Peter began to get some inkling of the pain Anya felt and reached out across the kitchen table to take her hand.
“She was raped by her brother. She had me sterilised so I couldn’t pass on all those bad genes.” It all came out in a rush. She gripped Peter’s hand and immediately forced a laugh. “God that was easy to say! After all this time it was so easy!”
“You’re sure it as your brother?” Peter asked gently. “You’re sure there could be no mistake?”
“Incestuous rape. That’s what the piece of paper said. It had to be her brother.”
“It could have been another male relative.” Peter was being logical, trying to reduce the level of emotion.
“She didn’t have any other brothers, at least I don’t think so, there were no other birth certificates.”
“There is one other option.” Anya looked at Peter as she had never seen him before, he was in control, trying to help her through this painful conversation with understanding and tact. “It could have been her father.”
It was a thought that had never occurred to her. Vincent had been the object of her hate for so long she couldn’t put anyone else into that role.
“You say you have papers. Bring them down, let me look at them, we’ll look at them together. You never know, as a dispassionate observer I may see something you haven’t.”
He was most interested in the grand parents. “You never met them? Never heard anything from them at all?”
“No. Mum never talked about them. They must have thrown her out as soon as they knew she was pregnant. It was 1949 it must have been the most shameful thing to have an unmarried mother in the family!”
Then she showed him the letters, the scraps of paper with her mother’s writing on, the little box wrapped in brown paper that had contained her ring.
“I always thought that ring was a reminder of your time with Geoff.”
“I’m so sorry Peter. I have never been very open with you have I?”
“You have sometimes been a little difficult to live with.” He spoke with measured understatement and they turned their attention back to the letters. Peter picked up one.
“Listen to this one. ‘Whatever happens to you Mel never forget you are worth more than any jewel. I’m so sorry I left when you needed me most. You know I will think of you forever, your loving brother, Vince.’ They’re hardly the words of a guilty man. Mel needed him and he left. Would Mel have needed him if he had raped her? And look at this. ‘I’m sorry for everything. I just ran when I found out. I didn’t know what else to do. It was me nicked the rent box there wasn’t much in it but it got me here. Write to me. Tell me how you’re getting on. Sorry for leaving you when you needed me. Your loving brother, Vincent A Cave’. He feels guilty because he ran away leaving her to deal with everything on her own. These are the words of a man, a boy really, who abandoned his sister not one who raped her.”
Anya sat listening to the words she had read once all those years before and which had sealed in her mind the guilt of her uncle/father. She picked up the letter that had hurt her most, that had led to her life of self-loathing.
“Can you understand how I felt when I read this? ‘It’s a girl. I’ve called it Anya because it’s got to have a name and the woman in the bed next to me was reading a book by someone called Anya something. Perhaps it’s too pretty a name for something that should never have existed. I should have got rid of it like you said.’ He told her to have an abortion, that would have been a back street one, nothing clean and clinical like today. I knew someone who couldn’t face having one in the 60s because it was so dangerous and it would have been a lot worse for Mum. ‘But you’d left and I was too scared to do it on my own. I will never forgive you for leaving. Now what can I do? Just put up with everything I suppose. It was alright for you, you could leave.’ She always hated me.”
“Oh Anya.” Peter reached out across the table and took his wife’s hands in his. “You should never have taken so much of this to heart. She couldn’t have meant it. She looked after you didn’t she? She left her parents and she didn’t abandon you or have you adopted as she could have done. She kept you and looked after you for the rest of her life.”
“I’d never thought of that.”
“And I suppose you’d never thought that any resentment she did feel might have made her into the person she was? She had no time to have fun, she had to live with what had happened to her. Had you never thought of that?”
Anya hadn’t. She had never looked at her mother’s life from any other point of view than her own.
“She must have been a clever woman, Anya, she had you for a daughter.”
“I’m not a very nice person am I Peter?”
“You haven’t been very nice to a lot of people but then I don’t think you’ve been very kind to yourself either.”
When Anya didn’t reply and just sat looking at all the papers that had dictated so much of her thinking about herself and her life, Peter carried on talking in his calm, understanding voice, full of sadness. “There’s another scenario that fits the facts. What if Mel and Vince’s father had abused both of them? What if they had both wanted to leave but only Vince, young and fit, was in a position to make a new life for himself? Perhaps he felt guilty for the rest of his life, perhaps he’s still alive and still feeling guilty.”
Anya re-read Vince’s letters from a different perspective. For 30 years Vince had been the hate figure in her life now she realised she might have jumped to the wrong conclusion. She should have talked about it years before.
“Thank you Peter. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too Anya, if you hadn’t been so angry about things we might have made a better fist of our time together.” She noticed he hadn’t said ‘their marriage’ as Peter busied himself with the coffee percolator.
The spell was broken and Anya changed the subject. “Would Jennifer have you back?”
“I told you, she’s given up on me and moved back to her family.”
“Would you move to Shropshire if she’d have you?”
“She’d only have me if I could marry her. She’s made that clear and so have the boys. They’re old enough to have their say in what their mother does.”
