Secrets My Mother Kept (33 page)

‘Mummy?’ he said sleepily.

‘Shhh, go to sleep now,’ I whispered, and crept out of the room without looking back.

The apple blossom was out on the trees in the garden as we drove off towards the hospital. I couldn’t help wondering if I’d ever see it again. As if he’d read my thoughts, Colin’s hand searched for mine as we drove, and we continued the journey in a silence that said more than any words could.

Margaret worked as a theatre nurse in the hospital where I was to be admitted. Although of course she was not allowed to be involved with my operation, she made sure she was there as I started to come round in the recovery room. It was her huge brown eyes peering above a white mask that I saw before anything else when I first opened my eyes.

‘It hurts so much,’ I muttered through my anaesthetic-induced confusion.

‘Of course it does!’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘What did you expect?’ But I was still very glad to see her there. It just seemed right somehow.

My recovery went well, and I was elated when the doctor told me that it was just ‘a fibroid the size of a melon!’

The elation didn’t last. I couldn’t shift my conviction that there was something badly wrong with me and that I was going to die. I didn’t realise that I was in the grip of an all-consuming depression.

My friend Anne came over to stay while Colin took the children for a short break camping, and my other friend also called Anne came over too. Each assumed very different but equally essential roles. Anne M tiny, funny and matter-of-fact made me laugh even though it hurt, and Anne D tall, slim, sensitive and kind, cleaned the house and made us food. After a few days I thought I could see a glimmer of hope, but it took more than six months of careful care from my new wonderful GP, and my dear family and friends, before I felt that life might just be worth living after all, and I was strong enough to confront the ghosts in Valence Avenue.

The leaves on the trees which lined Valence Avenue were in full leaf, helping to disguise the growing dilapidation. As our car drew up, I felt a deep sadness and loss that the person who had been a constant presence in this house would no longer be there. I gathered up my new-found strength and opened the car door, waving goodbye to Colin. I wanted to be on my own so that Josie and I could make a start on clearing Mum’s room.

I knocked on the front door with the usual family knock, and waited, a host of memories crowding into my head. Aunty’s once beautiful front garden had been paved over now so that Pat could park her car, and it made me feel sad that the flowers she had loved were gone forever. The door swung open after a while, and Josie stood there looking rather dishevelled.

‘Oh there you are. I wondered where you’d got to.’

As I came in I felt an oppressive weight bearing down on me. I could feel Mum there even after all this time. The house looked different to when I was a child. Pat and Josie had bought it from the council with Aunty before she had died, so at least they had that security now. They had put in a fitted kitchen, complete with a new fridge and an automatic washing machine. The coal fire was gone, replaced with gas, there was fitted carpet everywhere now and a new three-piece suite with reclining chairs. Upstairs had a new bathroom, ‘fully tiled’ as Mum had boasted, and complete with a washbasin and shower over the bath.

Although I almost resented the changes, I was glad that Mum had enjoyed her ‘mod cons’ for a while at least before she died. She had never been sentimental about the past, and had been greedy for the new world, including all the gadgets that went with it.

‘Come on then,’ I said, ‘let’s get started,’ and we climbed the stairs to the landing. As I got to the top I stopped under the painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus which hung there, looking down at us. It had been there for as long as I could remember, and I had prayed in front of it many times as a frightened child. I said a prayer now, for Aunty and for Mum.

Mum’s old room, the box room, didn’t look very different from when I had last seen it, not long before Mum died. Colin had helped Pat and Josie to move most of Mum’s things to the front room downstairs, so that she wouldn’t need to climb up and down the stairs. The wardrobe that blocked the built-in cupboard over the stairwell was still in the same place it had been when I was a child. There was a layer of dust over everything, and I ran my finger along the top of the dressing table that held so many childhood memories. This had been where I stored my treasures. The little things that had been so important to me then. All gone now. Josie and I manoeuvred the dressing table towards the bedroom door, and then began to inch the wardrobe out of the way of the cupboard door so that we could open it.

‘God, this weighs a ton,’ I complained.

‘Are you sure you’re all right to do this, Kath?’ Josie asked. It wasn’t much more than six months after my hysterectomy, but I felt fine.

‘I’m okay,’ I said, ‘anyway, we’re nearly done now,’ and with a final push and a shower of dust, the solid wooden piece of furniture moved, and the cupboard door, with its original brass catch painted closed, stood revealed in front of us ready to be opened.

Despite the sad circumstances, I felt an odd shiver of anticipation.

54

The Letters

We opened the stiff cupboard door to a musty smell of age. Inside piled high and draped with cobwebs were boxes, mostly empty, some faded photos in broken frames and a few old bags. Josie’s face was red with the exertion of moving the furniture, and tiny beads of sweat covered her forehead.

‘Why don’t you let me do the rest?’ I offered but she shook her head.

‘Don’t be daft; I’m fine.’

There was a layer of thick greasy dust everywhere, and when Josie reached in and picked up an old black patent bag, it scattered and stuck to her fingers. The bag was now cracked and worn with age and smelt of damp and darkness, but was strangely familiar. As she looked inside she made a little sound of surprise and a knowing look crossed her face. ‘I think you should have these,’ she said flatly.

‘What are they?’

She just held out the tattered bag and carried on sorting through the cupboard, not even glancing in my direction. As I peered inside I saw it was stuffed with faded old envelopes. They were yellowed with age and were all different shapes and sizes. There was even a card, like the ones you attach to a bunch of flowers, all addressed to me. Or at least all addressed to Kathleen Stevens, which is the name on my birth certificate, but not the name I’d grown up with. The postmarks were wrong too. One envelope was dated December 1953 but I wasn’t even born until August 1954.

