The forgotten gift, p.15
The Forgotten Gift, page 15
Cassie shook her head. ‘But I always knew I’d had a daughter, and had imagined many times what it would be like if she contacted me as an adult. So although it’s a huge thing to happen – and by the way I was not at all calm when I got her first letter – it was less of a surprise. Getting to know Bethany has added to my life. Whereas finding out about Dad has kind of taken something away.’
‘If you found who your real dad was, and got in contact with him, wouldn’t that add something the way Bethany has?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m worried Dad – by which I mean Tony – would still seem diminished in my eyes somehow. God I wish I’d always known this. If I’d grown up with it the way Bethany did I think it’d be easier.’ Once again, tears came to Cassie’s eyes and this time she was not quick enough looking away. Andy’s expression softened – he’d obviously noticed.
He reached across the table to her and took her hand. ‘Ah, Cass. I can’t know exactly how it feels but I imagine it’s like having the rug pulled from under you. Listen, I think you need to talk to your parents again. Sit down with them, hear the full story, assuming your mum’s prepared to tell you it all. Maybe just see her on her own. When you know it all, maybe you’ll understand it better. Ask all the questions you need to – from what you’ve always said about them, they’re great parents who’d do anything for you. That won’t have changed.’
He looked at his hand holding hers, as though he’d only just realised what he was doing, and took it away, lifting his pint for a sip. Cassie’s hand felt strangely cold and empty.
‘Then when you know the full facts, take a few days to assimilate it all, and perhaps book a day out with them. Not to sit and talk any more, but just to enjoy their company, the way you always have done.’
Cassie pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped away a stray tear. ‘Could go and see a film with them, I suppose. We used to go every month.’
‘Perfect. Suggest that, and a drink after, when you can discuss the film.’
‘Dad would like that.’
Andy smiled. ‘You’re calling him Dad again. Not Tony.’
‘I don’t think I could get used to calling him anything else.’
‘And there’s no need to.’
‘Cheers, Andy. You’re very wise.’
‘Huh. Am I really?’
‘Yes,’ she said, firmly, smiling as she picked up her wine. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome. So, what about last Sunday then? What happened?’
The tale of Bethany’s anguished call, the late-night dash up to London to rescue her, the night in a hotel and the drive to Leicester the next day all seemed so distant now. Cassie told him the whole story, trying to find the fine line between making it amusing but also ensuring he understood that she’d simply had to do what she did. At the end, he picked up his glass, clinked hers and said, ‘You are one awesome mother, Cassie, you know that? Not everyone would have done all that, not even for a daughter they’d brought up.’
Cassie’s next day off was Saturday. She’d made no plans to see Bethany and in any case, her daughter had texted to say she was invited to a family event – a cousin’s birthday party. Cassie felt a pang of jealousy but remembered that of course Bethany had a whole family that she, Cassie, was not a part of. She decided to carry out the first part of Andy’s advice – to meet with her mother and hear the whole story. When she phoned to arrange a meeting it was as though her mother had been waiting by the phone for exactly this call.
‘Of course, dear. Wherever and whenever you like.’
‘Come round to my flat for coffee on Saturday?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. Do you want both of us, or …’
‘Just you, Mum, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course it is. Your dad’s longing to see you again, but it’s completely up to you.’
Cassie felt a pang of guilt at what she was putting him through, but it was quickly followed by a flash of anger. If they hadn’t lied about her parentage all her life they wouldn’t be feeling this anguish now, would they?
Saturday rolled around at last. Cassie had cleaned and tidied her flat and bought pastries for them to eat with their coffee. Mum arrived precisely on time – at eleven as they’d agreed – bearing a large bunch of flowers. ‘They’re actually from your dad,’ she said. ‘Shall I put them in water?’
‘Yes please,’ Cassie replied, knowing full well that the flowers would have been her mum’s suggestion, but appreciating the sentiment.
