Folly's Child

by Janet Tanner

  ‘That’s wonderful. You are a clever girl’, he congratulated her.

  ‘No I’m not – I wanted a first. And I’ve worked so hard for it!’ she wept, over-emotional through sheer exhaustion.

  ‘Doesn’t meant a thing. Who cares what degree you’ve got as long as you’ve got it? Your work is what counts – and it’s good,’ he comforted her.

  ‘The examiners obviously didn’t think it was that wonderful.’

  ‘The examiners are blockheads. If they’d seen it on the catwalk instead of hanging on rails they’d know how good it is. It’s a very commercial collection, babe, and you’ll have no trouble selling it.’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve got to recoup some of what I’ve spent on it – or rather what poor Mum has spent on it!’

  ‘You will. You’ll see.’

  And of course he had been proved right. After the final collection showing Theresa was approached by several people who were interested in buying individual items and by the boutique chain who wanted to take the complete collection, lock stock and barrel, with orders for repeats and a proviso that she would also be designing a spring collection.

  ‘You see – what did I tell you?’ Mark swung her round jubilantly. ‘You’ve got to go into business now. Forget about all these other pissy little jobs and go for the big one. Your own label!’

  ‘But I wouldn’t know where to start …’

  ‘You get yourself a little work room somewhere, hire some outworkers and let your talent do the rest.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy but I don’t know a thing about running a business …’

  ‘What about your friend Linda George? She’s just finished at commercial school, hasn’t she? She’d be just the one to help you with that side of things. You worry about designing and let her worry about the business details.’

  ‘And where on earth would I get the capital to set up something like that?’

  ‘Go and talk to your bank manager – that’s what banks are for.’

  ‘Oh Mark – I’m scared …’

  ‘I thought you planned to be a famous designer.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then have the courage of your convictions – go for it!’

  She took a deep breath and her eyes had begun to shine with determination.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. If I don’t take chances I’ll never get anywhere, will I?’

  He kissed her. ‘I am very proud of you, lady. Very proud indeed.’

  Although they were in love both Mark and Theresa had held back certain facts about themselves, each for their own reasons.

  Mark had omitted to mention the fact that his mother was married to Hugo Varna, merely saying his family lived in the States where his step-father was ‘in business’, for he was something of an inverted snob who was embarrassed by the wealth and success that had given him so many advantages in life. Besides this he still felt, foolishly perhaps, that to admit to connections with such high echelons of fashion when Theresa was still on the bottom rung of the ladder might be interpreted as ‘swank’.

  As for Theresa, even in their most intimate moments she had never admitted to Mark that she had been adopted. This was partly because she seldom thought about it herself and partly out of a sense of loyalty to Doreen. When she talked about her past it was always in terms of life as it had been, not as it might have been. She was Theresa Arnold, her mother was Doreen Arnold, her father was dead and she had been brought up in Beckenham – end of story.

  But when she came to try to set up her own business she discovered for the first time in her life that it did matter to her that she was adopted – though not for any of the usual reasons. And as she and Mark discussed it, the truth came out.

  As Mark had suggested, Theresa had paid a visit to the bank manager. He had been interested in her proposals and not unhelpful, but he had pointed out the necessity for collateral on a loan of the size she required. When she heard of the conditions Doreen had not hesitated. Inordinately proud of Theresa and anxious to give her the best possible start in her chosen career she had immediately offered to put up her house as security and though grateful and filled with love for her mother, Theresa was overcome by a sense of terrible responsibility and fear of failure.

  ‘I don’t think I can let her do it,’ she said to Mark. ‘It’s too much to ask.’

  ‘You haven’t asked – she has offered,’ Mark pointed out.

  They were sharing a curry at Mark’s flat, but Theresa’s was almost untouched as she pushed the rice around her plate with her fork.

  ‘I know she’s offered, that’s not the point. Supposing I should fail?’

  ‘You won’t fail. Eat up your curry.’

  ‘I might. And if I did she’d stand to lose everything. It’s not even as though Dad were alive. He didn’t leave her much – the house is all she’s got. If she lost it she’d have nothing. What the hell would she do? I can’t let her risk it.’

  ‘Look.’ He finished his curry and pushed his plate back across the low table. ‘A – you’re not going to fail. B – if the bank want collatoral you don’t really have much choice – I’d help you if I could but I’m mortgaged up to my ears myself. C – she wants to help you. Mothers are like that.’

  ‘But she’s done so much for me already. I can’t tell you the sacrifices she’s made for me. It’s time I was paying her back, not taking her for every penny she’s got.’

  ‘If this comes off you will be paying her back,’ he argued. ‘You will be able to afford to keep her in luxury for the rest of her days …’ He broke off, thinking of how Hugo had been able to spoil Martha, not only with material things but with the reason for pride in her offspring that warms a mother’s heart. ‘ Believe me, you’ve got to let her do it. Nothing worth having comes without taking a few risks. You know the old maxim – you have to speculate to accumulate.’

