Deception and Desire

by Janet Tanner

  It was already dark when he woke again, and a thick shrouding fog had dropped over the city. Mac thought briefly of the mail pilot, making the flight to Aberdeen again in this peasouper. Then he took a long bath and wondered about the coming meeting. Meeting his mother for the first time in his life was a daunting prospect and he began to wish he had left things as they were. But it was too late now to change his mind.

  He had a drink in the bar before setting out for Cotham but he still managed to find the address he had been given a few minutes before seven thirty. He stood on the pavement outside looking up at it – a tall period building impressive enough, certainly, to be the home of the founders of Vandina, but Van Kendrick had said an apartment. Mac checked the row of bell pushes and found one labelled Kendrick, but only one. This could not be the family’s main abode, then. It must be some kind of pied-à-terre.

  Mac checked his watch, stamped his feet, and checked his watch again. Then, deciding not to wait until seven thirty on the dot, he rang the bell. After a moment Van Kendrick’s unmistakable voice answered.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Stephen MacIlroy. You are expecting me.’

  A pause. Then: ‘Very well. You’d better come up.’ The buzzer sounded as the remote control switch unlocked the door and Mac went inside. The house oozed an atmosphere of Victorian opulence: stained-glass windows, ornate ceiling cornices, sweeping staircase. Thinking he would prefer, right now, to be embarking on a five-hundred-foot dive to doing this, he started up the stairs.

  The door on the landing opened as he emerged, and for the first time Mac came face to face with Van Kendrick. His first and overriding impression was one of power.

  Van was not a big man but those meeting him rarely noticed it, and Mac did not notice it now. There was about him something which commanded immediate respect and that something was utter self-confidence. To his own surprise, however, Mac reacted to it not with awe but with an answering confidence that seemed to stem from his own quiet reserve of strength.

  ‘Mr MacIlroy,’ Van said. ‘Do come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mac followed him inside.

  The room was surprisingly large and airy, with more stained glass, more cornices and a beautiful Adam fireplace. It was furnished sparsely but with taste; wine-coloured curtains and covers, a huge multicoloured rug covering all but a narrow border of black-varnished floorboards, lamps – all lit – in gold and pale blue, an antique swivel chair in polished mahogany with an olive-green leather seat. The immediate overall impression, however, was of masculinity. Here were none of the touches a woman might have introduced – particularly a woman noted for her stylish femininity as Dinah Marshall was – and Mac thought he had been right to suppose the apartment was a pied-à-terre – Van Kendrick’s own city bolt-hole. Of Dinah herself there was no sign. Mac glanced around, half expecting her to appear, but she did not.

  ‘Mr MacIlroy.’ Van glanced at his watch, heavy silver Patek. ‘ I can spare you fifteen minutes. Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘No thank you,’ Mac said, affronted by the other man’s brusqueness. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Very well. Then I suggest we get straight down to business. What exactly do you want?’

  Again Mac’s hackles rose, but he told himself he had no right to expect his mother and her husband to kill the fatted calf.

  ‘As I said in my letter I have recently obtained my original birth certificate and I thought I would like to make contact.’

  Dark-navy eyes bored into his.

  ‘I see.’ He paused. ‘ Let’s not beat about the bush, MacIlroy. I can’t help wondering if you would have been so eager to make contact, as you put it, if you had discovered your mother was a nobody, living in a council high-rise on social security.’

  Mac controlled his rising anger with difficulty. ‘ That has nothing whatever to do with it. I simply wanted to meet her.’

  ‘Hmm. I wonder. Well, we’ll let that pass and get to the crux of the matter, which is that although you may wish to meet your mother, your mother, I have to tell you, does not wish to meet you.’

  Mac felt his stomach sink. ‘ You mean I’ve come all this way for nothing?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Try to see it her way, MacIlroy. What happened was unfortunate but it was all a very long time ago, when Dinah was not much more than a child. It was a most upsetting period of her life but she has put it all behind her now. She doesn’t want the past dredged up, doesn’t want to be reminded of her past mistakes and indiscretions. Surely if you think about it you will be able to understand that.’

