The Stranger in Our Home

by Sophie Draper

  Steph xx

  I didn’t understand – something about Danny, she’d said. About how he died? Why would it be better coming from Sarah Chandler, who clearly hated me, rather than my own sister?

  CHAPTER 41

  Now that my knowledge of Danny had returned, the snatches of memory from those early years grew, little things that sneaked up on me as I continued to clear the house, triggered by objects or a fleeting sense of déjà vu.

  Like the bucket I found under the stairs, stuffed with dusting cloths and a bar of soap. I had a flash of Elizabeth watching me as I played outside with a man – my father I presumed. He was laughing as I threw water at his face from a small bucket. Elizabeth snatched the bucket from my hands and told me off.

  ‘Oh, let her be,’ said my father. ‘She’s only little.’ He swept me off my feet and threw me in the air. I whooped with glee as he caught me, swinging me round so that my chubby legs flew out and I whooped again.

  It was only a brief memory but it meant the world to me, that one small insight into my father.

  I found a photograph of Elizabeth and her friend, Sarah. On holiday, I thought, quaffing wine in some European street café. I didn’t have to try very hard to remember Sarah Chandler. She’d been a part of my life for far longer than my dad. She was the woman at the Wassail, the posh lady who’d also been at Elizabeth’s funeral with her tame umbrella-bearing husband. Older, greyer, but I knew her now as Elizabeth’s closest friend.

  When I thought of her role in my childhood, it made sense, the antagonism. She’d often stepped in for Elizabeth, ‘dealing’ with me when Elizabeth could bear no more, that’s how it must have seemed to Sarah. Disgust ran through me.

  I didn’t want to call on her. She’d snubbed me completely at the funeral and had been little better at the Wassail. But Steph had told me to visit her, that I would learn something about Danny. What else was there to know?

  I didn’t have her address. I couldn’t ask Craig, even as an excuse to call him. I’d left him a message after all, but he still hadn’t been in touch. It had been a week since finding Angus McCready’s body at Alton Heights and there hadn’t been one word from Craig. I knew he was fine – there was smoke coming from his workshop chimney. But I was anxious and angry. Didn’t he care how I was feeling? It felt like neglect after we’d been so close, even though it was only a week. At the very least he could have called. I was confused.

  No, I wasn’t going to ring Craig, or walk across to him. I was determined to leave him be, for now at least. I would ask Mary Beth. She seemed to know everyone in the village already. She could surely tell me how to find Sarah Chandler.

  I rang Mary Beth first thing the next morning. She was kind and concerned – had the village gossips done the rounds already? More irrational swearing from ‘the nutcase’. I felt guilty lashing out at that poor woman in the Co-op like that – it made me no better than Angus. I kept it short and a little while later I was driving through Larkstone. There was no point ringing Sarah Chandler for an appointment first, it would surely be a no.

  It was wet, the rain gleaming on the kerbside and the stone walls of the buildings looking browner and darker than normal. The houses glowered at me like monastic priests ripe with disapproval. Marsh Lane was off the lower end of the High Street, leading down towards a brook. One large house stood at the end, with a wide frontage. It was exactly as Mary Beth had described it – another Georgian creation with multi-paned windows in original glass, heritage-green paint and a glossy black front door. Two bay tree planters had been placed one on either side of the entrance like it was primed for a photo shoot with Country Homes & Interiors. I rapped on the door.

  After a few minutes, a woman opened the door. It was her, in white slacks, blue heels and a blue and white striped jumper. I remembered her clearly now, not just from the funeral or the Wassail. My hands clenched behind my back.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice was piercing and instructive at the same time. I felt as if I’d been dismissed already.

  ‘Er, is it Mrs Chandler? I’m sorry to disturb you. We met at the Wassail. I’m Elizabeth’s stepdaughter, Caro,’ I said.

  She looked at me for a moment.

  ‘What do you want?’

  No pretence at friendliness, then.

