Saturday's Child (37 page)

Not another word was spoken for the rest of the journey. They turned into the driveway of Knowehead, walked down the side of the house and through the garden until they reached their own
comfortable little home, ‘our wooden hut’, as Dot called it.

Like a team that rehearsed regularly, they stepped into a mode that was almost automatic, he damping the fire, she warming milk for their bedtime cocoa. The chime in a nearby church tower
announced nine o’clock. Dot and Peter sat by their fire, each staring into dancing flame, each content in the presence of the other.

They dozed, sipped cocoa, dozed again. When half past was announced, they rose, Dot removing the cups, he going to fetch nightwear from the bedroom in order to warm it in front of the dying
embers.

Someone knocked at the door. Dot, on her way to the kitchen, opened it. ‘Hello, Magsy. Come in.’

Magsy stepped inside, bewilderment printed all over her features. She decided to hit the nail on the head straight away, as she had no intention of trying to explain the inexplicable.
‘Dot, Katherine wants to see Peter.’

‘Now?’ Dot’s eyebrows came together in a frown. ‘It’s half past nine, Magsy. We get up at six o’clock – Peter thinks that’s the best time of day.
Is it important?’

‘I’m not sure,’ replied Magsy, ‘but she said to come now.’

‘So it’s not an emergency? She hasn’t had a fall or anything like that?’

‘No.’

Dot went to inform her husband that his presence was not requested, it was demanded.

Magsy sat on the edge of a chair and waited. She had never seen Katherine Moore in such a state of agitation. Had Rachel Barnes not been pregnant, Magsy would have gone to the shop to collect
her, because Rachel’s calming effect was extremely useful where Katherine was concerned.

Peter came into the sitting room, paused, noted the expressions on the two women’s faces. So, the time had come. He walked to a small chest of drawers, removed a small package, pocketed
it, kissed his wife, grabbed a coat, then followed Magsy to the door.

‘Peter,’ called his wife, ‘it’s going on half past nine.’

‘My dear,’ he replied calmly, ‘it is almost 1952. Time is short. It is also irrelevant.’ Then he followed Magsy towards a moment that had been for ever preordained. And
his pulse did not quicken at all.

Katherine Moore sat upright on her chaise, frail bones supported by feather cushions.

Beth, sensing an atmosphere, had taken herself off to bed, sensible girl. Where was Margaret? How long could it possibly take to fetch someone a few strides through a garden? The clock on the
mantel ticked, louder and louder with every beat, marking the passing of her life, the fruitlessness of it.

It had been the longest of evenings, the loneliest of hours, because she had faced the situation alone, just as she had faced most of her seventy-plus years. Alone, isolated, neglected and
bitter. Was that a footfall?

No, it was Tinker, the cross-breed with yellow eyes and a temperament so gentle as to be almost self-denying. Look how he was sitting, head in her lap, golden irises concentrating intently on
her face. ‘You know, don’t you?’

He ‘talked’ back to her, a throaty ‘grrr’ that was almost as soft as the purr of a contented feline. Yes, Tinker knew about life, had been born knowing. While this was
Beth’s pet, his loyalty to Katherine was undeniable. He adored her, supervised each painful movement, each creak of her bones. ‘Good dog,’ she said absently.

Tinker waited, sat through a dimension created by humans, his own sense of time non-existent. He was here, so he sat; he was here and he offered comfort, warmth, steadiness. Her tension reached
him, so he reached her, head in her lap, not too heavy, merely present, just there for her to know, for her to trust.

The back door swung inwards. Katherine stiffened, watched the door. It swung open. And, for a few seconds, time was frozen.

They were silent all the way home in Mr Allwood’s car. Mr Allwood, taciturn scientist, would probably not have noticed even if they had spoken, so engrossed was he in the
intricacies of his brand new internal combustion machine. He drove with his head cocked to one side, ears concentrating on every squeak, every groan, every whirr.

In the back of the Austin, Nellie and Lily sat, each peering out of her window as if riveted to the view. There was nothing to be seen until they reached the bottom of the moor, because country
lanes were unlit and as black as chimney backs, but they pretended to be interested.

