The forgotten gift, p.16
The Forgotten Gift, page 16
I wondered what my brother Charles would think when he heard what had happened. No doubt my father had written to him by now, to tell him of his brother’s disgrace. But he too, if he knew the truth, would agree that it was better for the family if I shouldered the blame. I wondered for a moment if he would have done the same thing, himself. To protect me – I think he would have. To protect Mother or Father, I am not so sure. My resolve wavered at this thought – had I, after all, done the right thing?
That thought must have been visible on my face, for the chaplain looked concerned, and reached out a hand to lay on my arm. ‘Be strong, my son. It is hard to bear this new life, but you will become accustomed to it. The first days are the worst, and you will soon be over them, and it will then be easier. Trust me.’
The kindliness and concern in his eyes made me want to weep, and bury my face against his shoulder, as though I was a child and he was my mother. Though I did not recall ever having been held by my own mother in such a way. I pulled myself together. His presence in my life could become, perhaps, more like that of Mr Smythe’s. A wise, older friend who would help advise me and shape me through the years to come. I had a strong feeling I would be in deep need of him at least until I had adjusted to life in prison. The fifteen years ahead of me seemed to stretch to infinity.
Later I was taken to meet the governor. This meeting was in marked contrast to the one with the chaplain. Instead of him coming to my cell, I was taken to the governor’s office. There I had to stand in an iron cage, locked and chained, while the governor sat across the room at his desk. His name is Major Freeman – an ironic name for the governor of a prison! He is retired from the army, having fought and been injured during the Crimean War. He walks with a pronounced limp and puts up with no misbehaviour from his ‘boys’, as he calls the inmates. I had the distinct impression he would prefer to still be part of the army, fighting, issuing orders, engaging the enemy rather than running a prison.
‘Britten, is it?’ the governor said, referring to a sheet of paper.
‘Yes, sir.’ Do not speak unless spoken to, I’d been advised by the chaplain. It was just as though I was a child again, standing in front of my father awaiting punishment for some minor misdemeanour.
‘Here for murdering a poor innocent young girl. That right?’
I swallowed, and nodded.
‘Speak up, boy.’ He barked these words at me.
‘Yes, sir.’ He’d barked, but I could only manage a squeak.
‘You were lucky to escape the hangman’s noose, boy. You’ll find life hard in here, after your pampered upbringing. It’s what you deserve, after ending a poor girl’s life, just because she spurned you. Right then. I inspect the prison every day. Your cell is to be tidy. You stand to attention when I am in your sight. Don’t expect any concessions due to your class – I’ll see you don’t get any. Put your nose out of line just once and you will be punished.’
Punishment, he told me, was the birch for assaulting a prison officer, or for a less serious offence a spell in complete isolation, with privileges such as access to the exercise yard, the comfort of a mattress and blankets, and the evening portion of soup, withheld. Isolation, it seemed, meant exactly that. For the entire punishment period, the convict would see or hear no other human at all, and have no access to any reading material. Meals – just bread and water – were pushed through a slot in the door, and the slop bucket would exit the same way. I knew without a doubt I would not last a week under such conditions and made a resolution never to do or say anything to upset Major Freeman.
And with that I was dismissed. I don’t know what I had expected – a cosy chat over a cup of tea, fatherly advice on how to survive, promises to help me however he could – no. I have a friend in the chaplain, but not in the governor, it seems.
At last the first full day of incarceration finally limped to an end, with a meal of weak broth and bread, an hour of free time in my cell in which I began writing of all the events since the doctor and Inspector Watling called at our house (the chaplain having followed up on his promise to furnish me with pen and paper) – how long ago that all seems! – and then lights out at nine o’clock.
Since then, the days have continued as described, relentlessly unchanging. I suppose I will get used to it, but when I look ahead and imagine myself fifteen years hence and still here, I despair. I do not know that I can last that long.
14th May
I have been here two months. It’s hard to believe. I thought I would write my journal every day, but every day is the same, and there is no point repeating descriptions of monotony. Only the Sunday sermons from Nathaniel Spring serve to break up the week a little. And there is the occasional small drama: the man who collapsed in the exercise yard and had to be carried inside to the infirmary; my visit to the prison surgeon with cut and bleeding fingertips after a week of pulling oakum (they were cleaned, bound with strips of cloth, and I was sent back to work with the advice that they would harden in time); the day the governor was replaced on his rounds by a senior warder, the governor being indisposed.
This warder’s name was Plaistow, and if I’d thought Governor Freeman was harsh and unfeeling he is nothing compared with Plaistow. The warder kicked my slops bucket over intentionally when he inspected my room, for no reason I could discern other than that I briefly made eye contact with him. He then threatened me with three days’ isolation as punishment for having a dirty cell. Thankfully the punishment never materialised. I wondered if the chaplain, who witnessed what really happened, had perhaps intervened on my behalf. Since that day I have kept as far from Plaistow as possible, keeping my eyes down, hoping not to be noticed. Plaistow is not a man of whom to make an enemy.