  ‘I know, I know, but …’ She hesitated. ‘She’s done so much for me already, and … well, there’s something I’ve never told you. She isn’t actually my real mother. I was adopted as a baby.’

  ‘So?’ He was surprised but not shocked.

  ‘Well – I feel doubly responsible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to disappoint her or let her down. God knows what son of a life I’d have had if they hadn’t adopted me. They gave me everything – all their love, a wonderful home, everything. I don’t want to repay all that by ruining her.’

  He reached for her hands. Although his flat was centrally heated they felt cold as they so often did and a little stiff. He massaged them gently.

  ‘I keep telling you, honey, you have to have confidence in yourself. You can do it – you can! And as for disappointing her, that is the biggest load of rubbish I ever heard in my life. She is proud of you already and she’ll be prouder yet.’

  He pulled her towards him, kissing her hair, her eyes and finally her mouth. Because of her pre-occupation it was a little while before she began to respond, then his nearness worked its old magic and she temporarily forgot all her worries as her body became sensitised with longing.

  Mark was a generous and considerate lover, waiting for her at every stage and drawing her to heights she had never achieved with those boys who rushed in eager for their own gratification. When at last it was over and she lay in his arms, relaxed and replete, the problems of everyday survival seemed a long way away.

  Sometimes after lovemaking Mark smoked a cigarette and he did so now, propped against the pillows with her head resting against his shoulder. She nuzzled his skin with her nose, enjoying the faint smell of fresh perspiration mingled with soap on his skin and the wafting smoke of the cigarette. She felt drowsy and happy, glad she had gone down to the west country that day four months ago even though she had not got the job, for if she had not she would never have met him – unthinkable! After such a short time she felt she had known him all her life and when he said: ‘So, you are adopted. You never told me’, she was glad there were
no more secrets between them.

  ‘It didn’t seem important,’ she said. ‘Most of the time I don’t even think about it,’

  ‘Do you know anything about your real parents?’ he asked casually.

  It was natural curiosity, there was no hint, no suggestion that what she was about to say would change both their fives.

  ‘Next to nothing. I applied for my birth certificate when I was eighteen but I never did anything about it. I didn’t feel I wanted to follow it up. As I said, I look on Doreen and Les as my real parents. They are the ones who were always there for me.’ She hesitated, running one finger down the feathering of fair hairs that clustered down the line of his breastbone. ‘One funny thing, though, my real mother’s name was the same as yours – Bristow.’

  ‘Really? How odd. I’ve never thought it was that common a name.’

  ‘It’s not, is it? She was called Sally, Sally Margaret Bristow and her address was given as somewhere in Kensington. My father wasn’t named though. The space for that simply said ‘‘Father unknown’’.’

  Almost intuitively she felt him stiffen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ But he withdrew his arm and got up, pulling on his jeans. ‘Shall we go back in the other room? There’s a good film on TV I’d like to see.’

  ‘All right.’ But she had sensed him going away from her and she was hurt and puzzled. She didn’t know what was wrong but she could tell from his attitude that he was not going to explain. Somehow, some time during the last minutes a barrier had gone up between them that had never been there before. Suddenly Theresa was cold with misgiving, her whole body feeling heavy and numb the way her hands so often did.

  ‘Mark, I love you,’ she wanted to say, in the hope that somehow miraculously everything would be all right again just as it had been before … what? But she did not say it. Instead she levered herself up off the bed, reached for her clothes and followed him into the living room.

  Mark Bristow poured himself another scotch – his third since Theresa had left – and stood swirling the liquid around in the glass. The small carriage clock on the mantlepiece said twenty to two but he made no attempt to get ready for bed. He wouldn’t sleep, he knew, and there was nothing worse than tossing and turning for hours. Besides, his skin crawled at the prospect of lying in the bed where he had so lately made love to her.

  Christ Almighty what a mess! he thought and swigged angrily at his whisky. Christ Almighty, I don’t believe this! But unless I am very much mistaken I have just made love to my sister.

  At the thought his stomach turned again and he felt the sweat beading on his forehead and running in rivulets down his neck. He hadn’t known, of course – had had no idea such a thing was even remotely possible, but that made no difference to the terrible, deep seated revulsion. Nothing could alter that, no explanations, no excuses. He had made love to his sister. Worse – he had fallen in love with her, and she with him. No wonder they had had that affinity from the very beginning! he thought, the taste of the whisky rising like bile in his throat. No bloody wonder. It was sick – too sick for words.

  But how could he possibly have known? He couldn’t. He hadn’t even known she was adopted and he had certainly not had the slightest idea that his mother had borne – and given away – a second baby.

