She scribbled a signature and flicked through the envelopes. There was an electricity bill, a gas bill, a new cheque book from her bank, a royalty statement from her artists’ agency; and the recorded delivery from the States. She turned it over and read the return address.
‘Someone you know?’ Brian asked.
She struggled to remain impassive. If Brian had a fault, it was his addiction to gossip. He also told his wife, Betty, everything he heard and she was even fonder of tittle-tattle.
‘Mmm,’ she mumbled, not trusting herself to speak.
‘Someone you met when you were in America?’
‘A casual acquaintance,’ she lied. She had only been to the States once, nineteen years ago, but she was aware people in Pontypridd still speculated about her trip, principally because she’d returned with the ultimate Sixties souvenir – a pregnancy. ‘So tell me.’ She feigned interest. ‘What’s happening in town?’
‘Peter Raschenko’s talking about retiring again.’
‘And … you believe him?’
‘Everyone knows he’ll be running that garage when he’s eighty, never mind sixty. How are your mother and father?’
‘My father’s well, my mother isn’t so good.’ It was Penny’s automatic reply to any enquiry about her parents’ health. Her mother suffered from osteoarthritis, a condition that had worsened over the past couple of years.
‘Sorry to hear it. But it’s this damp weather. Old Mrs Harris down the hill was complaining about her rheumatism …’
Penny didn’t want to hear about Mrs Harris’s rheumatism. She wanted Brian to leave her in peace so she could open and read her letter.
‘You all right, Pen?’
‘Pardon?’ She realised she’d stopped listening to Brian.
‘Nothing wrong, is there? Andy’s A levels—’
‘Andy has only just finished sitting his mock examinations.’ She knew she’d snapped when Brian looked at her even more oddly.
‘He’s expected to do well, though, isn’t he? I mean he has a place lined up in university.’
‘Medical college,’ she corrected, still terse. ‘But he won’t be going unless he gets the A-level results they want.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. Andy was bright, but the college place was by no means certain. Although he was the grandson and nephew of doctors he wasn’t getting any special consideration. Nor did he expect any. He had to achieve two As and a B grade. His teachers had assured Penny he was on course to get them but that hadn’t stopped her from worrying he wouldn’t. He could have a cold on the day – or a headache …
‘He’ll follow in his great-grandfather’s, grandfather’s and uncle’s footsteps. The fourth generation Doctor John in Ponty surgery,’ Brian observed.
‘If he returns to Pontypridd and goes into general practice after he qualifies.’ Penny was irritated by the general assumption that her son would join the medical practice her father had inherited and her brother ran, with occasional help from their father who insisted he had only ‘semi-retired’.
‘Well, must be on my way. Can’t keep the farmers waiting for their circulars from the feed companies.’ Brian carried his mug to the sink and turned on the tap to rinse it.
Penny had to stop herself from shouting, ‘Leave it. Just go.’ When he turned and she saw the expression on his face, she was ashamed. She gestured towards the canvas on her easel.
‘Sorry,’ she apologised. ‘It’s not going well.’
Brian squinted at the half-finished painting, a jacket for a romance novel. ‘Looks good to me. Mam and Betty always say your book covers stand out a mile in Smith’s. They’re streets ahead of the others. The only complaint Betty makes is about what’s inside. According to her, the best bit of the books she reads these days is what you’ve put on the outside.’
Penny knew Brian was trying to make her feel better but she still wanted him gone. She went to the door and opened it. ‘Give my love to Betty and your mother.’
‘I will.’ He left the mug on the draining board and picked up his bag.
Feeling guilty she called after him. ‘See you tomorrow. If I finish the painting, you can give me your verdict. And I’ll remember to buy chocolate biscuits.’
He waved back at her on his way to her parents’ letter box. She closed the door, took a clean paintbrush and slid the wooden stem into the corner of the envelope. Mouth dry, heart beating erratically, she unfolded the letter, removed the cards and studied the photograph.
