She closed the diary and sat quietly trying to concentrate her mind on Isabel’s wedding which deserved her attention. She would check the modest invitation list with Isabel. At the last count there had been twenty-one guests.
The cake was already made – a large fruit cake which had been wrapped with a pink silk ribbon, dusted with icing sugar, and would be decorated with a single rose on the day. The simple wedding ‘feast’ would consist mainly of a large ham, a game pie, eggs in cream, a salmon and salad.
The wedding ceremony had been booked and also an hour reserved at the church for the rehearsal. As far as Olivia knew, the choice of hymns was still not settled but the organist had said he could play almost anything so there was no urgency.
Sighing, Olivia had just slid into the bed when a knock on the door revealed Izzie, in her nightgown and wearing a big smile.
‘I must tell you, Olivia,’ she said, settling herself on the side of the bed. ‘Bertie has found us a very nice flat a mile or so out of Canterbury – which he can afford – and it will be vacant by the time we want it!’
Delighted and relieved, Olivia hugged her. ‘That’s wonderful news, Izzie. Tell me more.’
‘It’s on the ground floor and some of the first floor. The owners are at the top of the house and they are an elderly couple. It has a front room, one bedroom, and a sort of scullery-cum-kitchen with a door on to the garden where we can hang our washing, but they also use it and grow a few vegetables.’
‘It sounds perfect for you, Izzie. I’m sure Bertie’s parents are pleased.’
‘Very pleased! They were getting a bit worried,’ she admitted. ‘We’re going to show it to them some time and I thought you might like to come along at the same time – or later if you prefer. The previous tenants have only just moved out so it might be in a bit of a mess but we can go in a week early and smarten it up. Bertie thinks it would look much better with a pretty wallpaper and a quick lick of paint.’ Breathless, she paused, regarding her sister with something akin to triumph. Gulping in more air she went on. ‘So hopefully by the time Father arrives, we can show it to him. You didn’t think we’d find anything, did you? Anything suitable, that is.’
‘I was certainly getting worried for you but now you’ve—’
‘Bertie says that if Father arrives before the wedding his parents will invite him for Sunday lunch so that they can see for themselves what sort of man he is.’
‘How very kind of them!’ So they wanted to see what sort of man Bertie’s father-in-law would be, thought Olivia, and who could blame them? Presumably most parents would want to satisfy themselves on that point before launching their only child into matrimony. Not having enjoyed the benefits of parents herself, Olivia felt herself at something of a disadvantage. There was no problem, of course, unless they disapproved of Jack Fratton. But what could she do about it? Absolutely nothing.
As if reading her mind, Izzie asked, ‘They will like him, won’t they, Olivia? Because if they don’t . . . I mean it won’t get us off to a good start if my in-laws disapprove of him.’
Olivia stifled her own misgivings and smiled. ‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t like him or why he should not like them! I’m sure Mother would have chosen a fairly decent man to marry.’
‘But twenty years . . .’ Izzie shrugged. ‘Fingers crossed then, Olivia!’
Olivia gave her sister what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Trust me. Everything’s going to be fine.’
‘Do you feel it in your bones?’ Izzie headed for the door.
‘I do!’ Olivia agreed, but as she watched her sister go she uttered up a silent prayer.
The next day, which was Monday, found Alice in her gallery which was closed as usual. Halfway to her desk she heard the letter fall through the front door on to the mat.
‘Whatever it is, it can wait!’ she muttered, pushing her spectacles into place on her nose. It was possibly a bill from the picture framers or an invoice for the batch of flyers from the printers advertising the forthcoming exhibition . . . or a reminder from the dressmaker for the skirt and jacket she had ordered – the pale green silk she would wear at Isabel’s wedding if she attended the event. It was a long way to travel and she resented anything that took her away from her work for longer than a few hours but she knew Isabel would expect her to make the effort.
