CHAPTER FOUR
In the event, Anne chose to walk back to the seafront. That way, she reasoned, she would find it easier to let go of the anger that Owen Shepherd’s outburst had aroused in her. She wasn’t angry with him. On the contrary, she thought she understood. After all, the poor man was under a tremendous strain. No, she was angry that it had eclipsed her newfound joy, undermined her determination to prove everyone wrong, show the doubters once and for all that Anne Gates was not a woman obsessed, that her daughter was alive. She did not want to have to worry about Owen, least of all at this particular moment in time.
Yet, how could she not worry? The degree of Alice Shepherd’s deterioration had come as a nasty shock but Owen…She was still reeling from his outburst. It was so out of character. She did not even notice the bus stop as she continued to walk down the hill.
Hadn’t she always thought of Owen as an unemotional person, almost cold? True, he was passionate about his hens, but far less so about people. Nor was Alice an exception. While she did not doubt the strength of the bond between mother and son, Owen had always managed to convey an almost calculated detachment in his mother’s presence. She had felt it again as she’d watched him fussing over Alice as the poor woman lay dying.
Now you’re just being silly, Anne chided herself. At the same time, she found herself admitting that the Shepherds had always struck her as odd, hardly the usual mother-son relationship. Even so, Owen had been a good friend to her and she was grateful for that. Too many people became emotional in her company, as if it were par for the course. It made a pleasant change not to be made to feel guilty for failing to play the distressed mother. Of course she was devastated by Patricia’s disappearance, what mother wouldn’t be? Nor had time healed the gaping wound in her life. But the world continues to turn, regardless. She had a job, a house and a life among friends, neighbours and colleagues to whom she could never have done justice in a constant state of near collapse.
Anne sighed. She could not win, of course. Coping, or appearing to cope, gave the impression she was a hard, heartless person. In the early days after Patricia’s disappearance when she’d gone to pieces, she’d hated being an object of pity. Most people, in her experience, seemed to prefer the latter. She could only suppose it satisfied some maternal instinct, even among the male population. Owen was one of the few people with whom she had always felt she could relax, enjoy a conversation or stroll without being made to walk on broken glass. It was inconceivable to her that Alice Shepherd’s death should threaten this relationship. “I can’t, I won’t play the surrogate mother,” she muttered and tried in vain to suppress a renewed surge of anger.
By the time she reached the promenade and was heading towards the surviving pier, Anne had calmed down and returned to the task of seeking out the couple with the little girl whose likeness to Patricia had struck her as so uncanny.
Commonsense told her it might well have been a trick of the light, not to mention wishful thinking, but excitement had already taken over from the mixture of anger and concern she felt towards the Shepherds. Every nuance of her being was on high alert. Anticipation coursed through her veins like wildfire. She could barely refrain from stopping people to ask if they had seen the family trio. It occurred to her that she might show them a favourite photograph of Patricia that she always carried in her bag, but suspected it would be seen as the act of a desperate mother, and she had long since put that role aside. No less desperate for all that, she could at least keep her dignity.
A dry chuckle tickled her tongue. Years ago she’d have scoffed at the idea. What did a loss of dignity matter? Beside the appalling act of losing a child, it paled into insignificance. Yet, it did matter. Without dignity, you’re nothing. And she should know. Hadn’t she learned the hard way? Even so, she paused to retrieve the snapshot from her bag. For several minutes, she gazed longingly, achingly at it before walking on and slipping it into a pocket, comforted by the same delight that had inspired the taking of it outside the Royal Pavilion, August 1983.
Descending from the promenade to beach level, she ordered a cup of tea at a café and grabbed a table outside just as its present occupants were leaving. Here, she was almost content to sit a while, enchanted by sunlight dancing on the water if more than a little envious of family groups and girlfriend-boyfriend couples passing by. Judging by their assorted gestures and expressions, they all seemed to be enjoying themselves. She kept telling herself that the chances of her spotting the couple with the little girl were remote. Yet, how could she sit here doing nothing? She must get off her backside and do as she always did, weave her way through the crowds on the beach, either side of the pier, however long it took. But she was tired. Besides, it was so pleasant just to sit and do nothing, feel nothing, simply admire the view, lap up the cheerful hubbub all around, relish a sense of being a part of it all instead of forever being on the outside looking in like some Peeping Tom.
