The Fleethaven Trilogy (138 page)

In the intervening hours, Philip Trent had obviously
tried to explain the situation to his mother, only to be met
with a blank refusal to believe any part of his story.

The tirade continued. ‘I suppose your mother got herself
pregnant and made up some cock-and-bull story about her
commanding officer being responsible just to make you,
and herself, feel good. Do you really imagine that my son,
a group captain and a station commander with an exemplary
record, would get himself entangled with a silly little
WAAF?’ The cold blue eyes narrowed. ‘What are you up
to? Blackmail, is it?’

Ella gasped. ‘That’s not true,’ she said hotly. ‘My
father—’

‘He is not your father!’ the woman snapped.

Ella’s chin came higher in defiance. ‘Oh yes he is – and
he knows it.’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ the woman retorted.

‘Hasn’t he told you everything?’

The woman waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, he tried
to tell me some romantic nonsense, but it’s not true. None
of it is true. Why, at the time, he had a wife and a poor,
handicapped daughter who died tragically. He was devoted
to them both. Your story is a preposterous pack of lies.
And,’ she added and the threat in her tone was obvious, ‘if
I see you hanging about here again I’ll call the police.’

Tears sprang to Ella’s eyes, her disappointment was so
acute. Then, blessedly, her spirit, her indomitable spirit,
came to her rescue. She held her head high and returned
the woman’s stare steadfastly.

‘Well,
Grandmother
, I am telling the truth. Your son
believes I am his daughter, and quite frankly I don’t give a
damn whether you do or not, just so long as
he
does!’

With that, she turned and marched away down the
drive.

Ella found her way to the centre of York where the streets
radiated from the Minster, but for once she could take no
pleasure in the city, in the shops and squares and old, old
buildings. Even the wonderful Minster, though it reminded
her of ‘her’ cathedral, failed to bring her solace.

To have found her father, only to be branded a liar and
a trickster by the woman who was, whether she liked it or
not, her grandmother, hurt more than she would have
believed possible. She took a deep breath and her eyes
followed the lines of the towering church above her. Well,
she told herself, she’d faced up to a far stronger woman in
her time than old Mrs Trent and even at this moment when
her heart ached with disappointment she could not help
imagining what would happen if her two grandmothers
were ever to come face to face. A small smile curved her
mouth.

The very thought of Esther Godfrey gave her fresh
heart.

She retraced her footsteps back to the road where her
father lived. She liked the sound of that; she said it over
and over in her mind. Her father. Her father!

There was no green car in the driveway and she did not
want to knock at the door again until she was sure he was
in the house. Standing behind a tree so that she was
obscured from the windows she kept watch. She was still
there as the October afternoon turned into evening and
dusk crept along the street. Men arrived home from work
in cars, or walking, smart-suited men coming home to
pretty, house-proud wives and neat, well-behaved children.
The street lights came on and a chill wind blew the leaves
along the pavement in little, rattling flurries.

And still Ella waited.

At last a car came down the road and she shrank away,
hiding from its headlights. It turned into the driveway of
the house and drew to a halt outside the front door. The
car door slammed and a man’s step, quick and eager,
bounded across the gravel and to the front door. She
reached the gateway and opened her mouth to call his
name just as the front door opened and Mrs Trent stood
framed in the light streaming out into the darkness.

‘Is she here?’ She heard his deep voice plainly through
the stillness.

‘My dear, she never came back. You really must believe
me. That girl was a trickster, a con-artist . . .’

As he stepped into the house, the door closed and the
light was shut off, leaving Ella shivering in the gloom.

The old beezum! she thought suddenly. That’s what
Gran would callMrs Trent; an old beezum.

She marched up the curving driveway, her feet scrunching
on the gravel, and lifted the brass knocker and rat-tat-tatted
it determinedly.

‘Call me a trickster and a con-artist, would she?’ the
girl muttered, but as the door opened and she found herself
staring once more into the cold blue eyes of Mrs Trent, her
courage almost deserted her.

‘Well, you’ve got a nerve, I must say.’ The woman was
speaking in a low voice, hissing the words almost, so that
her son would not hear.

