by Janet Woods
Baby Timothy had inherited the blue eyes of his grandmother, from where his own had also been inherited.
‘I detect a strong resemblance in him to you,’ Avis said.
‘Do I detect the trace of an American accent?’
‘Canadian. I was born and grew up in Montreal. We moved to Edinburgh when I was fifteen. Now I’m married I live in London.’
‘Then it won’t be too far to visit once I’m settled in.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘It will be. Lord . . . I had no idea I had a sister, and a beautiful one at that.’
She laughed. ‘I think I’ll like having you as a brother,’ she said and she kissed his cheek.
Martin was only there for the day, so he took the baby from her. ‘Here . . . allow me to carry him.’
The child fitted comfortably into his arms, and he gazed down at his nephew and offered him a smile. ‘Hello, Timmy.’
The child smiled back at him.
Julia had just seen Robert and Ellen off. Married quietly the day before in the village church, only the staff who had known them had attended. The pair were now on their way to Southampton, where Robert had managed to take over a public house as licensee.
‘I’ll drive you up to London, since I’ve got to see the lawyer and sign some papers. We’ll go up the night before.’
‘I prefer to do the driving,’ Robert had said with a smile.
‘Then allow me to book you into a hotel as a special thank you for being such a help.’ And there had been dinner, champagne and the honeymoon suite as an extra surprise.
The station was full of hissing engines and the echoing, raucous voices of porters. The platforms were crowded.
‘I’ll miss you . . . good luck,’ Julia said, hugging them both.
‘I reckon I’ll make a good barmaid,’ Ellen said just before they’d boarded their train, and Julia had given a faint smile, remembering Martin coming to dinner with her father and saying more or less the same thing about her. She’d been cool and he’d laughed and he’d kissed her rather unexpectedly.
‘Thank you for everything, Mrs Miller,’ Ellen called out.
As the train disappeared Julia’s stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding her it was past noon.
She went into the station café and had lingered over an unappetizing ham and cheese sandwich, and a pot of tea that was the colour and consistency of varnish. There was a paper somebody had left behind. The headlines read: Fascists win the election in Italy.
Not that the result of the Italian election had much to do with her, and neither had the election in her own country the year before. She was a woman, and therefore not deemed sensible enough to vote until she reached the age of thirty.
‘Damned cheek,’ she murmured, and softly snorted. A lot men knew about women!
The second page revealed a small news item about the official opening of her children’s home, which was already full of needy babies and toddlers, and had a waiting list. She thought that she might buy a cottage in the village for herself. The comfortable flat could then be used for the key staff, while accommodation in the attic rooms was freed up.
The news item read:
Mrs Julia Miller, opening the Latham Miller Memorial home for children. Mr Miller, a noted industrialist, perished when the private aeroplane he was a passenger in crashed into the English Channel during a flight from France. Mrs Miller opened the home in memory of her husband, and has been appointed patron. A board of trustees has been appointed, headed by William Hedgewick of the law firm Hedgewick and Williams, who manages the legal business of the Miller enterprises.
And couldn’t be prised off such a lucrative enterprise. Much to Julia’s disgust she’d not been allowed to serve on the board because she was a woman. Another injustice, considering it was her money they were handling, though admittedly, Latham had earned it with their help in the first place. At least she’d reserved the right to appoint somebody on the board who would act on her behalf. Jeepers! Latham would have a fit if he knew how she was spending it, and she didn’t give a rat’s grunt.
Guests at the opening were Lord and Lady Curruthers. Mrs Miller is pictured with two unfortunate children who are in need of care. In her address she thanked her sponsors, Jellico Linens, who made a generous donation of sheets, towels and baby napkins, and Millikins, who have pledged a two years’ supply of dried milk powder.
Actually, she was pictured with Ben and Lisette, who were sitting astride the grey dappled rocking horse, giggling, while she hung on to them. The Curruthers family was in a separate picture, looking aloof and regal. And although Julia was grateful for the milk powder, the maid she’d hired to come in and do the laundry was a farm girl, and she’d persuaded her father to keep them supplied with fresh milk and eggs. The meadow had been turned into a vegetable plot.
Julia had many feelers out for sponsorship, including most of her father’s friends. She was shameless about using his name and reminding them of his former friendship with them.
She looked up from the article. A few minutes earlier, two smartly dressed women had been talking together not far from the window. The younger one carried a child in a blue cape, bonnet, leggings and booties.
When the figure of a man strode towards them and wrapped his arms around them so they stood in a huddle, Julia had wished she’d had someone to meet. Despite her busy life she felt lonely.
Now the man took the infant from the younger woman and kissed him. The child looked like Martin.
They began to walk in her direction and she froze. It was Martin! ‘Oh, my God!’ she breathed. Biting down on her tongue to stop herself from crying out she felt the tears begin to gather and congeal like a cold slab of lard in her stomach. Martin had married, and was now a father. His wife was petite and pretty. Jealousy filled her.
But she mustn’t think like that, she mustn’t! She loved Martin to pieces, and wanted him to be happy. He’d been through a lot, and it would be uncharitable of her to think any less of him for seeking a secure home life. If that meant him being happy with someone else, so be it.
