The Twisted Way (22 page)

The disposal of the contents of her wine glass was seen by Robbie who looked at her with increasing interest as she moved with stealth round the dining room and later the lounge into which a number of the guests had drifted. She glanced at him for a moment and he gave her a polite innocuous nod. There was something lurking under the surface that was dangerous: misdirected rage or was it bitterness? He was unsure. Cold bitch, he almost said out loud. She does know something about Peter’s death. His suspicions deepened and as he felt an unpleasant nagging settle in his chest he exhaled deep and long. Who would be next?

The boy sobbed quietly. His stepfather John Peters had banned him to his bedroom once again for some trivial misdemeanour, although he expected that his mother would intervene and he would soon be released from captivity. Alistair was only five when John Peters had come to live with them. He had never known his real father but had been a happy child living in the hotel his mother Judith had inherited from her parents when he was just two that had been his only home since he had been born. The boy was doted on by the young African maid who assisted his mother to make the beds, dust and clean the small Cape Town hotel’s eight bedrooms. He was spoilt too by the large motherly woman who undertook the cooking and who kept a tin of small treats ready for his visits to her kitchen. It was a world in which he had been content until local accountant John Peters had married his mother. John, a conscientious man and self-professed disciplinarian did, Alistair understood in his childish way, love his mother and tried to be a good father to him, but did not show him any love. It was Judith’s first marriage and Alistair, although young, knew she was thankful to have a husband who helped her in the hotel and could remove some of the burden of the day-to-day organisation from her shoulders but he couldn’t help himself wishing that she had married someone nicer than John Peters.

‘Mum,’ he asked many times, ‘tell me how you met my real dad.’ The answer became more important now that John Peters had entered their lives.

Judith would oblige, usually at bedtime after she had read him a story and tucked him in for the night. A few minutes expanding on the life of James Anderson became part of their routine. The story of the strong tall James she had met whilst on holiday in Tunisia was embellished and expanded into a romantic tale.

‘We met on a silken sandy beach, gold and clean, where the blue sea lapped continuously,’ she would say and told him about the Tunisian souks, houses, Roman ruins and camels, embroidering the truth in an effort to provide a romantic backdrop. She did not mention the poverty they had witnessed.

‘We travelled to Cape Town together, across the sandy desert, and we fell in love.’

‘What did he look like?’ Alistair liked to ask. ‘Oh, handsome, tall, an adventurer ...’ she continued in an effort to embellish the story in a way that she thought would please the child she adored. ‘He had thick dark hair and stunning blue eyes, just like your eyes. Lovely deep voice ...’

‘Why did he die?’ ‘Your father became ill darling. He caught malaria, there was nothing that could be done for him. The poor man died before you were born but if he had seen you he would have loved you as much as I do. We wanted to get married but he already had a wife in England. He no longer loved her as much as he loved me ... and would have loved you too.’

It was what he wanted to hear but his mother knew that Alistair was astute and suspected that her memories were not accurate. A young imagination had, however, been fired. As he grew older he became ambitious and anxious to remove himself from the clutches of the pedantic John Peters and his desire to pursue knowledge about his biological father took second place. He attended medical school and when he qualified he changed his name from Peters, the name he had taken after his mother’s marriage, to Anderson. Doctor Alistair James Anderson. It felt right. His real father would have been proud of him.

Unlike the invidious James, Alistair was kind and loved children and animals but his blue eyes and deep voice stamped him as James’s son, the baby he had told Judith he did not want and had he lived would have abandoned in the same way that he had abandoned Janet.

When James died Judith arranged his funeral. She had promised James to send Janet his wedding ring together with a letter he had written to her but in her grief this was overlooked. She did not consider Janet was important but after a few months her conscience troubled her and she decided she should write to her. After all, it was only fair that she should know that she was now a widow.