If she did not travel to Kent the skirt and jacket would also serve for the forthcoming gallery exhibition which would be opened by the mayor. Alice smiled with deep satisfaction at the prospect of his attendance. Persuading the mayor had been a really delicate manoeuvre because it meant that he and his wife would have to cut short their trip to London by one day and his wife had not been very happy about that.
She was also not very happy with the fact that her husband had allowed himself to be persuaded by ‘that frightful woman’ – a phrase she used in private to refer to Alice Redmond who, she declared, was suspiciously good-looking for a woman of her age and not averse to using ‘womanly wiles’ to get what she wanted – particularly where men were concerned. Alice had learned all this by a roundabout route and, far from being annoyed, was secretly immensely flattered. She knew she looked much younger than she was and that her charm was undeniable. Where charm failed she would use steely determination to succeed. Alice Redmond was used to getting her own way and very few people stood up to her for long.
She firmly believed that if the mayor wanted the position he must expect to make a few sacrifices, especially if it meant his name would be in the local newspaper, which it surely would be, and alongside that of Alice Redmond. The Redmond Gallery was well known in Newquay and for miles around and the mayor’s attendance would benefit his career as well as enhancing the reputation of the gallery. Not that the mayor knew the first thing about artistic works of quality but his attendance would suggest that he did.
Alice glanced around her. The desk was strewn with sheets of paper covered with drawings and scribbled notes. She was trying to plan the position of each of the paintings that would be on display and it was not an easy task. The easiest solution was to hang them haphazardly – small, large, watercolours and oils – but Alice disapproved of this system and was constantly searching for a better way to display her works of art.
Some galleries hung several works by one artist together but this could look clumsy. Others grouped the paintings by subject matter carefully related to a common theme . . .
She sat back, frowning, trying to decide whether or not she could possibly attempt a themed approach, and then sighed. How different it would be when Luke was with her. The frown was replaced by a broad smile. Then the two of them would discuss the various problems and come to a shared decision. It would be time for her to teach her godson all she knew about managing a successful gallery and she would enjoy imparting her knowledge. For years she had worked alone, waiting for the time to come when her dream would be realized.
‘And we’re almost there!’ she whispered.
As she pushed up her spectacles yet again she recalled the letter and, pushing back her chair, stood, stretched her back carefully and made her way to the front door, wondering what little ‘extras’ the dressmaker had invented.
Minutes later she was standing in a state of extreme shock, one hand to her heart. ‘He’s coming back!’ she whispered. ‘Oh God! The arrogant wretch is coming back! How dare he?’
All thoughts about the coming exhibition had vanished from her mind as she tried to grasp the enormity of the disaster. She moved slowly to her chair and sank on to it. Her heart was beating too rapidly and she could hardly breathe as Olivia’s words leaped from the page:
. . . I don’t know how you will feel about our news but I feel you would want to know at once that Father has written to say he is coming home! It is the very last thing any of us expected, believing he must surely be dead or at least out of our lives forever.
We don’t know what to expect and to be honest we don’t know whether to be pleased or sorry that he is
coming. Luke seems the least concerned . . .
Alice gave an unladylike shriek. ‘Oh Luke! Stay well away from him! He will cause you nothing but anguish!’
She read on, her heart still racing:
. . . Theo seems fairly unconcerned but then he is no longer living here and his thoughts are tied up in the cottage they are moving into and the approaching birth of the baby.
Izzie is delighted – you know what a romantic she is. She sees him as a knight on a white horse but she, too, will be married and no longer living here so I shall end up on my own with him and I am trying to think positively but cannot yet come to terms with the notion that I have a father who, after years of silence (not to mention neglect!) has re-emerged.
I’m hoping, Aunt Alice, that you can find some way to bring the light of reason into this strange and difficult situation . . .
‘Strange and difficult?’ Alice stammered, for once totally at a loss. ‘That’s putting it mildly! It’s downright disgraceful. How can Jack imagine for one moment that he will be welcomed back into the family after the way he has treated everyone?’
