CHAPTER FIVE
“True to say, Goldilocks and the three bears lived happy ever after.” Cathy closed the book from which she had been reading. Lynette was already fast asleep. After kissing her daughter goodnight, she left the room for the adjoining one where Steve was sitting on the bed waiting.
“She’s fast asleep,” said Cathy.
“I’m not surprised. It’s been a long day.”
“Yes,” Cathy agreed and counted silently to ten, knowing full well what was coming next.
“You’re going to see that madwoman again aren’t you?”
“I don’t think so, not at this time of night?”
“You know what I mean. You just can’t leave it alone, can you? Can you stand there and tell me you honestly believe there’s anything in what that crazy woman said that is even remotely to do with you, me or Lynette?”
“Yes.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake? Anyone can see she’s needs to see a shrink. You don’t seriously believe there’s a chance in hell you could be her long lost daughter?”
“No, I don’t. For a start, I didn’t look anything like Lynette when I was her age. She takes more after your side of the family.”
“Then why…?”
“I’m not sure, if you must know. Maybe it’s because she’s lost a chunk of her life just like I’ve lost a chunk of mine. Maybe she can give me some tips on how to deal with it. I don’t know, Steve, I just don’t know. I only know that I have to see her again, talk to her. Maybe I just feel sorry for her. No, it’s more than that,” she instantly corrected herself, “Maybe I think she’ll understand, the way no one else ever has. I can’t remember a thing before I was nine years old, Steve. You can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“What does it matter, anyway? You adore your Mum and Dad. Who cares if they adopted you? Besides, you’ve got Lynette and me now. Why can’t that be enough? Why do you have to keep going on and on about what’s done and dusted.”
“That’s the whole point. Can’t you see? Nothing is done and dusted. I need to know who I am, Steve. Failing that, I need to know how to live with not knowing. Maybe that’s why I need to talk to Anne Gates. She has no idea what happened to her daughter. She’s learned to live with the not knowing. Maybe she can teach me a thing or two.”
“I’m hearing a lot of maybes…”
“Maybe because that’s all there is.” She gave a tight little laugh that never failed to make him see red.
“If that’s a dig at me, go ahead. Shoot from the hip like you always do when I’ve been a naughty boy. Well, maybe I wouldn’t be such a naughty boy if you didn’t drive me to it. I love you Cathy. Yes, I do, I really do. But you shut me out all the time. Not content with that, you encourage Lynette to do the same. Is it any wonder I play away from home sometimes?”
“It’s not that I shut you out, Steve, it’s that you can never be bothered to find a way in. We’ve been married eleven years and you haven’t a clue what makes me tick because you’ve never bothered to find out. I’m your wife, full stop, that’s it, end of story. Like hell it is! And how dare you suggest it’s my fault you’re not as close to Lynette as you’d like to be? Do you know the name of her favourite colour or TV show or bedtime story or how well she’s doing at school? No. And why is that, I wonder? Could it be because you never bother to ask?”
“I’m a trucker. I work all hours. I’m busy. I get tired. I try, I really try. But every time I do, you put me down. I can’t fight you, Cathy. You’re so much better with words than me. I’m beaten before I start. God knows I’ve tried. I’m trying now, aren’t I? I turned down work to be here with you and Lynette because you said you’d leave me if we didn’t give it one more go. That has to mean something, doesn’t it…even to you?”
Cathy groaned. “It always has to be my fault, doesn’t it? That couldn’t be because it makes you feel so much better every time you sleep with another woman, could it?”
“I thought we’d called a truce?”
“Give me strength! What kind of truce is it when you’re only here because you feel threatened? Most men like to be with their wives and children for the sake of it, not because they’ve negotiated some kind of truce.”
“There’s no talking to you in this mood!” He ran to the door and flung it open.
“Don’t you dare slam that door and wake Lynette, don’t you dare!”
But he ignored her, slammed the door behind him and took the stairs two at a time rather than take the lift, so anxious was he to get out of the hotel and breathe some fresh air.
Cathy went to check on Lynette. Thankfully, she was still sleeping. She closed the door quietly and did not see the child’s eyes fly open wide or the tears forming.
…………………….
Although the next morning was warm and sunny, Anne felt no inclination to leave the hotel. Instead, she sat in the garden, after leaving instructions at Reception that if anyone asked for her they were to be directed there. It was very pleasant, sitting at a wooden table painted white under a huge orange umbrella, sipping tea and leafing through the pages of a glossy magazine. Not that she absorbed much of what she read, for wondering if her instincts were right and Cathy Taylor would, indeed, turn up. The younger woman might wait a few days, of course, but Anne thought not. No, if Cathy is coming at all, it will be some time this morning.
