by Louise Wise
Only Grace had never realised that Ben and Camilla were sitting at the end of her bed.
‘Sorry Don, sorry… but you knew, didn’t you?’ Grace had muttered. Her words were surprisingly clear, and her pale face was tense as if determined to make herself heard. ‘Knew th-that Camilla wasn’t… wasn’t yours. I’m sorry. Camilla is Peter’s daughter. Thought I loved him… but I was wrong… wanted to tell you before… before… sorry…’
Ben stiffened on the edge of the bed; he didn’t dare look at Camilla. She sat in the old rocking chair. She had been reading Heat magazine aloud to her mother and Ben could see her rapidly whitening knuckles as the magazine crumpled in her hands.
‘She thinks you’re dad,’ she said at last, and Ben finally looked at her. Her face was shockingly pale, and her eyes sparkled.
‘Cam –’ he began.
But Camilla rose and went to take one of her mother’s paper-thin hands lying on top of the pink duvet. ‘What was that, Mum?’
Ben stood from the bed and looked down at mother and daughter. ‘She said, “Dad wasn’t your real father”,’ he offered.
Camilla’s blue eyes snapped up at him. ‘I did hear,’ she said.
Grace’s eyes were closed, but she smiled as she heard Ben’s voice. ‘I’m sorry, Donald. Love Cammy for me…’
‘“Camilla is Peter’s daughter”,’ Ben quoted, frowning deeply. ‘Who is Peter?’
‘My God!’ said Camilla, her hands flying to her cover her mouth. She was clearly shocked, but Ben’s only ability to deal with this highly emotional situation was to analyse it so he could fix it.
‘The only “Peter” I know is Peter Fielding but he died before you were born, so he –’
‘Ben!’
Ben stopped, and stared at her stupidly. ‘What?’
Camilla knelt beside her mother’s bed, and stroked her hair. ‘Mum,’ she said. ‘Who’s Peter? Who’s…’ her voice wobbled, and Ben’s heart cracked at her distress. ‘Who’s my father?’
Grace’s eyes remained tightly closed, her face serene but pale.
‘She can’t have meant what she said, Cam,’ Ben said trying, as always, to ease the situation.
Camilla stood. ‘It explains everything.’
‘It explains nothing,’ Ben said. ‘Please keep your voice down. Mum…’ he made a motion with his head towards the thin form of his beloved parent.
But Camilla was too wounded by the colossal secret her mother had revealed. It all made sense now; her blonde hair, whereas the rest of the family was dark; and her detached relationship with Donald. Ben was helpless to watch the calculations chase one another across her face before she raced from the room to seek out Donald Middleton, the man who she once believed was her father.
Ben didn’t follow; he’d rather not listen to another of their arguments. His father and only sister were the most volatile people he knew. It may turn out that biologically they weren’t father and daughter but somehow they shared the same temperament.
Ben sat in the rocking chair, watching his mother’s face. She looked peaceful. Was she in pain? The nurse had assured him she wasn’t.
‘Autumn is almost upon us, Mother,’ he said. ‘The garden is littered with leaves already.’
Grace remained passive; her eyelids closed. Her breathing had altered: became shallow and Ben’s stomach spasmed.
Footsteps sounded outside the bedroom, and then voices in the corridor. The voices were angry – Camilla and his father. Camilla sounded distraught. Donald, Ben could imagine, wore his usual face of disdain and not one of reassurance, as he should.
But what had Camilla expected? Donald had never been demonstrative towards his children – the opposite was true in fact. He called it character building.
Accusations, blame and an entire childhood of resentment rained upon Donald as Camilla screamed at him. Ben sat in the rocking chair, gripping the arms, unable to move.
‘Now I know why I didn’t fit in!’ Camilla yelled. ‘I wasn’t yours! I was the product of another man!’ The laugh that followed was hollow. ‘Shame mum didn’t leave you for him, and take me with her.’
‘A shame indeed, it would’ve solved a whole lot of heartache!’ Donald bellowed back, and Ben winced.
Ben slipped from the chair, and on his knees at his mother’s side, he pressed his lips to her cold temple. It felt like marble. ‘Don’t listen,’ Ben whispered, closing his eyes. He held his lips against her forehead as if to shield her from the onslaught that was going on outside.