They busied themselves in the kitchen for a few minutes – Mum with the flowers and Cassie with the coffee. When it was ready Cassie led her mother through to the sitting room, where they sat at opposite ends of the sofa.
‘So,’ Cassie began, ‘I guess, basically I’d like to know … everything. Who’s my real father. What kind of relationship did you have with him, how come he didn’t stick around and how come Tony was happy to just pretend all these years.’ She noticed her mother wince as she called her dad Tony, but didn’t comment on it.
‘OK. So – let me start at the beginning. I’d met Tony, and we had dated a few times. I knew he really liked me, and I liked him. But then … he went away for a few weeks. On a short work contract – in the US. We kept in touch – there was no email back then and calls were expensive but we wrote letters every week. In one letter he wrote about a woman he’d gone to a gig with, and afterwards they’d had a few drinks. In his letter it sounded to me like they were dating. So I thought, well, that’s that then, and began considering myself unattached.’
She took a breath, picked up her coffee and sipped it. ‘During that time I went to a few parties. Looking back I suppose I was hurt – I’d thought I was waiting till Tony came back but he didn’t seem to want me. So, I guess I was a bit wild. Sorry, love. You probably don’t want to hear all the sordid details.’
‘I think I need to, Mum,’ Cassie said quietly.
‘All right. Well, at a couple of parties there was a fellow called Jack. He was tall, good-looking, bit of a bad boy, and … well I suppose I quite fancied him. Then he asked me out. I was flattered – of all the available women in our set he’d picked me. I realised later he’d also picked several others – some turned him down, some went out with him just once or twice, like I did.’
Cassie was listening intently, staring down into her coffee cup as though her mother’s story was playing out in its depths. Jack. Was that her real father’s name?
‘So anyway, Jack took me to a pub where we had a dinner. Just pie and chips – I remember thinking it was cheap and nasty food. Then we went on to another pub, closer to his home. He was driving and I thought he’d had too much to drink, but I was too scared to say so. I thought, well I’ll have one more then get a taxi home. I even checked in my purse that I’d have enough cash. But he talked me into having a couple more drinks – he paid so I thought well, I can still afford a taxi. I suppose I was a bit drunk by then. When he suggested leaving the car in the pub car park and going up to his flat for a coffee I thought it was a good idea and would help sober me up, and I could call a taxi from there. Of course there were no mobile phones in those days.’
She broke off to sip her coffee again, and Cassie dared not look her in the eye, terrified of how this story would pan out.
‘In his flat, which was messy and masculine and smelt of unwashed damp towels, he put the kettle on and then sat with me on the sofa waiting for it to boil. Then he started kissing me, and, oh dear, I’d had that much to drink I was not really thinking straight. I kissed him back, and one thing led to another. You know.’
Cassie nodded. She’d had a few such evenings herself, in the years since her relationship with Arjun. He’d been her only proper boyfriend. No one else had lasted more than a few dates. ‘So, was that when …’
‘You were conceived. Yes. I was ashamed at first but actually it was the best thing that ever happened to me.’ Mum tentatively took Cassie’s hand and squeezed it. ‘It resulted in you.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘At another party, where he cornered me and tried to get me into a bedroom, but I’d decided I didn’t want to see him anymore. I’d realised we didn’t have much in common, and ever since our date I’d only been able to think about Tony. So I pushed him away and he just went off and found someone else. I left that party early. I never saw him again.’
‘Did you tell him when you found out you were pregnant?’
Mum pinched her lips together and shook her head. ‘I agonised over that for ages. I talked it through with my parents and my best friend. They all said I should tell him. I’d just about decided to, when two things happened. Firstly Tony came back, and wanted to see me, and it was clear he was still very much interested. Secondly, I heard via another friend that Jack had moved away, and no one was sure where to. So I decided that was a sign – he wasn’t going to be around so there was no point telling him, even if I could find him.’
‘But you told Tony?’
