Enjoy this opening chapter from The Legacy of Shame.
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Chapter One
The south coast of
England
July 1985
Douglas Hadleigh rammed down through the gears and swung his Volvo sharply into the narrow lane leading through Hampton Warlock village. The tyres squealed on the hot tarmac surface, and dust from sun-parched fields eddied in through the open window.
He was driving too fast, but what the hell!
He swerved into his driveway and stamped hard on the brakes. The wheels locked and a shower of gravel spewed up against his garage door, scratching the glossy paintwork. The engine idled as he sat with his hands glued to the steering wheel, tension oozing through his body. It was a common outcome to yet another intense argument with his business partner. And the unbearable heat all along the Dorset coast didn’t help. Sweat dripped from his face and his shirt stuck to his back.
He killed the engine, exited the car in one decisive move and then paused. Sharp sunlight burned through the limpid air. What he wouldn’t give for a cool breeze, and a long, cold beer.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Head down, he strode towards his two-storey Victorian house, pushed aside the half open front door and headed straight for his study where slumped down into his leather chair. He needed a moment to compose himself before he faced Bridget.
A pile of mail sat right smack in the middle of his blotter, defying him to give it his whole-hearted attention. Most looked like overdue bills and charity requests. He sighed deeply and switched on his portable radio, catching the tail end of a newscast. The IRA had blown up yet another part of Belfast in yet another bid to enforce its version of peace on earth. News that was anything but new.
He pulled out his handkerchief and, leaning back in his swivel chair, he mopped his brow. The newscast ended and the calming melody of Vaughan Williams’ ‘Lark’ began its blithe ascent towards the ceiling. He closed his eyes. Just what he needed. He ran the handkerchief over his face one more time.
As the last haunting notes died off, he sat up straight and grabbed impulsively at the wad of assorted mail. His attention was caught by a strange-looking envelope plastered with stickers, like the passport of someone who’d travelled around the world. On closer inspection, he made out an Australian stamp.
Puzzled, he reached for his glasses.
He slit the envelope and pulled out a neatly typed page carrying a banner headline that read: Clarice Chelmsford. Professional Counsellor and Family History Research Agent.
Below it was an address in Adelaide, South Australia.
Australia?
What the hell? If he needed counselling, he wouldn’t go halfway around the world to Australia for it!
He lowered the page, about to toss it aside then paused. The opening line read: Dear Mrs Hadleigh…
Mrs Hadleigh?
He rechecked the envelope. Sure enough, the letter was addressed to Bridget. Why couldn’t she filter out her own mail from amongst his pile of junk? On a cursory glance, he caught the first line. I am writing to you on behalf of my client, Miss Faith Rivers.
Faith Rivers?
He looked up, trying to trace an inkling of recognition. Nothing came to mind, so he shook his head in defeat. Never heard of her. He carried on reading, his curiosity now past its peak.
Miss Rivers is researching her family history and she believes you may be able to help her with some useful information. She has an association with the family name O’Driscoll, your maiden name. Her research confirms a Niamh O’Driscoll was born in Australia in 1959.
He blinked. In one indefinable instant, the typing faded into grey misshapen shapes.
Niamh O’Driscoll.
His stomach churned. Hell! A shake gripped his hand and he released the letter. It fluttered down to his desk as he slumped his head into his hands and cradled his forehead. He rubbed his fingers around the space beneath his eyebrows where a dull ache began to grow steadily.
“Do you have to invite the O’Driscolls around here?” His daughter’s voice caught him off guard, her strident tone startling him.
He swung round in his chair, anger suddenly surging inside. Rebecca stood at the study door, her back ramrod straight and her arms folded defiantly across her chest. He sighed. She was wearing only her bikini panties.
In truth, he’d forgotten Willie and Maggie O’Driscoll were invited to dinner. Willie was Bridget’s cousin, a dour-faced man whose abrasive manner was almost as intolerable as his wife’s constant complaining. They were the last people he wanted to entertain tonight of all nights. He groaned.
“Well, daddy?” Rebecca drew back her head and sniffed at him.
