The Question

by Jane Asher

  ‘If you’re his daughter,’ she went on, but even as she said it she felt as if she were play-acting. The words didn’t have any real meaning, they sounded like a joke, or like something said by somebody else, ‘if you’re his daughter, then that woman – your mother, you say – that woman—’ But she couldn’t get any further. The picture that presented itself in her mind as she realised the implications of what she was about to say was so ludicrous and so impossible that she couldn’t bring herself to let it be said.

  The girl was still watching her, quietly, curiously, and Eleanor studied her face for a moment. She was pretty; in spite of the messy, lank hair and white, shocked face she could see that. Was it imagination that made Eleanor now notice an echo of the shape of John’s jaw in the girl’s mouth or the outline of his profile in her cheekbone? There was something in the look, something that made her know that it was true; that John’s genes were in this girl.

  ‘But you still haven’t told me who you are,’ the girl said, ‘and why you’re here. What do you want? What is it? What’s the matter?’

  It was extraordinary to find herself being looked to for answers when she herself felt so utterly confused. Eleanor opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t think where to begin. She just stared back at the girl for a moment, then suddenly pulled herself upright and covered her bewilderment with an assumed and completely false confidence. It was time to take charge.

  ‘Well, Susan – if I may call you that. I think – Look, sorry, just a moment. Are you really – I mean, is it true? Is John Hamilton your father? Really?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course he is. Why, what’s wrong?’

  So there could no longer be any doubt. The girl’s face was so transparently honest in its look of terrified incomprehension that it left no possibility of any other explanation. It was real.

  ‘Well, Susan, I think we may have found ourselves in a rather extraordinary situation. I have—’ Eleanor suddenly stopped. Some instinct told her to be careful. To be very careful what she said, before she destroyed in an instant something delicately constructed without her knowledge in the years that had led up to this moment. She sensed quite clearly that if she were to dig out the truth of what had been taking place behind her back, then the way she handled this girl in the next few moments was of extreme importance. One move too far and she could cause this confused creature before her to snap shut like a little frightened shellfish, keeping the secrets of this other life to herself. Eleanor needed to know far, far more before revealing her hand, and before committing herself to telling this girl the fantastic truth of their situation.

  ‘My name is Eleanor. It doesn’t matter who I am, at the moment. I’m afraid I’ve been very confused, and I’m sorry I’ve upset you.’ She managed a small hint of a smile at the irony of it all, and was strangely pleased to see the tiniest glimmer of a smile back from the exhausted-looking girl in front of her. ‘Do you know where your mother is, Susan? And –’ as she began to speak the words she heard them echoing like some extraordinary fantasy in her head – ‘and your father?’

  ‘They’ve gone out to fetch some fish and chips. For a treat.’

  Eleanor laughed out loud, startling the girl in front of her and making her shift backwards on the bed.

  ‘How often does John – your father – come here? How old are you?’

  ‘I’m nineteen. He comes well, most evenings, really. After work. You know.’

  ‘But just during the week, you mean?’ Eleanor realised there was a ridiculously optimistic place in her head that still searched for a way out; that a part of her secretly thought there was still a chance that there were two John Hamiltons, and that the one who lived here with his wife and daughter was not the same as the man to whom she had been married for thirty years or more.

  ‘Yes, just during the week. He – Why, why do you ask that? You are his sister-in-law, aren’t you? He goes to stay with you at weekends. He’s always done that. I think it’s a bit weird, but Mum always explained that you weren’t very well and that he had to look after you. Since your husband died.’

  ‘Did she? Did she really?’ Eleanor raged at the thought of the discussions that must have taken place over the years. Of the deceit, the humiliation that had been heaped on her unknowingly.

  ‘My dear girl, I don’t know what they’ve told you, the pair of them, but I am – No, never mind.’ The strong instinct to preserve her own secret as long as possible had taken firm root, and Eleanor pushed aside the conflicting but pressing desire to shock this girl into recognition of the reality of the situation by confronting her with the truth.

