself it was all about what they could get out of me.’
‘But they’re not really the same, Aunt Sarah hates Aunt Sylvie!’
‘That’s just jealousy – Sarah thought I was giving Sylvie more. My family!’ He’d shaken his head sadly.
She’d wanted to stick up for her Aunt Sarah, to say that the woman had idolized him, but how could she know anything for certain about either of her aunts when Sylvie had lied to her for years, deliberately scuppering all her childhood hopes and dreams?
‘Perhaps Aunt Sarah’s changed. She’s getting old and she’s all on her own. I think she’d just like a visit from you…’
He hadn’t answered; instead, before she left, he’d asked her not to mention their reunion to either aunt. ‘Leave all that to me,’ he’d said. ‘They’ll find out soon enough.’ But he hadn’t forbidden her to tell anyone else.
*
The bookshop closed for three months in the summer. Ethel and her husband went on holiday to France, and the volunteers, many of whom were students, went back to their family homes. The orange shutters went up and the lectures and meetings ceased. Kate was surprised to find she missed Ethel and the women volunteers, for in spite of all her misgivings, she’d come to regard them as friends. But the more pressing loss was that of a good portion of her income, which was why she’d welcomed Martin’s proposal of a new painting.
He’d finished his preliminary sketches and on a Saturday afternoon shortly after her meeting with Archie Goss, she went to Martin’s studio. Now he was arranging her into just the right pose in front of the tall windows – which were a torment on this hot afternoon. Even though Martin had opened the windows, not a breath of air penetrated the room. She was hot and impatient.
‘Why does it take so bloody long to set me up? You’ve got the sketches, can’t you just do it from those?’
‘What I’d really like to do is take you down to the Thames, tie you to a post and leave you there till the tide comes in!’ he replied testily, bending her body forward a little and tilting her head. She was meant to be looking for treasure in the Thames’, mud and he wanted her to hold something between her fingers, then look up at him, as if she’d just found it.
‘Perfect! Stay like that, it’s exactly the way you looked when you found that clay pipe!’
It hadn’t been much of a find. ‘I wish I’d never taken you down the foreshore,’ she grumbled, which was true. Not just because she’d set herself up for some uncomfortable hours holding excruciating poses, but because it felt disloyal to Johnny. Mudlarking had always been their childhood game, even though it probably had more significance in her memory than his. Most of the time when they’d played along the foreshore, he’d barely noticed her, which had only spurred her on to find some special treasure, one that would stand out from the endless fragments of green glass and tarnished metal. One time she’d found a silver coin, with an indistinct face on it. She’d given it to Johnny. And when they’d started courting, he’d told her he still had it. She hadn’t believed him, until he’d brought out a little black bag of his own finds and there amongst them was her silver coin. She’d taken it as a sign that they’d always been bound – the coin sitting there for all those years had silently spoken of a love she’d never uttered. Now she didn’t like to think of it. Perhaps she’d taken Martin to the Thames to punish Johnny. In any event, she now regretted it.
Today in the studio she had on the same small-brimmed straw hat she’d been wearing on their day of mudlarking, when Martin had made sure to take off his smart two-tone shoes, tying the laces together and slinging them around his neck. His white trousers, rolled up to his calves, had soon been mud spattered, but he’d just laughed, saying it was a small price to pay for buried treasure. He’d soon tired of searching out the flotsam and jetsam, though, and had leaned against a piling, sketching her against the backdrop of Tower Bridge. They’d soon attracted the inevitable attention of kids combing the mud and he’d seemed to enjoy that too, including them in his sketches. The thing about Martin, she had to admit, was that he was at heart a happy person, and when she was with him, she found it easy to be happy too. Besides, she couldn’t be grumpy for long. The secret happiness about her father which she carried would break out at the oddest times. She’d passed Stan in the street and found herself smiling at him. He’d almost smiled back until he remembered that he hated her and told her to sod off. Now, in spite of her aching back as she held the pose, she smiled again.
‘That’s a very nice smile, but it’s changed… you had the expression just right before.’ Martin was working swiftly at his blue outline.
But she couldn’t repress the smile.
‘All right, what is it? Let me in on the joke.’
‘It’s no joke, Martin. It’s the best thing that has ever happened to me!’
His face fell. ‘You’re back with John Bacon,’ he said, laying down his brush and coming to her.
She shook her head, standing up straight. ‘No, I’m not.’ She paused, savouring the moment. ‘I’m back with me dad!’
‘Your father’s home! Kate, that’s wonderful news! But how?’
‘It was an accident. I just spotted him in the street one day.’
Martin’s smile was full of genuine warmth and delight. ‘And he recognized you?’
‘He didn’t see me, but I got in touch and we’ve met and… Oh, Martin, I’m so happy!’