“Willie and Maggie are your mum’s relatives and I won’t have you causing trouble while they’re here.” He struggled to curb his embarrassment at Rebecca’s lack of clothes. “Now, go and get dressed!”
He returned his attention to his mail, quickly bringing the envelope into sharper focus. He picked it up and checked the sender’s address label on the back. It meant nothing to him.
“Daddy!” Rebecca’s cry was followed by the discordant slap of a foot on the wooden floor. “You know I simply hate them. They make rude remarks about me because I’m not Irish. You know that, don’t you?”
Douglas whipped his head about and let out a long sigh. Rebecca was not the only victim of Willie and Maggie’s abusive comments, and this was not the moment to discuss the matter.
“That’s just too bad.” He stabbed a finger at her. “Go and put some clothes on. Now! You can’t run around the house like that. I don’t approve of it and your cousin gets embarrassed by it.”
“Mum says it’s all right.” She threw him a look that said ‘argue that one out if you dare’. It was a lie. Douglas knew Bridget turned a blind eye, but she never fully condoned Rebecca’s semi-nudity.
“Whatever you claim your mother said, I’m telling you otherwise.”
“I’ll tell her that!”
“Fine. Put your clothes on first.”
She narrowed her gaze at him, chewing on her bottom lip. Unmistakably his daughter, they shared the same brown eyes, five foot ten inches of height, long and narrow faces, sandy hair with a touch of grey. His grey streaks were real, hers from a bottle.
Douglas shook his head. They understood each other too well. She used Bridget more as a weapon against him than a source of support. With a fierce pout, she turned and stomped away. He heard the lounge door slamming shut in her wake.
The pain around his eyes intensified as he swung back to face his desk. In the space of one day, he’d had a blazing row with his business partner, Niamh O’Driscoll had crawled out of the woodwork and Rebecca was up to her usual tricks. As for Bridget: what grief would she cause when she learned about Niamh?
By God, he didn’t need this.
Niamh O’Driscoll.
He rubbed his face in one long sweep. He’d first heard that name at the end of a long, glorious evening of listening to a summer symphony concert in the park. Six months into their relationship, Bridget and he were in love, at a peak of confidence that promised nothing could ever come between them. The name had been but a whisper from Bridget’s lips. He remembered every word, just as she had murmured them to him. The revelation had shaken him because he had never before dated an unmarried mother. Later, he’d stored away the story into the dark recesses of his mind. It was history, a very personal history, but history for all that. It wasn’t forgotten, but filed away in a folder labelled, No Immediate Action Required.
And now…?
Was Niamh O’Driscoll now called Faith Rivers? Almost certainly, she was. And she had finally found them. Strangely, Douglas had always known she would, one day. It was almost inevitable and he had long been one to spot the inevitable. But a big difference existed between spotting a problem and acting on it. He hadn’t prepared himself for this, hadn’t worked out how he would tackle it.
So, what the hell was he going to do?
Hell and damnation! He leaped up and paced across his study, his mind overwhelmed by the dilemma. Why now? Then a titbit of buried history resurfaced from the depths of his mind. He half turned to a frame, a scroll depicting each name in the Hadleigh family tree. His gaze flickered down to Thomas Hadleigh. His grandfather had tackled just such a situation as this, many years ago.
His headache steadily worsened, dulling his vision. All he wanted to do was to throw the letter aside and pretend it never existed. Instead, he picked it up with shaking hands and blinked, forcing himself to focus on the words. He reread the names, Faith Rivers and Niamh O’Driscoll. They leaped out at him from the white stationery, leaving the surrounding words in soft focus. He shook his head, brushing at a trace of dampness in the corners of his eyes.
Faith—a nice enough name—but for the moment, he chose to think of her as Niamh O’Driscoll. He returned to his seat. How old was she anyway? Born in 1959, his brain struggled with the calculation: 1985 minus 1959. She was twenty-six years old, a young woman. Only a little older than Bridget when they first met.
Oh, hell! Bridget.
What would he say to her? More importantly, how would she react? She wasn’t exactly the epitome of tolerant understanding these days. What if she insisted on bringing Niamh into their home? How would he cope? How would he explain Niamh’s resence to his own family and friends?
