Born of Woman

by Wendy Perriam

  Jennifer was still gibbering. ‘He … er … got delayed. I had to leave before him. He’s got quite a long way to come, remember.’ From the other end of England, for all she knew, the other side of the Channel. She tried to plan the next lies—for when he didn’t come: the car was unreliable; he’d been having blackouts and wasn’t meant to drive …

  Matthew jerked up from his desk again. ‘Yes, it is a distance from Bedfordshire.’ He gave the county a sarcastic, almost mocking emphasis. ‘I’m surprised you got here yourself.’

  Jennifer froze. Had Matthew somehow guessed that …?

  He was striding to the door and back. ‘Don’t you realise Lyn’s up to his neck in this? In fact, from a legal point of view, Edward’s quarrel is not with me at all, but with Lyn as joint heir. Edward’s solicitors have been trying to track him down for two whole weeks now. Surely you can see that if he hangs around much longer …’

  ‘But he’s coming, Matthew, I told you. There was a slight … problem before we left. The … er … water heater blew up.’ Jennifer was trembling. Her own lies frightened her—stupid childish lies which would blow up themselves and scar her.

  ‘There’s always some excuse. Lyn’s so damned casual. Just because he’s got nothing to do himself, he imagines he can … Ah, that’s him now, I expect.’ The phone on his desk was shrilling. Matthew picked it up. ‘And if he tries to tell me he’s broken down or … Hallo? Yes, Matthew Winterton here. Who? Look, I told you not to bother me again. No, I haven’t changed my mind. I made it quite clear last time that … I’m sorry—the answer’s no—and if you’re going to take that line, I’ve no alternative but to close this conversation.’

  Matthew’s hand was shaking as he banged the receiver down. ‘The nerve of these reporters! That was Jasper Prince again. He’s phoned me every day for the last ten days. It hurts to be called a liar by a man as … base as that.’ Matthew picked up his paper-knife, slashed it against the blotter. ‘Do you realise, Jennifer, he’s trying to make out I was perfectly well aware that Edward was alive still, and that I hushed the matter up to grab all the spoils myself? That’s downright libellous nonsense. You know yourself I made every enquiry I could, but there wasn’t the slightest shred of evidence that Edward had survived. I mean, a child can’t simply disappear. He’s either dead or … I’m not psychic, am I? Who in God’s name would have thought of looking in New Zealand?’ Matthew was leaning forward, appealing to Jennifer, pleading with her. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course I do. It’s just that …’

  ‘What?’ The word was like a gun-shot.

  ‘Well … I don’t quite see how Jasper tracked him down. I mean, if you’d already tried so hard and come up with nothing at all …’

  Matthew hesitated. ‘It was … Rowan Childs. She gave him a vital lead. Remember when we met her at the Ritz, she mentioned Hester’s sister?’

  Jennifer nodded. She had thought about Ellen several times since then, wondered why there were no letters from her among Hester’s private papers. Had the two lost contact?

  Matthew was still fiddling with his paper-knife. ‘Ellen Ainsley was the only person in the world who could have helped any of us. She was the only relative left, you see, and …’

  Jennifer had a sudden painful image of the bodies of Hester’s brothers, bloody in the trenches. All three had been killed before they had a chance to marry, and since both Hester’s parents had been only children, there were no descendants at all. ‘But I thought you said she was ill and very old and …’ Was Matthew lying himself—each of them trying to fob the other off—he over Edward, she about Lyn?

  ‘She was. In fact, she’s dead now. But she was still alive in the summer. Rowan interviewed her a week before she passed away. That’s how she got her lead. Trust Miss Childs to harass a dying woman!’

  ‘B … but I thought you said Ellen lived abroad—in Delhi?’

  ‘That’s right. She left this country way back in the twenties. I understand she was seeking religion or spiritual enlightenment or something, long before gurus became a Western craze. I suspect myself it was all a substitute for a normal family life. She was very plain, I’m told, and never married.’ Matthew grimaced, as if ugliness and spinsterhood were states to be abhorred. ‘Anyway, once I knew she was out of the country, I let the matter rest. I didn’t intend flogging all the way to India just to question one sick and crazed old woman who would probably tell me nothing anyway. I was far too busy.’ Matthew shuffled through the papers on his desk, as if to demonstrate his work-load.

