What She Never Told Me (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Back at the house, Ursula wants me to call David Prescott and arrange for her and me to visit him. But I can’t quite bring myself to inflict Ursula on him. She would be too direct. He would find her rude. I do, though, take her point that it would probably be worth seeing him again. So I tell her I need to think about what to say to him, and then I make sure we focus on Mother Bernadette’s dark watercolour of the grapes, now safely contained within its new frame of bleached oak.

‘It’s going into your room,’ I say to Ursula. As much as I like the look of it in the new frame, I don’t want the painting in my room, or in the sitting room.

Ursula is in the downstairs bedroom, taking from her bag the few toiletries and T-shirts she has brought with her.

‘You’ve travelled light,’ I say.

‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning on staying too long,’ she says, coming forward to take the painting from me so that I can drive a nail into the wall. ‘You’re keeping the house, then?’

‘I think so. What do you think of it?’

‘The bee’s knees and the cat’s pyjamas. If you could transpose this place to London, you’d be in clover.’

‘It was so dreary before, wasn’t it? I don’t know what possessed her to move here. She must have known it could be turned into something like this, but she obviously had no intention of doing anything to it.’

‘I can hardly remember what it was like.’

‘Have a look at these,’ I say, handing her my phone with a series of before-and-after photographs.

Ursula swipes through them.

‘Yeah, it really was, if you don’t mind my saying so, a bit of a dump. And Marjorie had such good taste. It’s as if she suddenly decided to become an old woman when Dermot died. I wonder . . .’

She breaks off and starts walking towards the bathroom
with her toiletries, but I stop her. ‘What do you wonder?’

‘Guilty conscience.’

‘What?’

‘Well, I just wonder whether she was punishing herself for something by moving into a grotty old house.’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Maybe she’d . . . I don’t know . . . had an affair at some point when she was married to Dermot, or something, and then, after he died, she felt guilty about it, so, consciously or subconsciously, she needed to punish herself.’

‘Ursula, that’s nuts! It’s off the wall. My mother sold the other house because she wanted Angela to have some money after Dermot died. Maybe this place was the only thing available for the money she had to spend. She didn’t have an affair. I would have known. Everyone would have known. You can’t keep anything secret in this town.’

‘Is it as off the wall as you finding out that Marjorie had that death certificate all along? Or that she had two kids, both called Louise. She managed to keep those things secret, didn’t she? Yeah, I’m beginning to like this guilt-and-self-punishment theory.’

‘But she and Dermot were devoted to each other. She was truly happy with him!’

‘If you say so. But things happen . . . just saying. Anway, I’m having another thought – about how there came to be two kids.’

‘Okay. I’m listening.’

‘Your mother had twins. They came as a shock and she realised it would be difficult, even impossible, to cope with two babies. She was a single mother, after all. So her parents persuaded her not to tell David Prescott that there were two babies and they arranged for one of them to be fostered out to someone.’

She stops. ‘Are you with me?’

I roll my eyes.

‘So off my mother went to England with David Prescott, entirely happy to leave one of her two babies behind with a foster family? And then when one baby died she returned to Ireland to claim back the second? No, Ursula.’

‘You have to admit, though, that it’s not entirely impossible. ’

‘But, Ursula, if that’s what happened your theory that David Prescott is a crucial part of the jigsaw falls apart, doesn’t it? Because, if he was told that only one child had been born and still believes that, he’s hardly going to be able to tell me anything, is he?’

‘Ah, but he might have had his suspicions. Really, Lou, I don’t get the feeling you asked him too many questions when you went to see him. It’s understandable. You had a terrible shock. But I still think he can tell us – you – an awful lot more than he did during your visit. He’s still your best chance of unravelling this mess.’

Her second-child theory makes no sense whatsoever. Richard, my uncle, would have been aware of another baby. And my own childhood memories pour cold water all over it. If I had been left with foster parents, I would remember them, even in a small way. But I have no memories of anyone else in my early life. There was only ever my mother.