Hell.
He cradled his head in his hands. He had to think this through. Right now wasn’t the best moment to rush into the kitchen and announce…
He sighed. Announce what? That the past had caught up with them?
No. He slipped the letter back into its envelope. The whole situation needed further thought; time to come to terms with the matter before discussing it. Time to compose himself. He tucked it away in a desk drawer and went in search of Bridget.
He trudged through the lounge and wiped the back of one hand across his brow. The lethargic drone of his neighbour’s lawnmower floated across a high beech hedge. He glanced out through the gaping patio door towards the rear lawn where Rebecca was again sunbathing semi-nude. Her pale skin glowed under direct sunlight, stark against the lush green grass.
Douglas gritted his teeth. He’d lost track of the number of warnings he’d given her. It embarrassed him and his nephew, Mark Lomax. Mark had never voiced a complaint, but he kept out of the way whenever Rebecca indulged herself.
Rebecca looked up, a dark expression of defiance spread across her face. Her hands clasped an empty wine glass. His gaze found the claret bottle propped up against her left buttock. Damn the girl! Just look at her! Youth laying claim to a maturity that just wasn’t there.
He marched through to the kitchen and drew back abruptly at the culinary battlefield before him. Scattered about the worktop, bowls of uncooked food waited for a mass assault on the gas hob. Bridget was up to her elbows in a dough mixture, a white splodge smearing the side of her nose. Barely five foot tall, his wife looked vulnerable even in her own kitchen. Vulnerable. The word stuck in his mind. She was vulnerable because of the very existence of Niamh O’Driscoll. For the moment, he had to keep silent about the letter, had to. He would reveal its existence later, when the time was right and he had a better idea of how to spring the news.
He grunted, jabbing a thumb towards the back lawn where Rebecca lay. “Have you seen—?”
“You’re early,” Bridget muttered, her gaze focused on her cookery book. Then she drew out a long elastic tongue of dough and eyed it sceptically.
“I know.” He thumbed the air again. “Have you seen what Rebecca is—?”
“You should have called me.” She released the pressure on the dough and it recoiled.“Dinner’s going to be late tonight. I could have made you a sandwich if I’d known you’d be early.”
“You still can. Have you seen—?”
“Willie and Maggie are coming to dinner around seven. You did remember, didn’t you?”Her deep blue eyes shunted from the dough mixture back to her book. Not once did she look towards him and talk straight at him. He let out an impatient sigh.
Go on, take a look at me, I’m only your husband. The words had been festering inside his mind for quite some time. I’m the one who goes out to earn a decent crust so that we can live here! I’m the one who fathered Rebecca, the daughter who treats me as if I’m some sort of dogshit.
He drew a breath and let it out slowly, shedding animosity. “Why don’t you look at me, Bridget?”
“I do.” She darted a glance at him and quickly returned to her cooking. “Don’t be silly.”
He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. The same old reply left him feeling worse than if he hadn’t raised the question. It was almost as if she didn’t like the look of him. Oblivious to his annoyance, she wiped her hands on her apron, reached for a stray shoulder-length black curl, still shiny though speckled with grey, and hooked it behind an ear.
He sighed again and followed it with audible groan. “Willie and Maggie, you say?” He breathed. “I’d forgotten about them, ’til Rebecca reminded me.”
Bridget looked up through dazed, unfocused eyes. Then, once again, she snapped her gaze back to her cooking. She said nothing and that was worse than a barbed comment.
He grimaced. The situation couldn’t be worse. If the O’Driscolls were coming, a depressing evening lay ahead. He shuffled towards the door.
Bridget called out to him. “You might as well pour yourself a drink and relax for an hour. Have a bath. Go on, leave me in peace.”
Douglas stopped at the doorway. “I thought Rebecca should be at college getting her exam results. And she shouldn’t be–”
“She’s had a row with her boyfriend.”
The relevance escaped him.
He trudged through the lounge and valiantly tried to avoid a sidelong glance at the back lawn. He paused with the idea of starting another argument. She raised her head and glowered at him.
What was the point?