  ‘I understood right from the start she might feel that way,’ Mac said. ‘What I don’t understand is why you have let me come all this way to tell me so.’

  Van crossed to a table where a decanter and glasses stood on an antique silver tray.

  ‘Do, please, have a Scotch, MacIlroy. I’m having one.’

  He unstoppered the decanter, raised it invitingly. Mac, who felt he could certainly do with a drink, wavered.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Good.’ Van poured the drinks, added ice, and passed one to Mac. ‘I don’t wish to appear inhospitable. I merely want to make the facts clear to you. That is why I allowed you to come to Bristol, so that I could tell you myself, face to face, the way Dinah feels. I hope now you will understand that she really does not want to meet you and rake up what is best forgotten.’

  Mac sipped the whisky. As yet the reality of rejection for a second time had not reached him emotionally; he had not had time to weigh it up and register hurt and disappointment.

  ‘I hoped that by explaining it to you myself I could prevent you bothering her again,’ Van said smoothly.

  Mac bridled. ‘I don’t feel I have bothered her, Mr Van Kendrick. One letter hardly constitutes harassment – and I would remind you I am here now at your invitation.’

  Van Kendrick nodded. ‘That’s true. But Dinah’s well-being is my primary concern. She is not very strong emotionally – she never has been. Perhaps what happened to her left its scars, perhaps it is simply her nature to be highly strung, I don’t know. But the fact is that Dinah simply cannot cope with this kind of stress. It makes her ill, physically and emotionally. She can’t sleep, she can’t eat, she can’t work, and she is liable to suffer a complete nervous breakdown. I can’t allow that to happen. That is why I asked you to come here – so that I could explain the situation. And why I am asking you now to go back to Scotland and forget any ideas you might have of meeting her.’

  ‘She asked you to tell me this?’

  ‘I am speaking to you on her behalf, yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Mac tossed back what was left of his drink. ‘ In that case I won’t take up any more of your time.’ He moved to the door, turned, looked back. ‘There is one other thing I would like to know, Mr Van Kendrick. Who is my father?’

  Van stiffened, setting his glass down on a small octagonal drinks table. But when he looked up his face was as pragmatic as ever.

  ‘I am afraid I can’t tell you that. It is something we have never discussed. Now I am afraid I must ask you to excuse me.’

  At that precise moment the door of the apartment opened. Neither of them had heard the footsteps on the stairs; now a young woman stood there. For a brief, unthinking moment Mac wondered if it was Dinah, changed her mind and come to meet him after all, then he realised it could not be.

  Dinah must be in her forties at least; this woman was much younger, probably no older than he was. He saw dark hair, sharply cut and slightly damp from the fog, a clear-featured face, and scarlet lips which gave her colour and vitality. She was wearing a bright-red swing coat with the collar turned up against the cold so that it framed that bright, alive, glowing face.

  ‘Oh – I’m sorry!’ she said. ‘I didn’t know there would be anyone here.’

  ‘It’s all right, Ros. My visitor was just leaving.’ Van moved towards her, ushered her in, one hand lying proprietorially on her scarlet-wool-covered should
er. ‘My personal assistant, Ros Newman. We have some work to catch up on – agendas for a meeting tomorrow and some correspondence that can’t wait. I did explain when you arrived that I could only spare you a few minutes.’

  Work my foot! Mac thought. If she’s come to his city retreat to talk about agendas, I’m the Flying Dutchman! No wonder he was so anxious to get rid of me.

  ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you,’ he said coldly. ‘You need not worry that I shall do so again. I will be on the train back to Scotland in the morning. And perhaps you would tell my mother from me that the last thing I intended was to cause her distress. Though of course she might also like to know that I have made a good life for myself without her help.’

  He saw Van wince, saw the girl’s puzzled expression, and felt only triumph. He shouldn’t have said it but he felt he owed them a parting shot.