‘Dear Mrs Anderson,’ she wrote. ‘You must be concerned about the whereabouts of your husband James. I am so sorry to tell you that he died a few weeks ago in Cape Town, South Africa, after suffering a bout of malaria. He has been cremated.’ How much she should tell this woman, this stranger, his wife he had claimed he no longer loved, she did not know. She decided to describe herself as a friend he had met on his travels and wrote that there was no point in Janet travelling to South Africa. She signed the letter ‘Judith’ but did not enclose the letter James had written to Janet, her own address or the wedding ring he had worn around his neck which would have given Janet the closure and proof that her disastrous marriage had ended. Judith was pregnant, grieving and struggling to come to terms with the death of her lover. Her parents were frail and she was involved in running the small hotel, which would soon be her own, and that was enough.

Alistair obtained a prestigious job in a large clinic. He never felt John Peters was a real father to him and John Peters had made it clear over the years that he only tolerated the boy for the sake of his mother. Alistair thought that the man was welcome to the money he gained from the sale of the hotel after Judith’s death; after all, he had worked hard at his mother’s side for a good number of years. Alistair told him that he only wanted a few of his mother’s possessions, which included a watch that had belonged to his biological father, some brief notes his mother had written about James’s funeral, James’s death certificate, the letter his father had written to Janet and the wedding ring. John had found them tucked away at the back of a dressing-table drawer after Judith’s death and felt honour bound to tell Alistair about them.

‘They are no use to me,’ he told Alistair. ‘They would only end up in a dustbin. What she ever saw in that philanderer I cannot imagine.’

Alistair smiled. He wondered what on earth she had seen in John Peters. John was described as a charming and considerate man by many of the hotel guests. On the surface he was but he never showed Alistair any of that charm or consideration. Alistair became convinced when he was growing up that James would have been different. He was after all his own flesh and blood.

‘He would have loved you,’ his mother had lied many times. How could she tell her beloved child anything else? She did not possess any photographs of James but described him as a good man to Alistair, who was thirsty for knowledge about the father he would never meet. ‘He was once a handsome officer in the British Navy and loved adventure,’ she repeated with conviction. ‘He loved to travel. That’s the reason we met on our journey across Africa.’ Thus the character of the self-centred selfish James became changed in order to placate the young child who would secretly dream about going to England one day to trace his roots.

John Peters tried to warn Alistair that his dreams about James Anderson could crumble. A more honest side of the story had been relayed to him by Judith.

‘I tried to be a good husband to your mother. I could not bring the excitement into her life that she experienced during the short time she was with your father. She did not get to know him really well. I hope that if you pursue your search for your father’s family roots you will not be disappointed.’

Alistair looked at John Peters with some empathy for the first time. The thought that he had misjudged him occurred to him. The man seemed cold and introverted, but, Alistair had to acknowledge, had supported and encouraged him during his student years. He owed him something but although he did feel a stab of pity for the frail and bent old man with white hair who was still anxious to do the right thing for Judith and her son, he doubted if he would visit him again though his conscience told him that he should if only to clarify a few misunderstandings 
between them.

Alistair noted Janet’s address – Primrose House, Enderly. He wondered if she was still alive. After making some enquiries he discovered that she was, and still living in Enderly. He packed the letter and ring in a case as he anticipated making a trip to England and he hoped Janet would want them and would receive him courteously. That was the most he could expect.

Alistair had married when he was thirty and had two daughters, Jenny and Alice. By the time he was in his early fifties, his wife had a responsible job as a journalist and his daughters were attending a good private school. He was comfortable and successful. He turned his attention once again to discovering his parental roots and perhaps visiting Janet if she was still alive.

‘Daddy, find out all you can,’ his daughters chorused when he booked a visit to England a few months later. Their faces were framed with thick blonde hair just like Alistair and Judith which was a legacy from their Boer ancestry. They were eager to find out more about their English ancestors, just as he was, but had exams to sit so it had been agreed that Doctor Alistair James Anderson would set out on his travels around the Russetshire countryside on his own.