“What if you were divorced?” She spoke softly.
“You’d give me a divorce?” Peter wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.
“Yes.” In the end it was so simple.
“But I couldn’t drag Jenny’s name into it.”
“What if I gave you grounds and I’m the guilty party? Perhaps that would make up for some of what I’ve put you both through.”
Peter reached over the table and took Anya’s hands in his. “You’d do that?”
“Yes.”
After five years of hanging on to a dead relationship, knowing she did not love and was not loved, it really was quite simple.
Friday 2nd October 1992
P’s phone call to his Jenny was a long one and then he left. He said he’d be in touch. ‘Don’t prove me wrong Anya, I’ve told her we can trust you.’ I told him not to worry. It’s the closest we’ve been in years. What could life have been like if we’d had that conversation years ago. Now I need grounds, incontrovertible, unarguable grounds for him to divorce me. It wouldn’t be fair to target Geoff (children and maybe I care too much) so it has to be Tim (children nearly grown up and probably living with Margaret and it would serve him right). His ego will make him susceptible to flattery but just in case he’s grown up at all I’ll make myself irresistible. The Golf Club’s New Year Ball will be nice and public.
Anya was 42 years old and although she had looked after her appearance she knew she had some work to do if she was to seduce Tim. She was determined not to let Peter down.
A fortnight in an exclusive health farm helped but when she looked in her mirror she still saw a woman in her early middle age. She needed something to make her stand out from the crowd of middle aged women on the one day of the year when th
ey would all be looking their best. She decided that nothing would be more flattering than an expensive mid-winter tan so she phoned a travel agent and booked three weeks in Barbados.
‘Who knows?’ She said aloud as she put the phone down. ‘Perhaps I’ll come across Vincent Albert Cave.’
As her driver waited at the gate house to be let into the lush tropical grounds of the exclusive resort she felt more relaxed than at any time she could remember. Divorcing Peter was liberating. She should, she told herself, have done it years before.
A few minutes later she sat on the balcony of her room drinking the welcoming bottle of champagne and reading the book that detailed all the services available to her. There were pages of massage and beauty treatments and there would still be plenty of time for the tan.
As she spent her days enjoying the attention of the well trained staff in the beauty salon, in the restaurant and at the beach bar, she occasionally thought about Vincent. But she only had a 40 year old PO Box address to go on. At the beginning of her holiday it seemed to her there was plenty of time to try to find him and then, towards the end, not enough.
On the day before she was due to fly back to England she stood in her room, naked in front of the full length mirror critically examining her reflection. Apart from the small areas that had been covered by her bikini her skin was a deep bronze. She put her hands underneath her breasts and pushed them up. With the right underwear and the right dress they could be the breasts of a far younger woman. She turned sideways on to the mirror to check her body in profile. Her stomach was flat, her bottom compact. She faced back to the mirror. Her legs looked good from the front, she turned in profile again, then turned her back on the mirror and looked over her shoulder. They would pass muster too.
‘Tim’ she mouthed seductively to the mirror ‘you will not be able to say no.’ She walked up to her reflection and pursed her lips. After three weeks of luxury the lines of tension around her eyes had disappeared, her neck had lost the hint of flabbiness. She could see no flaws.
She lay down on the bed pleased with the success of her holiday in the sun then she sat bolt upright.
“Shit!”
She thought back through the years of her marriage. How long had it been? She hadn’t had sex with anyone for over ten years and then that had only been with Peter. She couldn’t count on Tim taking the time to arouse her, if her plan worked there would be nothing in the way of foreplay. The implications of being so out of practice worried her, it would be uncomfortable, painful, perhaps even impossible.
“Shit!”
She dressed carefully in a blue linen skirt and white t-shirt and headed for reception to ask for a taxi. There were many men in the resort who would probably take kindly to her advances but she preferred to do her revision course where she was unknown.
Three hours later she was in a small hotel room apologising to the young American man who was lying on top of her. “Sorry. I’m a bit out of practice, it’s been a while.”
“No problem Ma’am.”
And, despite an awkward start, it wasn’t.
“Like riding a bicycle.” She had laughed as he rolled off her. “Something you never forget how to do.”
He was breathless. “You seem to have remembered quite a lot.” The young American ran his finger down her back.
“Perhaps I need a little more practice, just to make sure I remember absolutely everything.”
Chapter 12: Retribution
Kent, December 31st 1992
“I’m with the Philips party.”
“What was the name again?” The elderly lady taking her ticket on the door appeared flustered as she peered uncertainly at the long list of names on the sheet of paper in front of her.
“Philips. Anya Philips. I’m a cousin of Mr Geoffrey Philips.” She felt her explanation rather weak but the lady on the door gave up looking at the guest list as a large and noisy party arrived behind Anya.
“I’m afraid the rest of the Philips party isn’t here yet but I’m sure someone will get you a drink while you’re waiting. Ah Mr Cross! Just the person.”
