by Ann Bennett
The diary is still there. Still there after all these years. She has guarded it, unread, down the decades. She can still see the tear-stained face of the girl with the long dark hair who gave it to her, as clearly as if it were yesterday.
Connie starts as the door opens and Erica comes in with the tea tray. She shoves the book back under the lining of the box and turns back to her chair.
‘Wait while I put the tray down and I’ll help you,’ says Erica. ‘What were you doing? Do you want to do some sewing after you’ve eaten? I could help you get started if you like.’
Connie shakes her head and lets Erica guide her back to her armchair, and set the tray of food over her lap. Is it relief she’s feeling that she’s been saved, at least for the moment, from stepping into the unknown?
‘Do you want me to shut your box up?’
‘Yes please,’ Connie whispers, staring down at the pie in glutinous gravy on her plate. Perhaps God was telling her something when he sent Erica back into the room to interrupt her. Perhaps it isn’t the right time after all to start reading the diary. Best not to think about it now. Perhaps tomorrow.
Three
Sarah
‘Sarah! Thank God you’ve finally answered. I’ve been trying your mobile all night. It’s just been going to voicemail. Where on earth are you? Why aren’t you at home?’
She swallows. His voice is just the same, and the sound of it tweaks her emotions in a thousand different ways. Did she expect it to sound different?
‘I’m at Dad’s.’ Her throat feels croaky. ‘I’ve only just woken up. My phone was switched off.’
She props herself up on the pillows, having had a troubled night. Disturbing images in her mind; the police, the restaurant, Alex, and that strange old house with its musty rooms. She’d twisted and turned for hours, and when she had finally got off to sleep, she’d woken numerous times sweating, her heart beating fast. She glances at her watch now. Eight-fifteen.
‘What are you doing down there, Sarah? I thought you were coming to the airport,’ Alex goes on. ‘And what have you been playing at? Why did you shut the restaurant?’
‘Well isn’t that obvious? Haven’t the police spoken to you?’
‘Sure they have. They met me at Heathrow. I didn’t know what was going on, Sarah. You could have warned me! They surrounded me and ushered me into a bloody police van. It was like something out of the Sweeney. It was a hell of a shock I can tell you. They’ve been questioning me all night.’
‘Well that’s why I shut the restaurant. I didn’t want customers finding out.’
‘Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide. Surely you know that? Bring it on. That’s what I said to the guy in charge. What’s his name? Tall fellow, Irish accent. O’Leary or something. Surely you didn’t think I’d done anything wrong?’
She doesn’t answer. How can he be so brazen, so cool? The police had rattled her with their questions, and she knew she hadn’t anything to hide. But Alex has always been the sort of guy who could come out of a bad situation smelling of roses. As if to confirm that, he goes on, his voice bubbling over with ideas, full of optimism.
‘I’ve been thinking. I’m going to open up at lunchtime. I’ve already been on the blower to Carlo and the rest of the guys. They’re on their way in now. I can turn this into something good, Sarah, drum up some publicity out of it.’
‘What?’ her mouth drops open.
‘Think about it. I’m going to get some of the hacks from the red-tops to come over and cover it. It’ll make a great story – What’s cooking today at Taste in Primrose Hill? It looks very fishy as crème de la crème from the Yard investigate top chef Alex Jennings. He invited them in for bubbly and a three-course lunch. The proof of the pudding… etc. I’m sure they can think of some better puns…’
‘I can’t believe it,’ she murmurs, ‘You’re not even taking this seriously.’
‘Why would I? It’s all bullshit. They’ve got nothing on me.’
‘Look, Alex… what are they looking for? Why did they take away the computers and all the accounts and files for the new business?’
‘I saw they’d broken the locks to the filing cabinets, the bastards. Bloody cheek! Can’t wait until Guy Harrison gets here. I’m sure he’ll be able to get them on some sort of harassment charges.’