‘I’m delighted for you, Kate! I know how much this means... And did he explain why he lost touch?’
She appreciated that ‘lost touch’. It seemed so blameless, she and her father, like flotsam and jetsam on the Thames, no choice, no harm, just drifting apart. She was glad she could now give Martin the plausible, real reason, and it wouldn’t reflect badly on her father.
‘It turns out my aunt told him I hated him and didn’t want to see him!’
‘This can wait for later.’ He wiped his hands and covered the painting. ‘Come and tell me all about it.’
They went into the sitting room and he poured them some wine. ‘To celebrate! I wish I had champagne.’ He smiled as he chinked his glass against hers. ‘So, you bumped into him in East Lane? Had he come back to see the aunts?’
‘No, he doesn’t want to see them, says they’re money grubbers… Actually, I saw him a little while back outside the bookshop, with Nora.’
‘Nora?’ A flush rose from his neck to his cheeks. ‘What on earth would your father have to do with Nora?’
‘I can hardly believe it meself – I couldn’t take it in, but it turns out my dad is Nora’s husband!’
‘Chibby?’ Martin rubbed his temples, smearing them with blue paint like pagan tattoos. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to doubt you, it’s just confusing. Let me get this straight, your surname’s Goss?’
She nodded.
‘But his is Grainger?’
‘He said he despised the Gosses, so he took his mother’s maiden name.’
His eyes narrowed, and she saw a flicker of distrust. ‘But how can Nora’s husband possibly be your father?’
It was clear he wasn’t happy for her now. ‘You mean how can someone of Nora’s class be married to someone from mine?’ she snapped. ‘Well, I’m telling you, Chibby is Archie, my dad, and if you don’t believe me, ask Nora.’
She snatched off the straw hat, which unaccountably was still on her head. ‘I knew all this stuff about being equal was a load of old codswallop. I’m going.’
He stood and caught her hand. ‘Kate! Don’t go. I didn’t mean that at all. It’s just such a shock. Sit down again, please. You forget, I’ve met Chibby and there’s no hint of a Bermondsey accent and he certainly never refers to it.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t, he hasn’t got a good word to say about the place.’
‘And you’re convinced he’s telling the truth – about his long absence being your aunt’s fault?’
‘Of course he’s telling the truth! He did admit he wasn’t the best father, said he should have come for me whatever Aunt Sylvie said.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
Martin looked away and then got up to pour another drink, which she refused. He strolled to the window and looked out over the small back courtyard.
‘I think I should let you make up your own mind about Chibby – or Archie. What are you calling him, by the way?’
‘Dad.’
Martin laughed and sat down again. ‘Look, I haven’t
had a lot to do with him personally, it’s only what I hear from Nora. But I don’t think he makes her happy.’
‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t make him a bad man… I mean, he’s not a wife beater or anything, is he?’
She watched as his face reddened. ‘You would have to ask Nora.’
‘I did notice something. The first time I saw her…’ Kate pointed to her own throat. ‘Fingermarks, here, and another time, a cut eye. You see it a lot where I come from, and believe me there’s not enough doors in Dockhead for all those women to have walked into! I was sure it must be her husband did it, but now I know that’s not true.’
Martin’s mouth tightened into a straight line and, leaning his chin on his hand, he stared at her. ‘Who do you think it was, then, if not him?’
‘Jealous lover?’ She tried to sound casual, but had wandered into a quagmire of her own imaginings and was finding it difficult to extricate herself.
‘Say what you mean, Kate.’ He’d put his wine down, his expression unusually hard.
‘You said Archie doesn’t make Nora happy, but I reckon you did… once, and when she went back to him you didn’t like it.’
‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said sternly. ‘Nora and I are just friends.’
‘Oh, Martin. I saw the painting of her – in that pile you “did for love”! I’m not an idiot.’
‘And I’m not a bully. Do you really think I’m capable of hurting a woman?’
‘No. But sometimes things can get out of hand. I broke Janey’s nose once in temper. I just need to know, was it you, or was it me dad?’
Without warning he stood. ‘I think I’d better drive you home. Your question’s a double-edged sword, Kate. Worthy of a good barrister. What if I said it was your father that hurt Nora? You’d think I was lying – or, if you believed me, you’d hate me for spoiling your new-found happiness. And if I said it was me? You’d throw me over in an instant!’
She wished she’d said nothing now – he was naturally offended and hurt. But when Chibby had just been Nora’s anonymous husband, the relationship between those three had had nothing to do with her; now Chibby was her father, it did. She laid a hand on Martin’s arm as he helped her on with her coat. Turning to him she said softly, ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I know you wouldn’t hurt a woman. I just can’t believe my dad would either.’