  ‘I’d really like to talk to you, if you could spare me five minutes? I know you were her friend and, well, I … I’ve got something which I’m hoping you can help me with. I’m trying to settle her affairs.’

  I couldn’t exactly come straight out with it: what can you tell me about Danny?

  She considered me for a moment, then nodded. She stepped back to let me in. The hall was as beautiful as the front of the house, with original stone flooring and a wide sweeping staircase. It reminded me of Larkstone Farm, but better cared for. She pushed open a door and we passed through into an elegant Farrow & Ball sitting room, all white chandeliers and discreet grey tartan sofas. She nodded her head and I sat down.

  ‘Is there some kind of problem?’ she said.

  Oh God, I thought, how do I even start this?

  ‘The estate includes a cottage next door,’ I said, improvising.

  Sarah nodded. ‘That would be Lavender Cottage.’

  I nodded back. ‘I hadn’t realised, you see. But it’s occupied.’

  ‘Craig Atherton, yes. He rented it from Elizabeth.’

  ‘Erm … He, that is …’ I hadn’t a clue what I was saying, anything to get her talking. ‘He has her dog?’ That hadn’t come out quite as I’d intended.

  Sarah blinked once, slowly.

  ‘I couldn’t take Patsy – a dog in this house …’ She waved her hand. ‘I’m not a dog person, and Craig was more than happy to take her in. He knew Elizabeth well. I’d say Elizabeth was genuinely fond of him, and besides …’

  There was a pause. She appeared to assess me, as if working out what, if anything, I knew. My heart skipped a beat. Or remembered? I really didn’t want to go there. She spoke again, her voice clipped …

  ‘In many ways, Craig was like a son to Elizabeth.’

  The words hung in the air between us.

  She looked at me speculatively, as if deciding what to say next.

  ‘Why do you ask, Miss Crowther? About Craig and Lavender Cottage?’

  She couldn’t bring herself to call me by my first name. I could see the revulsion in her face at the very idea.

  ‘I wanted to know how close they were as we have to make some decisions about what to do with the cottage. I didn’t like to ask him direct. I’d like to do the right thing. You know.’ I waved a hand.

  Sarah was smiling now, as if something had dawned on her and it pleased her. I couldn’t for the life of me think why.

  ‘Craig has lived in the cottage for several years. It’s his workplace as well as his home. If you insist on selling, you could perhaps at least give him first refusal,’ she said.

  I nodded again. ‘Yes, that would be kind, of course, I can see that.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  I pushed my hands over the knees of my trousers, an old habit. I was getting nowhere with this.

  ‘Steph said …’ I was stammering now, unable to formulate a question that made any sense. Danny was the one thing I didn’t want to mention to this woman.

  ‘Elizabeth hated me!’ I spoke in a rush. It was almost a confession.

  Now we’d got to the heart of the matter. Sarah observed me, like a heron staring into a pool of water, its long beak ready to stab.

  ‘You took away her son, her only son. She loved that boy! Then she had to look after you, foisted upon her by her husband, philandering bastard that he was.’

  I lowered my eyes, trying not to think of Danny cold and unconscious on the floor, me standing beside him, crying, my tiny hands covered in blood. Wake up, Danny, wake up! How could I blame this woman for how she felt?

  I lifted my head.

  ‘What do you mean, philandering? What about Elizabeth? She must have
known he was married. It was her who had an affair with him, whilst he was still married to my mother!’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘My sister.’

  ‘Your sister … Stephanie? She told you what exactly?’

  ‘That Elizabeth married my father after our mother died, bringing Danny with her, the son from their affair together.’

  ‘Really? Is that what she said?’

  Sarah leaned forward in sudden intensity.

  ‘I think you need to check your facts, Miss Crowther. Elizabeth had always been married to your father, long before you or Danny or Stephanie were born.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Elizabeth and John had Stephanie and Daniel during those years and very happy they all were too, until your mother arrived on the scene.’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘Yes, your whore of a mother!’

  I flinched.