Guy Harrison, Alex’s lawyer friend who works in the city. Cool and slick with fast cars and pots of money. Sarah has never trusted him.
‘Guy doesn’t do that sort of law, does he? Doesn’t he specialise in corporate finance or something?’
‘That’s exactly what this is all about. They’re looking into how I’m financing the expansion of the restaurant chain. It’s his bread and butter.’
‘But why would the police look into that, Alex? What are they looking for?’
‘Search me. Everything’s completely above board. All documented, completely legal. They won’t find anything wrong.’
‘Are the police still there? What are they doing now?’
‘They’re coming back later on, but they’ve gone off to interview Jack at his office in Cheapside.’
A shudder goes through her. Jack Chalmers, a regular at Taste, always coming in with different people for long expensive lunches. Unsavoury types; thuggish Russians, unshaven Colombians, looking as though they’d be happier wielding illegal firearms than wearing a suit and sitting in business meetings. And the brazen way he always looks at Sarah makes her feel uncomfortable, narrowing his eyes and running them over her body.
‘OK. I know what you’re going to say. I know you’ve never liked Jack.’
‘That would be an understatement.’
She thinks of how Jack always pushes past her at the till or when she’s getting his coat. He hides it well in his outsize Armani suits, but there are rolls of fat around his belly and when you get up close he smells of sweat and bad breath.
Sarah had protested when Alex told her that Jack and his consortium were investing in the expansion of the business. In fact, she’d protested so hard that Alex said she needn’t be part of it, that he would set up a separate company on his own with Jack.
She resists the urge to remind Alex of this now. It seems irrelevant compared to the other thing, the real reason she can’t go back. Anger surfaces again as she remembers.
‘When are you coming home, kitten?’ he says, his voice softening. ‘I need you here. Can you be back for the lunchtime shift?’
How can he be so two-faced? ‘No, I can’t, Alex. I’m not coming back.’
Silence at the other end of the line. Then he laughs, a short punchy laugh of incredulity.
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘No, I’m not joking,’ she says in a cracked voice. She mustn’t cry now.
‘Well thanks for that. Thanks a bunch. What the hell do you think you’re doing, walking out now when I need you most?’
She clamps her teeth together. She’s not going to tell him what she knows. Not just yet. Let him sweat for a while.
‘Well?’
‘You’ll manage,’ she says finally, keeping a grip on her anger.
‘But you’re part of the reason people come here, Sarah. You know that. It’s you and me. Always has been you and me.’
‘Give me a break, Alex. I’m not the reason people come to Taste and you know that. You’ll do just fine without me. Carlo knows what to do.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this! We are married, Sarah. Have you forgotten that bit?’
‘No, but …’
She stops herself.
‘Well? What were you going to say?’
‘I’m sure you know why I’m doing this. I don’t need to embarrass both of us by spelling it out, Alex.’
‘Well, you do, actually…’
She cuts him off and throws the phone on the bed. Within seconds it’s buzzing again, Alex’s name flashing on the screen. She snatches the phone up and switches it off.
She gets out of bed, pulls a dressing gown
on and catches sight of herself in the bedroom mirror. Beads of sweat stand out on her forehead and she’s breathing fast. Her long dark hair, usually glossy and carefully styled is unbrushed and wild-looking. Her face is flushed. She notices the door open and Dad behind her in the mirror. He’s standing awkwardly in the doorway, carrying a tea tray.
‘Are you OK, darling? I couldn’t help overhearing some of that.’
She wheels round, about to shout at him, tell him not to eavesdrop, but there is such concern in his face, and his eyes look bloodshot with bags of yellowing skin under them.
She stops herself. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t want to drag you into this.’
He sits down beside her on the bed and takes her hand. They sit in silence for a few minutes.
‘I suppose I should see a solicitor,’ she says at last.
‘Is that really a good idea? Wouldn’t it be better to let things settle for a while?’
She shakes her head.