A few weeks before he left South Africa for England he attended a party held by one of his wife’s friends in a large house on the outskirts of Cape Town. He chatted for some time with a man called George Berry who apparently knew Russetshire well. George suggested that he should stay in the Red Rooster public house in Little Brinton before visiting Enderly.

‘It will give you time to look round the area before looking up your father’s wife. Little Brinton is an interesting place,’ he had uttered smiling mysteriously. ‘I lived there for a while. There is a thriving bridge club in the village,’ he smirked and continued to outline some of the delights of the place. ‘There is a good village shop worth a visit. The old girl Mrs Blunt that ran it was an interesting character – a bit of a battleaxe.’ He laughed as he remembered the woman and her forceful behaviour, not that she ever got the better of him. ‘I’m going to travel across the Kalahari Desert to Botswana next week but I’m not sure where I will go after that. I like Botswana and worked there for a short while years ago. There are some good game reserves and I’m handy with a gun. My new young wife is African you know, who likes to travel.’

He looked at Alistair with cold blue eyes and Alistair struggled to repress a shudder. There was something untenable and odd about this man. He unnerved Alistair but he could not, despite all his medical training, think why.

‘I’ll certainly look round there,’ he said quickly and stuttered slightly. ‘I – I’ll look forward to it. Good idea – going to Little Brinton first. It will enable me to make a few discreet enquiries and check the lie of the land. Thank you.’

Alistair arrived at Heathrow on a dull November day not long after Peter’s funeral. He shivered and wished he had worn some thicker clothes. He should have waited until the warmer weather but was anxious to complete his mission and visit Janet, once he had made the decision to travel to England. He hoped she was still fit and able and that she would be willing to meet him. In any case, it would enable him to make some enquiries about his father who had lived and taught in the area for a while. He would be home again at Christmas with his family and perhaps have some interesting news to tell them.

He collected his hired car at the airport and drove leisurely to Russetshire, looking with interest at the small towns and villages as he neared his destination. He stepped gingerly through the door of the Red Rooster public house in Little Brinton. The pub faced an attractive village green which was not looking at its best at that time of year but the old black and white cottages and village shop on the other side of it looked inviting. Typically English, Alistair thought and his mouth curved with satisfaction. The landlord stepped forward quickly and spoke in a gruff and grouchy voice.

‘Can I help, sir?’ His eyes were speculative but his face creased into a forced smile displaying several gold fillings that glinted. His naturally curly hair had been brushed back to expose a receding hairline and emphasized dark bushy eyebrows. Astute deep brown eyes looked at Alistair with undisguised interest. He placed a neatly folded clean cloth on the bar and tried to give Alistair his undivided, though somewhat forced, attention.

‘Oh, yes please,’ Alistair stammered after a slight hesitation. For a few moments he had felt mesmerised by the eccentric-looking landlord.

‘I’m taking a holiday in Russetshire, visiting old family haunts, and would like to stay a day or two if you have any vacancies?’

‘Certainly sir,’ the landlord responded with alacrity. ‘I have a good room with ensuite, recently refurbished, which has a lovely view of the hills at the back. Would you care to have breakfast too?’

‘Oh yes,’ Alistair answered with a feeling of relief. He was tired and weary after his long journey and hoped there was plenty of hot water for a refreshing shower. ‘How much will that cost?’

‘Only twenty-five pounds a night including a good cooked breakfast, or continental if you prefer. You can choose. Just let me know in the morning. Stay as long as you like. It’s quiet at this time of the year. There are a few locals in the evenings and some of the village bridge club members come in for a drink on Thursday evenings after their game. We have some good bar meals too if you are interested?’

‘Great,’ said Alistair. ‘I would like to stay at least two nights if that is all right?’

‘Perfect,’ the landlord, known locally as Grouchy Tim, said with enthusiasm and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. Looks good for a quid or two he thought. He is a big fellow and will probably tuck into a hearty bar meal.