Weight 7 lb 11 oz.
Status illegitimate.
Mother, Penelope Maud John, born 20th October 1948.
Occupation, student teacher.
Illegitimate – more of a stigma in 1969 than it was now. He flicked through the pages. The file provided a comprehensive overview of Penny and Andrew’s life over the last eighteen years. He didn’t need to reread the reports that had been sent monthly to know that Andrew ‘Andy’ John was a much loved son, grandson, nephew, cousin and friend.
Bright, intelligent, academic, athletic, the captain of his school rugby and swimming teams, who’d represented his country in golf and fencing tournaments, and won several cups in local gymkhanas.
He looked closely at the last photograph in the file. It had been taken at Andrew’s grandparents’ golden wedding celebrations. He was handing his grandmother a bunch of fifty golden roses.
‘What are you really like, Andrew John?’ he questioned softly. ‘The Robert Brosna the Fifth your great-grandmother wanted, or the Andy John your grandparents and mother brought up?’
Robert looked at the photograph for a long time. But no answer came.
As she’d stipulated in her will, Charlotte Brosna’s funeral was conducted three days after her death. She was buried with minimum ceremony in the Brosna family plot alongside her husband who’d predeceased her by seventy-eight years.
The minister had received his orders on his last visit to Charlotte. There was one hymn and the bare rites. Enough to satisfy social proprietary and not a word more. Less than twenty minutes after arriving at the cemetery, the funeral procession began the journey back to the Brosna compound for the wake.
Tim Garber slowed the car when he approached the estate. The guard at the entrance operated the switch that opened the gates. Tim pressed the intercom that connected with the back of the limousine.
‘The main house or yours, sir?’
‘The main house, but I won’t be leaving the car,’ Robert qualified. ‘Fetch Harriet. I’ll speak to her here. Afterwards you can drive me home.’
Tim touched his cap to the security guard and drove the limousine through. The procession of funeral and private cars followed them up the incline to the white clapboard mansion, but only Tim parked in front of the entrance. The others made their way to the car park at the side. Tim switched off the ignition, opened the window that connected with the back and faced Robert.
Anyone attending Charlotte Brosna’s funeral in the hope of catching a glimpse of the face Robert Brosna had kept hidden from the world for nineteen years would have been disappointed. Charlotte’s funeral had been public but Robert had worn the white silk hood that had become synonymous with his persona. As always, outside his house, it was anchored by dark glasses that concealed his eyes, and his hat was pulled low over his forehead.
‘Admiring the invisible man effect, Tim?’ Robert enquired dryly.
‘I was offered three hundred thousand dollars for a photograph of you without the hood,’ Tim revealed laconically.
‘By anyone I know?’
‘Steve Mercer. He has a cousin who works for a newspaper syndicate.’
‘Do I know Mr Mercer?’ Robert asked.
‘He was recently promoted third assistant to the head of Brosna marketing.’
‘Remind me to ask Bill James to sack him.’ Bill was head of marketing.
‘You won’t need reminding.’ Tim opened the car door. ‘I’ll get Harriet.’
Grateful for the limousine’s blacked-out windows that enabled him to see without being seen, Robert studied the distant Brosna cousins and staff who’d gathered for the wake. There were no friends. Charlotte had none living. Everyone she knew had either loathed her or been terrified of her, the depth of their emotion dependent on their status within the Brosna hierarchy.
Was it his imagination or had the cloying scent of the sickly sweet spring funeral flowers permeated his car? He turned his back on the guests entering the house and looked out over the estate. Built on a headland, the twenty acres of grounds that swept down to the sea were relatively private, thickly wooded around the landward perimeters. But the high fences Charlotte had erected after the accident couldn’t screen the grounds from the seaward side.
The last photograph taken of him that had appeared in the press had been snapped by a freelancer when he’d been carried out of a Boston hospital in December 1968. His face had been swathed in bandages. No one could have identified him from it, but Charlotte hadn’t taken any chances. After engaging the best lawyers she could find, she’d taken the freelancer to court and sued him for invasion of privacy.
The Brosna name, coupled with the tragedy of that summer night, had gained the judge’s sympathy. The compensation the photographer had been ordered to pay had plunged him into bankruptcy and ended his career. Charlotte had achieved what she’d set out to do. The judgement had deterred others from venturing too close.
The house overlooked tennis courts, cultivated gardens and a winding lane that led to a dozen guest houses clustered around a swimming pool. Tim lived in one. The others hadn’t been occupied in decades. Two hundred yards behind them, bordering the private beach, was the summer house that had become his home and haven.
He’d had to fight Charlotte for the privilege of solitude. It had taken a year of angry exchanges before she’d capitulated and allowed him to move in during the autumn of 1969. After that, she’d respected his request that neither she, nor the household staff, go near the place; its care and cleaning had been left to him and Tim. Not that Charlotte had approved of Tim Garber.