*
He soaked in the bath, allowing the warm water to smooth the passage of uneasy reflection. Thoughts of the distant past replaced his anger. After twenty-three years of marriage, he should be able to pinpoint what happened during their courtship, but time clouded his memory. Back in 1960, newly released from his period of army national service, he was an apprentice accountant. That summer he was hospitalised for treatment on an acute in-growing toenail. Not exactly a major operation, but it was painful and he played it for all it was worth with his Irish nurse, Bridget O’Driscoll. She was very shy and more than a bit awkward in those days. When she spilled his dinner tray all over the floor, he lied to the ward sister, claiming he’d had a spasm in his bandaged foot. Bridget had paid the price with the promise of a date.
She’d come to England from a village in the Mourne Mountains where her mother raised twelve children on little more than home grown potatoes and water from a peat bog. When they began dating, she was almost cold with the fear of sex. That night in the park she explained why.
The memory of it was still sharp in his mind.
*
Douglas was setting the dining table, his mind only half focussed on the task, when Mark arrived home and apologised directly to Bridget. He had a business appointment, he announced, and he wouldn’t be able to enjoy a meal with the O’Driscolls.
“Sorry about not telling you sooner, Aunt Bridget,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek. “This BBC man is in the area. It’s my opportunity to interest him in a project we’ve got on hand.”
Bridget gave him a look filled with consternation. “But I’ll have food left over.” The words were uttered softly. It was no secret that she loved Mark as if he were her own son.
Douglas picked up an assortment of pickles in one hand and relishes in another. Slipping past Mark, he raised a brow at his tall, fair-haired nephew, smelling a put-up job to avoid the dinner guests. Mark had been orphaned at the age of five, when his parents met their death in a motor accident in Adelaide. Since then he had been a permanent part of the Hadleigh household. He’d long since shed his Australian drawl and spoke with a remarkably clear English accent. At age twenty-five, he was doing nicely for himself in his adopted homeland. He resembled his father, with broad shoulders and the muscular build of a fighter. But he was born with an even temperament and an intellect neither of his parents could have matched. Though Bridget would never admit it, Douglas knew she had a desperate interest in Mark’s life with them. He was her link with the place where Niamh was born. He was the surrogate for the child she had lost in Australia.
“What’s your meeting about?” Douglas asked.
“We’re looking for financial backing for a new project.”
“Good luck.”
Mark had borrowed heavily on Douglas’s financial expertise to set up his half share in a film production company, but it had prospered without further help.
Douglas was pleased to see his nephew doing well for himself.
*
Dinner was long ended and a full moon hung high in the sky when Willie and Maggie O’Driscoll finally left. Bridget yawned as they waved their car down the driveway. Douglas breathed a long sigh as he shut the front door and bolted it. In the background, Bridget stifled yet more yawns as she trudged up the stairway. Douglas was well aware of the significance. If he allowed it, she would be fast asleep before he got into bed. But he had come to a decision. It had crept over him during the evening—words and strategies slowly forming in his brain—and now he was determined. No amount of tiredness was going to detract him from the task ahead. It was time to face up to Bridget, resurrect her old ghosts.
The existence of the letter could not wait until morning, he was certain of that now. He dug it out of his desk drawer and tackled the stairs one at a time, one hand rubbing at his forehead, where the stress headache had returned. While Bridget brushed her teeth and changed in the bathroom, he placed the letter on his bedside cabinet, in plain view. He stripped off and climbed into bed. The sheets felt cool, a marked contrast to the heat of the day, but not entirely unwelcome. He snuggled down, mentally rehearsing his words. His determination remained, but worry drained him of coherent thought. How do you tell your wife a bygone nightmare has returned?
Bridget entered the bedroom, wearing her flowery pink nightie, her underwear neatly folded across one arm. She averted her gaze, looking as shy and demure as when they were first married.
“You tired?” he asked. He eyed her cautiously.
She crept beneath the sheets. “Uhuh.”
“Mind if we talk for a while?”
“I’m very tired.” She closed her eyes.
“It’s important.”
“You mean Rebecca? I told you—”
“It’s not about Rebecca.” He spoke firmly now.