  As he went down the stairs he heard the door of the apartment shut behind him. Outside, the cold, clammy fog closed around him, making him shiver, and he realised he felt totally numb.

  So – that was it. End of story. Dinah did not want to meet him and who could blame her? He was a part of her life that she wanted to forget and he must forget it too. Mac resolved to return to Aberdeen and put the whole episode out of his mind.

  ‘Well?’ Steve greeted him when he arrived back at the house they shared in Aberdeen. ‘ How did you get on?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean? What was she like?’

  ‘I never got to meet her. Van Kendrick, her husband, summoned me to his bachelor flat and warned me off in no uncertain terms.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes – oh. Completely wasted journey. So that, I guess, is the end of that.’

  Steve was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘You think it came from her?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well – you think she knew that you were there?’

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t she?’

  ‘The letter you had was signed by him, wasn’t it? Perhaps she never got to see your letter. Perhaps he intercepted it.’

  ‘Why should he do that?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. But people do strange things and he could have his reasons. Could be he’s the one who doesn’t want the past raked up.’

  ‘Could be, I suppose. But he definitely said she didn’t want to be reminded of her indiscretions. He was very protective.’

  ‘He would be, wouldn’t he, if he was anxious to keep you from trying to make contact again?’

  Mac shook his head. He was feeling depressed and fed up with the whole episode.

  ‘Let’s just forget it, Steve. Whatever the reason, the message was very clear. Dinah does not want to know. And I have not the slightest intention of forcing myself in where I’m not wanted.’ He pulled out his wallet, extracted his birth certificate and looked at it for a moment. ‘ This might just as well go out with the rubbish.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid!’ Steve said. ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘Why not, for all the good it’s done me?’

  ‘You might need it some day.’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell for. But I suppose you’re right. I’d better not destroy it.’ He fished out Van’s letter to him, still in its envelope, and put the birth certificate inside. Then he pulled open a drawer in the sideboard and pushed it all into the compartment out of sight. As he did so a pack of cards caught his eye. ‘ OK,’ he said, in an effort to change the conversation. ‘How do you fancy a hand of gin rummy? And the loser buys the first round when we get to the pub!’

  When his contract with Excel Oil came to an end Mac decided he would like a change of scenery.

  ‘I’m going to South America,’ he told Steve and Des.

  ‘South America? You must be bloody mad! They’re a load of cowboys down there!’

  ‘Not cowboys – gauchos!’ Mac quipped.

  Des looked at him blankly and Steve laughed.

  ‘Joke. Never mind, Des, forget it. Anyway, I know what you’re saying. Safety measures come pretty low down the list of priorities when you’re way out on a limb like that. But the company I’m going to work for is American – Tristar US – so they should know what they’re doing, and at least it should be a bit warmer than it is here.’

  ‘Well,’ Des said prophetically, ‘it’s your funeral.’

  ‘Too right.’ Mac couldn’t explain the way he felt. He had had itchy feet ever since the episode with Van Kendrick when he had discovered once and for all that his mother had no wish to meet him, let alone try to form a relationship to make up for the lost years.

  Knowing this had affected him more deeply than he would ever have imagined possible. Though he rarely thought about it consciously any more it had struck at the very core of him, aggravating the basic insecurity he had felt ever since the day his adoptive parents had told him the truth about himself. Though he still kept in touch with them, still loved them, yet he felt distanced from them by the deceit they had practised for whatever reason over the years, and that unintentional resentment refused to go away. He did not belong with them, or with anyone. He was obsessed with the need to carve out a new life for himself, recreate himself. Only then could he be at peace with himself again – and with them. He did not stop to analyse the restlessness, he only reacted to it. He wanted to see the world – and why shouldn’t he do so? South America beckoned, a strange wild country where no one knew him or had any preconceived ideas about his origins. The secretive streak in his nature hated the fact that Steve and Des knew so much about him, though his visit to Bristol had only been mentioned once or twice more. In South America he could begin again, losing himself in the diving that was his life.