For the first time in months, there existed between them a tension, an awkwardness created by whatever had happened tonight. Nellie, who knew perfectly well what had happened, did not wish to
discuss the events; Lily, acutely aware of her companion’s confusion, was reluctant to encroach upon territory that clearly caused pain to a person she valued so highly.

In Prudence Street, they alighted from the vehicle, thanked the driver and stood for a moment in embarrassed silence while he drove away.

‘I’ll . . . er . . . I think I’ll go straight to bed. Night, Nellie.’

‘Good night.’ Nellie fished the key from her pocket and let herself into her dark house. There was no fire and no Spot – the dog was next door in the care of Lily’s sons,
as the two women had expected to be out for the whole night.

Nellie lit a mantle and, with her outdoor clothes still fastened tightly about her, sat in a chair next to the cheerless grate. On the mantelpiece, the photograph of her parents leaned, a silver
frame surrounding the two sepia-coloured figures. These were her real parents, not the Hulmes. And yet the Hulmes had been real parents, gentle, decent people who had truly loved their adopted
child. But these other subjects, depicted in palest brown, were her instigators, her inventors. It was too much to take in; it was too awful.

She closed her eyes and leaned back. Devoid of hearing for much of her life, Nellie had accepted her lot, and understood nothing beyond her immediate environment. There had been holidays in
Fleetwood, hot days on sands, visits to zoos, to fairs, to the circus whenever it visited the town. The Hulmes had done their best. No-one could improve on his absolute best. How could they have
explained the truth to a hearing child, let alone to a deaf one? No, no, the Hulmes could not have acted differently.

And now, after such a settled childhood, after years of hard work as an adult, after finding such wonderful friends, it had come to this. She bit down on her lower lip, stopping only when she
tasted blood. Oh God, what now? Did she need to do anything? Did she need to follow the trail to a conclusion which, though providing little surprise to herself, would shock so many other decent
people?

She realized that she had started to weep, great, fat drops of salt water squeezing their way down her cheeks. Almost halfway through her eighth decade, Nellie Hulme was too old for this. In six
years, she would be an octogenarian if God spared her. Oh, for some peace, for some blessed freedom.

‘Nellie?’

Spot bounded in and threw himself at his mistress. Lily brought up the rear, flustered and hot from trying to contain the young dog. ‘He knew you were back, wouldn’t stop,
wouldn’t behave, kept yap-yap-yapping—’ The visitor stopped in her tracks. ‘Nay, love, don’t cry.’

Nellie dried her eyes. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘Oh aye?’ Lily marched in and stood in front of this dear friend, the woman who had taught her to make lace, the one who had provided a job for Aaron, who had given the lad a chance
to sell things made by deaf people and housewives, poor folk who earned by sewing or knitting while supervising children. Nellie Hulme was the best person Lily knew. ‘Nellie, you don’t
need to tell me nothing till you’re ready, but I’m here, you know.’

‘Yes.’

‘So knock on that wall when you want me.’ She turned to leave.

‘Lily?’

‘Yes?’

Nellie took a deep breath. ‘We have to go back up there tomorrow.’

‘Right.’

Determined to ask no questions, Lily left her friend and went back home. There was nothing she could do at the moment, but she would be there for Nellie tomorrow, would always be there for
Nellie.

He leaned his stick against the wall. ‘You wanted to see me?’

Katherine noted his arrogance, had been aware of it in the past. ‘Sit down, please.’

He obeyed, placing his hat on a small table. The book rested beside her on the chaise, but he would not mention it; no, it was up to her, because he had known all along.

‘So. We are related,’ she said.

He inclined his head slightly.

‘And you wrote that book just as a means to let me know?’

Oh, she did flatter herself. She actually imagined that he had spent the best part of a year scribbling just in order to inform her of their relationship. ‘I wrote because I felt the urge.
The decision to tell some of the truth came late.’

‘Miss Farquar-Smith,’ she said quietly.

‘Was my mother, yes. I changed my name to Smythe, as there are rather too many Smiths, you see. And a tramp with a double-barrelled surname seemed . . . well, too odd even for
me.’