Again, she couldn’t help but ponder how it was all so different this year. She had never felt like this during past visits. It had to be some kind of omen, surely, and a good one? “Omens, huh!” she scoffed at a seagull perched on her table. Pull yourself together, woman. You’ll start believing in miracles next. If she felt morally obliged to concede that she always had, she also chose not to confide in the seagull. It would remain her secret.
As if sensing a rebuff, the bird flew off. Anne watched it soar, spread its wings in a graceful arc and disappear.
It was hot. The sun glared down at the world that was Brighton beach with uncommon ferocity. Not a single cloud threatened its place in an infinite expanse of sky. It was not a day for being indoors. She and Tom, Anne decided, would definitely not have taken Patricia sightseeing on such a day. They would have come down to the beach, the three of them, and built sandcastles, gone for a paddle, perhaps even a swim. They would almost certainly have searched for pretty shells too, and laughed at smudges of ice cream on each other’s faces.
A rush of adrenalin galvanised Anne into action. Even so, she rose with a measure of reluctance.
In spite of a queasy excitement, she headed towards the Palace Pier. She still thought of it as that even though it read ‘Brighton Pier’ in huge letters, illuminated at night, above the entrance.
Although looking out for the trio with every step she took if awkwardly on the pebble beach in spite of wearing comfortable sandals, she couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. What would she say to the child’s parents? How would she introduce herself? What if the mother instantly rejected her or, worse, made it clear she wanted nothing to do with her?
It was while turning such gruelling thoughts over in her mind that she suddenly spotted them.
They were slightly ahead and above her (she hadn’t realized how close she was to the water’s edge). The two adults were reclining in deckchairs. The man was reading a newspaper. The woman was encouraging her daughter to build a sandcastle. The little girl was facing the sea. At that precise moment, she looked up. It seemed to Anne as if the child’s smile was meant just for her. Almost at once, the bright eyes returned to bucket and spade. Eager little hands resumed their task, leaving Anne chasing a swathe of butterflies in her stomach although, and try as she might, she could not catch a single one. At the same time, the attempt helped her achieve what she hoped would pass for at least the outward appearance of a casual observer.
Pulse racing, she approached, only to panic upon reaching the trio and hurry past, stumbling on the pebbles in a growing anxiety to reach a point of safety from which she could, hopefully, devise a strategy of sorts. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might need one. In her dreams, Patricia had simply cried “Mummy!” and rushed into her arms. While the rational part of her mind accepted that Patricia, if still alive, would now be an adult, Anne had never consciously thought of her daughter as anything but a child. But she had caught a telling glimpse of the little girl’s mother as she passed. It was the same blond hair, the same simultaneously amused and serious expression in the same blue eyes that she had coveted in her mind’s eye every hour of every day for the better part of twenty-three years; the same, yes, but in a completely different person.
This woman was a total stranger. Obviously, Anne kept telling herself. Hadn’t she been prepared for this? The answer was a resounding, No!
Nothing, Anne began to realize, could have prepared her for this awful despair. Where she had expected joy, a terrible fear gripped her. Where she had anticipated a rush of release and fulfilment, there was only a rising panic.
It was all so unfair, so cruel.
Anne sat down on the shingle just a few yards away from the little girl and her parents. For a while she watched them without quite seeing them. Over and over she rehearsed in her head one variation after another of what she might say, how she could broach the subject without scaring anyone, herself included. It was one thing to dream, imagine and fantasize. This stark, cold-blooded reality was a far cry from the cosy, happy-ever-after reunion that had kept her going, kept her sane…and kept her alive all these years.
“Excuse me,” a small voice intruded. Anne looked up to find a solemn looking boy with a mop of black curls and wearing just green swimming trunks standing beside her. Tears were rolling down his face even as a lively pink tongue continued to lick enthusiastically at a strawberry ice cream cone. “I think I’m lost.”