The only respite from the tedium is my occasional meetings with Nathaniel Spring. My initial feelings about him have turned out to be correct, and he is becoming a true friend. Whether other inmates find him thus I do not know; all I know is that without him and his words of comfort, both from the pulpit and when he visits my cell, I do not think I could have survived. He continues to tell me things will get easier, but in truth, they do not, as the ‘novelty’ wears off and I begin to realise that this is how things will be for the next fifteen years. Transportation would perhaps have been easier, were it still routinely employed as a punishment. Hanging too – as it would have soon been over. But I was not sentenced to either of those, so endure prison I must.
I write my journal today because I actually have something to report. I was visited today by my brother, Charles. I received a letter from him a couple of days ago to say that he was making arrangements to come as soon as was possible, having returned to England from his tour of the Continent. A warder came to fetch me, and given my brother’s status in life he was allowed to see me, with the governor’s office put at his disposal. I was made to stand in the iron cage, as before when I met the governor on my first day. A warder was present throughout, and Charles was instructed not to approach the cage, but to sit in a chair beside the governor’s desk and no nearer.
But oh, how good it was to see him! He is the one member of my family who has always had time and affection for me.
‘Dear George, what a horror it was to hear what happened, and to see you here!’ he exclaimed. He shook his head sadly, and once more, as with Nathaniel, I so wanted to confess my innocence. When we were children, Charles – being several years older than me – was my teacher, my confidant, my friend and my protector. When I broke a window bowling a cricket ball to him, he took the blame for it, knowing that as Father’s favourite, his punishment would be far less severe than mine. Would that he could protect me now.
‘Charles, my dear brother, thank you so much for coming to visit me. But I thought you were in Italy?’
‘I was, but when I received Father’s letter reporting the horrific news I rushed home at once. I am only sorry it took me so long to get here. I was in Naples, and it is a long journey. Oh, George. What did you do, and more importantly, why?’
I could only shake my head sadly, as if the memory were too much to bear. Which, in fact, it is. As time goes on and I live the lie, I am beginning to muddle fact and fiction, and wonder if perhaps I did poison Lucy after all. And then I come to my senses and remember that it is not in my nature. I would never have harmed a hair on her head, no matter what she had done. I am not that kind of a man.
‘Father said you put poison in a serving girl’s drink. George, is that true?’
‘That’s why I am here, yes,’ I answered. ‘I loved Lucy, but she had rejected me in favour of another.’ Who that other was, I would not tell Charles, ever. He worshipped our father, and that respect was returned. I would not spoil their relationship, even though I was jealous of it. Mr Smythe had taught me to control and bury any feelings of envy towards my brother. We were separate people, and I had no rights to what my brother had. As the eldest it was only natural he would be favoured over me by our parents.
‘Oh, George,’ he said again, his eyes regarding me with extreme sadness, and disappointment. I was dismayed. While I knew his reaction to the news would be one of sadness, I did not want him to feel disappointed in me. After all my actions were designed to spare our parents from ruin. Their reputation could survive having a younger son in trouble – they only needed to disown me, as indeed it appeared they had. They could not survive having Mother in prison and Father known as a philanderer. The urge to tell Charles the truth, only so that he would understand and not think badly of me, was almost overwhelming.
‘It is not quite as you might think,’ I whispered. ‘There were reasons, good ones I assure you, behind what I did. I wish none of it had happened. I wish I was not in here, and that we could turn back time to … to a Sunday in the middle of February, when I was as happy as I have ever been in my life.’
He shook his head. ‘We cannot turn back time. I just don’t understand it at all. More than that, I don’t believe it. I simply cannot believe you, sweet George, capable of such a terrible crime. You do not have it in you to hurt another human being. You were always the gentlest and kindest boy who ever lived.’
A gentle cough alerted me to another man’s presence in the office. I had not noticed, but Nathaniel Spring had entered and was standing just inside the door, on the left of the cage.
‘I am sorry, Mr Britten, and George, but we must cut short your meeting. The regulations state that visits may only last ten minutes and no more. Would you please make your farewells, and then, Mr Britten, if I might have a word?’
Charles stood, and approached the cage, his face twisted in the agonies of farewell. I assumed my own carried much the same expression. The warder took a step forward, as if to prevent him moving closer, but a small gesture from my brother stopped him. ‘George, dear brother, stay strong. I believe you are innocent of this crime, and are perhaps protecting someone else, though who that might be I cannot guess. If there is anything I can do to get you out of here I shall do it, rest assured.’
I opened my mouth to reply but Charles turned and followed the chaplain out of the office. And then it was my turn to leave, following the warder back to my cell and the pile of oakum that awaited me. By now I can accomplish this task without really thinking about it, so I was able to ponder my brother’s words as my fingers picked their way automatically through the fibres. Why did he suspect my confession was false? What could he do about it? I had been convicted and imprisoned, and until my sentence was complete here I would stay. Unless the true murderer confessed, and she would never do that. Nor did I want her to. If she did, I would say she was lying, and would do all I could to keep the blame on myself. I could bear the punishment far better than my dear mother would.