He looked well. His eyes sparkled with the happiness he felt at seeing his family. She longed to speak to him.
‘Martin . . . my love,’ she whispered.
He couldn’t have possibly heard her yet he glanced her way. She held her breath when he seemed to gaze into her eyes. But the windows were partially steamed up, and she lifted the newspaper to shield her face.
She caught a glimpse of the baby as he turned away, the quick flash of dark-blue eyes, the wisp of a dark curl escaping from the bonnet. The boy bore a strong resemblance to Ben, the son Martin didn’t know about.
Her heart cracked open like an eggshell when they turned and walked off towards the entrance where the taxi rank was situated, laughing and chatting familiarly together. Martin turned, looking back for a moment, then he was gone.
When they went out of sight Julia felt empty, though her heart was pumping in a most agonizing fashion, as if the joy of seeing him was being wrung out of her by the thought that this might be the last time she did.
But she had Martin’s child to love, she thought. And she had Latham and Irene’s daughter, as well. It was her responsibility to bring them up to feel loved and wanted, so they’d become responsible adults – more responsible than the majority of their parents, perhaps.
Yes, Irene, I know I’m being prissy again, she thought, and choked back a laugh.
On top of that, none of her small family would ever have to go without – not like some of the poor little waifs coming into her home. She was blessed indeed.
Shaken by the near encounter, Julia waited until ten minutes had passed, then left the dingy, sooty-smelling surrounds of the station on foot.
Her car was still at the hotel garage. One of the staff brought it round while she paid her bill, and she made her way out of London and headed for Kent, thinking of Martin.
A small smile played around her mouth – sh
e was glad he’d looked so happy.
‘Stay that way always, my love,’ she said.
It had been wonderful seeing his mother. They talked honestly.
‘I wrote to you every birthday,’ she said. ‘My letters were never returned so I hoped you’d read them. Then your father sent them back to me all at once in a little parcel. They hadn’t been opened.’
A rather cruel gesture on his father’s part, Martin thought, but he didn’t intend to take sides now. He’d learned that dwelling negatively on the past could be a painful process, and a useless pastime as well. ‘I’d rather we moved forward than looked back.’
A surprised expression touched her mother’s face. ‘Yes, I suppose you would, and so would I. I don’t blame him, you know. Your father found it hard to express emotion and bottled things up. I fell in love with somebody else. If you ever come to Scotland you’ll meet my husband. He’s an accountant. I know what I did was wrong, but I didn’t dream that your father would be so . . . well, that he would have denied me so completely. He took you from my arms, and I never saw you again.’
‘It was selfish of him, but he was a good father to me. You don’t have to make excuses for your actions. And although he wasn’t about to compare his and Julia’s situation with hers, he said, ‘I fell in love with a married woman myself . . . I still love her . . . but we chose to not see each other again.
‘Was it the right choice, Martin?’
‘It doesn’t feel like it . . . It feels as though a large part of me is missing.’
She’d placed a small parcel of letters in his hands then, tied in a blue ribbon. ‘These are for you.’
They were the letters that his father had returned to her – the ones she’d written to him. They were still sealed. He could almost feel the dampness of her tears absorbed by the paper at the time of writing. He knew what they’d contain – years of pain for what had been lost, and just being human. It was a hard punishment, he thought, as he placed the letters inside his attaché case.
He still felt the fragility of that parting inside him, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. He couldn’t cope with her pain yet – not yet – perhaps not ever.
It was enough that she’d survived to tell him what he already knew – that being apart from somebody didn’t mean that the bond of love they’d established in the past was broken.
It was odd, but he was reminded of Julia everywhere he went: in the tilt of a woman’s head, a quick burst of her laughter, the glimpse of a stranger walking on the beach or sitting in a restaurant. This morning he thought he saw Julia sitting in the station cafeteria, and the image had been strong. But the window had steamed up and it had just been someone reading a paper.
Yet, when he arrived back at the station to catch the evening train later in the day, he went to the place. Buying a cup of lukewarm tea and a bun he sat at the same table and ate it. Not that he’d expected the woman to still be sitting here.
After a while a young serving girl began to busy herself cleaning the tables. ‘We close in a couple of minutes, sir.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve held you up. It’s all right . . . I’m off to catch my train now.’
‘Don’t forget your paper, sir,’ she called out.
‘It’s not mine . . . but if you don’t want it, I’ll take it to read on the train.’ It might contain a cryptic crossword to keep him occupied.
‘Thank you,’ he said when she handed it to him, and he tucked it under his arm.
Someone had started the crossword and abandoned it. Two hours later Martin conceded to the superior brain of the crossword compiler.
Returning to the first page he read the Italian election post-mortem. He found that the thought of a fascist government under Benito Mussolini, especially with such a huge majority, was a slightly disturbing concept. He turned to page two.
The picture of Julia hit him with such force that the breath left his body, and he forgot to replace it for several seconds. His hands trembled and his knees felt weak.
Running his finger over the image of her dear face, he read the article. Latham Miller was dead. She’d converted her home into one for needy children. How typical of her way of thinking.
