A Tangled Thread

by Anthea Fraser

  Beth, almost equally shocked, had done her best to offer comfort, ending by asking if Jill would go straight to the local police. She’d shaken her head, knowing she needed time to think, time to discuss it with her family. Yet how, she wondered achingly, could she subject them to the level of pain and betrayal that she was feeling?

  Barely registering them, she walked past children playing in the street, queues waiting at bus stops, a bridal party coming out of church. She passed what appeared to be a boarded-up shopping precinct, graffiti scrawled all over the hoarding, and, farther on, a park with couples strolling down its paths arm in arm. A normal Saturday afternoon.

  When exhaustion finally claimed her she caught a taxi back to the hotel where she ordered herself a large whisky in the bar. It was not her normal choice, but was supposed to be the antidote to shock. Not that it was much help.

  Aware that she should eat, she ordered room service but was unable to manage more than a mouthful as she stared at the moving pictures on the television. And over and over came the tortured query: why? Greg had loved her, she was sure of it, though she doubted that he’d been entirely faithful; his lifestyle argued against that, with so much time spent away from home. He was an attractive and virile man and she’d chosen not to ask questions to which she might not like the answer. But consciously to deny her existence and that of his children – that she couldn’t accept or forgive. Not unless there was some overwhelming reason for it that was beyond his power to withstand.

  As the hours passed and she listlessly undressed and prepared for bed, she waited for the tears to come but to her surprise remained dry-eyed; there were too many conflicting emotions to allow the release of tears. Lying in the strange bed, she heard a church clock chime one hour after another through the long night before finally falling into a restless doze around four o’clock.

  She had ordered a wake-up call to ensure she caught her flight, and it seemed she’d only just closed her eyes when she was jerked awake. A hot shower helped to revive her and she made a cup of tea from the facilities in the room. It was pointless to attempt breakfast; there was a heavy weight at the base of her throat that made the thought of food nauseous.

  An hour later the taxi she’d ordered conveyed her to the airport. Her feeling of disorientation was similar to jet lag, no doubt due to lingering shock and a lack of both food and sleep, and as she made her way on to the plane she was profoundly grateful that Edward would be meeting her and she’d have his company on the twelve-mile drive home; she’d had more than enough of her own.

  And there he was, head and shoulders above those around him, hurrying to take her arm and lead her back to the car park. A glance at her face prevented him asking any questions until they were both seated in his car. Then he turned to her and said quietly, ‘Well, how was it?’

  And without warning Jill burst into tears, deep, painful sobs shaking her whole body. His arm came comfortingly round her and she leant against him until they lessened in intensity, when, embarrassed, she straightened and he handed her a large, clean handkerchief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her breathing still ragged, ‘but I think I needed that.’

  Still he didn’t question her, letting her take her time.

  ‘They’re one and the same,’ she said then, ‘the man in the paper and Greg. There’s no shadow of doubt.’

  He waited, letting her choose her words. ‘His landlady couldn’t believe it,’ she went on, ‘because she’d heard the police have just traced him to a family in Yorkshire.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s possible …?’

  ‘No,’ Jill said decidedly, and blew her nose. ‘There must be a mistake somewhere along the line, and I’m sorry for that family if it had got their hopes up, but Johnnie Stewart was definitely my husband.’

  She turned to look at him and he thought how vulnerable she seemed, her eyes swollen with tears. ‘Yet how could he be?’ she demanded. ‘We held his memorial service, Edward; probate was granted. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind.’

  He said gently, ‘Why was it assumed he’d been in the blast?’

  ‘He’d just been seen walking into the hotel when the bomb went off in the doorway. He couldn’t have got any further than the foyer.’ Her voice caught. ‘A lot of people were killed but it was … impossible to identify them. There was no reply to our increasingly frenzied emails and phone calls and as time went on without hearing from him, he was officially listed among those who’d lost their lives.’

  ‘Who was it who saw him going into the hotel? Could they have been mistaken?’

  ‘No, it was someone he’d been talking to. The man himself was flung to the pavement by the blast.’

  ‘This must be most distressing for you. I’m so sorry.’ Edward paused. ‘You’re shivering; you need some hot food inside you.’

  She gave a half-laugh. ‘I’ve not eaten since lunch yesterday – my throat just closed.’

  ‘Then we’ll stop somewhere on the way home. I’m sure you could manage a bowl of soup.’

  He started the car and they drove out of the airport in companionable silence, wrapped in their own thoughts. Minutes later he turned into the car park of a pleasant-looking pub. It was shortly after noon; this time yesterday, Jill thought, she’d just landed in Edinburgh, confident that Johnnie Stewart would after all bear only a passing resemblance to Greg.

  She gave a little shudder and allowed Edward to help her out of the car.

  ‘Is your daughter expecting you home?’ he asked as they began their meal.

  ‘I told her sometime today, that’s all.’

  ‘Have you thought what you’re going to say to her?’

  Jill sipped her soup, surprised to find she was hungry. ‘I’ll tell them together; I couldn’t go through it twice and Richard needs to hear at the same time. The trouble is, as soon as I get home Georgia will come down to ask about my trip. Bless her, she’ll probably invite me to supper and I … don’t think I can face her just yet.’

