Secrets My Mother Kept (36 page)

‘Oh no. What happened? How old was she?’

Pat sniffed heavily. ‘You don’t understand, Kath,’ she said. ‘I phoned Michael to tell him, and Vicky answered the phone. She was hysterical. At the exact moment I rang, the paramedics were trying at restart Michael’s heart.’ At this point her control gave way and she sobbed.

I was dumbstruck, trying desperately to process the information she had just given me. Sheila
and
Michael?

‘They’ve taken him to the hospital now, but oh Kath, they don’t think he’s going to make it.’

Then it sank in. I was not just losing an unknown sister, a hazy image conjured from photographs in magazines, a television programme and a few letters, but maybe also Michael, the brother who’d remembered us all those years when he was far away in Spain, sending us parcels and letters. The dear big brother who we might never see again.

‘Oh God,’ I said crying down the phone. ‘What shall we do?’

‘There’s nothing we can do. Just wait and pray.’

So that was what we did. We waited and we prayed, but our prayers weren’t answered. Our brother Michael died on the same day as our sister Sheila, hundreds of miles apart, not having spoken to each other for nearly sixty years and neither of them reaching their sixty-fifth birthday.

59

A New Home and a New Sadness

Over the next few years my depression came and went. It usually manifested itself through symptoms of illness. It would always be so real, so palpable, that even my GP would send me for various tests, just to make sure. There was the pain in my side that came and went, the lump in my throat, the panic attacks that would debilitate me, turning me into a quivering wreck, with clammy hands, palpitations, sweats . . . and all the while I managed to hide it. Teaching helped because I would never let the children be affected, and I never took time off. Being with the children made me focus on them instead of me, and for the most part I managed to keep my depression hidden. I tried a range of antidepressants, cognitive behavioural therapy, counselling – I was so desperate to conquer this curse I would try anything.

My sisters Pat and Josie were both retired now, and living in the same house in Dagenham that we had all grown up in. They continued to come and visit me every Saturday, and I like to think that they thought of our cottage as a second home. We had thought about moving further into the countryside, but although Sam was now at university, Jo was still at school in Brentwood, so we decided we should wait.

As the years flew by we were lucky enough to be able to build a new house next to our cottage, it was big and modern, and easy to live in at first, but I soon started feeling restless.

‘Shall we move?’ I half joked to Colin, one Saturday morning.

‘OK then,’ he replied to my amazement.

‘Did you hear what I said, I said shall we move?’ I repeated.

Colin laughed, ‘I knew you would get fed up living here,’ he said, ‘it’s too finished isn’t it? Too perfect.’

‘Do you feel the same then?’

‘Well let’s put it this way, I have never really been that keen on this house, it’s too big for us now that Sam and Jo have moved out, and anyway, we want to move to the country at some point don’t we?’

‘Yes! Let’s do it!’ I exclaimed enthusiastically.

Within a week the house was up for sale, and we were looking for a new home in rural tranquillity.

We found a beautiful old house in a picturesque village in Suffolk. It felt like a fresh start, but not for long.

When Colin’s wonderful mother passed away shortly afterwards, I was convinced that our family had had its share of bad news. I was wrong.

Like Mum, Josie had been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. She had been in and out of hospital a few times over the years, so we weren’t unduly worried at first when Margaret phoned to say she’d been admitted. The hospital ran some tests and then she was discharged once again, but it wasn’t long before she was taken in again as an emergency.

‘She looks really bad,’ Margaret warned me.

We arranged to meet at the hospital the next morning, only to find that Josie had been moved to intensive care. She looked yellow and could barely open her eyes. With her fine wispy hair spread across the pillow, she reminded me so strongly of Mum that I shivered.

She was connected to all manner of machines that whirred and clicked quietly in the background and there were the remnants of tears on her cheek. I reached for a tissue from my bag and gently wiped them away.

‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘I’m sure they’ll get you sorted soon.’

‘Kath, I’ve spoken to the consultant,’ she started, and then hesitated before going on. ‘He’s told me that they won’t resuscitate me.’

‘What?’

‘He said that there would be no point, that I would need someone to look after me all the time; that I will never be able to go home.’

I was shocked and confused. She started to cry quietly again.

‘Don’t worry, if you need to be looked after then I’ll look after you.’ I was crying myself now. ‘We’ll sell the house and buy one that has a little annex for you and Pat to live in. Would you like that?’

She nodded and gave a little smile.

‘I’ll look after you, silly,’ I said again, smiling through my tears, knowing in my heart that I might not be given that chance.

Marge flew over from Australia and she, Marion, Margaret and I stood vigil with my poor sister Josie while she slowly slipped away. We were determined that, unlike Mum, she wouldn’t die alone.

We slept on chairs in the room she had been moved to for her last few days, taking turns to rub her legs, stroke her forehead and talk quietly with her. Her nieces and nephews all came to visit, bringing laughter, life and ice-lollies into that little room. We crossed our fingers that Mary would make it in time from Australia, and still Pat wouldn’t come. She couldn’t bear to say goodbye to the sister who had been by her side throughout her life. The sister she had looked out for in the children’s home all those years before, who had been the backbone of our family through so many difficult times. It was she and Pat together who had kept us safe and fed, who had looked out for us, always putting our needs before their own, and now Josie was about to leave us and Pat would be alone.

The morning Mary was due to arrive at Heathrow Josie died quietly, knowing that she was a much loved sister and auntie and that she would be leaving an unfillable hole in all our lives. Mary was distraught when she arrived at Valence Avenue no more than an hour after Josie had died.