Katherine closed her eyes and pictured that pretty young woman, belly swollen, hair tousled, face made pink by tears. She remembered the night when the governess had made her escape, recalled
the screams, the woman’s fury, her father’s rage. ‘She was good to me and would have been an excellent governess except for . . . well . . . the drinking. And that was my
father’s fault, I should imagine.’ Her eyelids opened. ‘I am very sorry,’ she said.

‘It is not your fault,’ came the quick reply.

The silence that followed was awkward. She had read his book, so she had read his mind; on her side, she owned few confidences to offer in return. She knew this man, yet did not know him, had
employed him, had read him, yet he remained new, because he had acquired a different identity. The man was her brother; her brother was a stranger.

Peter understood the woman’s discomfort. He leaned forward, hands clasped together between his knees. ‘I came here a very long time ago, after my mother’s death, an angry young
man, Miss Moore. I don’t know what I sought – revenge – compensation – but you were already frail. The man I wanted to see was recently dead and it was he who had worn you
out. There was no point in hurting you. You sold the Grange, then I went away.’

‘Then why did you return?’

‘For many years, I came and went. I made my way back because I like the people, the hills, the life. And I thank you for the summer house. I am sheltered, yet not contained. There is a
little of the gypsy in me, Miss Moore.’

Her face relaxed slightly. ‘My name is Katherine.’

‘I know.’

As they studied one another, the atmosphere suddenly changed. Each felt a wetness in the eyes, a tightening of the throat. They were half-brother and sister, one father between two, neither with
a full-blood sibling.

Katherine swallowed. ‘I was nervous tonight.’

‘That is understandable,’ he replied, ‘but I am not here to make any claims, Katherine. I have no child, no need of money. My home is dry and warm, my wife is a decent, honest
soul who cares for me. All I ask is that I might spend some time with you, because we share blood. I was afraid that you might be ashamed of me – my lifestyle has been rather
bohemian.’

She considered that last statement. ‘At one time, I might have been reluctant to admit our connection. But I, too, have learned a great deal from the people of Lancashire. There is a place
where we all meet in the end, and I do not make reference to an afterlife. The fact remains that we are of the same species and, if we are to survive, we must connect.’

He found himself smiling. Rising, he took one of her transparent hands, bent over and kissed it gently. ‘Hello, sister,’ he whispered.

Katherine blinked rapidly. ‘Hello, brother.’

Then he announced his intention to make cocoa, turned on his heel and left the room.

When he returned, he took a package from a pocket of his waistcoat. He studied it, turned it over, seemed to weigh it both literally and figuratively before speaking again. ‘She died a
horrible death. I have never witnessed such pain before or since, nor would I wish to. Drink your cocoa while it is hot.’

She obeyed, her eyes never leaving the item in his hands.

‘I think she must have written to you quite early on, possibly before I was born. It is addressed to you, Miss Katherine Moore, Chedderton Grange, Hesford, Lancashire. The inner envelope
remains sealed, though I have replaced the outer wrapping several times.’

Katherine nodded just once. ‘Why did she not post it to me?’

He had wondered about that many times. ‘You were probably too young early on and your father might have intercepted it. Who knows? Only my mother has the answer, and that lies with her in
a Northampton graveyard. As she grew older, she may have forgotten that this letter existed. Then, as you know, drink affects behaviour and . . . well . . . here it is.’

A cold hand gripped her heart and she looked at the packet as if it were a snake, a reptile ready to pounce. Her fingers trembled and she found herself incapable of reaching out for the message.
She looked up, met his gaze. This was an honourable man who had kept this letter for many years, who had guarded the privacy of his mother and of his half-sister. ‘Open it, please,’ she
begged. ‘Read it to me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I am absolutely positive. There have been enough shocks. If you read it, you may cushion whichever blow may be contained in that envelope.’

He sat, placed his cocoa on the little table, tore at paper so frail as to be almost decayed. But his mother’s handwriting, bold and clear in Indian black, was as legible as it had ever
been. His quick eye scanned the contents and he glanced at his companion. ‘This is another shock,’ he advised her.

‘Then so be it. Fire away – at least on this occasion I am not alone.’

Peter cleared his throat. This woman was unwell and he dreaded her reaction. But it had to be done; truth was truth, it was there for the telling.

‘My dear Katherine,