*

I’m still not entirely convinced, but Ursula has persuaded me that we must visit David Prescott before doing anything else. So I take my mobile out to the yard and press his number. My nerves are jumping around as I wait for him to answer. This will be our first contact since I went to see him, way back in June, over two months ago. He told me as I was leaving that I should visit him again. He probably meant it at the time, but he may be less than pleased to hear from me now.

As I wait for him to pick up, I agonise over how I should address him. Mr Prescott? David? Neither seems appropriate. He resolves my problem by saying, ‘David Prescott,’ when he answers.

‘Oh, hello, it’s Marjorie’s daughter,’ I say. I don’t say
Louise
because I don’t want to cause him even a fraction of the anguish he felt that day when I told him I had the same name as his dead child.

‘Louise,’ he says softly, and I feel my throat catch as I realise the enormous gift he has just given me by using my name.

It’s then that I decide for certain that I can’t take Ursula to see him. She’ll push and prod, question and doubt, and I won’t subject him to that. But I will go to see him, not just because I want to hear what else he can tell me, but also because I want to see him. Even if he’s not my father, he is the man my mother once loved.

‘Louise?’ his voice interrupts my thoughts.

‘I’m sorry; I got a bit lost for a couple of seconds. I was thinking I might come and see you. It’s just that I have so many things I need to know about my mother and you’re the only one who can help me. Would you mind?’

A small silence. Hesitation. And then his voice comes back, firm and steady, and he tells me he would very much like it if I came to visit him. We agree that I will drive up to Friars Ashby on Saturday.

When I go back inside, Ursula pours me a glass of wine.

‘So? Do we have a date?’

‘Yes. Well, not exactly. He’s up for a visit, but I said I’d call him about it once I was back in London.’

‘Well done,’ she says. ‘We’re in business.’

I don’t dare tell her now that I have no intention of taking her with me to Northamptonshire.

My plan is to fly back to London with Ursula the day after tomorrow, drive up to David Prescott the following day and, as soon after that as possible, return to Ireland. There are, after all, the various papers to be sorted out. And there’s the trip to Kerry, which I’m determined to make because of the link between my mother and Liam O’Connor’s family, even if it may have been a tenuous one. And maybe talking to Liam O’Connor will help me find the connection – if there’s a concrete one – between what happened that day in Walter Square and my recurring memory of the green postbox.

But Ursula is probably right about the importance of seeing David Prescott again soon. There are still questions I can ask.

‘I’d better tell Angela I’m going back to London. Let’s phone for a taxi. I don’t think I should drive after the wine.’

Sitting in Angela’s garden, we drink a bottle of white wine and Joe quizzes Ursula on the state of her love life. She drives me mad sometimes, but she’s been a constant in my life since that first day at primary school and, as I listen to her talk about her latest conquest, I feel a rush of affection towards her.

She’s my age, but still looks and dresses as she did in the eighties, mostly in black – leather jackets, jeans and T-shirts – never a dress, but occasionally a black leather skirt. Sometimes she throws in the odd flourish of grey or khaki. She still has her hair cut in a razored bob, still lines her eyes with the blackest kohl. Age certainly hasn’t withered her so far. Men are drawn to her tall, slim body encased tightly in black, like a spider, and she pulls them in, just as a spider might. I’ve seen the performance so many times that I no longer marvel at it. I just feel slightly sorry for the men. She takes up with one, stays with him for a while – it could be a few months, it could be a few years – and then moves on.

Her latest conquest is young, about thirty. I’ve known other women involved with younger men who worry about the age gap and the inevitability of their lovers dropping them. But not Ursula. The only thing she’s bothered about is that her toy boy is starting to talk about the long term. ‘I’m going to have to start letting him down gently,’ she says.