‘Don… promise… look after Cammy…’
‘I promise,’ he said.
The argument outside continued while he sat over her; her breaths becoming further and further apart. She died as Camilla and Donald yelled.
Ben sobbed, while the argument raged and as he listened, helplessness set in. He hated confrontation, always had done. It had been a tortuous six months while his mother battled with her illness, and with Camilla’s parentage suddenly under speculation, Ben felt overwhelmed. But a promise was a promise, even if his mum had thought she was talking to her husband.
And now, five days on they were burying Grace, together with the rest of her secrets from 1991. Since then, Camilla had been silent and withdrawn, but it shouldn’t have been a surprise. She’d lost both her mother and her father all in the same hour.
Ben looked at his father again. His back was rigid. His father hadn’t taken his wife’s death well; or had it been the disclosure of his once-thought-daughter’s parentage? He’d collapsed after Ben had broken the news that Grace had died. Ben and Camilla thought he had a heart attack and called 999, but once at the hospital it turned out to be angina.
People’s heads lowered as Reverend Church read a prayer.
‘Do you think he knew all this time?’ whispered Camilla. ‘You know, about the, er, affair?’
‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back. ‘But if he didn’t, finding out like that must’ve been one hell of a shock.’
‘It was a shock for me too, Ben,’ she said.
He wanted to explain that what he meant was that their argument might not have been the cause of his angina attack because he knew she was still beating herself up about that. The shock of finding out that your daughter wasn’t really yours, would be a big enough blow for any heart condition. But while he hesitated, Camilla said,
‘At least Miss Piggy has stopped making that stupid noise.’ Nicole’s tears had quietened to small snuffles. ‘What do you see in her?’
He was surprised by her question. It wasn’t one he had thought about to be honest. His father had arranged their first introduction, and Nicole had slipped into his life as if she’d been around forever – like a scar. They had been seeing one another for several months, and whereas Nicole saw their relationship as potential marriage, Ben saw it as keeping his father off his back.
Donald wanted Ben to settle down and take over the business affairs. And as Ben showed little interest in dating – his head always behind a telescope or inside a book, Donald saw it in his duty to find him girlfriends, and had found him Nicole.
And Ben, being Ben, had accepted it without question.
‘You let Dad pick your girlfriends just like you let him run your life,’ she continued. ‘He’ll destroy you like he destroyed Mum.’
Ben didn’t answer. She was needling him for a reaction but she wasn’t going to get one. She was hitting out. It was understandable. Even so, her words didn’t rest easy on him.
‘Not now, Cam,’ Ben begged her. ‘It’s mum’s funeral.’
‘Please stand for hymn number five hundred and thirty-five; Oh the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus,’ said Reverend Church, and Camilla fell silent as everybody rose and began turning pages in their books.
‘Oh, I think I shall faint,’ said Nicole. She fanned herself with her hymnbook. ‘Ben, darling, help me?’
As Ben turned to place an arm around her waist and help her to her feet, Camilla swore beneath her breath and ran from the chur
ch as the congregation began to sing. The Reverend had thrown back his head, his robed arms flailing, and was singing with full enthusiasm as Ben mumbled the words from the hymnbook. His gaze fell on the back of his father’s head again. The old man was looking straight ahead and singing with clarity.
Nicole was singing as though Simon Cowell was on a judging panel, and Ben began to edge away, hoping nobody would notice.
Outside, there was no sign of Camilla among the gravestones or trees. He jogged down the gravelled path towards the gates and car park. She had refused to come in the funeral car, and had instead used hers. And now Ben knew why – her car passed him at a crawl.
Her window rolled down. ‘Grow some balls, Ben,’ she said, and then she was gone. Her car disappearing out of the car park as Ben looked on.
THREE
Charlie sat at her desk submitting stationery orders. Ordering the stationery, arranging interviews and filing were her main tasks alongside fielding insults between Faye and Sarah.