Slowly she read it through again, trying to imagine the scene when they first read Jack’s letter. Trust Izzie to get herself into a flutter, she thought with a dismissive shrug. Silly child. She was always very excitable and living in a fantasy world. Too many fairy tales as a child with too many happy endings. Alice tutted disapprovingly. Always dressing up and play-acting – and still doing it! Much too immature to marry.
‘But what’s done is done,’ she said aloud. ‘I fear this story will end badly for her if I know Jack Fratton – and God knows I do!’
Olivia had said she was enclosing Jack’s letter but had obviously forgotten to do so. ‘Still in a state of shock, poor girl,’ Alice muttered unhappily.
Her thoughts drifted. When Jack had first announced his imminent departure, Ellen had begged him . . .
Alice clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘No! Don’t go back there!’ she warned herself. ‘It’s all in the past. Best that it stays there!’
Not so many miles away on the outskirts of Canterbury, Dorcas Hatterly regarded her husband unhappily. She was arranging a few long-stemmed roses in a vase which would stand in the hallway. Usually she enjoyed the task but today her mind was on other things – on one thing in particular.
Wesley Hatterly sat on the third step of the staircase, looking wary and confused.
‘The thing is, dear,’ his wife explained, ‘that we must give this affair proper thought. We know nothing about this man who is going to be our son’s father-in-law and if we know nothing, we are at a great disadvantage. Supposing he is not at all desirable. He will be grandfather to Bertie’s children!’
‘That could be . . . that is, he might not be unsuitable. Aren’t you looking on the black side, dear?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘I grant you he may appear to be a suitable person now but suppose we discover, when it’s too late, that he has an unsavoury past. Then what will we do? Should we allow our only child to marry in haste and discover serious problems later on? Do we want our future grandchildren to be scarred by their association with him?’
‘But Bertie and Isabel are already betrothed, Dorcas. We can’t expect Bertie to break off the engagement on the off-chance that we don’t like him. It would be all over Canterbury in a moment and if he is a charming man we would look very foolish.’
Dorcas glared at the roses, snatched them from the vase and took up the secateurs. Distractedly she began to cut two inches from each stem. ‘The alternative might be to watch our son’s marriage damaged by revelations from his father-in-law’s past! The man might have another wife back in America!’
‘Another . . .? Oh my Lord!’ Shocked, Wesley stared up at her pale face. ‘Do you know something I don’t know?’
‘Only hints. Snippets of gossip. Whispers of rows within the Fratton family – before he left the second time, that is.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The way I heard it, the postman arrived at their house one day and heard a big argument going on and he took a quick glance through the letterbox and saw one of the women rushing up the stairs sobbing and—’
‘The postman has no right to—’
‘Don’t interrupt, dear! He claims he was worried that things might go too far.’
He blinked. ‘What do you mean? Fisticuffs?’
Dorcas shrugged. ‘Let’s just say these things do happen and not just among the lower classes.’
‘But Isabel was only a child then. Maybe not even born! How could she be involved in a family quarrel?’
‘I’m not saying she was involved. I’m saying that things were going on in the family and we don’t know what they were. Nor do we know why the father went rushing off the way he did – to America, of all places. It was a mystery then and it still is.’
‘And all I’m saying, Dorcas, is that it has nothing to do with Isabel.’ Wesley dug his heels in. He had always liked Isabel even though she was a bit of a scatterbrain. She was young and she would settle down. ‘She cannot be to blame for anything that happened before she was born!’
She sighed heavily. ‘Poor Wesley, you are too innocent. Ever the optimist! You cannot grasp the problem, can you; cannot see ahead. I’m not blaming Isabel. I’m trying to protect our son from what might be a disastrous marriage. And please don’t say we must hope for the best. That is not good enough for our Bertie.’