She hadn’t seen it before, of that much she was certain. She couldn’t even remember it being taken. But there was no mistaking the four people pictured. Two young couples smiled directly into the camera lens from the deck of a yacht. Their arms were so tightly entwined it was difficult to work out which limb belonged to which body. Given the boys’ long hair and the cut of her and Kate’s bikinis it could have been a vintage advertisement aimed at luring holidaymakers to Cape Cod. Scrawled across the corner in a familiar hand was Bobby, Sandy and their girls.
Penny couldn’t bear to look at it.
She opened the drawer she kept her stationery in, pushed the photograph beneath a pile of envelopes and slammed it shut. Then she checked the name and address on the back of the envelope. Not that she needed to. She knew exactly who’d sent it, although there were only initials on the handwritten sheet. It had been optimistic of her to think he’d allow Andy’s eighteenth birthday to pass without attempting to get in touch with her …
She read the letter and reread it, until it was imprinted on her mind.
There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, or Andrew. But you’ve known that for eighteen years.
Love, as always.
Penny slipped the letter into the back pocket of her jeans, opened the french doors, and breathed in the aromas of spring. Damp acidic earth, rosemary and bluebells, the light perfume of apple and cherry blossom; and, overlaying everything, the lingering fragrance of woodsmoke from the cold embers of the bonfire her father and Andy had fed yesterday evening with winter’s dead wood.
It was peculiar how a scent could conjure the past even more effectively than a photograph. It demolished the floodgates she’d built to hold memories she couldn’t bear to dwell on. And, as her defences crumbled, the intervening years washed away. She was back in that summer of 1968.
So many memories. Not all of them painful. Late evening after darkness had fallen, thick and fast. Without light pollution from street lamps, the moon and stars had shone brighter than the neon glares of Broadway. A circle of young people sitting around a campfire in a yard, roasting potatoes and melting cheese, and marshmallows that dripped from the sticks into the flames. Eating – talking – arguing – laughing – demolishing the hidebound institutions of the world and rebuilding them in fairer, more honest modes while watching smoke drift upwards in the still, humid air. Lulls in the conversation, when Bobby or Sandy, or both, played their guitars, and they sang – sang what?
The anthem of the Sixties, immortalised by Joan Baez, ‘We Shall Overcome’? Because everyone under twenty-one fervently and sincerely believed that they could create a better world to replace the corrupt one they’d inherited. Or had they sung the signature tune that had become hers for a season – ‘Bobby’s Girl’?
In 1968 she was Bobby’s girl. All her dreams and aspirations had been centred on Bobby. She’d loved him with her whole heart. Simply being close to him had made her happier than she’d ever been before – or since.
When that magical once-in-a-lifetime summer was drawing to an end on Cape Cod, she’d thought nothing could change between them. That she would go on loving him until the end of her days.
She found herself smiling, despite what had happened afterwards. Nineteen years later, some memories still had the power to warm.
‘You all right, Pen?’
Her father had left the conservatory and walked to the door of her studio and she hadn’t noticed.
She felt her lips stiffen. ‘Fine.’
Her father shook his head. ‘You never could tell a lie, not even a white one, as well as your brothers and sisters.’
Realising she was trembling, she sat down abruptly. Her father went to the table, refilled her coffee mug, and poured another for himself.
‘Thank you.’ She took the coffee mug from him. Her father had always been a constant in her life. There for her, ready and willing to try to solve her problems, large and small. For the first time she noticed his broad back was bowed and his auburn hair had turned iron grey. It couldn’t have lost its colour overnight. The father she adored had become an old man. And she hadn’t noticed.
He sat next to her and reached for her hand. ‘Anything I can help with, sweetheart?’
‘Where’s Andy?’
‘Picking up his rugby kit and bags. He told me he’s already said goodbye to you.’