  ‘May I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then what I propose is that you come back to my house for the rest of the day.’ He lifted a hand at her instinctive protest. ‘You’ve had enough of an ordeal in the last twenty-four hours without facing the immediate prospect of another. You could phone her and say you’ll be late back but would like to see both her and her brother sometime tomorrow. Then you could ring your son to arrange the meeting, and by the time you see them you’ll be over the initial shock and will have had a chance to decide how best to handle it. How does that sound?’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I’ve already taken up quite enough of your time; I really can’t impose on you any further.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure to have your company.’ He gave one of his rare smiles. ‘And I have some excellent recordings of Rubinstein and Brendel, among others, that I think you would enjoy. Then we could have a spot of supper and I’ll drive you home.’

  It was an infinitely tempting prospect; she’d been dreading facing Georgia while having to conceal her news, and there was no denying she felt exhausted. The thought of being able to relax and listen to music was more than she could resist.

  ‘Then if you’re quite sure, I’d be very grateful,’ she said.

  Stonebridge

  ‘I wish to God those DNA results would come through,’ David remarked that evening. ‘It’s like living on a knife-edge.’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, stop moaning!’ Julia snapped. ‘It won’t make them come any faster – and anyway, what difference will it make? Do you really want to know that the man who deserted you as a baby was stabbed in the street like some low-life?’ She glanced at his startled face. ‘Or are you hoping the results will be negative?’

  ‘I know you’ve not much time for me at the moment,’ he said after a minute, ‘but surely I deserve some understanding over this?’

  ‘My understanding where you’re concerned is in short supply.’ She was breathing q
uickly, hating herself for the way she was behaving but full of resentment at not being free to leave him. First she’d had to postpone her departure because of Sally’s death and now there was this further complication. It was as if, albeit unwittingly, he was binding her to him with strands of cobweb.

  ‘I made one stupid mistake,’ David said bitterly. ‘Am I going to have to pay for it for the rest of my life?’

  ‘You destroyed my trust, David; that’s what I can’t forgive.’

  ‘But I’ve learned my lesson – surely you can see that? Give me another chance, please; the kids are beginning to sense something’s wrong.’

  ‘We’ve never rowed in front of them.’

  ‘No, but you’re so formal with me – it just isn’t natural. I love you, Julia; I’ve always loved you. I lost my head for a few months but it was never anything serious.’ He put an arm round her, feeling her stiffen. ‘Because you only found out shortly before Mum died it still seems new, but it had already been over for some time.’

  She said slowly, ‘When Sally died I was on the point of leaving you.’ And saw that she had shocked him.

  ‘God, were you really?’

  ‘Obviously,’ she went on, suddenly close to tears, ‘I couldn’t go through with it when you’d just lost your mother. Now you’ve learned your parents weren’t married and your father abandoned you rather than dying in an accident, but now he really is dead, or at least you think he is, and … Oh, God!’

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry!’

  ‘It’s not your fault, damn it!’ she said through angry tears. ‘I’m not saying you arranged it on purpose!’

  ‘No, but perhaps these traumas could have one good outcome if they keep us together.’ His arm tightened round her and she turned her face into his shoulder, feeling him kiss her hair. Still hurt and angry, she wasn’t yet ready to forgive him, but for the first time she wondered how much of this intransigence was due to pride. And if the price it was demanding was perhaps too high.

  Foxclere

  When they had reached Edward’s house that afternoon, Jill’s lack of sleep had been catching up with her, and at his suggestion she went straight upstairs for a rest. He showed her into a musty-smelling bedroom, and when she wearily flopped down on top of the covers he draped her coat over her, closed the curtains and left her. She was asleep within seconds and it was two hours before she stirred and made her way downstairs.

  It was a large, echoing place he lived in, cool even in the heat of summer. He made her a cup of tea and they sat listening to music and carrying on a disjointed but wide-ranging conversation, and she learned more about him in those few hours than she had during all their previous time together. Inevitably they discussed the position with Greg, looking at it from all angles, with the result that she felt considerably calmer about the prospect of passing on the news to her family.

  When it was time to eat he took a ready meal out of his freezer. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you haute cuisine,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘but I’m ashamed to say this is my usual fare. I’ve never been one for slaving over a hot stove – in fact, it takes me all my time to boil an egg! Thank God for convenience food!’

  ‘Perhaps I should be giving you cookery lessons too!’ Jill said.

  ‘I’d be more than grateful if you would.’

  She glanced at him quickly, unsure whether he was serious, but was unable to tell.

  It was a quarter to eleven when he dropped her off at the gate of Woodlands, brushing aside her repeated thanks. ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself as much for a long time,’ he said.

  As she closed the inner door behind her, Jill saw the answerphone blinking and pressed the button to hear the message. She was considerably surprised when the caller identified himself as Paul Devonshire, and had to think for a moment to place the name: of course, Greg’s friend who’d been their best man. She’d had a condolence note from him the previous year.