“Oh dear, are you?” She was momentarily nonplussed then, “Are you with your mummy?”
“Of course not,” retorted the boy, “Mum’s at work. I’m with my grandma.”
“And what is your grandma wearing?”
“A red straw hat, why?” the boy wanted to know.
Anne got to her feet and looked around. “Like that one?” she asked, pointing at a red straw hat balanced on the rim of a deck chair.
“Yes, that’s it!” the boy shouted and ran off in that direction. As soon as he reached the deck chair, Anne could tell at once that the straw hat did, indeed, belong to grandma as she watched the solemn expression transformed in quick succession from one of relief to delight then finally, a brave attempt at nonchalance.
Perhaps it was this happy reunion that persuaded her to act on her own behalf, she would never be sure. Whatever, she made her way towards another deckchair where the blond woman sat alone, the little girl and her father having gone for a paddle only a few minutes before.
“Hello,” Anne ventured after standing only inches away from the woman for several long seconds. The woman, who could only have been in her early thirties, had begun reading a magazine and now looked up with a startled expression. A snub nose twitched. Anne’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized one of Patricia’s funny little habits only too well. “My name is Anne Gates…” her voice trailing off as emotion overwhelmed her. “Do you mind if I sit down next to you for a moment. I’m feeling rather faint.”
“By all means do.” The younger woman was instantly concerned, “Would you like some water? We always carry several bottles with us. You never know, do you, with the heat and everything, especially with children?” She delved into a huge, colourful beach bag and produced a bottle of mineral water just as Anne was settling herself into the deckchair recently vacated by the man she could only assume was the child’s father.
“Thank you so much. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was.” Anne accepted the plastic bottle with thanks and drank eagerly.
Keep the bottle. We don’t want you becoming dehydrated and passing out, do we?”
“Thank you. You’re very kind. I’m Anne Gates by the way.”
“So you said.” The woman smiled and laughed but not unkindly. “I’m Cathy Taylor and that’s my husband Steve over there, the carrot top with that little girl in the yellow swimsuit. She’s our daughter, Lynette.”
“A pretty name for a pretty little girl,” said Anne and only vaguely wondered why the father’s ginger hair hadn’t registered with her before.
“Forgive me, but do we know you? Are you staying at our hotel perhaps? We’re at The Hillcrest.”
“I always stay at The Orion, have done for the past twenty-three years.” But if she was hoping to provoke a reaction, Anne was disappointed. The younger woman merely smiled politely and appeared increasingly embarrassed.
“So…how can I help you? I mean, you’re welcome to the water but…well…I get the impression you didn’t just happen to be passing. Am I right? Because if you have something you want to say to me, just come out with it, I won’t bite…whatever my husband might tell you to the contrary,” she added with a musical laugh that was so familiar it sent shivers down Anne’s spine.
“Actually, there is something…” Anne began then trailed off when she saw the child and her father returning out of the corner of one eye.
“Steve, Lynette…” the woman called, “We have company.”
“So I see,” said Steve. Anne was surprised to discover at close quarters that he was over six feet tall.
“Stay there, don’t move,” he told Anne and went to fetch another deckchair.
“I’m Lynette,” piped up the little girl.
“I’m Anne.”
“Anne Gates,” Cathy told her husband. She’s been coming to Brighton for the past twenty-three years. Isn’t that interesting?”
“I suppose,” said Steve, plainly unconvinced.
Cathy turned to her daughter. “Why don’t you show Anne how well you can build a sandcastle?”
“Okay,” the child flung Anne a huge grin and returned to bucket and spade with all the natural intuition of a child who knows something is up and it’s better not to argue.
“Now, Anne…how can we help you?”
“I don’t quite know how to begin…”
“Not from the beginning. In my experience, that always takes forever,” interrupted Steve with a terse laugh, “Suppose you just give us the gist, eh? Keep it short and sweet.”