Think of Gran, Ella told herself. But not, she thought
swiftly and almost giggled at the thought, perhaps exactly
what Gran would say; it might be a little too blunt. ‘Get
out of my way, you old beezum, and let me pass,’ were
hardly the sort of words that this lady would appreciate.

‘Mrs Trent,’ Ella said firmly, but respectfully. ‘I am here
to see my father. I should be obliged if you would allow
me to do so.’

The woman gasped. ‘Well, really . . .’ The door seemed
about to be slammed shut in her face when Ella heard
footsteps on the hall floor and the door was pulled out of
the woman’s hand and opened wider.

‘Ella, my dear. Come in, come in. You had me worried.’

‘I’ve been waiting – in the road – for you to come
home,’ she said stepping into the hall.

‘You shouldn’t have waited out there in the cold. You
should have come in.’

Ella smiled at the perplexed woman. ‘I didn’t know if
you’d been able to explain everything. I didn’t want to
cause your mother any distress.’

His arm was about her shoulders drawing her into the
lounge, taking her coat, ushering her towards a chair near
the fire.

‘We’re just having coffee. I’ll get another cup.’

As soon as he had left the room, Mrs Trent came close
and thrust her face close to Ella’s. ‘It won’t work, young
lady. I’ll have the police here if you don’t leave this instant.’

Ella returned her gaze steadily. ‘Please feel free to call
them, Grandmother. I have nothing to hide.’

By the time her father returned, Mrs Trent was sitting
stiffly in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, her
back rigid, her mouth pursed.

‘Ella,’ he began hesitantly as he poured out the coffee.
‘This has been quite a shock for my mother. Hasn’t it,
dear?’ He glanced at the older woman.

‘Why don’t you tell the girl the truth?’ she said harshly.
‘I don’t believe her pack of lies and I never will. When I
think of poor little Lizzie – and Grace . . .’ The woman
dabbed a lace handkerchief at her eyes, but Ella thought
the action was rather more for effect than genuine emotion.

Philip Trent’s eyes clouded and Ella, though she said
nothing, glanced at him questioningly.

‘Lizzie was my daughter.’ A small smile quirked his
mouth. ‘My eldest daughter—’

‘Your
only
daughter,’ his mother interrupted.

Philip sighed but went on, ‘She was born very severely
handicapped and we were warned she would never reach
adulthood. Grace, my wife, devoted herself to the child.
She was wonderful, but, well, because of it, we grew apart.’

‘That’s nonsense. It was the war – the wretched war –
that took you away.’ She glanced malevolently at Ella.
‘And as for what they used to say about WAAFs – well . . .’

Ella’s face burned and Philip said warningly, ‘Mother.’

The woman closed her mouth, clamping it shut, but her
eyes flashed indignation.

‘After Lizzie died, Grace had a breakdown. After all the
years of nursing Lizzie and then her loss. She needed me
then. I explained everything to Kate . . .’ He looked into
the fire as if seeing pictures from the past. ‘She was
marvellous about it. I promised her that one day we would
be together, when Grace was strong again, and I meant it.
But poor Grace was ill for a very long time – years—’

‘And no wonder! The poor dear had much to bear . . .’
Mrs Trent put in.

Ignoring his mother, he added softly, ‘The last time I
saw Kate, in the war, I mean, you must already have been
born. How awful it must have been for her not to be able
to tell me about you.’

‘What happened to your wife?’ Ella asked tentatively.

‘After several years of treatment and with the love of
her family, she made a full recovery. She took a job, carved
herself quite a career in the fashion world. She’s doing very
well and is happier, I think, than she’s ever been in her
life.’

‘Nonsense!’ his mother said frostily. ‘She was a devoted
wife and mother. The marriage break-up was your fault,
Philip. I see why now. I see it all now. All that talk about
mutual agreement to separate, that you’d stay good friends,
indeed. And all because of some silly little WAAF who was
no better than she should be . . .’

Philip’s face clouded with anger. ‘Grace and I married
too young, Mother, and only because our families, both
forces’ families, expected it.’

‘Oh, I see, so it’s all our fault, is it? Well, really!’