A Vietnam vet who’d lost his right leg to a landmine and been badly disfigured by shrapnel injuries, Tim had written to Robert in the summer of 1969. Claiming acquaintance with a mutual friend, he’d asked Robert for help in finding work. To Charlotte’s annoyance Robert made Tim his personal assistant. The title was window dressing. Tim was more than Robert’s assistant and chauffeur. He was his confidant, closest and only friend, knew all there was to know about him and could sense how he felt in any given situation. Robert had wondered if it was an empathy born of common physical disabilities. Tim’s facial injuries and scars were not as extensive or hideous as his, but enough to know what it was like when heads turned and people stared.
Harriet tapped the car window. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘Please, step inside.’ Robert opened the door and she climbed into the back of the car, sitting on one of the pull-down seats opposite him.
Harriet had spent thirty-two of her fifty-six years working for Charlotte. Despite Charlotte’s domineering personality and insistence on fastidiousness in all things domestic, Harriet had attracted staff of the highest calibre and succeeded in keeping them. Robert had attributed her success to the high wages Charlotte paid. But when he’d assumed control of Charlotte’s personal finances three years ago, he’d discovered his grandmother was out of step with inflation.
He’d doubled and in some cases trebled the wages of his grandmother’s staff. They graciously accepted their rises and back pay but none voiced a complaint against Charlotte. It was then he’d realised they served her because their respect for her outweighed their dislike.
‘Tim said you won’t be coming in for the wake, sir.’ Harriet glanced through the window at the guests streaming through the door.
‘I won’t.’
‘Would you like me to send dinner down to the summer house, sir?’
‘No, thank you. If I want anything I’ll ring the kitchen.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ Her eyes were cast down. Like all the staff, she had been trained by Charlotte never to look at his hooded face.
‘I’ve spoken to the lawyers. She left a few staff bequests. You’ve received notification of them.’
‘We have, sir. Thank you. Mrs Brosna was generous.’
‘Please inform the staff I won’t be making any changes. Although I’m not my grandmother’s heir, I’ll do all I can to ensure they’ll have a home an
d job here for as long as they wish. I won’t be moving into the main house.’
‘You won’t be closing it up, sir?’
‘Not at the moment, Harriet. I may visit from time to time but I won’t be checking for dust on the picture and door frames,’ he added.
Realising she was dismissed, Harriet opened the car door. ‘Thank you for keeping me informed, sir.’
‘Tell Tim I’m ready to be driven down to my house.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Robert saw the guests watching his car from the veranda as Tim drove away.
‘Your ears burning, sir?’
‘From more than the scars, Tim,’ Robert concurred.
Tim parked at the side of the summer house and opened the car door. Robert reached for his stick and made his way to the front door. Czar was outside in his run. He whistled to him and the dog ran through the flap that opened into the den.
‘I’ll be in my house if you need me, sir.’
Robert nodded. He unlocked the door and walked through the living room, which he only used in the evening, into the shabby sun-bleached den. The first Robert Brosna had made millions in the gold rushes which he’d invested in railroads and the motor industry. When the investments began to pay off around the time of the First World War he’d bought land and built the Brosna Estate on the proceeds. No Brosna had made any major changes since, other than to update the decor.
The white-painted floorboards were partially covered by an antique Persian rug that had been deemed too faded for the living room of the beach house thirty years ago. The desk was European, of obscure vintage. Robert loved the pine pedestal with its high top that contained numerous drawers – some secret, which he’d enjoyed discovering over the years. To his disappointment they’d all been empty. Generations of Brosnas had been renowned for the skeletons in their closets, but they’d been too cautious to leave written records of their indiscretions.
The bamboo-framed sofa and easy chairs with their huge feather-filled cushions were as old as the house. As were the chests of drawers. His only contributions to the room were a telephone, fax, computer, printer, television and home movie and audio systems.
A door to the left led to two bedrooms and a single bathroom with tub, shower, washbasin and toilet. The bedroom furniture was pine, the linen, white cotton. The bedroom and bathroom in the main house Charlotte had prepared for his use after the accident were the epitome of masculine luxury. She’d never understood his taste for simplicity in all things except electronic. No one had except …
He pushed the memory from his mind before it paralysed him, opened a desk drawer and lifted out a sheet of headed notepaper.
BROSNA ESTATE
Should he write the letter on the computer and print it out?
No! This was one letter that should be handwritten. But writing pained what was left of his right hand. Would it tempt Penny to reply?
He sprang one of the secret drawers and withdrew the bundle of letters it contained. He removed the topmost one and reread it, wincing at the rejection. It was couched politely enough; he wouldn’t have expected anything else from her, but cold civility failed to soothe the sting. He set it aside, unscrewed the top from his fountain pen, gripped it in his fleshless claw and began to form letters, slowly and meticulously.
11th May 1987
Dearest Penny,
As you see from the date, I’m writing this nine days after Andrew’s eighteenth birthday. On the desk is the letter you sent me after he was born, together with my cheque which you’d torn in two and the letters I’ve written you since that you returned.
You insisted in 1969 you didn’t want Brosna money, or your son to claim his father’s name or any part of the Brosna inheritance. I believe Charlotte was an important enough figure for you to have heard of her death, even in Wales.
You met her; you know what she was like. She never changed. She was alert, tyrannical, self-centred and domineering to the last.