‘I need to move on. Get away from all that. It hasn’t been right for a long time, Dad.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not just the police thing, although that’s enough in itself.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. There’s more. I can’t talk about it right now. I can’t…’ The tears threaten and she takes a deep breath.
‘You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I’m always here. You know that.’
‘I know, Dad. I appreciate that. Really I do.’
He eases himself up. ‘Why don’t you have a shower and get dressed and I’ll go down and put some toast on. I take it you’d like some breakfast?’
Later, they sit at the kitchen table sipping coffee and eating toast.
‘So. Do you know anyone, Dad? A lawyer I mean, who might be able to help me?’
‘Well, if you’re sure that’s the right thing to do, there’s a firm over in Weirfield. Cartwrights. I’ve been to them a few times. In fact, they did the conveyancing when I bought this house. I’m sure they deal with family matters too.’
‘I didn’t know you had a local firm to do the conveyancing. I thought it was someone in Bristol.’
‘The estate agent put me in touch with them. They were very good. As I said, I’ve been there for a few things. They’ve got my will, by the way, when the time comes.’
‘Oh, Dad,’ she reaches for his hand across the table, ‘Don’t talk like that, please.’
He’s silent for a moment. He opens his mouth to say something, but seems to stop himself. He smiles apologetically and changes the subject, ‘I’ve spent quite a lot of time over in Weirfield lately, actually,’ he says. ‘I joined the local history society. Pop over there most Wednesday mornings for meetings and the occasional talk.’
‘Really? I thought that was in Henley.’
‘No. It’s a bit more of a drive, I know, but I’m more interested in Weirfield. It’s where I started out, after all.’
‘Of course. Silly of me. I should have thought of that. Have you found anything interesting?’
‘Not very much, I’m afraid. Keep drawing a blank. But I’ve made a few friends at the history society. They’re all very interested in my story.’
‘What have you been looking for, Dad? Information about the orphanage?’
‘I’ve been trying to find out about my mother, actually.’
Sarah pictures Granny King, a formidable white-haired old lady who always brought chocolate pennies when she came to visit. She’d died when Sarah was about five. Sarah frowns at her father, puzzled momentarily, but with a sharp intake of breath she realises that he doesn’t mean Granny King.
‘Your mother? You mean… you mean, your real mother?’
He nods and looks down, avoiding her gaze. ‘It’s one of the main reasons I came to live in the area actually.’
‘Really, Dad? Why didn’t you say?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Your mum was so anti all that. She hated the whole idea that I was an abandoned baby. Tried to bury it, didn’t want to know. After she died I suppose I felt it would be betraying her memory to go digging up the past. But time has moved on and now I feel differently. I feel as though it’s the right thing to do. I need to find out before … well, before long, Sarah. I need to find out as much as I can.’
‘Of course,’ she murmurs. ‘I had no idea. It must have been so hard for you, growing up not knowing who your real mother and father were.’
He smiles, ‘It wasn’t that hard. I was very lucky in lots of ways. Granny and Grandpa King were wonderful parents. I had an idyllic childhood in many ways.’
‘When did you find out that you were adopted?’
‘I suppose I must have been nine or ten. At school we were doing something in History about family trees. It got me wondering, for some reason. When I got home for the holidays I did something I’d never done before. I went into Father’s study when he was at work and I rifled through his drawers until I found my birth certificate. It said, “Baby boy, born approximately September 5th 1934. Place of birth, unknown; father, unknown; mother unknown”. I was so shaken that it took me a while to confront Mother with it.’
‘But did you?’
‘I did, yes. A few days later. She was a bit angry at first. But Mother was a woman of steel, not one to be swayed off course for long. She was quite straight with me. She told me that she and Father hadn’t been able to have children, but they’d longed for a son. They’d adopted me from an orphanage when I was a few months old.’
‘That must have been a dreadful shock for you.’
