Time Goes By (30 page)

These times of anguish, fortunately, were of short duration. Barbara continued with her new life, keeping herself busy and forever seeking new interests. On the whole she was happy and contented, and she knew that Nat loved her as much as he had always done, just as she loved him.

It was in the early spring of 1971 when Barbara discovered a lump in her right breast. She made an appointment to see a doctor – something she rarely needed to do as she was normally in very good health – and within a week she was admitted to hospital for an exploratory operation.

Nat, as always, was a great support and comfort to her and did all he could to encourage her to be optimisitic about the outcome. ‘Now, don’t start getting all worked up about it, darling,’ he said. ‘It’s more than likely that it’ll turn out to be benign, and you’ll be fine once it’s been removed. You’re strong and healthy, and young as well.’

She smiled. ‘Not all that young, Nat.’

‘You’ll always be young to me,’ he told her, with the same loving smile that had not diminished with the passing years. ‘Still the same lovely girl I met at the Tower Ballroom.’

Barbara knew, though, that to be young – or comparatively so – was not always a good thing if what she was secretly dreading was diagnosed. The older you were, the slower the disease spread, or so she had heard.

‘We won’t tell the children just yet,’ she said. ‘Let’s wait until I’ve had the first op, then we’ll know the worst … or the best,’ she added, trying to be optimistic.

The children by now were grown-up and no
longer living at home. Beverley, who had trained to be a teacher, had married young and now had a two-year-old son. Carl, who was an accountant, had also married at an early age and he and his wife were expecting their first child. Anne-Marie, aged twenty-two, was still single and enjoying herself too much to marry and settle down just yet. She had taken after her father with her interest in all kinds of sports. She was a qualified swimming instructor, and in the winter, as her father had used to do, she taught skiing to the locals and the many visitors who came to the town. She was sharing an apartment with a girl she had met at college. And so Barbara and Nat had found themselves alone, apart from the few live-in staff that they had appointed when Nat’s parents had retired.

Barbara seemed to recover well from the operation and they waited in some trepidation for the results in a few days’ time. Then came the news that Barbara, secretly, had been dreading all along. The cancer – for that was what it was – had spread further than had been anticipated. A mastectomy of the right breast was deemed necessary and it was imperative that it should be done quickly.

By the autumn of 1971 it seemed that she was well on the road to recovery. She had adjusted well to her incapacity and she was hopeful that the treatment she was receiving would make sure that
the dreaded disease did not recur. She had started dealing with the hotel office work again, and she and Nat were planning a trip to New York in the late spring of 1972. She had wanted to see the city for a long time, but with their commitments at the hotel and with their family, it was a visit they had never got round to taking.

She found New York to be fascinating, wonderful, awesome … and all so unbelievably big and bold, just as she and Nat had joked about when they first met. She loved it all: Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s, the huge department stores; the shows on Broadway; Central Park and Fifth Avenue; Manhattan Island; the Statue of Liberty (which she had seen, briefly, on her arrival twenty-seven years ago); the blaring horns of the taxicabs; the gigantic steaks and beefburgers; and the pancakes with maple syrup and ice cream. She was no stranger to that delicacy, but here it seemed even more tempting and delicious. It was all like a dream coming true, the other face of America that she had long imagined, so different from the quiet beauty of Vermont.

She did not tell Nat that she was feeling tired, more so than she knew she should, although it was truly an exhausting holiday. She had started to feel pains in her back and abdomen, and she thought – or had she only imagined? – that there was a small lump in her left breast. She knew that
it was not likely to disappear and that she must not delay to do something about it as soon as they returned home. The pains in the other parts of her body, that she hoped might be due to tiredness, did not improve either.

Nat was devastated when she told him, the day after they had flown home. She could tell how concerned he was by the look of horror on his face, which he quickly tried to hide with a show of optimism.

The operation was done quickly, a partial mastectomy, but Barbara knew, this time, that there was no point in trying to convince herself that it was not serious. All the members of her family knew too, although they tried to hide their deepest fears with brave attempts at cheerfulness.

By the autumn of 1972 she was spending more and more time resting – she was often too weary to do much else – although she was not confined to bed. She remembered how her Aunt Myrtle had used to say, when she was feeling not too well, ‘I’m not going to bed! You die in bed!’ Barbara’s illness, of course, was much more serious, but she was determined to keep going and remain cheerful – at least from outward appearances – as long as she was able.

Thoughts of the little daughter she had left behind in England started to loom large in her mind. How old would Kathy be now? Twenty-nine
years old, probably married by now with children of her own. And what of Albert? Barbara calculated that he would be sixty-seven, not a great age at all. Surely by now he would not be as bitter as he had been about what she had done? Surely he would understand if she tried, at long last, to contact her daughter?

