Thicker Than Soup (30 page)

*

Number 10, Victoria Road. The house suited the street name; a bay fronted, red brick Victorian villa, it had been a slightly later addition to the side of the neighbouring two-up two-down terrace. He hadn't smoked for more than six months, but he craved a cigarette. If Gillian Crowson smoked he'd have one for sure. Behind a net curtain a shape moved; she'd been watching, waiting for his arrival. Nevertheless he rang the bell and within seconds she was there. Gillian Crowson. Shorter than he'd imagined, with the Queen's grey hair and pearls, though he doubted the Queen would wear powder-blue fur-lined slippers. He fidgeted with his car key and his hands were sweating. He dropped the key into a pocket. Should he shake her by the hand? Kiss her on the cheek? Throw his arms round this long lost mother? Neither spoke then they spoke in unison; “Hello”, and both apologised. “Sorry.” “Sorry.” He stepped forwards, shuffling sideways in the narrow hallway to allow her to close the door. Her face was flushed but a shaky smile lightened her eyes.

“Go through,” she said. “First door.”

“Thank you.” The scent of lavender wax explained the gleaming oak sideboard and side tables.

“The weather's awful. You've had a long drive; sit by the fire. Here, have the easy chair.” A large armchair stood next to a grate of glowing ceramic coals. “I'll make some tea. Make yourself at home.”

The room sparkled with cleanliness. Even the leaves on the plants shone. He glanced at his shoes, wondering if he should remove them, but decided that as an afterthought it was no better than keeping them on. He desperately wanted a cigarette but couldn't imagine anyone had ever smoked in this pristine room. A group of photographs stood on the sideboard; family pictures in shining frames. He picked up one, then another. When she returned with a tray of cake and cups he'd replaced the first and was rubbing fingerprints from the other.

“Oh, that's Katherine's family.” A small shiny table was pulled forwards and the tray of floral china crockery placed on it. “Katherine's my eldest.” She pointed to two girls. “That's Fiona, she's at university in Leeds, and that's her sister Lizzie who's still at school, doing ‘A' levels. And that's Bob, Katherine's husband.” A kettle whistled from somewhere. “And that's Lorraine, my next one, with Mike and their daughter, Alice. And that's Matthew and Vicky, with their brood; Dominic, Lawrence, Richard and Rebecca.” He felt weak, afraid he was going to cry, and was relieved when she disappeared again. These were his brother and sisters, in-laws, nephews and nieces. One minute he was an only child, the next, he was surrounded by kith and kin. There was another photo, black and white, with a man and woman on their wedding day, which could only be Jack and Gillian Crowson. His father had been a tall, heavy set man. And handsome. Gillian was much smaller, though taller than now, and very young.

A teapot was brought into the room and placed on the table with the china. He pointed at the wedding picture. “This is you, isn't it? How old were you when you got married?”

“Twenty one.”

“So young.”

“We did, then.”

He'd already told her he wasn't married and she hadn't asked about children, probably assuming he didn't have any. “And this was my father?”

“Yes. He was your father.” A gentleness softened her voice. “He's been gone for twenty eight years.”

“Cancer?”

“No. His heart gave out in the end. It was a blessing; he'd been ill for a long time.”

The man in Leverington had been wrong; it wasn't cancer. “He was ill for a long time? What was it?”

She waved him to the chair. “We've a lot to tell each other. A lot. But first, have some tea and get yourself warm.” Two cups were filled. “Milk, sugar?” A smaller table was moved next to him and a cup placed on it. “Do you like banana cake?”

John laughed; he couldn't help it. “Banana cake? You've made banana cake?”

“I have. What's funny about that?”

“Oh, nothing really.” He wiped his eyes; there was little difference, sometimes, between tears of laughter and tears of sorrow. “My mother's…” he faltered, “I mean…”

“Your other mother…”

He took up the term. “My other mother's friend used to make it all the time, to my other mother's chagrin.”

“She didn't like banana cake?”

“She did, very much. We all did. Do. It's a long story.”

“Ah. Another day then. We've a lot of those to tell each other.”

He was warming to this woman, though owning her as a mother was a difficult step. He tried to visualise her as Frances, doing his accounts, and then with him as a child, perhaps on the beaches of Norfolk. But her face didn't sit in the images. As she talked he explored her face, searching for hints of likenesses but finding little more than the small cleft in the chin that he'd seen in the photograph of Sammy. He'd have to tell her about Sammy. If they met again. After Sally's December visit. If someone had accused him of being superstitious John would have laughed, but with Christmas only a month away he was reluctant to tempt providence by saying aloud that they were coming.

“It was like a dream come true when I got your letter.” Gillian's voice was quiet and John leaned forward. “It's such a long time Jonath… Sorry. You've been Jonathan in my head for forty five years. It's hard to change.”

It was a small revelation, but it gave John courage that she'd cared enough to think about him for forty five years. “I think ‘John' fits me now.”

“Yes. I'm sure it does. I wrote a little card to you, every birthday. To Jonathan. With a few words about the family. I've still got them; you can have them if you want. Silly of me, I suppose. But I always hoped you'd come looking for us, one day.”

This was a huge revelation, and tears hovered at the edge of control. “I'd like to have them.” He spoke quietly. “I'd like to have them very much.”