We all laugh, but I feel a rush of pity for the young man who’s about to have his hopes crushed.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I manage to get a seat on the same flight as Ursula, and, as we part company at Paddington, I promise I’ll call her as soon as I’ve spoken to David Prescott on the telephone to arrange the visit. I send Declan a text.
Sorry
, I write,
have had to return to London for a few days. Will text when coming back
. No response.

Now that I’m back in London, the only thing I can think of is Sandy and whether, in refusing to talk to him, I’m cutting myself off from something that can be put right. During the short Tube ride to Ladbroke Grove, my mind and body veer between the pain of his betrayal – a physical pain that stabs at my stomach – and the desperate need to see him and to be convinced that we can get beyond this. I stand nervously by the doors, ready to spring out when the train stops, torn this way and that.

When I walk into my building, I see the first indication of his absence in the empty post basket. There’s nothing lying around, either for him or for me, which probably means he’s been here to pick up his post and start moving his things out, bit by bit. I feel sick to my stomach.

Inside the flat, I go straight to our bedroom, terrified that, when I open the doors on his side of the wardrobe, there will be nothing of him left. So, when I fling open the doors and see that most of his clothes are still there, I sit back on the bed and start crying with a feeling of relief that overwhelms me. I think about what Angela has said, what Richard has said. Right now, I want him back. I dial his number, but it goes straight to his voicemail. It’s all right, I tell myself. He’s with a patient. Or he’s on a train.

The kitchen is relatively tidy, but I see the pile of envelopes and bills, some opened, some not. The milk in the fridge is fresh and there’s some cheese and a few tomatoes. Relief hits me again. He hasn’t left. Not yet, anyway.

I run down to Portobello and stock up on food. But when I’ve put it into the fridge and cupboards, when I finally sit down with a mug of tea, all the doubts and the hurt come back, and I tell myself I’m stupid even to be thinking of trying to revive this marriage. All through the rest of the afternoon, I swing between hope and despair, drinking mug after mug of tea. I rehearse how I’m going to talk to him. When he lets himself in this evening, he’ll be surprised to find me waiting for him. I won’t crack. I’ll be firm. I’ll hand him a glass of wine and tell him I’m willing to listen to what he has to say. No crying. He can tell me his story and then I’ll ask him the questions I’ve prepared. Why should I take him back after he betrayed me twice? Why did he tell me the first time that there was nobody else involved, when there clearly was? And if he wants to come back to me, where does this leave Julia and the baby?

But I don’t get to ask him any of these questions because he doesn’t turn up. And eventually, after a long, nervous wait, I sit down by myself and eat the blue-cheese risotto I’ve made, his favourite comfort food, and drink the entire bottle of wine. How stupid I was to think I could make everything all right again, just because I wanted to, because Richard and Angela had made me believe I had the power to do it. How stupid. How pathetic.

*

The following morning, I get up at seven and set out early for Northamptonshire. I have a headache from last night’s wine. My mobile rings as I’m sitting in traffic in north London. Ursula. I don’t want to have to lie to her and I don’t want her to think I’m avoiding her, so I let the call go to voicemail and then I switch the phone off completely.

The wisteria that hung around the house in the spring is no longer in bloom. The peonies, too, have had their day. But the garden is a colourful riot of late-summer flowers. David Prescott opens the door as I walk up the path to the house. Unexpectedly, he opens his arms to me, a gesture I find so touching that I have to pretend there’s something in my eye.

‘Welcome back, Louise.’

Again, he’s used my name, for which I’m silently grateful.

I’ve brought my birth certificate, the baptism certificate obtained by Richard, my marriage certificate. I’ve brought some of my music diplomas. I show them all to David and he scrutinises them.

‘What can I say? Clearly, they’re all genuine. Whatever “genuine” means.’

‘I have some other things to show you,’ I say, this time putting my mother’s copy of the death certificate and the photograph in front of him. ‘I found these in my mother’s house. They were in a wooden box in the attic. I want you to know that I believe what you told me. This is the proof. But there are so many more things I don’t understand, things I’ve discovered since I came to see you. I thought there might be a chance . . . that you might be able to help me make sense of some of them.’