  ‘After we met Rowan at the Ritz, I checked on Ellen again—made a few enquiries via a friend of a friend who had relatives in India and didn’t mind a spot of detective work. He came back with the news that Miss Ainsley had suffered a stroke in Delhi and died there, just a month or so before. Unfortunately, the information was wrong—though I didn’t discover that till later on. Ellen had had a stroke—yes—but not a fatal one. She was left with one arm slighly paralysed and a problem with her blood pressure. Her doctors advised her to return to England, where she would have a milder climate and better nursing care.’ Matthew smiled grimly. ‘It appears our English rain does have its benefits.’

  Jennifer nodded. So Rowan’s rumour was right—though she didn’t say so. Matthew hated told-you-so’s. She pictured Ellen trying to cope with choppy seas or jet-lag with unsteady legs and a weakened arm. All of Hester’s family seemed to have lived harsh or tragic lives.

  Matthew was still talking. His voice was calmer now, but his left eyelid was twitching in a continual tiny spasm. He kept rubbing at it, as if he could remove the twitch like a speck of dust. It made her nervous just to watch him. Matthew kept the whole world under his thumb, yet was powerless to control a facial tic. ‘I had no idea, of course, that she had came across to England. She was still dead and buried four or five thousand miles away, as far as I was concerned. But Rowan Childs had been making her own enquiries, and had all the back-up of a wealthy newspaper to help her in the task. An outfit like hers has leads and contacts everywhere—including India. I couldn’t compete with that. A few probing phone calls to her Delhi office and she was on the track of a still-living Ellen Ainsley who had just arrived in Bristol … Excuse me please.’ Matthew’s own phone was blaring through his words.

  Jennifer tensed. If this were some reporter on the line, trying to track Lyn down, then Matthew would return to the attack. He had been so engrossed in the Ellen story, he seemed to have forgotten Lyn’s absence, or at least accepted it. She watched him anxiously. He was jotting down some figures, talking fairly equably. No—it couldn’t be a press-man, just a business colleague. He replaced the receiver, stared down at his pad.

  ‘Er … what happened then?’ she urged. Safer to fill the pause with Ellen than with Lyn.

  Matthew added up his figures, scribbled down the total, scratched it out again. ‘I’m sorry. Where were we?’ He looked confused, disorientated.

  ‘Ellen,’ Jennifer said. ‘Just arrived in Bristol.’ Matthew had never needed prompting before. ‘Why Bristol?’

  ‘Apparently, she’d lived there before she went to India and it was the only place she still had contacts. Rowan tracked her down in a geriatric hospital and was lucky enough to get an interview—though perhaps ‘‘luck’’ is not the appropriate word. I understand a considerable sum of money changed hands.’

  Jennifer stared. ‘Surely not? I mean if Ellen was ill and almost senile …’

  ‘Not so ill that money didn’t rally her. A wad of twenty-pound notes slipped into her handbag and her memory improved dramatically. She not only recalled the baby Edward’s birth and all the fuss which followed when her strict and shocked parents more or less disowned Hester and drove her from the house, but also the name of the foster-parents and the fact they were New Zealanders. After that, it was easy. All Rowan had to do was search the passenger lists of any boat sailing to New Zealand in the spring of 1919. In actual fact, she turned the matt
er over to those odious little people on the gossip column. Rowan likes to keep her hands clean, so when the story showed signs of getting … well … shall we say a trifle insalubrious, she realised it was more in Jasper’s line. So he took over—went to the Public Record Office at Kew, and found a Mr and Mrs Edward Fraser—with infant child—passengers on the Corinthic which sailed for New Zealand on March 14th, 1919. I’ve seen the entry with my own eyes.’

  Jennifer was frowning. ‘So you did know, Matthew?’