  ‘Susan, tell me – do you know someone called Ruth? With red hair?’

  ‘Ruth Tranter? Who comes and—’

  ‘Yes, Ruth Tranter, that’s right.’

  ‘She works for my dad. And she helps Mum when she needs things. Sorts the accounts out and things. She did some shopping for her on Monday when she wasn’t well. Stuff like that.’

  Eleanor felt a minuscule jab of relief to know that the beautiful redhead was a go-between and not a mistress: the implications of treachery and deceit would have to be faced later.

  ‘Can you tell me, Susan – if you can remember – when did you last see her? Ruth, I mean.’

  ‘On Monday. I said. When she—’

  ‘No, before that. I mean the last time before that.’

  ‘Well, I think she’s been on holiday for a bit. So we haven’t seen her much since – no, wait. She popped in on Friday night when she got back. Mum’s had flu, you see, and Ruth came round to see how she was.’

  Eleanor could feel her heart racing as she went on. ‘And was your dad there, Susan? Did your dad—’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t usually see us on a Friday, of course, but he came for a bit because Mum was ill.’

  Eleanor felt a twinge of bitter triumph as she understood. That was why John had been unusually late home for the weekend. And that, of course, was when he had been wearing the tie.

  She pictured the cosy little scene. Ruth, John and Susan gathered sympathetically round Barbara’s bed, the yellow tie falling forward as John had leant down to plant a kiss on the woman’s sweating, lined forehead. An amusing comment from Ruth about the brightness of the yellow, a little laugh from them all at the trendiness of the design. The image made Eleanor want to retch, but she shook it aside and went on.

  ‘I must apologise for some of the things I said to you. I’m afraid I got a little confused. You mustn’t take any notice. Do you think you could forget some of the – I mean, I really said some stupid things and I’m very sorry.’ Eleanor hesitated a second, then, seeing a temporary way out of the immediate situation, tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice as she said, ‘Your mother’s quite right. I haven’t been very well and John – your father – has to look after me. He’s been very good about it all these years.’ She almost smiled at the irony of finding herself defending the man who had betrayed her, but at the same time felt herself warming to the task of maintaining the delicate edifice of deception that she was uncovering little by little from the muddy ground she had unknowingly trodden for so long. She must continue to portray herself to the confused girl as a crazy old woman who didn’t know what she was saying. She needed time to think before she dared let the truth come out, and sensed that the girl might clam up completely if the existing fantasies were crushed too quickly. She had to find out all she could before the inevitable happened and everything came out into the open.

  ‘But John has had this flat for over twenty years or more – no, I’m sorry, I don’t mean this flat. His flat. Or his other flat, perhaps I should say. Upstairs. Did you know about that?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Flat six. On the third floor. He often goes up there to sleep. When he has lots of work on. And sometimes he just goes straight there from work, and doesn’t come down here at all. But not usually.’

  There was a pause, and Eleanor fancied she could almost feel the grinding of Susan’s brai
n as it struggled to assess the meaning of this sudden materialisation of a hitherto unseen aunt in her room. The girl looked straight at Eleanor, the tone of her voice entirely matter-of-fact now, and without the smallest hint of self-pity.

  ‘Why did you come here? And why did you say those terrible – I mean, what did you mean? And what did you want?’

  ‘You’ll just have to understand, Susan. Just have to believe me when I say I didn’t mean them. I was upset about something and I – I get very confused. As I said. I had a bit of a shock today and I think I took it out on you.’ Even as she said it, she found herself silently appealing to some inner judge to take notice of the exquisite satire echoing behind the understatement in this brief description.

  ‘And why haven’t you ever come to see us before? Why haven’t we been to see you? At your house? Where Dad goes all the time?’

  ‘Well –’ Eleanor hesitated, hating the snarl of lies she was enmeshing herself in ever tighter under the innocent gaze of the girl – ‘well, what does your father say about that?’