As for the two children on the rocking horse, they were the healthiest, happiest orphans he’d ever seen – and he’d seen plenty of waifs and strays in Colifield.
Doubt set in. Why hadn’t she written to inform him of Latham Miller’s death?
Was it because he hadn’t answered her last letter, because she’d asked him to be strong for them both, knowing he would be? He tore out the article and placed it in his briefcase.
Julia was now an extremely wealthy woman, and that was an obstacle in itself, he realized.
The cats greeted him when he arrived home. He let them into the back garden for a pee, then took them on to his lap and made a fuss of them. ‘It’s cold out there, isn’t it, chaps?’
Was this how he’d end up – a lonely old man like his father with only the cats for company?
‘Is it hell! Julia is worth fighting for, and damn her money. She was welcome to it.’ Flicking through his address book he found the number of the Millers’ home in Surrey, and hoped it hadn’t changed.
Nineteen
Fiona Robertson answered the phone.
‘Could I speak to Mrs Miller please?’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Yes, at this time of night. Tell her that it’s Doctor Lee-Trafford. Tell her I love her and I miss her.’
A grin spread across Fiona’s face for Julia had confided in her about her love for this man. ‘Ah yes, I believe I’ve heard of you. Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable telling Mrs Miller all that yourself. I’ll see if I can find her.’
‘Who is it?’ Julia whispered.
‘Someone called Doctor Lee-Trafford,’ Fiona whispered back.
Julia’s heart began to pound. Frantically she shook her head, then she nodded just as frantically. ‘Oh, goodness,’ and she patted her hair into place! ‘Do I look all right?’
‘Can you wait a moment, Doctor? She just wants to put some lipstick on and comb her hair.’
Fiona grinned and listened some more, then said, ‘The doctor thought he saw you at Waterloo station this morning.’
Julia snatched the phone from her. ‘Hello, Martin. I saw you too.’
‘Why didn’t you come and talk to me?’ After such a long time of not hearing his voice she wanted to drown in the depths of it.
‘You were with two women, and a child who looked very much like you. Your wife and child, and your mother-in-law? I didn’t want to embarrass you.’
‘You wouldn’t have. The baby is my nephew, Timothy. The older woman is my mother, and the younger one my half-sister Avis. It was a reunion with my mother, and the first time for meeting my family.’
She felt as though she was dropping rapidly through the air and her stomach had been left behind. She applied imaginary brakes and began to float. A smile of delight spread across her face and she was sure it was beaming out like the lamp in a lighthouse. He wasn’t married. ‘Can you forgive me? I thought you’d married. I’ve been trying hard not to hate her all day, because, my darling, I wanted so much for you to be happy.’
Fiona got up and left the room.
‘It’s so lovely to hear your voice. How have you been?’
‘Missing you. Why didn’t you get in touch before?’
‘I didn’t know that Latham had died. I saw an item in the paper, just today. Why didn’t you let me know?’
‘I thought everyone knew. It was all over the newspapers.’
‘Not in Colifield where I was working.’
‘Where are you now . . . still in London?’
‘I’ve set up my shingle in Bournemouth.’
‘Tell me you still love me.’
‘I’ll always love you, Julia mine. I told you that right at the beginning.’
‘But things have changed since then, and we need to talk. You might
as well know the worst. I’ve given most of Latham’s money to support charities.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That solves a problem.’
‘What problem was that?’
‘I didn’t want you consider me to be a fortune hunter.’
Laughter trickled from her. ‘I haven’t left myself completely penniless. I’ve decided to come down to Bournemouth. I’ll bring the children with me.’
‘Children?’
‘I have two. One is my son, Ben, and I’ve adopted Irene Curruthers’ daughter.’
‘Oh? I can’t remember ever meeting her.’
‘Irene was Latham’s mistress and a friend of mine, of sorts – but only when it suited her. She died from liver cancer. Towards the end nobody wanted to know Irene, or her little girl, not even her parents. Lisette was such a sad child who needed to be loved. Irene asked me to adopt her. She’s such a quiet, sweet little poppet. I looked after Irene until she died, and she was very brave until the end.’
Julia wondered if she was taking Martin too much for granted after all this time, since she’d learned from Latham that men didn’t necessarily tell the truth, but what they thought you wanted to hear.
‘Will you mind that I have two children to care for? You see, Martin . . . I must put their welfare before my own?’
‘Of course you must. You know, I’ll love you more than ever for that.’
‘Before you decide, I also have two dogs that used to be Latham’s. He loved them, and I can’t have them destroyed. They’re nice dogs, loyal, and well behaved as long as they get a good walk every day. I can’t leave them here.’
‘Of course you can’t,’ and she heard laughter in his voice.
‘They go to the gate when they hear a car, in case it’s Latham coming home, and it’s heartrending to watch them, because they don’t understand that he won’t be coming, even after all this time. They do need a new master they can attach themselves to. Do you mind dogs?’
‘I love dogs, and we have a beach to walk them on in the evening . . . though I don’t know what Clarence and Billy Boy will say about it.’
‘Oh, cats are very adaptable and will soon get a couple of dogs under their control.’