‘Not really. I was glad that she’d had the courage to tell me. I accepted it without question at the time. Went back to school in the autumn and told everyone I’d found out I was adopted. They all looked at me in a new light. It lent me an air of mystery. Little Orphan Will, they used to call me. Some were unkind, of course, but for the most part it gave me a strange sort of kudos. It seems odd looking back.’ He smiles ruefully.
‘It wasn’t until I was a bit older that I started wanting to know more. When I left school and started working with Father in the business, he wanted to send me over to the States. He gave me my birth certificate to take to the Passport Office. It was then that I noticed that as well as saying that my mother and father were unknown, it also showed that my birth had been registered in Weirfield. Father admitted that I’d been in an orphanage there.’
‘Did you go to the orphanage?’
‘Not at the time, no. I was back and forth to America, establishing contacts out there. Life was busy. I met your mother, and it wasn’t until the mid-seventies that I finally got round to making the trip to Weirfield. By which time the orphanage had closed down. As you know.’
Sarah thinks of the picture of the orphanage at Cedar Lodge, the silent rooms where the past seemed to lurk in the shadows, the faded portraits and the musty smells.
‘I meant to tell you before, Dad. I should have said yesterday but because of everything else… well, I stopped in Weirfield on the way over here yesterday. I needed to buy some cigarettes. I parked outside a house that’s for sale. It looked empty and I wandered into the garden to have a smoke. The estate agent turned up out of the blue. There was a bit of a misunderstanding and he insisted on showing me round. It was a spooky old place. Cedar Lodge it was called.’
‘Cedar Lodge? How extraordinary. That’s where the old ladies live. The Burroughs sisters. Their father was the superintendent of the orphanage. They both taught there themselves until it closed.’
‘You know it then? But they don’t live there anymore. One of them died recently and the other is in a nursing home.’
‘Really? How very sad. You know I went there once, to Cedar Lodge, a couple of years ago. I wanted to find out what I could about the orphanage. See if they had any old records that might help me with my search.’
‘And?’
‘I wrote them a letter first. Telling them what I wanted, so as not to surprise them. I knew
they were very old. I waited a month or so and they hadn’t replied, so I went to the house. I got short shrift, I can tell you. One of them came to the door after I’d rung the bell three times. Tall and stately she was, with grey hair piled on her head like an Edwardian lady. She wouldn’t open the door fully, kept it on the chain and peered at me for a long time as if I was a burglar. I explained who I was and that I was interested in finding out about the orphanage. When she heard that she got quite frosty. “We don’t have anything like that here. Our dear father died some years ago and there are no records in this house. None at all. I suggest you try the church. We’d be grateful if you didn’t bother us again”.’
‘How strange.’ Sarah shudders. She thinks of that photograph again, of the two young women in the conservatory, so fresh-faced, so full of life.
‘I could hear the other one in the background calling from another room saying, “Who is it, Evie?” And the one who’d answered the door called back to her, her voice very sharp, “No one. No one at all, Con! Go back to the kitchen. I’ll be straight through”. Then she shut the door on me without saying goodbye.’
‘Did you try the church records?’ Sarah asks.
He shakes his head. ‘I did try, but didn’t find anything very much. The church warden showed me the Parish records for the year I was born, 1934. There were dozens of single women living in Weirfield then. It’s impossible to know who my mother might have been. It could have been someone from another parish altogether.’
‘What does your birth certificate say again?’
‘Wait a minute. I’ll go and fetch it.’
He leaves the room and Sarah listens to him opening drawers in his desk in his little office across the hallway. In a moment, he’s back.
‘Here it is. Doesn’t say much.’
Sarah stares at the fading yellowing parchment. Baby boy, born approximately September 5th 1934. Place of birth, unknown; father, unknown; mother unknown.
She looks up at him. The pain in his eyes makes her start. She has never thought before how it must have felt over the years, knowing that your real mother gave you up, wondering what dreadful events or circumstances would have led her to abandon her precious, vulnerable baby. Her heart goes out to him and once again she reaches across the table. He takes her hand and squeezes it.
