Inheritance

Inheritance

JENNY PETTRICK

To Peter and Sue Barlow

R
eunited
with her aunt after many lost years, Jeanie
spoke of her father’s death in Samoa.

Aunt Mary was horrified. ‘It wasn’t like that!’ she
cried, tapping Jeanie’s sleeve softly with a twisted old
finger. ‘Not at all like that.’

‘But you weren’t there, Aunt Mary,’ said Jeanie,
wondering if her old aunt was losing touch with reality.

‘At his death, no. I’m talking about his birth. John’s
birth. It wasn’t ugly or horrible. Poor John. He should
never have been told that.’

Jeanie thought that her old aunt, her father’s step
sister, might have trouble with the idea of rape; would
not, perhaps, admit its possibility. ‘What do you know
of father’s birth?’ she asked gently, not wanting to spoil
long-held and perhaps tender beliefs with the harsher
truth.

Aunt Mary seemed lost in some memory, but then
she stirred and sighed. ‘Your Granny Stella, bless her
soul, would not tell your father, you see. Our mother
was very firm on that. John was a sensitive little boy,
prone to tears and silences. Mother thought it best to
bend the truth a little.’ She looked sternly at Jeanie.
‘Only a little, my dear, and out of kindness. At any
rate, he seemed to have little interest in the details of
his birth.’ Aunt Mary smiled, the soft old skin crinkling
around her smoky-blue eyes. ‘Not like me. I wanted to
know everything, was always asking questions. I heard
part of the truth, you see, from a river-man. We went
for a picnic on the river steamer; I suppose we would
have been eleven or twelve, my brother and I. I always
thought of John as my brother. This old fellow told
me about John. His story was different from Mother’s
version, so of course I had to know.

‘How was it different?’ Jeanie was disturbed; on edge
to hear. But the old lady would not be hurried.

‘Your Granny Stella told me then, but said I was
not to tell John. He might take ill, she said. I seem to
remember John was having trouble at school at that
time; often begged to stay home with Mother. You know
what he was like.’

‘Yes,’ said Jeanie, ‘but not always.’ She felt disloyal,
accepting her aunt’s matter-of-fact assessment of her
father’s periods of depression.

‘It’s
true that the girl Bridie
–
his real mother
–
had
lost her mind. Yes, that is true. You say it was on
John’s birth certificate?’

Jeanie nodded and Aunt Mary tut-tutted crossly.
‘They don’t need to write down that sort of thing.
What on earth is the point? But, Jeanie, there was
no mention of
–
of violence. My mother said that the
Chinese man, John’s birth father, was a lovely gentle
fellow, who grew vegetables up the river and was
lonely. She told me that he looked after the mad girl,
Bridie, when others shunned her. The way Mother
told it, the story was sad and beautiful, not violent or
shameful.’

‘Dad was told the Chinese man hanged himself out of
shame.’

Aunt Mary looked up sharply. ‘That’s rubbish. Who
told him that?’

‘Gertrude Schroder must have mentioned it, I
suppose, and then it … it got out.’

The old lady snorted. ‘That would be Gertrude. A
McPhee she was. Mother had no time at all for that
family. They were Chinese haters, every one of them,
she said. John was their blood relative, she said, but
not one of them showed the slightest interest in him.
Until that, Gertrude suddenly needed an heir up there
in Samoa and came snooping around, inspecting his
credentials
–
his suitability. I knew there’d be trouble.’

Aunt Mary sighed. She poured a little more tea and
sipped, holding with two hands so that her shaking
would not spill it. ‘No, Mother was very firm that I
was not to mention the McPhee family to John. I think,
now, that was a mistake. Wouldn’t you say?’

Jeanie frowned. ‘Surely if they hated him …?’

‘But, dear, look what happened. Wouldn’t it have
been better if he had been told about his birth in a
loving way? By a loving mother?’

Jeanie was silent.

‘He should have been told,’ said Aunt Mary firmly.

Jeanie felt trapped. She wanted to argue. ‘Why didn’t
you tell him then? After Granny Stella died?’

The old lady put her cup down. ’It was not my place,
Jeanie. It was Mother’s.’