  ‘He doesn’t like to talk about it. And I suppose it’s – it’s just always been like that, you know. Ever since I can remember. It seems funny now, but I suppose I’ve just got used to it. It’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, you promise there’s nothing bad that’s happened? Something you’re not telling me?’

  There was something so touching about the girl’s appeal for reassurance that Eleanor found herself wanting to comfort her, to make things better for her.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, reaching a hand out across the floral bedspread and delicately touching the tips of Susan’s fingers with her own. ‘Everything’s just as it always was.’ She looked down at the pattern of entwined green leaves and pale pink roses on the chintz between them and took her hand gently away from Susan’s and lifted it to her face, rubbing the space between her eyes with one finger as she felt the threat of tears advancing from her throat. ‘Tell me, Susan, do they seem happy, your mum and dad? Don’t answer this if you don’t want to, but I’d just like to know that they’re OK.’

  Eleanor amazed herself at her capacity to lie so smoothly while at the same time feeling genuinely emotional; the slight hint of tears in her voice fitted so well the apparently sincere need to reassure herself about the wellbeing of her ‘brother-in-law’ and his ‘wife’ that it was confusing to know that it was the very thought of their being happy that was making her want to cry.

  ‘Oh yes, you mustn’t worry about that. They row sometimes, of course, but they’re still very happy together. My dad worships her really. More than he does me, anyway.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘All my friends say I’m really lucky. But then they don’t know.’ She stopped and looked down for a second. ‘Lots of them have divorced parents, you see,’ she went on, looking straight at Eleanor again. ‘Or single mums. You know – some of them never knew their dads at all. Or they’ve got stepfathers. They think I’m lucky.’

  She frowned slightly and bent her head to try to see into Eleanor’s face.

  ‘Are you crying?’ she asked quietly. ‘What’s the matter? You don’t look like someone who’d cry, somehow. You look too – oh I don’t know. You just don’t look as if you would.’

  ‘Sorry, Susan. I’m not really crying – I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. I didn’t think I was someone who’d cry either. I thought I was – well, I cried when my mother died, I remember that, but that was just at the funeral and it was a different sort of crying somehow. I’m not really crying, don’t worry.’

  What was making her so anxious to protect the girl? It wasn’t just the necessity of keeping her only witness in a state of innocence long enough to prise as much information out of her as possible; it was more than that. Eleanor felt an extraordinary mixture of anger and pity. When Susan looked upset it hurt her. She was quite taken aback to find that she cared about what the girl was feeling; that her own awareness of the lies in which Susan had been brought up made Eleanor somehow responsible for seeing that from now on she was hurt as little as possible. In her innocence Susan obviously still felt secure; for the immediate future Eleanor knew she must preserve this tenuous security. Not yet need she know that her parents were adulterers and liars. Not yet need she know that she was the offspring of an illicit affair.

  ‘Susan, may I ask that you don’t tell anyone about my coming here? I know that’s a lot to ask, but I’m sure you can see now that I’m sorry – very sorry – that I burst in on you and frightened you the way I did, and that I just got a bit muddled about things. It would be much easier for me if we could just forget all about it. Do you think you could do that?’

  Susan hesitated and Eleanor knew she would have to put more pressure on her if she was to convince her to keep quiet about this extraordinary incident.

  ‘I swear to you, Susan, that it can only do good if you say nothing. I’ve been very silly and I wish I hadn’t done it now. Haven’t you had times when you just longed to be able to pretend something had never happened, and that you could go back to the way things were before it did?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course I have.’

  ‘Then please, please just give me this chance. Don’t let them see what a fool I’ve made of myself. Please.’

  Eleanor could see she was winning through. The girl’s concern was focusing on this mysterious aunt before her, apparently still in danger of breaking down. She had no thought for herself any more.