She sat in an armchair near the window of their bedroom, one afternoon in late autumn, looking out at the view of which she never tired. The distant mountains were already capped with white after the first snowfall, and, nearer to the house, the trees that lined the road glowed with the glorious tints of the fall: russet, scarlet, orange, gold and amber. A thick carpet of leaves covered the ground, and two boys were scuffling through them, crunching the leaves underfoot and sending them scurrying away in little flurries.

She experienced a sudden feeling of joy and contentment amidst the sadness and the fear that she sometimes felt at what she knew was inevitable. Nat was wonderful, though, at helping her to keep her spirits up. She was alone, though, at the moment, and knew that there was something she must do.

She opened the drawer of her bedside cabinet and took out a notepad and pen. The urge to write to her firstborn child was so great that it could not be ignored.

‘My dear Katherine,’ she began. ‘I have no idea how much or how little you have been told about me …’ She went on to explain what had happened and how she had been compelled to leave her behind. As she wrote of how she had loved Kathy and had never forgotten her, Barbara’s eyes began to mist with tears. She felt overwhelmingly sad and so very tired.

She closed the pad and put it back in the drawer underneath her private documents and photograph albums. She would finish the letter another time …

B
everley hurried away to find her father. He was not very ill, just suffering from a bad cold which threatened to turn to bronchitis if he didn’t take care. He was not in bed, just resting in his favourite armchair in the bedroom, looking out at his favourite view, now at its best, resplendent with all the glowing colours of the fall. Beverley remembered how her mother had used to sit there drinking in the beauty of the scenery, almost to the very end.

He looked round as she entered the room. He was reading, one of his favourite Jane Austen novels. Her mother, Barbara, had stimulated his interest in this very English authoress, who had long been a favourite of her own. No doubt it brought back memories now of the wife he had loved so very much.

‘Dad, I’ve just had an intriguing phone call,’ she began, ‘from England. From a young woman who lives in Blackpool. That’s where you met Mom, isn’t it?’

‘It sure is,’ replied her father. ‘Who was it? What did she say?’ His voice was a little hesitant; he sounded almost nervous.

‘She’s called Katherine Leigh; at least, that was what she was called before she was married. She’s called Katherine Fielding now. She said that she knew you’d been in Blackpool during the war and that you knew some members of her family. She said she would like to speak to you, Dad – to Mr Castillo, she said – but I explained that you’re not too well at the moment.’

Her father’s face, already pale, had blanched. ‘So … what did you tell her?’ His voice sounded husky with emotion. ‘Did you say I’d get in touch with her? You’ve got her address, I suppose?’

‘Yes, and her telephone number … Who is she, Dad? Did you know her? She sounded very sure of her facts.’

Nat sighed, such a deep sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his being. ‘Yes … I knew her. At least, I met her when she was just a tiny girl. They called her Kathy. It’s a long story, Beverley. A very sad story that perhaps your mother and I should have told you. But we decided it was best not to.’

‘Who is she, then, this Kathy?’ Beverley asked again. She was perplexed, and concerned too, at the shock that this had clearly been to her father.

‘Your mother’s name was Leigh before she married me,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think you ever knew that.’ He shook his head. ‘We didn’t tell you, any of you, that Barbara had been married before.’ He paused and took a deep breath; then, ‘Kathy Leigh is your half-sister …’ he said.

‘What!’ To say that Beverley was surprised would be a vast understatement. ‘You mean … Mom had another child, back in England? But why … how …? I don’t understand. Why didn’t we know about it?’

‘Because it was too painful for your mother ever to talk about it.’ Beverley could see that her father was very distressed and close to tears. ‘Look, Beverley … this has come as a great shock. But it’s only right, now that it’s happened, that you should all know about it. Let the others know, will you, honey? Tell them I’d like to see them; I mean Carl and Anne-Marie. Come here tomorrow night, all of you. I’ll probably have recovered a bit by then. As I say, it’s been a shock. Then I’ll tell you all about what happened; I know it’s what Barbara would want.’ He nodded slowly, seeming to have aged a few years in those last moments.

‘OK, Dad,’ she said. She kissed his cheek.
‘I’ll phone them right away. I won’t say what it’s about, just that you want to talk to us all. Now, you’ll be all right, will you? I must get along because Freddie will be due home from nursery school.’