She opened her eyes and half turned in his direction, a frown marring her face.
He cleared his throat. “It’s Niamh O’Driscoll.”
Bridget stiffened. Her hushed voice went instantly hoarse. “What about her?”
“She’s trying to get in touch with us.”
The south coast of
England
July 1985
Douglas Hadleigh rammed down through the gears and swung his Volvo sharply into the narrow lane leading through Hampton Warlock village. The tyres squealed on the hot tarmac surface, and dust from sun-parched fields eddied in through the open window.
He was driving too fast, but what the hell!
He swerved into his driveway and stamped hard on the brakes. The wheels locked and a shower of gravel spewed up against his garage door, scratching the glossy paintwork. The engine idled as he sat with his hands glued to the steering wheel, tension oozing through his body. It was a common outcome to yet another intense argument with his business partner. And the unbearable heat all along the Dorset coast didn’t help. Sweat dripped from his face and his shirt stuck to his back.
He killed the engine, exited the car in one decisive move and then paused. Sharp sunlight burned through the limpid air. What he wouldn’t give for a cool breeze, and a long, cold beer.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Head down, he strode towards his two-storey Victorian house, pushed aside the half open front door and headed straight for his study where slumped down into his leather chair. He needed a moment to compose himself before he faced Bridget.
A pile of mail sat right smack in the middle of his blotter, defying him to give it his whole-hearted attention. Most looked like overdue bills and charity requests. He sighed deeply and switched on his portable radio, catching the tail end of a newscast. The IRA had blown up yet another part of Belfast in yet another bid to enforce its version of peace on earth. News that was anything but new.
He pulled out his handkerchief and, leaning back in his swivel chair, he mopped his brow. The newscast ended and the calming melody of Vaughan Williams’ ‘Lark’ began its blithe ascent towards the ceiling. He closed his eyes. Just what he needed. He ran the handkerchief over his face one more time.
As the last haunting notes died off, he sat up straight and grabbed impulsively at the wad of assorted mail. His attention was caught by a strange-looking envelope plastered with stickers, like the passport of someone who’d travelled around the world. On closer inspection, he made out an Australian stamp.
Puzzled, he reached for his glasses.
He slit the envelope and pulled out a neatly typed page carrying a banner headline that read: Clarice Chelmsford. Professional Counsellor and Family History Research Agent.
Below it was an address in Adelaide, South Australia.
Australia?
What the hell? If he needed counselling, he wouldn’t go halfway around the world to Australia for it!
He lowered the page, about to toss it aside then paused. The opening line read: Dear Mrs Hadleigh…
Mrs Hadleigh?
He rechecked the envelope. Sure enough, the letter was addressed to Bridget. Why couldn’t she filter out her own mail from amongst his pile of junk? On a cursory glance, he caught the first line. I am writing to you on behalf of my client, Miss Faith Rivers.
Faith Rivers?
He looked up, trying to trace an inkling of recognition. Nothing came to mind, so he shook his head in defeat. Never heard of her. He carried on reading, his curiosity now past its peak.
Miss Rivers is researching her family history and she believes you may be able to help her with some useful information. She has an association with the family name O’Driscoll, your maiden name. Her research confirms a Niamh O’Driscoll was born in Australia in 1959.
He blinked. In one indefinable instant, the typing faded into grey misshapen shapes.
Niamh O’Driscoll.
His stomach churned. Hell! A shake gripped his hand and he released the letter. It fluttered down to his desk as he slumped his head into his hands and cradled his forehead. He rubbed his fingers around the space beneath his eyebrows where a dull ache began to grow steadily.
“Do you have to invite the O’Driscolls around here?” His daughter’s voice caught him off guard, her strident tone startling him.
He swung round in his chair, anger suddenly surging inside. Rebecca stood at the study door, her back ramrod straight and her arms folded defiantly across her chest. He sighed. She was wearing only her bikini panties.
In truth, he’d forgotten Willie and Maggie O’Driscoll were invited to dinner. Willie was Bridget’s cousin, a dour-faced man whose abrasive manner was almost as intolerable as his wife’s constant complaining. They were the last people he wanted to entertain tonight of all nights. He groaned.