  ‘Yes.’ She paused and looked earnestly at Eleanor. ‘Yes, of course. If that’s what you’d like. But are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes, Susan, I’m sure. I’m fine,’ answered Eleanor matter-of-factly, then, after a moment’s hesitation, in a move that took Susan by surprise as much as it did herself, she suddenly reached out both arms and drew the startled girl towards her across the bed, clutching her tightly in an awkward, trembling embrace. ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

  Eleanor smiled to herself as she tried to picture Andrew’s reaction to her arrival. It would be nearly three o’clock in the morning by the time she reached Winstead, and he and Catherine were always in bed by ten. He had sounded puzzled enough by her phone call, and by her suggestion that she ‘pop down to see them for a few days’ or whatever she had said, but this middle-of-the-night arrival was really going to throw the system. She could just imagine Catherine’s rather silly, startled face beneath the hairnet as the doorbell woke her, and Andrew’s strained, confused look under the tousled white hair as he peeped round the chained front door.

  ‘Poor old things!’ she said to herself. She felt odd. Very odd. Almost excited, she thought, if such a word could possibly be used to describe a woman in her unhappy position. Rather as one does immediately after the first terrible reaction to news of a death or some horrific disaster, when the immediate shock is beginning to be absorbed and before the endless grinding depression sets in. The kind of moment, she thought, when someone suggests making a cup of tea or getting a drink, and a strange euphoria descends on the company; an excitement at the very change in the everyday routine, at the specialness of the moment; at the transportation, even by such misery, of the leading players to a status of being different. Special. To be looked after, noticed, cosseted.

  ‘Except who is to cosset me?’ she said out loud, and clucked her tongue at the hint of self-pity she could feel the words produce. ‘Good old Andrew and Catherine, of course! No doubt they’ll cosset me in their own peculiar way.’ She could imagine the well-meaning lecture her sister-in-law would give about her handling of the situation. She could picture the embarrassed squirming from Andrew – but at least the tea or the drink would be forthcoming. ‘Better than nothing,’ she muttered. ‘Better than nothing.’

  She thought back to the extraordinary scene in the flat. It had all been too much to take in, and she still didn’t feel she had really begun to understand. In spite of her original plan that she should get as much as possible out of the girl while she was willing to talk, she had soon realised t
hat the chances of the missing parents returning was far too high to risk staying any longer. The thought of having to face either John or the girl’s mother was unbearable, and after she had indulged in the snatched comfort of that extraordinary hug, it hadn’t been long before Eleanor had made her move. She had felt almost guilty at leaving Susan behind, but was reassured by the thought that the girl merely thought she’d had a visit from a batty old aunt, and that so far nothing had changed in her relatively comfortable, secure world of two apparently loving parents. Eleanor’s knowledge of the truth of the girl’s situation coloured her view, and she had to force herself to remember that so far no one but she and the girl’s mother knew that anything had changed.

  As she drove through the blackness of the Gloucestershire countryside, the sharply focused beams from the Range Rover’s headlights whitening the surface of the narrow lane and throwing the long grasses on the verge into bright relief against the darkness behind them, she tried to make sense of the swirling emotions that were beginning to battle with her precarious sense of wellbeing. A mistress – and a child. A child. What did that make her feel? Had John wanted this daughter? Had the woman got pregnant and forced him to look after them both? John had always been so smug in the childlessness of their marriage, so sure that they were happier, calmer, certainly better off than those of their friends whom they saw go through the mess and trauma of having kids. Eleanor, of course, had never been quite so certain. If she was honest with herself, there had been many times when she had felt a stab of regret, an emptiness, a horrible creeping feeling that perhaps something wonderful was missing from her life. Particularly when the menopause had overtaken her from behind, unexpected and unavoidable. She hadn’t realised until her periods slowed, stuttered and spattered to a halting stop nearly ten years ago at the age of forty-eight, how much she had depended on the theoretical possibilities that their existence had given her. She had felt not only depressed at their ending, which her doctor assured her was ‘to be expected’, but positively angry. All the years of pads, pains, tampons and mood swings. All for nothing. All wasted. But at least it had always been a shared decision, a shared view – she had always comforted herself in the occasional moments of disquiet by congratulating herself on what a good marriage they had, and how their closeness owed not a little to the fact that they were unburdened by the responsibilities of children.