  ‘She kept following your father around at work, like a besotted teenager, Elizabeth said. She couldn’t take her eyes off your father. He was won over, had an affair – well, what man wouldn’t be bowled over by some nubile teen offering themselves up to him? Only she got pregnant didn’t she, ended up having you.’

  Sarah scarcely paused for breath, almost spitting the words that followed.

  ‘Then she died. Post-natal haemorrhage. Left Elizabeth with a right problem. What she did for her husband, for you! Taking you in, giving you a home and a name! It’s outrageous that you should inherit a bean! It should have gone to Elizabeth outright, and then her children – Stephanie, Daniel!’

  What was she saying? That it was my mother with whom my father had had the affair, not Elizabeth? That I was the bastard child, not Danny? That it was me who was the cuckoo in the nest?

  Then the penny dropped. Danny was my half-brother, as before, but Steph … I leaned forward onto my knees, bringing my hands up to cover my eyes. Steph was my half-sister. Was that what Steph had wanted me to learn? That she couldn’t bring herself to tell me? Why?

  I left after that, stumbling down the front steps. Sarah couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Yet she lingered at the front door. I swung the car out and did a three-point turn, painfully aware of her observation, my agitation making me clumsy. When finally I drove past, she was still there, a look of smug satisfaction plastered on her face.

  CHAPTER 42

  I looked it up when I got back. I didn’t know what to believe so I was determined to check. I signed up to one of those family tree websites and plugged in the details. I scanned the death records first. It took a while, but then I found it.

  Daniel Martin Crowther, died 18th October 1996.

  Parents listed as John and Elizabeth Crowther. Both of them, Crowther.

  Then I checked the birth records:

  Stephanie born 1983. Daniel born 1987.

  Again, parents listed as John and Elizabeth Crowther.

  Next, I searched the marriage records. When it appeared on screen, I could hardly take it in. 1980. Sarah had told the truth; Elizabeth and my father had been married long before my birth. It was I who was illegitimate, just as Sarah had said.

  I checked my own birth record.

  Caroline Crowther, born 1990, mother Louise Wilkinson, father John Crowther.

  I realised that I’d scarcely even looked at my own birth certificate. I’d never realised the significance of that one small detail it revealed – Louise Wilkinson.

  I was still confused. And I wanted to be sure. My next call was to the lawyer.

  ‘Briscoe, Williams and Patterson,’ came the familiar voice.

  ‘Hello, could you put me through to Gareth Briscoe?’

  There was the usual tuneful burst of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

  ‘Good morning Miss Crowther.’

  I winced at the ‘Crowther’; I felt I was no longer entitled to that name.

  ‘Mr Briscoe,’ I struggled to speak the words. ‘I … I need to ask you a question.’ I took a breath, rushing when I finally spoke. ‘Until recently I … I didn’t realise that I wasn’t a legitimate daughter of my father. It’s a long story but I was the result of an affair and my father and his wife took me in when my mother died.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Miss Crowther.’ He sounded patient.

  He’d known? Before me? Of course he knew, he was a lawyer. He’d been handling probate. It was probably the first thing they did, check out the family tree.

  ‘You knew? Then why didn’t you tell me? Why has no one ever told me?’

  I thought of my stepmother, her hatred of me – wouldn’t she have enjoyed telling me that I didn’t belong?

  ‘I don’t know what Elizabeth told you, Miss Crowther – I never interfere with personal family matters, it’s not my place. I can only say that perhaps everyone wanted to be discreet – people often do with these matters.’ Briscoe’s voice was gruff, apologetic.

  ‘But surely that means my name should be Wilkinson, my mother’s name?’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Crowther. Your mother died in childbirth, as you say. Your father immediately took you in. It was he who registered the birth, and he was adamant you should have his name.’

  ‘So Crowther is my name!’

  ‘Of course it is. I handled all your family’s affairs. Your father was very keen that the paperwork was properly done, that everything was watertight.’

  That everything was watertight … what did he mean by that?