‘Sure, don’t worry about me.’ Nat smiled. ‘I’ve been spoilt rotten these last few days, Sam and Ellie waiting on me hand and foot. They’re worth their weight in gold in the kitchen, those two. We haven’t many folks in at the moment, fortunately, but I hope to be up and doing in a day or two.’ He nodded, seeming now a little more composed. ‘I’m OK, honey, honestly I am. See you all tomorrow.’

It had certainly been a bombshell, though, Katherine phoning like that, out of the blue. Dear little Kathy … What an enchanting child she had been. The image of her mother, with the same dark curls and lovely warm brown eyes. He and Barbara had not spoken of her very much as it would have been upsetting for his beloved wife; but he knew that the little girl had always been in her thoughts. He knew the times when she had been thinking particularly about her, so well attuned had he been to her various highs and lows.

He had wondered what to do ever since he had found Barbara’s half-written letter to Katherine in her bedside drawer, soon after his wife’s death.
He had realised then how she must have longed to contact her firstborn child when she knew that her life was drawing to a close, although she had not told him, Nat, what she wanted to do. Had she changed her mind, he wondered, or had she become too poorly to complete the letter? He would never know. He had done nothing about it partly because there was no address and, also, it was unlikely that the Leigh family would still be at the same place after all these years. Maybe it was best, he had told himself, to leave well alone. He had no idea what Katherine, as a child, would have been told about her mother; there would be no point in contacting her now that her mother had died.

He was aware now, though, that he could not leave the matter unresolved for any longer. Katherine, too, must have had a desire to find her mother, although it was he, Nat Castillo, that she had asked to speak to. But why now, after all these years? Maybe she had only just found out … It was no use speculating. He knew he must get in touch with Katherine, either by letter or by phone. First of all, though, he had to speak to his family.

Beverley, Carl and Anne-Marie all came round the following evening, the elder two having left their spouses and children at home. Anne-Marie was still single, but was now engaged to a fellow
swimming instructor. They planned to marry the following summer.

The other two were stunned, as Beverley had been, to hear the news, but their reactions were somewhat varied.

‘Gee! That’s great!’ said Carl, always the most outspoken of the three, forever optimistic and ready to see the best in all situations. ‘A long-lost sister over in little old England! It’s like a fairy story, Dad. When can we meet her?’

But Anne-Marie’s response was rather different. She was always more cautious, which was probably the reason she had not married at a very early age as the other two had done. She was also a very sympathetic sort of girl.

‘That poor little girl!’ she said. ‘Just imagine how sad it must have been for her, her mother disappearing like that and leaving her all alone. Honestly, Dad, I’m very surprised at our mom. How could she have done it?’

Nat had already tried to explain that Barbara had had no choice; her first husband had been such an intransigent sort of fellow. Also, he admitted, a little embarrassedly, that she had already been expecting a baby – Beverley. He told them how he and Barbara had been so very much in love, and that he was due to be sent overseas for the final assault on Europe. It had been a traumatic time for both of them.

‘I have no idea what little Kathy was told,’ he said. ‘I know, though, that she would have been very well looked after by her father, and particularly, I guess, by her aunt. I never met Winifred, but Barbara always spoke very highly of her.’

Beverley had had time to think about the situation. ‘You must contact her, Dad, as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘I have a feeling, somehow, that she’s just found out where her mother might be and she wants to get in touch with her. It’ll be a shock to find that she’s … no longer with us.’ It was a euphemism, she knew, but the word ‘dead’ sounded so harsh and final. ‘After all, Mom was young, wasn’t she? Katherine would expect her to be still living. Perhaps you should write to her first of all, Dad, and then speak to her later on the phone? But it’s down to you, of course. How do you feel about it?’

‘Yes, that’s the best idea,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve been stunned by this, as you all have. And many, many times I’ve agonised about my own share of guilt in all this. I didn’t like to talk too much to your mother about little Kathy; it was so painful for her. But now, maybe there’s a way of putting things right. As I told you, she was such a cute, lovable little kid. If she’s grown up in the same way, and I’ve a feeling she will have done, then I know we’d all like to meet her.’

‘Kathy, there’s a letter here for you from America,’ Tim called out to his wife one morning in mid November. He took it into the living room where Kathy was making sure that the children – Sarah, aged eight, and Chris, aged six – had all they needed before departing for school: PE kit; recorder and music book; last night’s homework; and their dinner money, as it was a Monday morning.

Her face lit up with pleasure. ‘Gosh, that’s great!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll read it when these two have gone,’ she added in a quieter voice.

‘I’m dying to know what it says as well,’ said Tim, who had been just as excited as she had been after she had made contact with America. She had been a little worried at first, wondering what she had done. Would they really be pleased to hear from her? By now she had convinced herself that they would. That young woman, Beverley, had sounded very nice, if you could tell from a voice, and had promised that she would ask her father to get in touch.