  What the hell was the matter with her? he wondered, irrationally angry suddenly and ready to vent his feelings on her. He had known, of course, that he was illegitimate. She had never made any secret of it, even though after she had married Hugo the designer had treated him like a son. In any case there would have been no point in trying to conceal it. He had been old enough to remember living in London with his mother – in Kensington. He had already started at nursery school before he was uprooted and whisked off to the States. But she must have been already pregnant. He did a quick calculation guessing at Theresa’s age. Strange. There seemed to be some sort of discrepancy. He didn’t quite understand it but then she might be older than he thought she was. Yes, it must be that. There was no other explanation. Sally Margaret Bristow of Kensington was his mother, for sure. The chances of there being two girls of the same name living in the same couple of square miles must be a thousand to one against.

  He refilled his glass yet again, running over the likely scenario. Sally had been pregnant again when Paula had disappeared. God alone knew how she had managed to get herself into the same fix twice – one would have imagined going through what she had done to have and keep him she would have been more careful a second time, especially by the end of the Swinging Sixties. But somehow she had and she hadn’t been able to face going through with it a second time. Besides that would have totally blown her chance with Hugo, he imagined. So this time Sally had decided to give the baby up for adoption. And that baby was Theresa.

  Who had been her father? The same as his? Or Hugo even? Her birth certificate bore the same embarrassing blank as did his – ‘father unknown’. He did not understand it. There were still plenty of unanswered questions, but it almost fitted. Mark thought with a sinking heart that he was not far off the truth.

  Well, there was only one way to be sure. He did a quick calculation of time zones and placed a call to Sally in the States. When she came on the line her voice was light, surprised, and he experienced a moment’s hope.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Mark! What a lovely surprise! How are you?’

  He did not answer her question, instead asked one of his own.

  ‘Mum – did you have a baby adopted in London? Late sixties – early seventies?’

  There was a silence. Even allowing for the time lapse as the words hummed along the lines across the vast distance it was too long. Then she said, a trifle breathless, a trifle startled: ‘ How did you find out?’

  So that was it. No more room for doubt. No more room for hope. He couldn’t bring himself to answer, much less to talk about it. Without another word he replaced the receiver and stood looking at it.

  It was true then. Theresa was his sister. God help them both. It was revolting, disgusting. Even worse, even now knowing what he now knew, his heart still ached for her.

  He couldn’t see her again, of course. But he didn’t want her to learn the truth. At least he could spare her that.

  When dawn broke he showered, shaved and went in to the office.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said to Toby Rogers, his partner. ‘About the Hemingway account. I think it ought to be handled from the New York end.’

  Toby had looked at him in surprise. He’d said as much himself several times during the last few weeks, but prising Mark away from London since he had been seeing his latest girl had not been easy.

  ‘I’ll book myself on a flight sometime later today,’ Mark went on. ‘If you think you can run this end without me, that is.’

  ‘Of course but …’

  ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back. Depends on how it goes.’

  ‘What if Theresa rings?’ Toby asked astutely. ‘Should I give her your number?’

  He knew he had hit the nail on the head when Mark’s face went closed in. God but he looked dreadful this morning – pasty pale like old parchment with red rimmed bloodshot eyes!

  ‘No. Tell her … oh tell her what you like. But keep her out of my hair.’

  ‘Fair enough, old son,’ Toby said equably – and like the old friend he was knew better than to ask any more questions.

  In New York Mark stayed with another friend in an apartment on the East Side. He couldn’t bring himself to stay under the same roof as his mother. It was no longer his home, anyway – she and Hugo had moved the previous year to a new apartment on Central Park South which she had had done up entirely to her specifications, finally leaving behind the last echoes of Paula.

  He had wondered how he would feel when he saw her again and as he had anticipated, at first it was awkward and he felt heavy with resentment. He had expected her to raise the subject of the baby, ask him
how he had learned about it and perhaps try to explain, but to his immense relief she did not and he found that cold hard core of anger softening.

  Judge not that ye be not judged. He loved Sally with the total love that most young men feel for their mothers and perhaps because of those early years when they had been alone together their relationship was even more special than most. Who knew what had driven Sally in those grim days? It was not her fault that he had met Theresa and fallen in love with her; she was not to have known.

  Besides, to ask questions would be to have to explain himself and he did not want to do that. The knowledge of what he had done was a dark secret he wanted to keep to himself. Only that way might he one day be able to put it behind him. So the subject of the mysterious baby was never raised between them and gradually he found it in himself to forgive Sally whatever she had done for the pain she had caused him and resume their relationship as before. If anything he found he was even more protective of her.

  But he had not been able to forget Theresa. Even knowing what he did she was still there in his heart and her presence was a constant shame to him. He did not see her, did not return any of her calls, and told himself it was the best way. A clean break meant she would have nothing to reproach herself with.