  ‘They employ every blasted nationality under the sun,’ Des said when he left. ‘Just watch out for those bastards.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will,’ Mac said, and did not mention the fact that the word bastard now had unpleasant connotations for him.

  ‘Why the hell won’t this drawer shut properly?’ Bill Tynan asked irritably. Bill was the diver who was now sharing with Steve the house which he had once rented with Mac, and he was fiddling with the top drawer in the sideboard, trying to make it run smoothly.

  ‘I never noticed anything wrong with it,’ Steve said.

  ‘It’s sticking.’ Bill jerked the drawer open again and ran his fingers along the back of it. ‘There’s something here, that’s what it is.’ He straightened, an envelope in his hand. ‘Looks like it’s something the last fellow left behind. It’s addressed to him.’

  ‘Mac, you mean?’ Steve took the envelope, recognising it at once. He opened it and drew out Van Kendrick’s letter and the folded birth certificate. Mac had obviously forgotten all about it and the top drawer of the sideboard was not one they used much.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘ I’ll keep it for him. I expect I’ll catch up with him sometime.’

  ‘Friend of yours, was he?’ Bill asked.

  ‘You could say that,’ Steve replied.

  Six months later news of Mac reached the Excel rig, brought by a diver who had just returned from Rio.

  ‘I heard there was a nasty accident down Mar del Plata way. The bloke involved used to work on this rig – Mac something, his name was.’

  ‘Not MacIlroy?’ Steve asked.

  ‘That’s it, MacIlroy. He and his partner were on the sea bed when the bell shifted, turned right over on top of their air line. The bell man couldn’t do a damn thing and the crew were all bloody foreigners – you know how they mix nationalities in these outfits. The Germans and French are all right, but if you’re working with the locals – forget it. This crew were Argentinian from what I heard and they didn’t understand or didn’t give a monkey’s cuss if they did. God knows how long it was before the poor bugger of a bell man could alert them to what had happened.’

  Although in the world of deep-sea diving accidents of all kinds are not uncommon Steve was shocked. One thing to hear about
near-misses and violent death when one didn’t know the men concerned, quite another to learn that someone as close as Mac had been involved.

  ‘You mean they were both drowned?’ he asked.

  The diver shrugged. ‘No air supply at six hundred feet? What do you think?’

  Shit, Steve thought. Poor old Mac. Well one thing was for sure. He would never need his birth certificate now.

  Six months passed. Steve rarely thought about Mac now, though when he did it was with regret. He had made few real friends in his life, and he was sorry Mac was dead. Sorry – but nothing more. The first shock had long since passed and Steve had grown used to the knowledge that Mac was no more, grown used to it and filed it away in the recesses of his mind from which it occasionally rose to surprise him again. But never with the same force, never hitting him in the guts the way it had when he had first heard it. Mac was dead and that was that – end of story.

  Winter had come to the North Sea once more, intensifying the biting cold with gale-force winds that whipped the sea around the rig into mountainous waves and howled angrily around the ugly structure, testing both men and metal to their limits. Often, returning chilled to the marrow and dead tired after a dive, Steve thought about moving on, but somehow he never did and he realised he had come to look on the rig and the rented house in Aberdeen as the closest thing he had to a home.

  One day he would have to move on, one day he would go back to pursuing his goal, but not yet. His bank balance was growing but it was still not enough to set himself with confidence on the road he wanted to take. Would it ever be? With the passage of time it seemed he always wanted more – and still more. Diving was a way of getting it, besides being a way of life. Yet somehow Steve never doubted that one day he would achieve his ambition, though he had no clear idea how he would do it.

  And then one day he read in the newspapers of Van Kendrick’s death – and he knew.

  At first the idea that came to him was vague and unformed, but as he turned it over in his mind his excitement grew, driving out all the tiredness, making him forget the bone-aching cold and the depressions that came sometimes along with the isolation and the knowledge that out there in the real world he was a man with a record.