‘He has.’ Andy, like Penny, hated drawn-out goodbyes. Penny had brought up her son to be self-reliant and independent. But, close as they were, she hadn’t been able to prevent him from adopting some of her foibles. A dislike of salad cream, bottled tomato sauce, eggs with runny yolks and slugs and snails. He’d also inherited her abhorrence of cruelty to all living things and an aversion to prolonged goodbyes.
Using the excuse of taking his clean washing to his room, Penny had said goodbye to Andy first thing. And, mindful of the antics the school’s senior rugby team had indulged in on past tours and the town had talked about for months, she’d delivered a lecture of dos and don’ts. Andy had mocked her gently by reminding her he was no longer six years old.
She watched Andy reverse the car his grandfather had bought him for his eighteenth birthday out of the garage. He hit the horn, wound down his window and shouted, ‘See you next week, Mam.’
‘Wait.’ Penny ran out and kissed his cheek through the open car window.
‘I’m only going for a week,’ he reminded her irritably.
‘Sorry, impulse,’ she apologised.
He gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I love you too, Mam. Bye, Granddad.’
Penny watched him drive through the gates and on to the lane that led down the hill into the town.
‘Will his car be safe left at the school?’ She returned to her chair.
‘Safer than here I should think,’ her father reassured. ‘They lock up at night.’
Penny thought about the letter.
Hasn’t he inherited a single characteristic of his father’s?
The answer was too many for her to forget for an instant the man who had fathered him. Thick, black, curly hair, deep-blue eyes that usually sparkled with mischief; a six-foot-six well-built frame, taller than any of her brothers’ or sisters’ children. Her son – and Bobby’s.
She waited until the sound of Andy’s car engine died away, before taking the letter from her pocket and handing it to her father.
Her father read the letter before returning it to her. ‘Do you remember what you said to your mother and me when we brought you back from America?’
‘I remember confessing I was pregnant and being terrified of your reaction. I expected a scene. But all Mam said was, “A grandchild, how lovely.” And you said, “We’ll do whatever we can to help. It’s your decision but I think you should finish college.”’
‘Which you did,’ he smiled. ‘It took courage for you to finish your course in Swansea, Pen. Some people were still petty-minded about illegitimacy at the end of the Sixties. But to answer my question, what you actually said was, “Better I bring my child up alone than go begging to a man who doesn’t want me or his baby.” But this,’ he tapped the letter in her hand, ‘wasn’t written by a man who didn’t want you. What was it, Pen? I know his disfigurement wouldn’t have stopped you from marrying him. Was it his money?’
‘It’s not what it seems, Dad.’
‘Did he make things difficult for you? I’ve treated men who’ve been horribly maimed in the pits. Some did all they could to push their wives and girlfriends away lest love turn to pity,’ he suggested astutely.
‘If that had been the problem, I believe, given time, I could have overcome it.’
‘Was it his grandmother? Charlotte Brosna certainly didn’t want you to see him after the accident. She couldn’t wait to get you out of the States. Even bought you a flight ticket home.’
‘Which you refused to take.’ She finished her coffee and set her mug on the floor.
‘I didn’t like the way the woman tried to assume control, not only of her grandson’s life but my daughter’s.’ He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. ‘But bullying has its own reward. Charlotte Brosna reached a ripe old age.’
‘After Bobby recovered as much as he’s ever going to, I doubt Charlotte could have stopped us from seeing one another – if we’d wanted to.’
‘She wanted Andy when she found out you were pregnant.’
‘She couldn’t do anything legally without Bobby’s permission. I have him to thank for respecting my decision to bring him up alone.’
‘Pen, those letters you wrote to your mother and me from America, you were besotted with Bobby Brosna. If you really meant that much to one another, I can’t understand why you wouldn’t let him help you to bring up Andy. Tell me, if it wasn’t the accident, what really happened to separate you two?’
She couldn’t answer him because the secret wasn’t hers to tell.
‘Do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?’
She shook her head, buying time to fight the tears pricking the back of her eyes. She didn’t give herself long enough. Her voice wavered when she finally answered. ‘The choices I made seemed right at the time.’