“I'll get them. Before you go.” She inclined her head. “I was saying. It's a very long story, and I hardly know where to start.” Her teacup began to rattle in its saucer and she put it down. “Your father, Jack, was ill for a long time. He had Pick's disease. I don't expect you know what that is?” She continued as he shook his head. “It's a kind of dementia. It started early, in his early forties and got worse as he got older.”

John quaked. “Dementia in his forties! It's hereditary?” The question was brutally selfish but the prospect horrified him.

“It…. Well, yes. But not everyone will develop it. He was younger than you when it started. Jack's grandmother had probably had the same thing, but they didn't know what it was in those days. Neither his father nor his sisters had it. We didn't know what it was for almost six years; and even then, they couldn't be sure that's what it was because there was no way of checking. Not then. They can diagnose it now, with scans and things.”

He did the sums. “He had it for more than twenty years? It wasn't what he died from.”

“No. It might have been kinder if he had.” A handkerchief in her hands was being kneaded into a ball. “Jack was a particular man. Shoes always shining, hair always trimmed. Then things changed.” She picked up the teapot and topped his cup up. “He'd always insisted on a clean collar every day, so when he told me one day that he didn't need a collar I was a bit surprised, but to tell the truth, quite pleased. But then he got angry because he said his collar was too dirty to wear and shouted at me that I was a slovenly woman. He'd been such a gentle man and I didn't understand that he was ill. Other things changed too. He refused to eat apple crumble. Said he hated it.” She laughed mirthlessly. “It had been his favourite. He started going to the pub and staying ‘til it closed. I thought it was the drinking that affected him. I still didn't know he was ill. Not then. By the time you were born it was clear that something was wrong, very wrong.”

John waited. He'd not heard of Pick's disease, but he couldn't see a connection between that and his adoption.

“Pick's disease changes people's personalities. It makes them do things. Things they wouldn't have done normally. It was difficult for me, looking after him, with children all still so young and my sister here too. My sister, Janey, lived with us. She was a couple of years younger than me, and when she was born the cord got caught round her neck and she was starved of oxygen. Anyway, Janey never grew up, not really. She never got any older than ten or eleven, even though she lived for fifty nine years. But she was my sister and I loved her. Through it all, I loved her. Right to the day she died. Anyway, Jack… he…… Well, Janey was your mother. I'm sorry but there's no easy way to say it.”

John gaped. “But you…” Suddenly he realised what had happened. “You pretended I was your baby. You registered me as your child.”

Gillian nodded.

“That's probably illegal.” He could hardly believe what he was hearing and hardly believe he'd made such an inane comment.

“I did it for good reasons. Janey couldn't have looked after you; she couldn't look after herself. And Jack was your father. It made sense, John. And I still believe it was the right thing to do.”

He was in the middle of an illusion, a fascinatingly compulsive story with fictitious characters. “But you gave me away.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“I didn't have a choice. Jack took against you. He was unkind to the other three too but they were older and learned to stay out of his way. But when he started physically hurting you I had to do something. I was at the end of my tether. It might help you to understand that we women rarely ever had choices. We were dependent on our husbands. Jack was sick and he wasn't going to get better. But he wasn't liable to die soon either. They locked his grandmother away and she lived to see her seventieth year. Life can be very cruel. I couldn't lock Jack away, and I had no-one to turn to. My parents had already passed away. I'd had to put Janey into a home. The other children needed me. So I looked for a way out. I can't say that adoption was a choice. Choice is what happens when you have more than one solution. A children's home would never have been a real home, so though it broke my heart, I did what I did and I'll not say I'm sorry. But I am sorry that I had to.”

The sun had broken through the grey clouds and light floated through the net curtains as if a new dawn was appropriate. John tasted salt and realised he was crying. He hadn't known either of his parents and never would. But here, in front of him was his aunt. His own blood. She was his family and it was she who had given him away, not because she didn't love him, but because she did.

Flat 2,

4 Cavendish Crescent,

Bath.

18
^th
May, 1994

He dropped the letter in the post box and breathed a sigh of relief that was no relief at all. He'd written numerous letters before this one, two had even got into envelopes, but the journey between pen and post box had never been completed. Now it was done; the letter was on its way and other than waiting for the postman, he couldn't retrieve it.

Having posted it he fretted that it was too impersonal, then too personal. And too short. He'd wanted to tell her he knew that Sammy was his son and he wanted to see him, to be a father. But that would be too abrupt. So much had changed; things were different and he feared she might return to Pakistan before he saw Sammy. “Reply, Sally,” he whispered to himself, “please reply”.

33 Coventry Street

Bethnal Green

London

29
^th
May, 1994

Sally re-read her letter. It had been kind of John to write but his letter appeared little more than dutiful. She wondered, should hers be less warm? Or more so? Had she said too much about Sammy? Should she have mentioned Arif?

The last of the white glass wedding bangles lay on the dressing table and she picked it up. The first had broken on their honeymoon and Arif had teased her that it was grounds for divorce. This one would have been saved for Hiba. Cupping it in her hand she cracked it hard against the table edge and dropped the pieces in the bin. HIV, she thought bitterly, killed in many ways.

Flat 2,

4 Cavendish Crescent,

3rd June.

He pondered his last paragraph, wondering why he felt a need to tell her about his parents. He'd almost said more but decided it would be imposing and left it as it was.

What he didn't say was what was at the forefront of his mind; that he wanted to see his son. The offer of help with Frances's bequest would show he meant well.

Bethnal Green

16
^th
June.