‘No, Mother,’ he said patiently. ‘When Grace was fully
recovered we talked and talked as we never had before.
We understood each other and have always been, and
always will be, very fond of each other.’ He turned towards
Ella, trying to explain to them both. ‘But Grace felt there
was something lacking in our marriage. She wanted more
out of life and I’m thankful she’s found it and is happy.’

‘Second best, that’s all her career is for her. All she ever
wanted was to be your wife and the mother of your
children. I’ve no doubt in my mind that if all this is true –
and I don’t say I believe it – but if it is, then I’ve no doubt
you broke poor Grace’s heart when you told her all about
it and that’s why she went off and got a job and—’

‘Mother,’ his voice was clipped, ‘I never told Grace
anything about Kate. Our separation had nothing to do
with that. It was as much Grace’s wish as it was mine.’

The woman gasped. ‘I don’t believe you. Why did you
never tell Grace?’

‘It would have been cruel and unnecessary.’ His voice
was husky as he added, ‘If things had turned out differently,
as I had hoped they would . . .’ His eyes, full of a
deep sadness, were on Ella. ‘Then I would have explained
everything to Grace and asked her for a divorce so that I
could marry Kate—’

‘Then thank goodness things didn’t “work out”, as you
put it,’ Mrs Trent said bitterly. ‘A divorce in the family?
Never!’

Ella gasped and felt the colour drain from her face.
How could the woman be so heartless as to be thankful
for Kate’s death?

Philip at once put out his hand to cover Ella’s and,
before she could say anything, he turned towards his
mother and said, ‘That’s unkind, Mother. The only reason
I never married Kate was because – because she was
drowned in the floods.’

Ella saw momentary shame in the older woman’s eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized,’ she said stiffly, ‘but nevertheless,
I shall never accept that this girl is my granddaughter.
As far as I am concerned, I have only ever had one
granddaughter, poor, darling Lizzie . . .’

At that moment there was a knock at the front door. ‘Oh,
now who can that be at this time of night?’ she muttered in
exasperation. But she got up and went out of the room.

‘Ella, please don’t be upset by what my mother says,
she—’

The door into the room opened. ‘It’s Martin from next
door. Come in, Martin. Perhaps you can get my son to
come to his senses. Come in, come in and bring Tammy.
Philip can just sneeze for once.’

Into the room came a tall, thin young man with hair
flopping over his eyes and huge thick-lensed spectacles that
made his eyes large. ‘Sorry, Phil, I didn’t mean to barge
in . . .’

Following behind him on a lead came a Labrador dog,
her pink tongue hanging out, her eyes mischievous and
looking for fun. At once Philip stood up and moved to the
far side of the room. The dog, however, seemed more
interested in the one person in the room who was a stranger
to her. She pulled away from her master and came to Ella,
rubbing against her leg and panting in her face.

Ella sneezed and began to stand up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry . . .’
She sneezed again, and scrabbled in her pocket for her
handkerchief. She was aware that there was a sudden
stillness in the room. The other three people were staring
at her while the dog continued to snuffle against Ella’s legs
giving little barks in greeting.

‘Come here, Tammy,’ the man called Martin ordered.

Ella sneezed twice and said again, ‘I am sorry. I have
this allergy, you see . . .’

There was a gasp and Ella looked up to see Mrs Trent,
her hand to her bosom, her eyes wide and her mouth open,
sinking down on to the settee as if her legs had given way
beneath her.

Behind her, Philip began to sneeze in unison with Ella
until, laughing between the sneezes, he came across the
room to her and put his arm about her shoulders. Turning
towards Mrs Trent, he said, ‘Now, Mother, not even
you . . .’ he paused to sneeze again, ‘can doubt it now.’

‘Well, I’m not sure I agree with you there,’ Mrs Trent
replied, beginning to recover from the surprise but determined
to cling to the last vestige of disbelief. ‘Just because
the girl has a similar allergy to you doesn’t mean . . .’ Her
voice trailed away as her glance went from her son, to Ella
and back to the dog.

‘This is Martin Hughes.’ Her father now formally
introduced the young neighbour who had innocently
caused the commotion. Philip smiled down at the dog but
made no attempt to touch her. ‘And his dog, Tammy. And
this . . .’ he drew Ella forward, ‘is my daughter, Ella.’