‘I can try,’ he says.

So I tell him about the envelope addressed to Mary O’Connor at 10 Walter Square and the information Joannie gave me about the house having been bought by a Thomas O’Connor, who was probably Mary’s husband, and transferred to a Liam O’Connor, who was probably their son, who eventually sold it and moved to the south-west of the country, to Kenmare in County Kerry.

‘There was indeed a Thomas O’Connor who worked at the brewery. I’m afraid I can’t remember which house he lived in, but we’re probably talking about the same man. He had a wife and two small boys. They were about four and five years of age, I think, though they may have been younger. I don’t recall his wife or whether Marjorie was in contact with her. She certainly never mentioned it.’

‘Could you find out a bit more about them from Tennyson’s? I don’t think I would have a hope of getting anywhere, but you might be able to.’

‘I can certainly try,’ he says. ‘But, my dear, do you really need to find these people? The most likely thing is that Marjorie got to know this Mary O’Connor during her time at Tennyson’s and was simply sending her a card to keep in touch.’

‘You’re probably right. But I still have to do it. I have to find out who I am and what happened, and that means I have to check out everything that doesn’t make sense. Okay, I know an envelope addressed to someone called Mary O’Connor doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve come across another mystery, but the address was Walter Square, and something horrible happened to me there, a while back.’

I tell him about the strange merging of reality and memory when I found myself in front of the green postbox in the square, the sheer terror that had made me flee from the place.

‘How upsetting for you,’ is all he says. Although he has acknowledged that my mother has left a huge mess behind her, maybe he thinks I’m a little crazy after all.

I revive the conversation by mentioning that my closest friend had wanted to accompany me to see him.

‘But you came alone.’

‘Ursula can be a bit, well, demanding. She’s a journalist. She works for a tabloid. I won’t tell you which one – you’d be appalled. She doesn’t take any prisoners, just shoots. She came up with a load of theories about you and my mother and so on. I love her to bits, but I was afraid she might upset you.’

He smiles. ‘I suspect I might have been able to cope.’

‘Actually, you’d like her, I think. She’s up front about everything. She doesn’t dissemble. Doesn’t lie.’ As I say this, I remember with shame that I used a lie to make contact with him. ‘David, I’m so sorry for deceiving you before . . .’

He raises his hand, signalling me to stop.

‘Please don’t apologise. You did what you felt you had to do. And now, aren’t you going to tell me about your friend’s theories?’

‘I have to warn you . . . they’re a bit crazy.’

‘I have a strong constitution,’ he says.

So I talk him through Ursula’s theory – that Marjorie gave birth to twins, but told him she’d had only one child and allowed her parents to find a foster family for the other twin. He listens, but I can tell from his expression that he’s finding it difficult to keep track.

‘And when – when she went back to Dublin she contacted the foster family and took the child – me – back. That’s what Ursula is suggesting.’

‘What an imagination your friend has,’ he says as I finish speaking.

‘All right, I know it seems far-fetched, and probably is, but it has to be at least possible,’ I offer.

‘Of course, it has to be possible. Anything is possible – except in this case. Marjorie was not expecting twins. If she had been, she would have told me. I would have known. We were always honest with each other.’

Honest with each other. I’ve heard that one before, but I keep my mouth shut.

‘I’ve been doing some thinking of my own,’ David continues. ‘Isn’t the likeliest and simplest explanation that Marjorie adopted you when she returned to Ireland after our daughter died? Hasn’t that occurred to you?’

‘No, that’s impossible,’ I counter. ‘There would be records. And my birth certificate says clearly – look, you can see it – it says that Louise Redmond was born on the eleventh of December, 1969. And your name is there, too. Birth certificates don’t lie.’

‘Oh, my dear, anything can be changed or falsified. The question that we don’t seem to be able to get to the bottom of is
why
.’