Her husband fell silent, thinking hard. ‘You said one of the women was rushing up the stairs. Surely there was only one woman there. Ellen Fratton.’
Dorcas shook her head. ‘You’re forgetting the godmother who eventually brought them up. She often stayed with them. Alice Redmond – Ellen’s best friend.’ She sighed. ‘Oh why did Bertie have to choose a young woman like Isabel? I’ve nothing against her as such but she hasn’t lived a normal life.’
‘Steady on, dear!’ Wesley protested. That’s a bit hard.’
‘I’m being practical, dear. I’m facing facts. A young woman learns how to be a mother by sitting at her own mother’s knee and poor Isabel has never known a mother’s love. She has had no one to learn from.’
‘But now she has you, dear.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘And they had the godmother.’
Dorcas rolled her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t expect a man to understand the nuances of the matter but never mind.’ She gathered the roses into one hand and jammed them back into the vase. ‘Oh no!’ she wailed, her voice trembling. ‘They’re too short now.’
After a short silence Wesley leaned forward, clasping his hands, his elbows on his thighs. He said cautiously, ‘I thought you liked Isabel. I thought you approved of her.’
‘I did. I do.’
‘You don’t sound very sure. Whatever would Bertie think if he could hear you?’
She fiddled with the roses, not meeting his eyes. ‘Maybe Bertie is also having second thoughts. I mean, this wretched business with the father rather changes things, don’t you think?’ She turned to him abruptly. ‘I think you must have a word with him, dear. Just to reassure us that his feelings haven’t changed towards her. He is so loyal – he may not wish to say anything.’
He straightened up. ‘Oh no! Not me! It’s your idea. If anyone has to say anything it must be you.’
‘You’re his father! It’s your duty.’
‘Jack Fratton might be a very charming man!’ he said desperately. ‘He obviously has a conscience or he wouldn’t be coming back to them. His good instincts have got the better of him and . . . and maybe he regrets his past mistakes. He may be longing to put matters right.’ He regarded his wife hopefully.
‘And he may not!’ She snatched the rose from the vase for the second time. ‘I do so hate roses!’
He stared at her. ‘They’re your favourites, Dorcas! Always have been. Do you remember when I sent you a dozen red roses and they were—’
‘Not these. They are so . . . so damned intractable!’
Turning abruptly, Dorcas walked back towards the kitchen, her face crumpled, her shoulders slightly bowed, and he knew that within minutes she would be in tears. He stood up slowly, one hand on the banisters. Maybe she was right and maybe not but a few words with Bertie, tactfully chosen, might help to clear the air and could certainly do no harm.
Two days later, just before midday in a cheap rooming-house in Dover a man stood in front of a small swing mirror, staring fixedly at his own reflection while countless questions filled his mind and gave him serious concern. How would he look to the family, he wondered. Weird in some way? Foreign? He shook his head unhappily. Would they be waiting with open arms or would they be deeply resentful?
‘They’re not going to welcome you!’ he muttered unhappily. ‘Hardly going to hang up the bunting!’
Why should they? Their father had abandoned them twenty years ago, near as dammit, so what right did he have to turn up uninvited and expect to be greeted with open arms? There would be no banner saying ‘WELCOME HOME’! The more he thought about it, the more he admitted that this journey had been ill-considered at best, and stupid and utterly futile at worst.
He ran a hand over his short beard and wondered whether to shave it off. Once it had been a bright sandy colour but now it was mostly grey. Not that it mattered. None of them would remember what Jack Fratton looked like – except maybe from an old photograph – and obviously he would have changed his appearance over the years. But he looked like a roughneck. Would they care or would they be totally uninterested? Hostile, even. If they were, he would understand.
Ever since deciding to return to England he had clung to the idea of a reunion and had even imagined a smiling family, with forgiveness in their hearts, rushing down the path to greet him. Now he was within a few hours’ travel from Canterbury this vision was fading as the doubts crowded in.
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