“Oh, well, if you say so…” Anne was instantly nonplussed.
“Pay no attention to him. You take all the time you want,” Cathy assured her and gave her husband a meaningful look that said, “Can’t you see the poor woman’s not well? Don’t you dare give her a hard time or you’ll answer to me, just see if you don’t.”
“I first came to Brighton twenty-three years ago…” Anne began again.
“So you already said,” commented Steve.
“Shut up. Let the woman speak, can’t you?” Cathy snapped then berated herself for doing so. But there was something about the woman beside her that she found at once intriguing and faintly scary. She told herself she was being absurd. Anne Gates had to be the most ordinary looking and least threatening person she had ever met. So why couldn’t she shrug off a feeling of unease that had been with her since she had handed over the water bottle and seen the strangest look in the other woman’s eyes? “She knows me, or she thinks she does,” had been Cathy’s first thought. Now the same thought returned to haunt her as she listened attentively to the older woman’s voice but was careful to avoid the unnaturally bright eyes.
“We first came here in August 1983,” Anne went on, “My husband Tom and I, that is, and our daughter Patricia. She would have been about your Lynette’s age. The likeness is uncanny. Look, see for yourself.” She produced the photograph from her pocket and handed it to Cathy who only looked at it only briefly before passing it to her husband.
Steve Taylor studied it closely, eyes wide with astonishment and gave a long, low whistle. “That’s amazing, just…amazing!” He handed the photograph back to Cathy who returned it to Anne without giving it so much as a second glance.
“Go on,” Cathy prompted Anne sharply.
“We had booked into The Orion for two weeks. On the first Sunday evening, after dinner, Patricia said she was tired so Tom put her to bed and I went up later to read her a bedtime story. For the rest of that evening, Tom and I sat drinking and chatting with other guests in the bar. I drank rather more than I’m used to, I’m afraid and had to get up in the middle of the night to use the toilet. The rooms at the Orion weren’t en suite in those days. Each floor had its own toilet and bathroom. On my way back to bed, I looked in on Patricia…as one does,” she murmured and glanced at Cathy as if for confirmation, but the younger woman kept her eyes fastened on the pebbly surface below.
“The bed was empty. There was no sign of Patricia. I started screaming and woke everyone up. The police were called. We searched for days, weeks…the police, other guests, Tom and me…we were frantic…we were given sedatives but they barely took the edge off the pain. It was as if Patricia had vanished from the face of the earth.”
“Weeks became years. We carried on as best we could, Tom and me…until we could barely stand the sight of each other any more for rembering how things were, and...I was on my own, coming here for the first two weeks in every August and each waking hour on either side. But don’t get me wrong” Anne tried to explain, “I’m not some demented soul searching for her long lost daughter. Well, I suppose I am…but…well…you know what I mean.”
Steve wasn’t sure that he did. “Look here, I feel for you, I really do. I’m sure Cathy does too. But you’re surely not suggesting that our Lynette is…”
“Patricia? Of course I don’t think that. It was years ago. She’s not my little girl any more. She’d be older now, a grown woman…”
“My age,” declared Cathy Taylor flatly, “She would be my age. Twenty-three years ago Patricia would have been…nine, ten?” She turned and looked Anne directly in the face.
“Nearly ten,” Anne told her and looked away, unable to bear the other woman’s steady, challenging gaze.
“That would make her nearly thirty-three now. Like I said, she’d be the same age as me,” said Cathy.
“Hey, hold on a minute!” Steve Taylor exclaimed warningly, “Let’s not rush to any daft conclusions here. Go ahead and tell her, love. Your parents are Eve and Frank Harrison. They’ve lived in Ipswich all their lives and, even as we speak, are probably arguing over who should cook supper tonight.” But Lynette’s mother merely bit her lip and stared ahead with a glazed expression. An uncomfortable silence wrapped itself around them all. “So what are you waiting for, Cathy? Tell her it’s true. You’re no more this Patricia than I’m David Beckham!”
“I should think not,” joked his wife with an apparent resurgence of awareness if a noticeable absence of humour, “David Beckham doesn’t have red hair for a start.”