My visit to David Prescott has thrown no new light on anything and I find myself regretting my decision not to bring Ursula with me. There’s little point in staying, but, just as I reach out for my bag, he starts talking about my mother, telling me that, contrary to anything I might believe, she had not longed for a baby, but had taken every precaution against having one, as had he.

‘We were both horrified when Marjorie discovered she was going to have a child. For reasons that will be obvious to you. An “illegitimate” child – what a ridiculous, cruel term – was branded for life. An unmarried mother was gossiped about, looked down upon. Those were not good times, and anyone holding them up as an idyllic era needs his head examined.’

‘I know,’ I say, remembering the way the nuns looked at my mother during those first weeks when she delivered me into their care every morning.

‘But I’m veering slightly off course.’ He stops and looks about him. ‘Do you mind if I have a cigarette? I stopped smoking many years ago, but I keep a small supply for use in times of need.’

‘Like now?’

‘Like now,’ he says, going out of the room and returning with a cigarette, already lit.

‘When I first met Marjorie, she was vivacious, flighty – even fast, you might say. All the things you might expect in a young and beautiful woman from a fairly privileged background. I must admit that those things were part of what I found so compelling about her, along with her intelligence, of course. But having Louise, our daughter, transformed her into something even more beautiful. She was so kind and compassionate, devoted to her child. Louise was the centre of her world and I had to take a back seat. Not that I minded. I adored my daughter.’

I recognise this picture he’s painting of my mother and, like a child entranced by a fairy tale someone is reading to her, I want to hear more.

‘So what happened when . . . when your daughter was born?’

‘For the first few months, Marjorie stayed at her parents’ house. She had given up working, of course. When she was ready to leave, we found her a flat in Rathmines. I saw them every day.’

I ask him where his wife featured in all this, whether she had had any inkling of what was going on.

‘She may have known, or suspected, but she never said anything to indicate that she did. I didn’t flaunt Marjorie in front of her. I didn’t leave clues lying around. When Louise died, I lived two different existences for a long time. With my wife I tried to behave normally. When I was alone, I grieved. I kept the casket and the death certificate locked in a suitcase. Celia would never have pried. I think I told you when you came before that my wife and I couldn’t have children together. If she did find out about Marjorie and Louise, I would imagine she reconciled herself to their existence because of that, and because I stayed with her. But,’ and he leans forward and says earnestly, ‘I want you to know that I loved my wife. It’s true that I would have left her for Marjorie, but, as you know, it was Marjorie who left me.’

Even now, decades after he last saw my mother, it’s clear that he hasn’t stopped thinking about her. The look on his face and the shine that lights up his eyes when he says her name tell me that.

‘But didn’t you try to persuade her not to leave?’ I ask.

‘I did. Of course, I did. But it was pointless. And it made me suspect that, had we not had a child, our relationship might not have lasted as long as it did. Louise became the cement between Marjorie and me. When she died, everything fell apart because Marjorie saw no point in continuing.’

We’ve been talking for a long time and David’s face looks tired and strained. As if reading my thoughts, he says, ‘It’s one thing to think about these things. It’s another to talk about them. I’m afraid I need to be by myself for a while. Would you mind? You can stay here and I’ll just go and sit in the garden and have a cigarette.’

‘No, don’t worry. It’s fine. I should be getting back to London.’

As I pick up my bag, I remember the silver cigarette holder.

‘I almost forgot. I brought something for you. Something of my mother’s,’ I say, taking it out of my bag. ‘I thought you might like to have it.’

His eyes brighten in recognition. He holds it, stroking it with his thumb.

‘I gave it to her. A birthday present,’ he says. ‘If only I had known then that smoking would kill her. But, thank you, Louise. I shall treasure it.’

He takes my hands in his and wishes me a safe journey, looking so tired and sad that I’m reluctant to leave him. It reminds me of those times I couldn’t wait to get back to London, yet was filled with guilt about leaving my mother, so my heart would ache until I was in the air.

I wipe away a tear as I drive away.