  ‘No, no, certainly not—not then. I only went to Kew a week or so ago, when the story had broken already. Way back in June, I was still completely in the dark. All I did discover was that Ellen had left India for England. What happened was that Rowan Childs invited me to lunch and steered the conversation round to Ellen. I still thought she was dead, of course, which is why I hadn’t bothered to contact Rowan myself, a second time. But it was pretty obvious at the lunch that Rowan was on to something. She even mentioned Bristol. I realise now it was all a deliberate lead—what the Press call a ‘‘carrot’’, I believe. Rowan hoped I’d bite on it and then spit out my own secrets—give away something she didn’t know herself. She was under the illusion that I had a lot more facts on Ellen than I actually did, including, of course, her recent return to this country for her health. Alas—I was a long, long way behind her, though I did my best to catch up—drove straight to Bristol the following morning and scoured every hotel, hospital and old people’s home in the area.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me, Matthew.’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you. You had enough on your plate as it was, with all the publicity and so on. You were right in the middle of it, then, if you remember, and the last thing you needed was any additional strain. Anyway, my trip proved highly frustrating. I did find out that Ellen hadn’t died in Delhi. In fact, she had died in Bristol—just two days before I got there—suffered a second stroke. Rowan Childs had made it just in time. She may even have hastened the death. Strokes are often caused by extra stress and excitement.’

  ‘Ellen was almost eighty, Matthew.’

  ‘Yes, all right. But it was still extremely unfortunate. All I managed was to speak to one or two of the staff at the hospital, who told me very little except that Rowan had been there twice and …’

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Rowan’s very thorough. It was on her second visit she left the money.’

  ‘But how did you know all this, Matthew? I mean, if she was dead when you arrived and …’ Jennifer stopped. Had he used Rowan’s methods and offered inducements himself, bribed the nurses at the hospital? She remembered her own cheque, signed in Matthew’s hand. ‘I wish you’d told me all this, Matthew. I mean, you didn’t say a word and …’

  ‘You’d only have been distressed. I was trying to spare you.’ Matthew eased his back. Both the phones were ringing now, and he was switching between the two of them. Jim Allenby was hovering at the door, waiting to have a word with him, and a secretary had just knocked and entered with a pile of urgent papers for him to sign. She felt a sudden rush of sympathy. Matthew had tried to save her strain and worry—and yet was overburdened himself. He looked too sick to deal with all that desk-work, on top of everything else. Easy for Susie to criticise when she had never seen him in his office, faced with all the pressures.

  She wondered what might have happened if he had managed to talk to Ellen, got in touch with Edward before Rowan tracked him down. She would have welcomed a chance of meeting Ellen herself—come face to face with someone who had actually grown up with Hester, shared her girlhood, known all her quirks and strengths. She tried to picture Ellen lying in that hospital—old, alone and feeble—betraying her sister’s confidence for the sake of a wad of notes she would never have a chance to spend. Perhaps the cash had been used to purchase her coffin and her winding-sheet. She flashbacked seventy years, saw Ellen as an innocent young girl, shocked by her sister’s pregnancy, acting as her confidante, torn between sympathy for Hester and loyalty to her parents.

  Matthew was off the phone now, though he still had the receiver clenched in his hand, as if he feared to replace it and face yet another call. Allenby and the secretary had gone, leaving their wake of problems and new work. Jennifer stole a glance at her watch. It was already 10.30 and yet he hadn’t mentioned Lyn again. He was normally well aware of the time, all too ready to denounce unpunctuality. She had her lies prepared—the faulty clutch, the blackouts—but preferred to postpone them as long as possible. She was bound to make another gaffe. Matthew looked up suddenly, frowned across at her.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, jumping in before he could explode again. ‘This Ellen thing. I mean, if you didn’t see her yourself, when did you first find out that she’d … er … sold her story to Rowan?’