A lark’s song caught her ear and she listened, enchanted, until she glanced over the pages of her magazine and Owen Shepherd came slowly into focus. She pursed her lips in annoyance at first until she then saw more clearly that he was very upset. Instantly, she took herself to task. “Owen,” she called and beckoned.
His tragic expression brightened a fraction. By the time he had crossed the hotel lawn and had pulled up a chair beside her, he was close to tears. She’s gone, Anne. Mother’s gone. She died peacefully in her sleep.”
“Oh, Owen, I’m so sorry.” Anne took her friend’s hands in hers. He was plainly grateful for the gesture and did not withdraw them for several minutes. During this time, each struggled for words but none came so they contented themselves, as they had so often done, with a companionable silence. “I’ll fetch us some tea,” she said at last and would have got up from her chair had she not seen Mel Harvey approaching with a tea tray.
“I thought you might need this,” said Mel as she laid the tray down. Turning to Owen, she laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m so sorry, Owen.”
“It had to come, I suppose. I couldn’t expect to keep her for much longer, the state she was in.”
“At least she’s at peace now.” Mel squeezed again.
“I hope so. Oh, I do hope so,” Owen moaned softly.
It struck Anne as a curious thing to say. “Of course she’s at peace,” she said, mildly irritated, “For heaven’s sake, Owen, if we can’t expect to find peace when we die what hope is there for any of us?”
Mel frowned. “She’s not in pain any more. We must be thankful for that,” darting a look over Owen’s shoulder that Anne was plainly meant to interpret as a rebuke. “You must try and be glad for her, Owen. In time, you’ll be able to look back on the good times and things won’t seem half as bad.”
“I suppose so,” murmured Owen but did not sound convinced.
“You’ll see,” said Mel, “Time is a great healer.”
“So they say,” Anne muttered and wished Mel would leave. Her friend was being very tiresome. She hated it so when people trotted out clichés.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Mel, giving Owen’s shoulder a final squeeze but with such an aggrieved expression that Anne couldn’t help wondering if the hotelier hadn’t read her mind.
Mel returned, briskly, to the hotel. Not until the French windows had swallowed her up did Anne relax and set about arranging china cups (why were there three?) and saucers before pouring tea from a stainless steel teapot.
Owen watched her like a man hypnotised by the deft, precise action of busy fingers then, “I’m on my way to register the death.”
“Would you like me to come with you?” asked Anne without pausing in the act of adding milk to his tea from a small jug.
“No, I need to be on my own. I just thought you’d want to know. You will come to the funeral, won’t you? Not that I’ve arranged that yet of course. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve seen the vicar. Hopefully, it will be in a day or so. It’s not as if there’ll be any need for an inquest. The doctor said she died of pneumonia. Strange, that, don’t you think? She gets cancer and dies of pneumonia…”
“It happens,” said Anne and took refuge in a sip of tea.
“You will come to the funeral, won’t you?” he repeated, “Mel says either she or Joe will be there. They won’t both be able to leave the hotel, of course. So at least there will be three of us.”
Anne groaned inwardly. “Of course I’ll be there and if there’s anything I can do, you know you only have to ask.”
Both sipped at their teas.
“What did mother tell you about Fern?”
The question, coming out of the blue as it did, required that Anne take a moment to collect herself then, “Nothing, why? She must have misheard when you said my name. She thought I was someone called Fern, that’s all. Don’t forget Owen, she was very ill.”
“As if I could forget,” he retorted. Anne, tactfully, made no reply. “But she must have said something, surely?” he insisted.
“No, Owen, she said nothing. Not about this Fern person anyway. She expressed concern for you and that’s about it. ”
“Concern?” he echoed sharply.
“She was worried about how you’ll cope after she’s…gone. Who is this Fern woman, anyway?” She had only asked by way of steering the subject away from Alice Shepherd’s death and its implications for poor Owen. The vehemence of his response both astonished and alarmed her.
“I told you before, it’s none of your business,” he snapped. “If you must know, she was a neighbour where we used to live in Bristol. She and mother were close once. We lost touch after we moved here. If you think there’s anything to tell, you’re mistaken. Fern is...history… nothing more or less than…history. History, damn it woman, history!” He was on his feet now and glowering at her with such a fierce expression that she might have been frightened had she not assumed the poor man was still in shock.