She had only been at London Core for six months and within her first week, she knew everybody’s name. She wasn’t nosy, or prone to gossiping, it was just that she loved people; loved being a part of a team. It was a poor substitute for not belonging to a family. She never knew her parents. Her father was marked as ‘unknown’ on her birth certificate, and her mother died a junkie. Apparently, she was lucky to be alive. Worried neighbours reported hearing a cat crying in an empty flat and called the RSPCA.
The RSPCA inspector found a woman dead from a drug overdose and a fretful month old baby lying in a blanket-lined box. The baby had been looked after, and was obviously loved going by its well-fed state and the pretty pink clothes it laid in. A teddy, with a pink bow, was in the box with the baby – the same teddy that now sat on her bed at home.
She was day dreaming. What she needed was an idea, she mused to herself. An idea for a story, and to write it herself! That’d surely boost her chances for being kept on? Charlie beamed as she thought and tapped a pen against her head as her mind thought up, then dismissed, ideas.
‘What’re you grinning at?’ asked Faye passing her desk.
Charlie didn’t answer; she hadn’t heard. A snake of an idea had slithered into her mind and seemed determined to wriggle away before she could grab hold of it.
‘Oh, flipping ‘eck, Charl’s thinking!’ shrieked Faye to anyone who was listening.
Melvin swung around, telephone clamped to his ear. ‘Thinking?’ he asked.
‘Huh?’ Charlie clicked back to the present, and noticed people looking at her.
Melvin laughed at her puzzled face. ‘You were miles away, doll.’
Charlie’s brain finally caught up with what Faye had said, and she turned to haughtily glare at the woman who was ordering a tea, while checking her hair in the metal surround of the vending machine.
‘I was thinking of a story, actually,’ she said. ‘And it was good!’
Faye looked over. ‘You know, thinking and good, aren’t always in the same room as you, Charlie. Are you sure you just didn’t mistake wind for thinking?’
Melvin burst into laughter, and Charlie tried to look indignant. ‘Oh, shurrup,’ she said, ‘and bring me a coffee.’
‘Mel!’ Mr Fanton shouted from his office and Melvin’s laughter stopped as if someone had pressed an ‘off’ button. Fanny beckoned him over and he scurried off.
‘This is it,’ Charlie said. ‘Our P45s.’
‘You’re worrying over nothing,’ Faye said, bringing over a drink. She sat at her desk saying, ‘Machine’s giving out teas only today so be grateful.’
‘Ta,’ said Charlie and watched Melvin enter the office, and through the window she could see him and Fanny talking. Melvin didn’t look upset. In fact…
Melvin dashed out of the office and back to his desk looking excited. He searched for something in his drawer.
‘What’s up?’ Charlie hissed.
‘Can’t talk now. Busy, busy, busy,’ he said as he rummaged. ‘But the two recent disappearances have been linked together.’
‘What disappearances?’ asked Charlie, throwing a pen lid at the back of Faye’s head to gain her attention as Melvin scurried away excitedly.
Faye spun round from her computer. ‘Stop frigging throwing things!’ She pulled out the pen lid from her hair and threw it back. It landed on Charlie’s desk. She picked it up and placed it back on her pen.
‘So what about these disappearances?’
‘Oh, keep up, Charlie! The prozzie vanishing act,’ Faye said in irritation, and when Charlie just looked blankly at her, she sighed. ‘Have you always been stupid?’
Charlie grinned. ‘No, today is a special occasion.’
Faye controlled a smile as if afraid it might make her look approachable. She cleared her throat. ‘A prostitute went missing back in August and now another’s been reported missing. Get it now? Is there a chink of light in that dark recess for a brain of yours?’
‘But how are they linked?’ Charlie asked.
‘Tell me again why McDonald’s didn’t recruit you? Under qualified?’ Faye said, before she swivelled back around on her chair.
‘Oh, you’re so funny, Faye. A bit like Hitler.’
‘Well, how would I know how they were linked? I’m not in frigging CID! I suppose it’s because they are all whores. Who knows? Who cares? We’re linking them together!’
Melvin came back looking flushed. ‘Busy, busy, busy,’ he said. ‘We’ve got ourselves a new headline.’ He put his phone on speakerphone and keyed in a number and listened to it ring while typing furiously on his computer. ‘We’ve a possible Jack the Ripper copycat except we’ve no bodies yet,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘We’re going to be the first to leak it. It’ll attract media coverage and will really help pull Core out of the rag status. Fanny thinks it’ll be our weapon against Sir Don making redundancies.’