‘They’re Mum’s letters from Thomas. I don’t know much more than that, but I think you need to read them.’

‘But I don’t understand . . .’ I started to say. Josie just looked away and carried on with the sorting.

My hand shook slightly as I slipped them into my own bag, and turned back to the filthy cupboard.

‘Why don’t you put them in date order before you start to read them?’ Colin suggested, as I settled myself at our kitchen table later that evening. We had got the children to bed earlier than usual, so now at last I could concentrate on the letters.

‘This looks like the earliest.’ I held the envelope in my hand and turned it over; it was yellow and had a slight brown tinge to the edges. The writing was confident and sloping and it was addressed to Mrs Kathleen Stevens, as they all were. The postmark was Paddington W2 and it was dated 27 Dec 1953, the year before I was born. It looked as though it had been handled many times because of its worn appearance and crumpled feel. We slotted the rest in place. Seventeen letters altogether, starting around the time of my conception and continuing through to after I was born in August ’54, and then stopping dead in July 1955 when Mum must have been three months pregnant with Margaret. I looked up at Colin, and saw the look of sudden realisation mirrored in his eyes. These letters could hold the answers that I had been searching for my whole life.

Mrs
Kathleen Stevens. These letters weren’t addressed to me at all. How could they be? They were written to Mum.

Although it was early winter and quite cold, I felt a rush of heat course through my body as I gently teased the thin paper from the first envelope and began to read:

27th December, ‘
,
53

Dear Kathleen

I have something very important I would like to see you about, concerning your present. Could you arrange to see me for certain on Thursday next at 6.30 at Seven Kings. I am going to Newcastle on Monday morning, but I shall be back early on Thursday. Will you answer this letter by return of post so that I will receive it in good time and please try not to disappoint me again. I have been telephoning you all over the weekend, but you have not been there. I do hope you are now quite better. Whatever happens do please answer this letter and do try and come on Thursday

T

I am enclosing a stamped addressed envelope and paper to make it easy for you

‘T must be Thomas,’ I said to Colin, trying to control the catch in my voice. ‘Josie said they were his letters to Mum, but she didn’t know any more.’

‘And you believed her?’ Colin asked incredulously.

‘Yes, I believed her.’ I was stung by his suspicions. ‘Why would she lie?’

‘Well let’s face it, your family are not exactly known for their honesty and openness are they?’ he said bluntly, ‘and anyway, why did she give them to you? It must have been pretty obvious by their age that they were written before you were around.’

‘I don’t know,’ I reflected. ‘Maybe she had her suspicions, but wasn’t sure about who Thomas might be.’ I added, ‘I think we both know what these letters could be hinting at . . .’

‘Hinting is right; that’s quite a leap to make. Open the next one.’

My hands shook as I picked up the next letter.

It felt strange to feel the whisper of past words brush against my face as I continued to read:

30th April ‘
,
54

Dear Kathleen,

Thanks ever so much for your very nice letter, which I appreciated far more than I can tell you. I am so glad you have decided to consider your doctor’s advice over the weekend and sincerely hope you will decide wisely. I should very much like to come up and see you, either at your house, or the hospital, and will endeavour to cheer you up when I come. I hope you will be your old self again (or
young
self, I should say)

I am enclosing
£
2 which you will have no difficulty in getting cashed.

I am looking forward to hearing from you again, so I am enclosing a stamped addressed envelope and paper, and perhaps you will be able to drop me a few lines letting me know how you are getting along, and when I shall be able to see you again.

Hoping sincerely you are now feeling very much better

With my very best wishes and lots of luck

T

‘Well, he certainly seems keen, whoever he is,’ Colin said. ‘What do you think was wrong with her?’

‘My guess is probably just pregnancy. She would have been about five months gone by this date.’

‘Do you think he knew? He doesn’t refer to any baby, does he?’

‘Maybe he did,’ Colin said. ‘Remember we’re talking about the 50s. People were more sensitive to that kind of thing, you know, less open about pregnancy and things.’

The rest of the letters were along the same vein. Thomas desperate to see ‘Kathleen’ and often being disappointed, promises of telephone calls sometimes kept by her and sometimes not, cheques enclosed, and even mention of visits to films and a trade show.

‘Well there’s nothing so far to give much away,’ I remarked, feeling increasingly despondent.

‘Isn’t that the Disney emblem? On the envelope?’

I shrugged, too tired to think any more. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I knew for sure what I was hoping for – some clear, unequivocal evidence that T or Thomas as he sometimes signed himself, was more to Mum than a pen pal!

I picked up the letter that was sent 8 August 1954, a week before I was born – one of the longer letters in the set.

Sunday 8 August‘
,
54

My Dear Kathleen,

I was more than delighted to receive your letter on Saturday morning, and was so glad you received your flowers etc. okay.

You really must have gone through an awful time, being still so weak. I am looking forward so much to phoning Bridie on Monday morning to know whether you will be able to come away. I am hoping I shall not have another disappointment. It has happened so often.

It seems, and is, ages since I saw you, and I am looking forward so much to doing so. I am sure it will do you more good than harm if you could come away, as the change, after being in bed for so long, would act like a tonic, so I hope you will do your best to be strong enough to come. Bridie has kept me well informed of your health the whole time, and it has been marvellous of her to come and take my calls every time I have phoned up. You too, must have found her a great help and I am sure she has looked after you well. Tell her I am very grateful, and thank her very much for all she has done.