‘Listen,’ Tim went on. ‘I’ll just drop these two off at school, then I’ll come back and we’ll read it together, OK? There’s no rush to get to work now I’m one of the bosses!’ Kathy knew, though, that he was joking and that he worked just as hard as any of the employees.

‘All right; I’ll wash up while I’m waiting,’ she said.

Tim was back in less than fifteen minutes and they sat together on the settee as Kathy tore open the flimsy blue and red envelope. ‘I’ll read it out to you,’ she said.

‘My dear Katherine,’
the letter began. ‘
My daughter, Beverley, told me that you had phoned. You won’t remember me. I am Nathaniel – known as Nat – Castillo, and I met you in Blackpool when you were a tiny girl, just about one year old. I can only guess that you are trying to find out about your mother, Barbara, the dear girl whom I married in 1945. Kathy, my dear, I am not sure how much or how little you know, but I must tell you that Barbara and I had almost twenty-eight very happy years together. I am sorry to have to give you the sad news, though, that my dear wife … died … in the January of this year …’
Kathy’s voice faltered as she read the last sentence, then she burst into tears.

‘Oh Tim! How dreadful! I thought I’d found her. I made myself believe I was going to meet her, and now … this!’

He put his arm round her and she leant her head against his shoulder. ‘I never knew her,’ she murmured, her voice husky with tears, ‘but this is so very sad. Why didn’t my father tell me about her? If only he had told me … even a year ago, then I could have gone to meet her. And now it’s too late. I’m finding it very hard to forgive what
he did to me, telling me all those lies. I tried to understand, and I thought maybe we could make things right, my mother and me. But she’s … she’s gone!’ She was not crying now, just shaking her head sadly and unbelievingly.

‘I’ll read the rest of it to you, shall I?’ said Tim gently. Kathy nodded.

‘I am truly sorry to have to impart such sad news,’
Tim read.
‘My dear wife had cancer, so you will understand how tragic it has been for us. But I do know that she, too, wanted to get in touch with you, Kathy. I found a half-written letter to you that I can only assume she became too poorly to finish.

‘I won’t say any more now, but I would very much like to speak with you over the phone. I have your telephone number, so how would it be if I phone you on the last day of November – it’s a Friday – at 8pm, your time? That will be early afternoon for us over here. We can have a chat and exchange news about our families. I expect you have children, Kathy? Barbara and I had three children – two daughters and a son – and now they have learnt about you they are all longing to meet you.

‘With my kindest regards, Nat Castillo.’

Kathy was more composed by the time Tim had finished reading. ‘Well, I think that’s a splendid letter,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry about
your mother, darling, but this Nat seems a real nice sort of fellow. And he remembered you, didn’t he?’

‘So it seems,’ said Kathy. She smiled sadly. ‘I know they say that what you never have you never miss. And I never knew her, did I? Barbara, my mother … But I can’t help feeling there’s a great emptiness … here.’ She touched the region of her heart. ‘How I used to wish, when I was a little girl, that I had brothers and sisters, like my friends had. Shirley, in particular – you remember, Tim? I was so envious of her having a little sister and an older brother. And now I find I’ve got two sisters and a brother at the other side of the world. Ironic, isn’t it?’

‘Not really the other side of the world, love,’ said Tim. ‘Australia’s the other side of the world. America isn’t all that far away, comparatively speaking. And Nat says they all want to meet you. Just think about that!’

‘Let’s wait and see what he has to say when he phones,’ said Kathy. ‘My head’s in a whirl, Tim. It’s all happened so quickly, I can scarcely take it in.’

Nat Castillo phoned, as he had promised, at the appointed time. His voice, though so far away, came over loud and clear, and Kathy felt at once the warmth and sincerity of this man who had
been married to her mother. They spoke for half an hour or so; he said not to worry about the cost – they had a lot of catching up to do. Kathy learnt of her half-sisters, Beverley and Anne-Marie, and her half-brother, Carl; and also a half-nephew and half-niece, Freddie and Patsy-Lou – they would be half-cousins to her Sarah and Chris? she pondered.

Nat told her how he and her mother had met at the Tower Ballroom and had very quickly fallen in love. ‘I knew she was married,’ he said, ‘but I guess it made no difference to the way we felt. I just hope you can understand and forgive us, Kathy. It was heartbreaking for your mother. She had no choice, though, but to do what she did. I’m only sorry that you haven’t had the chance to meet her. She was a wonderful lady …’ His voice faltered as it did more than once as he spoke of her. ‘I’ll write again,’ he promised, ‘and send some snapshots.’