‘It’s his own redundancy he’s worried about,’ Faye said.
Charlie had sat back in her chair. ‘How do they know the missing women are dead if there aren’t any bodies?’
‘It’s only a matter of time. The police are treating their disappearances as suspicious. And we’ve the main lead. Ah, Pete…’ he said towards the telephone as the connection was made, he continued to type on the keyboard as he spoke about the missing prostitutes.
‘Oh, my.’ Charlie’s eyes grew round as an idea trickled into her mind. ‘A prostitute story.’
FOUR
Ben opened the French doors and stepped onto the terrace. The leaves on the trees were beginning to turn red and orange; the summer lost to his mother’s illness. Her death had been expected but that didn’t make it any less painful.
‘Nicole’s still upset,’ Iris, the housekeeper said from behind, causing Ben to jump. The last of the guests had left, and Ben had been hoping Nicole would leave with them. ‘She’s in the loo making sure her makeup is smudged in all the right places.’
Ben’s lips twitched. Iris, God bless her, did not miss a thing. He closed the doors against the chill of the early evening air, and walked back into the crayoning room, so called because as a little girl, Camilla insisted it was better than saying drawing room, and since then, the name stuck.
He fell into a sagging easy-chair and watched as Sandy, the family tortoiseshell cat, strolled over to contemplate whether to jump up on his lap or not. She’d been hiding from the guests, and now felt it safe to show herself again. Ben tapped his lap absently to tempt her, but Sandy sat on her rump, lifted a hind leg and proceeded to clean her bottom instead.
‘She tried to turn my mother’s funeral around so everyone felt sorry for her. She didn’t even know Mum!’
‘Nobody fell for it,’ Iris said. She had a black bin bag in one hand and was tossing in rubbish as she walked around the room. The wake had been a simple affair at home: nibbles and cake.
‘Why’d I let Dad arrange for us to meet? We’re totally unsuited.’
‘She’s a good catch,’ s
aid Iris.
‘She’s the daughter of a managing editor from a newspaper in our group. That’s the only reason we’ve been pushed together.’
‘You’ve a tongue in your head, tell her!’
Iris was another person who thought he should ‘grow some balls’. Camilla’s parting shot still rankled with Ben. Rankled, he supposed, because there was some truth in it. Here he was, a twenty-nine year old man still living in the family home, with a job handed down from his father and a girlfriend found for him by his father. And to top it all, being scolded by his father’s housekeeper!
He scowled, and watched as Sandy looked up from her bottom cleaning, lowered her leg and strolled over to jump up on his lap. He stroked her ginger ear.
‘Tell her today if that’s how you feel,’ Iris said. ‘The longer you leave it the harder it’ll become.’ Iris believed in speaking your mind, and that was probably why she always felt exasperated with him in allowing his father to manipulate him. She had also been the family’s housekeeper since Ben was a baby so he was used to her being familiar.
Iris stopped what she was doing to look up frowning. ‘What happened to Cam? I saw you follow her from the church mid service, poor love. Is she in her room?’
Ben bit his lip. ‘No, she had to leave. She’s gone to stay with, er, gran.’ The lie slipped out easily. ‘We all knew Mum was going to die, but… I guess we were still unprepared for it.’
‘They were close,’ said Iris. ‘And you? You spent most of the wake in your observatory. How’d you see stars during the day?’
‘You can’t,’ he admitted, ‘I was escaping from Nicole.’
Iris clicked her tongue. ‘Tell her it’s over.’
‘I’ve tried, but it isn’t that easy. She has a hide like a rhino, and my words, “Nicole, I’m sorry but there is no future for us”, is translated into, “darling, here’s a huge diamond engagement ring”.’ He looked up, and saw Iris smiling which she tried to hide when she saw he was being serious; that was half his problem. He was too serious. He didn’t like to take risks and valued routine, whereas his father had a reputation for plunging in headlong and taking huge gambles. Their personalities clashed, he guessed.