Anya had taken great care over her hair and her makeup and she was completely satisfied with the way she looked. Her deep tan and the shine in her hair were flatteringly youthful and her dress was perfect leaving little of her trim figure to the imagination. Her dressmaker had done a perfect job in replicating the dress she had worn on only one occasion over twenty-one years earlier. She knew she looked as beautiful as she had ever done as she turned expecting to begin her seduction of Tim. Instead she looked up into the admiring blue eyes of a man who looked just as Tim had done when they had first met on Charing Cross Station.
“Matthew Cross.” He spoke with the confidence that only being his father’s son could give him.
“Anya.” She held out her hand. “I’m an old friend of your father’s.”
“Not so old I think.” He said with some charm.
As Matthew held her hand a fraction longer than was necessary Anya thought quickly. He had been born in September 1974, he was over 18, ‘old enough’ she thought as she rapidly adjusted her plans. Maybe it was being back in the Golf Club House, maybe it was wearing the replica of her mother’s dress, but despite all her resolutions not to hurt people unnecessarily something of the old Anya was resurrected. ‘Matthew then Tim, why not?’
“Can I get you a drink? I think there’s champagne doing the rounds.”
“Lovely.” She resisted saying she hadn’t seen him since he was a baby and how much like his father he was. “Then you must tell me about yourself. Are you at university?”
It didn’t seem to occur to him to question why a woman who was old enough to be his mother was spending so much time with him, listening attentively as he talked about himself and his family. She seemed especially interested when he talked about his grand-mother Kathleen. ‘She’s a witch,’ he had said with no humour or affection in his voice. ‘She’s all over Uncle Geoff’s children, but she never seems so keen on Maggie and me.’ ‘That’ll be because you aren’t Philipses, you’re Crosses’ she had said sympathetically. He looked at her with renewed respect as it was clear she understood something of the dynamic of his family.
“Are your parents here?” Anya eventually asked.
“Yes. Dad’s Captain this year so he’s chatting everybody up. Would you like me to take you over to him?”
Anya was in two minds. She wanted to meet Tim, she wanted him to be disconcerted that she was here this evening, perhaps it would make him think, remember, worry, and that could only be a good thing, but perhaps now was not quite the time.
“Thank you Matthew, I would love to meet up with him later in the evening. Come on, let’s have a dance. You can do traditional, hold onto your partner, dancing can’t you?”
Tim was on edge. As Captain it had been his decisions that had set the tone for the evening. Every one of the tickets had been sold, at £100 each, to people who expected value for their money. Many guests would not arrive until later but as he heard the clock in the bar strike nine he was pleased to see the dance floor, if not yet crowded, then well occupied. He sipped at his champagne, hoping that the evening would be a success and reflect well on his captaincy. He always drank too much at events like this but this was his evening, he must not be drunk before most of the guests. It was his responsibility that they have a good time, only when that was assured would it be his turn. He caught sight of his wife across the room. She had put on weight since their marriage and the dress she had chosen to wear did not suit her. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb and ugly lamb at that’ he thought, ‘God how I hate the woman but such is the result of having to lie in beds one has made.’ He downed the champagne in his glass and signalled to the waiter for a top-up. Just one more couldn’t hurt.
He smiled and waved at people as they arrived and hoped again that all would be well with the evening, the social high point of his year as Captain.
“Good evening Sir Christopher.” Tim st
ood to shake hands with the club president, who also happened to be chairman of the local constituency party.
“Everything going well Cross?”
“It seems so, thus far at any rate.”
“It had better Cross, people have long memories and it isn’t as if you haven’t blotted your copy book in the past is it?” He nudged Tim suggestively. “Well it seems your boy there has found himself a cracker for the evening. Not sure I recognise her. You must tell him to introduce me y’know?” Tim looked in the direction Sir Christopher was nodding and saw Matthew’s back. He couldn’t see the ‘cracker’ he was dancing with. “Seems a tad on the old side for the young buck but sometimes the older ones are the best if you know what I mean.” Sir Christopher chuckled lasciviously. Tim wondered if Sir Christopher was getting his money’s worth simply in champagne.
Tim tried to get a look at his son’s partner but all he could see was a pair of well-manicured hands resting loosely on his son’s shoulders. Tim’s first instinct was to check for rings and the ring finger of her left hand was unadorned. He promised himself he would investigate by the end of the evening. If she was the cracker Sir Christopher had said she was, and with no man hanging around to be difficult, the time might be well spent. He turned his attention back to Sir Christopher, it was important the president knew he was on top of things.
Anya excused herself from Matthew’s company after their dance and walked around the room. She knew people were watching her, perhaps wondering who she reminded them of.
“Anya? It is Anya isn’t it?” Anya looked round to see who had tapped her on her arm.
“Esme! Yes, it is me I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid dear girl. It is so wonderful to see you. And you haven’t changed a bit!” Anya wondered if Esme wasn’t a little the worse for wear even though it was still early. “Sit down my dear girl, talk to me. Tell me how you have got on since we last met, that must be a few years ago now. You know I always hoped you and my Tim would make a go of it, you were always a far more interesting person than Margaret and that awful woman Gillian. If she has any saving graces I’ve yet to see them.”
Highly Unsuitable Girl Page 23