“This is no time to start nitpicking, Cathy. Be serious. Tell the stupid woman she’s barking up the wrong bloody tree.”
“I’m sorry.” Anne rose to leave. “I should never have imposed myself on you like this. It’s been a great shock, to both of you, to me too. I understand. Believe me I do. But please, at least think about what I’ve said. Let me write down my mobile number.” She fumbled in her bag for pen and paper.
“We don’t want you’re damn mobile number,” Steve Taylor yelled, “Nor do we want anything to do with you. So, you can just fuck off and leave us alone!”
“There’s no need to start swearing, Steve. Can’t you see the poor woman’s in a state? So am I, for that matter. Swearing won’t help. Swearing won’t solve anything.”
“What do you mean, won’t solve anything? You’re not telling me you think there’s the remotest substance in this woman’s fairy tale? Because that’s all it is, love, a fairy tale. You know it, I know it, and deep down I bet she knows it too.” He glared pointedly at Anne.
“I don’t know. I just…don’t know,” Anne began to sob.
“Oh, no, you can cut that out for a start. I can’t stand women who turn on the waterworks to get their own way. Not least, because they usually do. But not this time, lady, no way! Now, clear off. You’ve done enough damage for one day. Who do you think you are, parking yourself here uninvited and spoiling our holiday? Fuck off, damn you, just…FUCK OFF.”
“What’s the matter Daddy?” A distressed Lynette came running towards them.
“Now see what you’ve done?” Steve raged, “You’ve upset my daughter. Now, get lost or do I have to call the police and have you charged with harassment?” he yelled, snatching a mobile phone from a pocket in his shorts as he spoke.
“What’s the matter? Why is Daddy so cross?” Lynette wanted to know and burst into tears.
“It’s the heat, darling, nothing to worry about,” Cathy reassured her daughter and gave her a hug, “Sometimes the heat gets to grown-ups and they get upset. But it’s nothing ice-creams all round can’t put right.”
The child’s face lit up.
“I’ll say goodbye,” said Anne and began to pick her way back to the promenade without further ado.
“Shall I go and get us ice-creams, Mummy?”
“I’ll come with you,” said Steve.
“I’m nine years old, Daddy, nearly ten. I can carry three ice-creams and don’t you dare say I’ll get lost because I won’t.”
“Okay, if you say so.” Her father caved in gracefully and took a ten-pound note from his wallet.
“You won’t get much change from that,” remarked Cathy as they watched her go.
“She’ll be alright won’t she?” asked Steve anxiously.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. It isn’t far and we can keep an eye on her from here. We can’t expect to keep her wrapped up in cotton wool. It wouldn’t be fair on any of us.”
“How about you, are you okay? I know what’s worrying you but you’ve got to put that mad woman out of your head. Forget her, she’s obsessed.”
“So what’s worrying me, the fact I’m adopted or that the Harrisons fostered me for three years before they could coax a word out of me? And why was that, Steve? Let me remind you. Because I was scared witless, that’s why. I had no idea who I was or where I’d come from and I’m none the wiser to this day. And don’t you dare tell me it doesn’t matter, because it does.” She was grateful for his embrace but sensed it was more a knee-jerk reaction than an act of affection, let alone love. Did they still love each other, she wondered? She hoped so. They had, after all, come to Brighton to find out if their marriage could be saved if only for Lynette’s sake.
In spite of her doubts, Cathy was glad of Steve’s arms wrapped around her. It was a comfort of sorts although she would have welcomed more reassurance. About what exactly, she wondered? But she wasn’t ready to go there just yet. Instead, she clung to Steve even as he tried, gently, to push her away. She felt weary and very uneasy. Swallowing the familiar lump in her throat, she kept telling herself she was over-reacting. But am I? It was starting to look as if not only her marriage might be at stake on this holiday, but also her very identity. Each was, of course, part of the same problem.
Neither spoke. Both knew, though, that she would make a point of seeing Anne Gates again.
To be continued on Friday.