‘Yes.’ Mum smiled. ‘And he was amazing. I told him I was pregnant on our first date after he came home. We were walking through a park; it was one of those bright autumn days when the leaves were crunching underfoot. I told him the whole story as we walked along, and then he caught my hand and made me stop, and asked if I wanted to marry him. Just like that.’
Cassie smiled too. She’d heard this story before, but a different version in which her mother had been pregnant by Tony. ‘And you said yes.’
Mum shook her head. ‘Not immediately. Oh I know that’s what we always told you, but it was more complicated than that. I had to be sure he wouldn’t regret taking on another man’s child. We walked and talked for hours that day – thankfully the weather stayed fine. In the end I’d agreed we’d become an “item” as we used to say back then, and if we still felt the same in a couple of months then we’d start planning a wedding. And in that time I grew to love him deeply, and he stayed certain that I was the one, and so … the rest is history.’
Cassie nodded. Her parents had a solid, loving marriage. The kind of marriage she’d always hoped she might have herself, one day. ‘Did Da … Tony … never want children of his own?’
‘He did, and we tried, but it just didn’t happen. But right from the start, when I said I was not going to tell Jack he had a child, Tony said he’d be your father in every way but biologically. I left the father’s name blank on the birth certificate. Of course we then hid that away and only used the short-form certificate to get your passports and so on.’
Mum fell silent for a moment, then took Cassie’s hand. ‘Love, he’d be so hurt if you start calling him Tony and not Dad. After all these years, all he’s done, he’s still your dad in every meaningful way.’
‘I know. I don’t want to hurt him. It’s just … somehow, knowing he’s not biologically related, it all suddenly feels so different.’
Mum squeezed her hand. ‘It doesn’t need to be different. It’s up to you. It’ll take time.’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’ There were just a couple more questions Cassie needed to ask. ‘Did you ever hear from Jack again?’
‘Never. Heard on the grapevine he’d moved to London; that was all.’
‘What was his surname?’
‘What?’ Shirley seemed surprised by the question. ‘What do you want to know that for? You’re not going to … try to find him, are you?’
Cassie shook her head. ‘No, not interested in finding him. Just want the complete picture.’
‘Oh. Well, it was Wilkins. No, Wilkinson. Yes, that was it. Jack bloody Wilkinson.’
‘Thanks.’ Cassie stored the information away in her memory. Her father. Jack Wilkinson.
Chapter 16
George
Late March (I am no longer sure of the date)
I have been here for some time now. I am settling, if that is the right word, into a routine. Here’s how the days at Millbank are spent.
The bell rings at a quarter to six, whereupon I and, I suppose, the other inmates wake up cold and shivering, roll up our bedding, clean out the cell, slop out, dress and await inspection. Breakfast is dry bread and water. We make a brief visit to the chapel at eight o’clock, then we are returned to our cells and locked in. And then a pile of old ships’ rope, tarred, matted and ingrained with salt, is delivered, for picking to produce oakum. The idea is to tease apart the fibres with your fingers, so it can be used again, usually for caulking ships’ timbers. The work cuts your fingertips and strains your eyes and your back, as you lean over it in the poor light. You unravel each strand, rolling it back and forth on your knee, separate the strands and clean them. You must produce three to four pounds of picked oakum every two hours, and the pickings are weighed at the end of each day. If you have not produced a satisfactory amount you are punished.
We have an hour’s exercise in the late morning, which consists of walking around the prison yard. The prison exercise yard is a bleak place, bounded on all sides by high, featureless brick walls, which are topped with metal spikes. The other inmates look to be a fearsome lot – dirty, smelly, wearing ill-fitting prison garb and the wildest collection of footwear I have ever seen. I have been allowed to keep my own boots, being a first-class prisoner – that is to say: a prisoner who can read and write.