“Sit down, Owen, and drink your tea,” she said quietly, reflecting with some satisfaction that Alice Shepherd would have approved.
Owen meekly did as he was told. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be.” She tried to reassure him, “You’ve had a shock and shock makes us say and do funny things. Oh, I know your mother was dying. But death, when it comes, is always a shock. You must let yourself grieve now, Owen. Men do cry, you know, there’s no shame in it. And if you ever need someone to talk to, you know I’m a good listener.” She stretched an arm across the table and laid a hand on his. “I’m always here for you, Owen, you know that.”
He gave her a long, reproachful look and removed his hand. “Always, you say? Don’t you mean until the end of next week?” he said with such bitterness that her head began to swim.
Owen rose abruptly and left.
Watching him disappear through the French doors over the rim of her teacup, Anne wondered if she could face Alice Shepherd’s funeral after all, even for Owen’s sake.
“Hello-eeee!” a disembodied voice called out seconds before Charley Briggs sailed through the French doors, a fetching green dress billowing like tent flaps in a breeze that had suddenly got up. In no time at all, she was settling into the chair Owen Shepherd had just vacated. “Is there any more tea in that pot?”
“I dare say,” said Anne.
“Who was that poor man who just left? He looked in a bit of a state. I’ll say!”
“His mother has just died.”
“Oh, no, how awful.…. It’s always so sad when a parent passes away, especially when it’s the mother. Don’t you think so?” Anne nodded pensively. “I was devastated when my mother died.” Charley paused long enough to help herself to the spare cup and pour some tea into it, shaking her head as Anne held out the milk jug then, “Is he a friend of yours maybe, or another guest?”
“He’s an old friend.”
“Well, you’ll think I’ve got a screw loose but I could swear I recognized him from somewhere. I just can’t think where. That’s unusual, because I have an amazing memory for faces. Ask anyone who knows me how it is with me and faces, and they’ll tell you the same. I never forget a face. Usually, I can place one right away, spot on. But, no, not this time. I do know that face, though, you can be sure of it,” she repeated and supped ponderously at her tea.
“I suppose…” Anne began hesitantly.
“You suppose what? Come on. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”
“His name is Owen Shepherd. He and his mother were staying here at the same time my daughter disappeared.”
“You don’t say? Oh, my God, that is such a coincidence!”
“Not really.” Anne wished the woman was less of a drama queen. They were moving into a garden flat not far from here. There was some kind of hitch over the previous owners moving out. I seem to remember their dog got ill and died or something like that. So the Shepherds stayed here until they could move in. Owen has been a good friend to me,” she added with a passion that surprised her then, “It’s incredible, you remembering him after all these years.”
“Like I said, I never forget a face. But, look, I’m sorry. It must be so hard for you to talk about…what happened.”
“On the contrary, most people prefer to pretend it never happened at all. Believe me. That’s much harder. ”
“I can imagine,” said the big woman whose sympathetic smile displayed no trace of pity, only kindness. Again, Anne warmed to her. “But I can’t stay here chatting, much as I’d love to. Spence will be looking for me. We saw a lovely brooch in this quaint little shop in the Lanes yesterday and he wants to buy it for me. I ask you, who am I to refuse? The three of us must get together soon. You’ll love Spence when you get to know him, everyone does. Now, you be sure to take good care of yourself…” On these parting words, she floated across the garden, sails billowing, just as she had arrived.
Anne watched her, smiling broadly.
Couples and singles came and went. Some waved and called ‘hello’ and some didn’t. Two children, a boy and a girl, came and chased each other around the lawn, shrieking madly and ignoring an agitated father’s demands that they come inside at once until their mother arrived on the scene, grabbed each by the hand and dragged them, protesting loudly, back into the hotel. Yet again, the French doors enjoyed a veritable feast. The metaphor made Anne chuckle. But the sound died on her lips as she spotted Cathy Taylor hovering, half in and half out of the glittering glass jaws.
Anne did not hesitate but rose and went to greet the other woman, just as Cathy had experienced a change of heart and was making a beeline for the hotel entrance. “Cathy, wait!” she called out, attempting at the same time to contain the panic churning up her bowels.
Cathy Taylor stood stock still for several seconds before turning round. “Hello again,” she said in a tired voice and it struck Anne how the younger woman looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink all night.