  ‘It’s a long time since we met,’ he began, ‘but as you probably know I was in pretty regular touch with Greg and was appalled to hear of his death. The last thing I want to do is upset you, but something has come to light that I think you should know, and I’d be most grateful if you could call me back when you get this message. It doesn’t matter how late it is – I’m a night bird. My number is …’

  Jill frowned. After a pleasantly relaxing evening, the last thing she wanted was to have her emotions stirred up again at this late hour. On the other hand, curiosity gnawed at her and she knew she wouldn’t sleep till she’d heard what he had to say.

  She took her overnight bag into the bedroom, the empty frame on the dressing table reminding her of Beth staring disbelievingly at Greg’s photo. Before going to bed she’d restore it to its rightful place. In the meantime, she braced herself to call Paul Devonshire, and, picking up the cordless phone as she passed, she went into the sitting room, drew the heavy curtains against the darkness and sat down in her favourite chair.

  ‘Oh, Jill! Thank you so much for calling back.’

  ‘You did say no matter how late.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He paused. ‘Before I start, needless to say I saw the artist’s impression in the paper, like everyone else.’ He waited but she made no comment. ‘However, that’s only marginally what I wanted to talk about.’ She heard him take a deep breath. ‘Did Greg often speak of his writing?’

  Whatever she was expecting, it was not that. ‘His writing?’

  ‘His articles for the newspaper.’

  ‘Oh, that. No, he hardly ever mentioned it. It amused him to make a mystery of it; he wouldn’t even say which paper he was writing for or the pseudonym he was using.’ She hesitated. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because without wanting to sound dramatic, I believe I’m the only person alive who knows what it was; it was I who first encouraged him to put his very stringent views down on paper.’

  ‘Oh?’ She had no idea where this was leading.

  ‘Jill, he wrote for the Sunday Chronicle under the name of Jake Farthing.’

  She gasped. ‘Not the Jake Farthing, who was quoted in the House?’

  ‘The very same. He swore me to secrecy because he didn’t want to become embroiled in personal contact either with the pundits or the public, and, to put it crudely, felt freer to say what he felt without having to face the consequences. But I have a reason for telling you this: I returned a few weeks ago from two years in the States, and was considerably startled to find his column was still running.’

  Jill sat motionless in her chair, clutching the phone. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I told myself the name was generic and someone else had taken over the column, as often happens for one reason or another, though the style was very definitely Greg’s and I concluded his successor must have studied him very closely. Then I saw the drawing of this man in Scotland.’ He paused. ‘But I probably still wouldn’t have risked upsetting you if it hadn’t been for a phone call from a friend who lives in Yorkshire, who told me someone he knew, who’d thought his father died long since, was now convinced he was this dead man. And the father’s name was Larry – or Laurence – Gregory.’

  Jill drew in her breath sharply.

  ‘Jill, at uni Greg was known as Larry Lawrence, and he once joked about being able to turn his name round to give himself a dual personality.’

  There was a long silence. She felt icy cold: the shock that Greg had been Jake Farthing, the man whose opinions were so widely discussed, had been superseded by a still more incredible revelation, which she was not yet ready even to consider.

  Eventually she said, ‘It was Greg, Paul, the man in the paper. I’ve just been to Scotland to see the landlady and she confirmed it. She also mentioned a family in Yorkshire, but not … the name. That’s just … bizarre. I was convinced they were mistaken, but …’ Her voice tailed off. Greg had had another family in Yorkshire all these years? No! I will not believe it! And following the instinctive denial came the swift thought: I wish Edward was here
.

  Paul said anxiously, ‘God, Jill, my timing leaves a lot to be desired, doesn’t it? Are you all right?’

  ‘No, but I shall be. It was good of you to phone.’

  ‘If you want the name and address of the family, I can find out for you.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I should have asked – are you alone in the house?’

  ‘Only in my part of it; Georgia and her family are upstairs.’

  ‘Could you go to them, have someone with you?’

  She gave a choked little laugh. ‘They’ll all be sound asleep, but I’ll be speaking to them tomorrow. I think I can survive till then.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, cursing himself for his thoughtlessness; he’d been so anxious to put her in the picture that he hadn’t given enough consideration to the effect his news would have, with lonely hours of darkness stretching ahead of them.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do …’

  ‘Thank you for telling me; it can’t have been easy. Goodnight, Paul.’

  She broke the connection, tucked her legs beneath her and resigned herself to another long night.

  As it happened, Georgia was not asleep. She had heard her mother come in but respected her wish to delay their meeting till the following day, when she’d said she wanted to see both herself and Richard but not, apparently, Tim or Victoria. It must be about that man in Scotland, she thought apprehensively. Though she’d played it down for Jill’s sake, Georgia was almost convinced he was her father, even while knowing he couldn’t possibly be.

  And there was another reason for her wakefulness: the previous Thursday she’d been delivering some house plants to an address in the Briarfields area when, to her surprise, she’d seen what looked very much like Richard’s car parked a little way down on the other side of the road. She was still puzzling about it – surely he’d be at school? – when the front door of one of the houses opened and Richard himself came out, turning to speak to a young woman who’d appeared briefly framed in the doorway behind him – a young woman wearing what looked suspiciously like a dressing gown.