But, now she is dead and Andrew an adult, the situation has changed. Charlotte has willed the entire Brosna Estate to Andrew. Her lawyers will soon be contacting you. That’s if they haven’t already.
I know you’ve never been interested in the Brosna money, either for yourself or Andrew, but you’ve no right to keep the knowledge of the Brosna family and fortune from Andrew any longer.
Logic dictates your son is not wholly yours. Hasn’t he inherited a single Brosna characteristic to remind you of that summer we shared?
The telephone number and address below are those of my English lawyer. Speak to his office and they will arrange flights to the States for you and Andrew, or if you prefer, I will come to you.
There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, or Andrew. But you’ve known that for eighteen years.
Love, as always.
Should he sign it? He couldn’t bear to – not to Penny. He initialled it RB then reread what he had written before flicking through the file again. There were so many photographs; images that recorded Andrew John’s journey from babyhood, through childhood, to young adult. Money really could buy anything. Given enough dollars he had acquired photographs he had no right to claim.
He left the room, went into the living room and opened the drawer that held the scrapbook. He removed the photograph of the two couples standing on the yacht, placed it between pieces of card and folded it into the letter he’d written. Taking an envelope from a cubbyhole in the desk he pushed the letter inside and sealed it. He didn’t need to look up the address.
When he finished, he lifted the telephone and dialled an internal number.
‘Tim. I have a letter that needs to be posted right away. Send it tracked, signature required. It will be on the desk. If you or Harriet need me, I’ll be on the beach.’
Robert whistled for Czar, lifted the dog’s lead from its hook, left the house and locked the door. Tim had a duplicate key. He headed for the beach and the fence that separated the Brosna section from its neighbours. When he reached it, he leant against it and looked along the coast.
Few people arrived this early to summer on the Cape, so most of the fences that prevented people wandering from the public beaches on to the private hadn’t been replaced after the winter storms.
In the distance he could see the masts of the boats in the dry dock. Somewhere among them was the Day Dream. The Robert Brosna who’d ordered the schooner to be custom-built in the Thirties had more money than imagination, christening it after Percy Blakeney’s yacht in The Scarlet Pimpernel.
He had to admit the name suited the vessel. Looking back that’s how he remembered that summer of 1968. An idyllic daydream. Life as it should be lived, until death had intruded and shattered the illusion.
If only the four of them had known that it couldn’t last … they could have … what? Prepared for the tragedy?
If they had, would they have lived out those months any differently? And, would the outcome have hurt any the less?
CHAPTER THREE
Penycoedcae Pontypridd, May 1987
Penny John heard a footstep on the gravel path outside her window and turned away from the canvas she’d been studying. Brian knocked on the door and walked straight in. It was the Pontypridd way. He sniffed the air and dropped his postman’s bag.
‘You’re a lifesaver, Pen. I’d never finish my round without a dose of your coffee to send me on my way.’
‘So, it’s my coffee you love, not me.’ She filled a mug and added sugar and milk to his taste. ‘You’re early today.’
‘Mondays generally bring a lighter load.’ He sat on a cane chair that faced the french doors that opened into the garden. ‘You’ve one to sign for today. From America. You selling to New York publishers and galleries now?’ he fished.
She stirred his coffee and handed it to him. ‘I wish.’
‘Could be someone who’s seen your work and wants to offer you a commission?’
Penny glanced out of the window. ‘There’s a red dragon flying towards Beddau.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Want a biscuit?’ She offered him a tin.
‘Don’t I always after I’ve walked up Penycoedcae Hill? I swear it’s getting longer and steeper. Either that or my legs are getting shorter.’
‘It’s your legs getting shorter. Old age does that to you,’ she teased.
Penny and Brian had begun their education in the same babies’ class in Maesycoed Primary School and had been good, if not close friends ever since the teacher made Penny say ‘sorry’ to him for painting his face blue. ‘Miss’ had refused to take into account the fact that Brian had been willing and sat still while Penny wielded the brush.
‘If you’re talking about old age you can speak for yourself,’ he countered.
‘You can’t escape it, Brian. The big four-O is looming for both of us.’
‘Not for another year.’ He opened the biscuit tin and made a face. ‘Ginger nuts. Haven’t you any chocolate?’
‘Andy ate the last of them yesterday.’
‘Tell Andy from me, he’s a greedy boy.’
‘Growing boy more like.’ Penny glanced through the window across the lawn and into her parents’ conservatory. Her eighteen-year-old son was breakfasting with her father as he did most mornings. The newspaper was spread on the table around them and they were laughing.
Penny refilled her own coffee mug and sat next to Brian. He usually turned up between seven and half past and she rarely began any serious work until after he left. Determined not to become a financial burden on her parents and make a success of single motherhood and self-employment, she’d vowed to be in her studio every morning by six-thirty. Nine days out of ten she was, but the first hour was rarely productive. She’d tried to fool herself and anyone who asked by pretending she used the time to look over her previous day’s output and plan her work. The truth was she usually wasted the hour drinking coffee, nibbling biscuits, and listening to the radio.
Brian pulled her mail from his bag. ‘Sign this now, before I forget.’ He handed her a form and pen along with her letters.
Bobby's Girl Page 2