“Hello,” said Ann, seized both Cathy’s hands in hers and smiled reassuringly. “I’m so glad you came. I hoped you would. Shall we find a quiet corner in the lounge or would you like to come up to my room? I’d suggest the garden but the wind’s getting up and, besides, it can be quite noisy sometimes. Children, you know…they do so love to play, don’t they?”
Cathy nodded and followed Anne into the lounge where, as promised, they found a quiet corner. Anne sat. Cathy did the same. Anne placed both hands firmly in her lap. Cathy fidgeted with hers until, “I had to come,” she confessed breathlessly, “I just had to come. But please don’t get the wrong idea. There’s no way I’m your daughter. I know Lynette looks like the girl in the photograph you showed us, but it’s just a coincidence. That’s all it is, really, an uncanny coincidence. You have to understand that or…”
“Or…?” Anne prompted.
Cathy shrugged. “I had better leave.”
“Is that what you want?” Cathy shook her head. “Then stay and share a pot of tea with me,” mouthing as much to a passing waitress. “Or would you prefer coffee?” she suddenly remembered to ask.
“Tea will be fine,” Cathy began to relax.
“Forgive me, my dear, but if you are so certain you’re not my daughter, why are you here?”
It was so long before Cathy answered that Anne was about to repeat the question then, “To be honest, I’m not sure. I wanted to see you again but I didn’t want to get your hopes up. You seemed so…certain.”
“Then…why?”
“I just thought…well, maybe we could…help each other.” She fell silent again. Anne waited. “I’m adopted, you see…” Anne leaned forward, the better to catch the softy-spoken words clambering with difficulty over Cathy Taylor’s tongue. “My adopted parents found me wandering in the street when I was about ten years old. I had no idea who I was or how I’d got there…”
Anne’s breathing quickened. She felt the blood rush to her face.
“They fostered me for several years then adopted me,” Cathy went on, “They tried hard to find out who I was, everyone did…the police, Social Services, the Missing Persons people… everyone. My photo was posted everywhere, even on TV. But no one came forward with any information. Nobody claimed me. I felt like an unwanted piece of lost luggage for years…”
“And now…?” Anne probed gently.
“I barely spoke for two years. The Harrisons were wonderful.” She looked up from staring at a stain on her jeans and looked directly at Anne. “They really are fantastic parents. I love them both to bits.” Anne nodded approvingly.
Cathy returned to studying her jeans. “I don’t have a photo of me at that age on me. But I can show you one sometime if you like. I didn’t look much like Lynette, hardly at all in fact. She takes after Steve’s side of the family…” the choked voice petered out again.
Anne waited. In spite of Cathy Taylor’s denials, she was aware of an intense affinity with this young woman, who plainly felt the same. Maybe…? She put it to herself that Cathy Taylor was her daughter. But even as hope flared, it died almost at once as she began to rationalize to the contrary. Not only was Cathy convinced otherwise, but to entertain the idea, even briefly, would be seen as a betrayal of the only people she had ever called Mum and Dad. And yet…Anne could not recall having felt so close to anyone, even Tom, as she did to Cathy Taylor at this moment.
Her ears pricked up as Cathy continued, “The way I see it, we’ve both lost a child…you, a daughter and me…I’ve lost myself as a little girl. I thought I’d learned to live with it. I did. I had…until Lynette was born. Now, I look at her and wonder…does she get any of her funny little ways from me? Is she as good at all the things I was good at and as bad at others? What was I any good at? What was I bad at? Who am I and why did my parents never come looking for me? How can anyone be so uncaring, so cruel?” I’d die if anything ever happened to Lynette.”
Anne could find no words to express her deep sympathy for this young woman sitting tense but dry-eyed beside her on a plush leather sofa. Nor could she prevent herself from reflecting how many times she had contemplated suicide since that terrible moment in the early hours of Monday morning, August 8th 1983 when she discovered Patricia was missing from her bed.
“Please help me,” a small voice pleaded.
How could she refuse? Moreover, as she obeyed an impulse to give Cathy Taylor a big hug, Anne felt a surge of maternal bonding the like of which she had never expected to feel again. Acknowledging the feeling for what it was, she felt happy and sad at the same time. However, she told herself firmly, she must not expect too much too soon.
Cathy began to shiver.
She’s scared. Anne sensed it at once and was only faintly shocked. Instinctively, she hugged the younger woman closer. I’m scared too, she wanted to say. But that, she decided, would be giving too much away.
To be continued. on Monday.