Exercise hour is the only hour of the day when I am out of my cell, and the only chance I have of getting a look at my fellow inmates. A look is all I can manage – we have to walk in line, no closer than six feet apart. If anyone catches up with the man in front a whistle is blown, and everyone has to stop and realign themselves. If the same man is caught walking at the wrong pace three times he is subjected to the silent system: solitary confinement for a period of a few weeks. I make absolutely certain to keep my distance, although I allow my eyes to roam freely.
The little irregularly shaped patch of sky above, that is sometimes blue and sometimes grey, the occasional sound of sweet birdsong, the scents that reach us from outside – these are my only interaction with the outside world and although they are few, I relish them and look forward to the exercise hour.
Lunch – thin gruel and weak tea – is at midday, and supper – a feeble stew – at half past five. Between these times we are back in our cells picking oakum or taking a turn on the treadwheel. This is a contraption on which six men stand side by side, climbing a never-ending staircase, which turns a wheel to grind corn or pump water, or very often, for no useful purpose other than to punish the inmates. We do an hour at a time. It is hard work and after my first few turns my thighs were burning. Then I worked out the best technique – it is all about the timing. Step up too soon and you are pushing the wheel around by yourself with no help from the other men. Step up too late and you almost fall onto it, painfully jarring your back in the process. Get it just right and it is like climbing a staircase.
At eight o’clock a bell rings to tell us to cease work, and then any tools we have been using are removed from the cells. There is a free hour for reading or writing in our cells, and lights out is at nine o’clock, the gas lights turned off on the outside of the cells by the warders as they do their evening rounds.
As a new prisoner the chaplain made a point of coming to visit me in my cell during my first day, while I was working on the oakum. I was about halfway through my pile, feeling almost proud of the way I was beginning to get into a rhythm with the work, when the door opened and the chaplain was admitted. His name is Nathaniel Spring, and he is a man of about thirty, tall and well-built, a handsome man with an open, kind face. I warmed to him instantly, before he’d even introduced himself.
‘You must be George Britten, I presume?’ he said, holding out his hand. I was faintly amused – who else might he expect to find in this cell? And so I shook his hand with a smile on my face, which was echoed on his. ‘May I sit down?’ He indicated my platform bed, and I nodded.
‘I like to meet all new inmates,’ he explained. ‘You’ll already have been told how the prison operates, and the governor will meet you later if he hasn’t already. My job is to ensure your spiritual well-being of course, but also to loan a friendly ear, and give you a shoulder to cry on, as it were. For someone as young as you, from your background, prison can be a frightening and daunting place. You must accept your lot, but it does not need to break you. I am here to make sure that you get through this period of your life and emerge at the other end as a better man.’ He smiled warmly at me, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. He gave the impression of being a proper friend.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It has been a shock arriving here and I fear it will take some time to adapt. Any help you can give me will be much appreciated.’
‘And will be offered gladly,’ he said. ‘I teach some men to read and write, but of course you won’t need that. I’ll ensure you have access to books to read. Is there anything particular you would like?’
It was then that I asked for pen and paper, so I could continue with my journal. It was not usual for inmates to have access to such equipment but as many prisoners were illiterate that was not surprising. Nathaniel Spring readily agreed to my request, and offered to apply to the governor on my behalf.
‘It will help you immensely, I think, if in your writings you are able to work through the thoughts and feelings that led you to commit your crime. I do know, by the way, what it is you did, what put you here. And I very much hope that during our chats, and through prayer and contemplation, you will eventually repent of your sins and cleanse your soul sufficiently to allow God to forgive you.’
I was tempted at that moment, sorely tempted, to confess to him. What a confession it would have been – not to admit to what I had done, but to tell the truth about what I had not done. To confess that I had allowed myself to be arrested and charged with murder, convicted of it and imprisoned for it, when all along I was innocent, and guilty only of wanting to spare my mother from the gallows. But I could not admit my innocence without incriminating my mother and ruining my father’s reputation. No. It was better this way.