I wondered if she would ever visit me here, even though as yet she hadn’t. Did she think of me at all, her youngest child, and wonder how I fared behind bars? She did, I was sure; she must do. She could not have borne me within her womb, given birth to me, watched me grow up, without now sparing a single thought for me as I languished in a prison cell. The idea that I was in her mind was comforting and gave me the strength to bear my fate, though I wished she might write me a letter to prove she was thinking of me.
Charles would not be able to change the course of events. Much as I would like to be free, and hated prison, I would not wish that at Mother’s expense.
Chapter 17
Cassie
A few days after hearing the full story of her beginnings from her mother, Cassie judged the time was right to tell Bethany. They weren’t due to meet – but had fallen into the habit of having a long phone call at least once a week, catching each other up with everything that they’d done. Cassie looked forward to these calls. She’d curl up on the sofa with Griselda, a cup of tea and the phone, and enjoy listening to her daughter chattering on about what she’d studied at university that week, the gossip about her student mates, where her parents were on their tour of Australia. In return, Cassie would regale Bethany with anecdotes from work.
But this time she needed to be more serious. After the initial chit-chat she found a way to broach the subject. ‘Remember that jewelled mirror we saw at the V&A?’
‘The one belonging to my four-greats grandpa? Is that the right number of greats?’
‘Yes, but … well, listen. My parents told me something a bit … surprising the other day.’
‘About George Britten?’
‘Not exactly. Just – turns out he’s not our ancestor at all.’ And then she told Bethany the full story.
‘Wow! So … you’re adopted too, in a way. By Tony, anyway.’
‘You OK with this? I mean, you’d just found us and now …’
‘Cassie, it gives us something more in common. We were both brought up by people not biologically related to us. Must have been hard for you to hear it though, after all those years thinking Tony was your dad. I’m glad I always knew I was adopted.’
‘Yes, it was a shock. And I’m still … you know … working through it. Had a long chat with Mum where she told me the whole story. Haven’t seen Tony again since I heard, though.’
‘You should. You must. He’s still your dad, in all the ways that are important.’
Cassie nodded, considering Bethany’s words. Her daughter was only eighteen but so wise.
‘Hey, are you going to trace your birth father?’ Bethany asked.
Cassie stuttered a moment before answering. ‘I-I’m not sure. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to go about it. I only know his name, nothing else.’
‘And that he lived near your mum around the time you were conceived. I can help you trace him, if you want. There are online services – that’s what I used to find you.’
‘Oh, Bethany, I don’t know … Mum seemed horrified I might want to find him.’
‘With respect though, it’s not up to her. He’s your dad, and you have a right … I mean, look at us! Aren’t we a walking, breathing advert for getting in touch with a birth parent? It’s been, what, six weeks or so, and we’re best friends! My life’s been so enriched by meeting you, Cassie.’
‘Aw, yes, mine too. So glad you found me.’
‘Well then, if you find your birth father it could be the same, all over again!’
‘It’s a bit different though – I mean I knew you were out there somewhere. This man – my biological father – doesn’t even know I exist.’
‘Like my father, Arjun, then. He doesn’t know about me.’ There was a silence, as though Bethany was weighing something up. ‘What was your real father’s name? Did your mum tell you?’
‘Jack Wilkinson. Don’t go putting it into your family finder thing yet though …’
‘Of course I wouldn’t. It’s for you to do, not me. But I’m hoping you will. And talking of fathers, I’m wondering about my own … thinking of having a go at tracing him. But I don’t want to do it if you’re not sure. Ha! I’ve just contradicted my own advice to you, haven’t I?’
‘You have, a bit,’ Cassie replied, biting her lip. No, she wanted to say, don’t try to trace Arjun. Please don’t.
‘So … would you be happy if I tried to trace my real father?’
‘Um, I’m not so sure. Don’t rush into it. He never knew about you. Can we perhaps … talk about this more the next time we meet up? Rather than over the phone?’
‘OK. Sure. Whatever you want.’
As the call ended and Cassie hung up, she frowned, trying to imagine how she’d feel if Bethany went ahead and traced Arjun, imagining scenarios where Arjun came to the UK to meet his daughter, and she saw him again. She’d successfully boxed up and put away all the feelings she’d had for him – as she’d once said to Bethany, she’d always felt the relationship had been as good as it was only because there was a time limit on it. But she had no idea how she’d react if she ever actually met him again.
And Arjun – who was married, with children – how would he feel if a daughter he never knew he had got in touch out of the blue? What about his wife, and their children? It could all be very messy … but if Bethany wanted to try to find her father she had a right to do so, didn’t she?
Cassie used her next day off, Tuesday, to meet up with her parents again. Andy had suggested a trip to the cinema or something like it – the kind of thing they used to do as a family quite often. But there was no film on that they’d all enjoy. Instead she suggested they visit a Christmas market that had opened up in town. They could do a bit of shopping, have a mulled wine at a stall, chat as they wandered around. Christmas markets were more her mother’s scene than Tony’s, but he’d go along with the plan, she knew.
It was a blowy day though not too cold when they met up. Cassie was bundled up in a scarf and woolly hat. Her parents were already seated at a table at an outdoor café, sipping hot chocolates. Tony’s expression was wary but hopeful, as though he wasn’t sure how she would react to seeing him again.