  ‘I didn’t. Matthew scribbled a note to himself, then pushed the pad away, made an effort to concentrate. ‘Well, not until the damage was already done and Edward had come storming into my office. I knew money had changed hands, of course, so I suspected Rowan might have got something for her pains. After that, I read every word she wrote—watched her column like a hawk—and Jasper’s. But the subject never came up at all. Weeks passed—still nothing—not even that piece on Fernfield Rowan mentioned. So I assumed she’d wasted her time and money and that Ellen had stayed mum.’ Matthew reached for his pad again, made another jotting. It was as if the story were reminding him of certain points he could use in his defence. ‘What actually happened was that Jasper had passed the matter on to one of his stringers in New Zealand. These Fleet Street types have contacts everywhere. He already knew the Frasers’ destination—Warkworth—he’d got that from the records. So he phoned his man in Warkworth, or Auckland, or wherever, and told him to get on with finding baby Edward—though hardly a baby now. That’s where the delay began. The New Zealand reporter, who has the unfortunate name of Wilbur Crank, realised that this was the best and biggest exposé he was ever likely to have a finger in, so he decided he’d try and claim the credit for his own exclusive scoop and run the story first in Auckland, under his own by-line. As you know, the book’s a bestseller in New Zealand as well as over here. So every time London nudged him over the telephone, Crank simply stalled—said he was digging hard, but had come up with nothing much to speak of. In actual fact, he was doing pretty well, sniffing round anyone and everyone who’d ever seen or heard of Edward—offering bribes to cleaning ladies or greensmen at his golf club, laying on fancy little lunches wherever they’d pay off. Unfortunately for him …’ Matthew paused a moment, as if the memory were painful for him, also. ‘Edward was tipped off just before Crank was ready to confront him and obtain the final clinching interview. Edward was upset enough already. He’d read the book himself, found his mother’s maiden name—his name—but no record of his birth or existence, nor mention of his father. He’d also heard the rumours which Crank’s enquiries had started stirring up, and which had surfaced at the worst possible time for him. You see, he was standing for re-election for the local council. Apparently, Edward’s quite a little grandee in his home town—been a councillor for years and JP before that, so his personal reputation is obviously pretty crucial to him.’

  Jennifer broke in. ‘Surely he didn’t tell you all this, Matthew?’ From what she had gathered, Edward had stormed in with an ultimatum, not stopped to chat about his career or election prospects. She was confused and bewildered that this whole painful complex story should have been unfolding around her and beyond her, and yet she herself had been in total ignorance.

  Matthew was shaking his head. ‘Not as such. He mentioned ugly gossip and I could see he was really thrown by it, but he didn’t give the details. No—what I did was get on the phone to Colin Bailey—he’s the export sales manager at Hartley Davies—a very decent chap. You’ve met him, actually, at the sales conference last November. Reddish hair and spectacles—remember? He visits New Zealand once a year, at least, and he’s always said the country’s small enough for him to k
now a lot of local people mere and have a good idea what’s going on. Anyway, he did a bit of sleuthing for me and reported back with quite a little saga. Apparently, what happened was that Edward’s opponent in the local election—a character called Elkins and quite a nasty piece of work, according to Colin—was one of the people approached by Wilbur Crank. Elkins realised that here was something he could turn to his own advantage. He persuaded Crank to confide in him, made a few enquiries of his own, and then started a sort of … smear campaign, based chiefly on rumour at this stage—you know the sort of thing—hints that Edward was an upstart and a fraud who had cashed in on the Fraser name and money when he was nobody and nothing, and had deceived all and sundry by hushing up his background. It appeared to work. Edward lost, in any case, whatever the actual reason. It wasn’t just defeat which so upset him, but the danger of publicity and the fact that reporters were involved. As I told you, someone had warned him already that Crank was on his tail, and he was so alarmed by now that he took immediate legal advice and discovered that Crank was under orders from Fleet Street where the probe had originated. He immediately flew to London—in a panic, I suspect—to try and supress the whole damaging issue of his illegitimate birth and so-called shady background before it made the national headlines. But his dramatic dash to London only made things worse. The rest you know.’

  Jennifer flushed. She would never forget it—the day that Jasper’s story broke—her own guilt and shock as she saw Edward’s bewildered face blinking from the gossip columns, the ugly word ‘bastard’ bandied about by unfeeling journalists. Edward had successfully quashed that word for over sixty years—or so the papers said. He knew he was not the Frasers’ son—how could he be when he had a different name from theirs?—knew he was English-born and illegitimate, but he had always hushed the latter up, claimed Ainsley as his true mother’s married name. If people pressed or probed, he informed them that the young and tragic Mrs Ainsley had been widowed in the Great War before he was even born—and then clammed up, refusing to discuss his background any further. Now, that background was being shouted from the rooftops. There had never been a Mr Ainsley, only a poor, single, shameful pregnant girl. Ellen had given no details of Edward’s father, despite Rowan’s bribes and pressures, so all the papers resorted to speculation, much of it unpleasant.