‘But not now?’
‘I don’t know what I feel now, Dad.’
‘You do know you have to tell Andy about his father – and this legacy.’
‘Not until after he’s sat his exams.’
‘There I agree with you. I’ve seen how a little money can unhinge a teenager. But billions? Even I, at my advanced age, can’t comprehend wealth on that scale.’ Her father rose to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you in peace, Pen. If you want to talk, you know where to find me. Whatever you decide, your mother and I will be behind you as we’ve always been. Just one word of advice.’
She looked up at him.
‘For the first time in eighteen years and almost two weeks think about someone besides Andy. Think about yourself, Pen. Then do what’s best for both of you.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Penny couldn’t settle after her father left. She picked up her paintbrush and looked critically at the unfinished canvas on her easel. She’d never aspired to be Andy Warhol, but long hours and hard work had eventually paid off. For the last seventeen years she’d made a reasonable living painting book jackets for crime and romance novels. It helped that she’d never had to buy a house or pay rent. Her parents had converted an old barn at the back of the family home into self-contained accommodation for her and her baby before Andy was born.
They’d refused to allow her to pay rent but she’d insisted on paying her own bills from the outset and, as soon as she could afford to, she’d set money aside to repay them. Before Andy’s sixth birthday she’d cleared the debt. Two years later she’d made enough to rebuild the derelict stables adjoining her barn conversion and turned them into a studio. Since then, she’d brought in enough money to meet her own and Andy’s needs and most of Andy’s wants, as well as set aside savings for Andy’s college fund.
The background on the jacket of the bodice-ripper she was working on was exotic eastern – the scene tropically garish but the heroine didn’t look right. The publishers had asked for sultry, but the girl she’d painted looked sulky. Penny wondered if it was her fault or that of the model she’d hired to pose in harem dress. She studied the photographs she’d taken at the shoot and couldn’t decide.
She busied herself mixing fresh paint but even as she lightened and darkened shades on the palette, she knew she was about to make a bad job worse. After scrubbing off a
couple of daubs and smudging the canvas, she accepted she wouldn’t do anything worthwhile in her present mood.
She packed away her paints, cleaned her brushes, hung her smock behind the door, threw a poncho over her shirt and jeans, and left the studio. She’d intended to head for the open mountain, her own and her brothers’ and sisters’ playground when they’d been children. And her sanctuary since the birth of Andy had forced her to accept that she’d ‘grown up’. But something held her back and she found herself standing at her front door.
She ran up the stairs past the bedrooms and headed for the attic stairs. There were skylights in the roof. It had been boarded out as a playroom-cum-study for Andy. But during the conversion she’d asked the builder to erect a partition wall at the far end. The result was a storage area six feet deep by twenty feet wide. A ‘glory hole’ she and Andy used to house things they no longer needed but couldn’t bear to part with.
Andy’s study area was unnaturally tidy. His BBC computer unplugged, and his videos stacked in a neat pile next to his video player and TV. A sure sign he’d be away for a few days.
Penny crossed the room and unlatched the door to the cupboard, fumbling for the light switch because there was no window or loft light in the area. Three of the walls were shelved. As she’d made a point of labelling everything before storing it, and insisted Andy do the same, the labels read like a history of their lives.
Andy’s high chair, cot, pushchair and baby walker, shrouded in plastic sheeting. Andy’s early Fisher Price toys. Why had she kept them when she could have passed them on to nieces and nephews who were younger than Andy? A desire to bring them out some day, show them to her grandchildren and say ‘your father loved this toy when he was your age’?
Had she dreamt of a family life for Andy with a wife and children because circumstances had made her a single mother? She turned her back on Andy’s toys and found what she was looking for under a pile of boxes that held Andy’s early paintings and schoolwork.
It was a battered canvas holdall in green tartan with vinyl handles. She’d bought it on a stall on Pontypridd market for her trip to America. She could even remember the banter she’d exchanged with the good-looking young stallholder.
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