Each of our children wrote out a memory of their Aunty Josie. Sam’s was her love of travel, which he caught from her; Jo’s was of collapsed summer puddings and fairy dolls made from pegs. We cried as we read them, my sisters and I, and after the funeral we gently placed them with the flowers.

60

Finding Thomas

The first couple of years after Josie died were hard for all of us, but the loss also made me appreciate how lucky I was.

‘Gem keeping you out of trouble?’ I joked with Sam. I had gone up to London to meet him for lunch. He was now living in Hampstead with his partner, a beautiful, clever Australian girl who he had met while working at a political think tank.

‘Just about.’ My handsome son was almost thirty now, but with the same cheeky grin and sandy blond hair and his grandmother’s charismatic personality. ‘Look Mum, can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘Mum, I’ve done something that I hope you won’t be annoyed about.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked nervously. ‘What is it you’ve done?’

He laughed then. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just that, well, I know that you have always been unhappy because you don’t know who your dad is, and I got to thinking about it a few weeks ago, and I thought how I would hate it if I didn’t know my father.’

‘Sam, what are you talking about?’

‘Well, I decided to see if I could help, and I’ve found out a few things.’

I sat back in my seat. How could my son know anything that I didn’t about my past? Who could have told him anything new, after all this time?

‘So I rang round a few people, and finally contacted a genealogist. She’s been doing some digging and I think we’ve found him.’

‘Found who?’

‘Thomas,’ he replied. ‘Thomas Bartholomew, the man that you think is your dad.’

My hands and head tingled as I felt a hot flush of excitement and trepidation flood over me. The jacket that I was wearing over my new blue dress suddenly felt intolerably hot. I started to take it off, trying to process what Sam had said.

‘But I don’t understand. How do you know his surname?’

‘Well,’ he continued, smiling with satisfaction, ‘you know your letters – or should I say your mum’s letters – well I thought I saw something on one of the envelopes. It was just a trace of a surname, under the label that was stuck over it, he must have re-used it you see’.

‘Slow down Sam’, I said. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Listen Mum’, he spoke more slowly now, ‘I was looking through the letters last time I came over, and saw that one of the envelopes had been re-used. There was a label stuck over the original address. I managed to peel it off.’ He laughed again. ‘It wasn’t easy, I kept thinking that you’d kill me if I tore it!’

‘So what was underneath then?’

‘His name is Thomas Bartholomew, and his address is Ralph Court in Paddington.’

How could I not have noticed? How many times must I have read and re-read those letters? And not just me, my sisters as well . . .

‘I suppose you were more concerned with the letters than the envelopes,’ he said seeming to read my mind, ‘it was just chance really that I noticed.’

‘Thomas Bartholomew.’ I played with the name on my tongue. ‘So what about the genealogist? Where does she come into this?’

‘Well I showed her the name and address, and she did some research, and she came up with a few bits of information. Are you ready for this, Mum?’

I nodded, transfixed.

‘Well, I’m afraid he’s dead,’ Sam started. ‘He died in 1960 and I’ve got his death certificate.’ He thrust a brown envelope across the table. ‘He was a widower with one son. He definitely worked for a film company, because it’s on his death certificate.’

It all fitted. I sat in that busy pub, with people coming and going around me, and thought about a man that I had never, would never, know. A man who might be my father, whose name was Thomas Bartholomew, and who had written so many letters to a woman that he must have cared deeply for.

‘1960,’ I said eventually, ‘so I would only have been five or six when he died.’ I suddenly felt relief. All through my life I had imagined that time was running out. That if only I could find him soon, I would be able to ask him the unanswered questions. Now I realised that would never have been possible. I was just a little girl when he died, and I was glad that I wouldn’t have to torture myself any more.

‘Are you okay, Mum?’ Sam asked, and I realised that I hadn’t said anything for a while, and was just staring into space.

‘Sorry Sam,’ I said. ‘I’m fine, really. Of course I’m not annoyed and thank you.’ I picked up the brown envelope on the table. ‘Do you have the name of this genealogist? I think I’d like to speak to her.’

61

Fitting the Jigsaw Together

Over the next few months, with the help of the genealogist, I was gradually beginning to fit the jigsaw of my mum’s life together, piece by piece – but there were still some important gaps.

When Marion phoned me and told me that Marge was coming over for another visit it seemed like perfect timing. I was almost ready to share my findings with my sisters.

‘I know you’ve got a lot to tell us,’ said Marge, when we were curled up in my living room, ‘but I’ve got some more things as well.’ She sat back and tucked her legs under her to get more comfortable.

‘Okay,’ I began, ‘let’s start from the beginning. We know Mum married Ron Coates in 1937 when she was just twenty-one and already expecting their first baby, Sheila.’

‘Yep, Sheila was born later that year,’ added Marion.

‘And during the five years they were together they had four children.’

‘Just a year or so between each of them,’ Marge said.

‘And don’t forget that Mum was evacuated with Sheila, Michael and Pat. They went to that Lord’s house in Somerset,’ said Margaret. ‘Mum herself told me about that, said how she had been told off for feeding the hunting dogs or something.’

‘Yes, I remember that too, and it must have been about that time that things started to go wrong between them,’ I continued, ‘and we still don’t know who Peter’s dad was.’

‘Aunty always used to say that Peter had gone to find his father in Ireland every time he ran away,’ interrupted Marion.

‘Hmm, well maybe, but Peter was born a couple of years after Josie, so he definitely wasn’t Ron Coates’ child.’

‘Okay, carry on,’ said Marge.

‘Well as far as we can tell it was after she had Peter that she went off to London.’