  ‘Elizabeth would not agree to an adoption, so John set up the trust instead.’

  Ah – now things were making sense.

  ‘As to your inheritance …’

  Briscoe thought I was worried about my inheritance, I hadn’t even thought about that.

  ‘… you are the named beneficiary of his will, as I explained before. Your father was very careful to ensure the trust clearly named you as an equal beneficiary. But he also ensured Elizabeth could live in the house and was properly provided for as long as she wished until her death. On condition she looked after you till you were eighteen.’

  ‘And Elizabeth knew this?’

  ‘Of course, she had to agree to it. If you were taken into care, she would lose the financial benefits of the trust. It was discussed at the time and again when her husband died.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Mr Briscoe. Have a nice day.’

  How had Elizabeth felt about that? A child from an affair foisted upon her from babyhood. Clearly, she’d not been willing to accept me completely – I’d always known her as my stepmother. Now I understood why Elizabeth had never sent me away. She’d effectively been tied in to looking after me. How she must have hated that, even before Danny’s death.

  I found it difficult to concentrate on anything after that. I paced the kitchen, made a cup of tea, sat down and stood up again, walking to the window overlooking the garden.

  Perhaps Elizabeth had felt humiliated by my father’s affair. Perhaps she’d ordered Steph never to say anything, to let people think we were one happy family.

  My fingers gripped the cup too hard. I’d learnt everything I knew from Steph, my big sister. It had been she who’d eventually told me the story of Elizabeth’s marriage to our dad.

  It had been the day before she left home. Her parting gift.

  ‘Caro, sit down a moment.’

  She’d been all smiles, patting a space beside her on the garden bench. I sat down, wariness on my face.

  ‘You’re old enough to know, now.’

  I was nine, yes, I thought, whatever it was I was old enough. I straightened my back to listen to her.

  ‘You know your mother died when you were little?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Our mother.’

  The subtle change was lost on me. Why didn’t she get to the point?

  ‘She died in childbirth, when you were born. Bled to death.’

  She watched me as I winced. I always freaked out around blood.

  ‘It happens, you know,’ she continued. ‘If the baby has been
difficult.’

  Difficult? What did she mean by that? Had I been difficult?

  ‘Bleeding doesn’t stop after the baby comes out, there’s lots and lots of blood, and the mother dies – that’s what happened.’

  My eyes widened in horror. An image of the blood had immediately jumped into my head. A flood of scarlet liquid seeping out from between her legs. I had a vague idea at that point about childbirth. What was Steph saying, that it had been my fault?

  Steph smiled at me and gave me a hug. ‘After she died, Dad married Elizabeth – she’s your stepmother. You know about stepmothers, don’t you?’

  I nodded. Yes, I did – from the stories, all my favourite stories.

  ‘Well, what you perhaps didn’t know is that Elizabeth had an affair.’ I looked puzzled at that. ‘She had sex with Dad whilst he was still married to our mother. Before.’

  Sex – it was a word rarely used, one of those forbidden words like fuck or shit or … the words I’d heard in the playground. I knew it was something bad. I looked at her blankly.

  ‘She made babies with Dad, you numbskull!’ She hugged me again, in a sisterly, friendly kind of way. So many hugs, she wasn’t normally like that.

  ‘That’s how Danny came about. You remember Danny?’

  I didn’t. What was she talking about now? Steph was smiling still.

  ‘Oh, never mind. You’ll remember one day, just you see. I thought you should know.’

  She was grinning happily as she stood up.

  Steph – why had she lied to me about Elizabeth? What possible reason would she have for such a bizarre misrepresentation of the truth? But no one had ever explained it afterwards, certainly not Elizabeth, if she ever even knew what Steph had told me.

  Whenever I remembered Steph’s words after that, as I grew up, the word Danny had gone from my mind, but the reference to sex stayed. Elizabeth was this evil stepmother who had had sex with my father whilst my mother was alive, had betrayed my mother, had stolen my father, who hated me, abused me – it was just like all those stories.