“Well, daddy?” Rebecca drew back her head and sniffed at him.
“Willie and Maggie are your mum’s relatives and I won’t have you causing trouble while they’re here.” He struggled to curb his embarrassment at Rebecca’s lack of clothes. “Now, go and get dressed!”
He returned his attention to his mail, quickly bringing the envelope into sharper focus. He picked it up and checked the sender’s address label on the back. It meant nothing to him.
“Daddy!” Rebecca’s cry was followed by the discordant slap of a foot on the wooden floor. “You know I simply hate them. They make rude remarks about me because I’m not Irish. You know that, don’t you?”
Douglas whipped his head about and let out a long sigh. Rebecca was not the only victim of Willie and Maggie’s abusive comments, and this was not the moment to discuss the matter.
“That’s just too bad.” He stabbed a finger at her. “Go and put some clothes on. Now! You can’t run around the house like that. I don’t approve of it and your cousin gets embarrassed by it.”
“Mum says it’s all right.” She threw him a look that said ‘argue that one out if you dare’. It was a lie. Douglas knew Bridget turned a blind eye, but she never fully condoned Rebecca’s semi-nudity.
“Whatever you claim your mother said, I’m telling you otherwise.”
“I’ll tell her that!”
“Fine. Put your clothes on first.”
She narrowed her gaze at him, chewing on her bottom lip. Unmistakably his daughter, they shared the same brown eyes, five foot ten inches of height, long and narrow faces, sandy hair with a touch of grey. His grey streaks were real, hers from a bottle.
Douglas shook his head. They understood each other too well. She used Bridget more as a weapon against him than a source of support. With a fierce pout, she turned and stomped away. He heard the lounge door slamming shut in her wake.
The pain around his eyes intensified as he swung back to face his desk. In the space of one day, he’d had a blazing row with his business partner, Niamh O’Driscoll had crawled out of the woodwork and Rebecca was up to her usual tricks. As for Bridget: what grief would she cause when she learned about Niamh?
By God, he didn’t need this.
Niamh O’Driscoll.
He rubbed his face in one long sweep. He’d first heard that name at the end of a long, glorious evening of listening to a summer symphony concert in the park. Six months into their relationship, Bridget and he were in love, at a peak of confidence that promised nothing could ever come between them. The name had been but a whisper from Bridget’s lips. He remembered every word, just as she had murmured them to him. The revelation had shaken him because he had never before dated an unmarried mother. Later, he’d stored away the story into the dark recesses of his mind. It was history, a very personal history, but history for all that. It wasn’t forgotten, but filed away in a folder labelled, No Immediate Action Required.
And now…?
Was Niamh O’Driscoll now called Faith Rivers? Almost certainly, she was. And she had finally found them. Strangely, Douglas had always known she would, one day. It was almost inevitable and he had long been one to spot the inevitable. But a big difference existed between spotting a problem and acting on it. He hadn’t prepared himself for this, hadn’t worked out how he would tackle it.
So, what the hell was he going to do?
Hell and damnation! He leaped up and paced across his study, his mind overwhelmed by the dilemma. Why now? Then a titbit of buried history resurfaced from the depths of his mind. He half turned to a frame, a scroll depicting each name in the Hadleigh family tree. His gaze flickered down to Thomas Hadleigh. His grandfather had tackled just such a situation as this, many years ago.
His headache steadily worsened, dulling his vision. All he wanted to do was to throw the letter aside and pretend it never existed. Instead, he picked it up with shaking hands and blinked, forcing himself to focus on the words. He reread the names, Faith Rivers and Niamh O’Driscoll. They leaped out at him from the white stationery, leaving the surrounding words in soft focus. He shook his head, brushing at a trace of dampness in the corners of his eyes.
Faith—a nice enough name—but for the moment, he chose to think of her as Niamh O’Driscoll. He returned to his seat. How old was she anyway? Born in 1959, his brain struggled with the calculation: 1985 minus 1959. She was twenty-six years old, a young woman. Only a little older than Bridget when they first met.
Oh, hell! Bridget.
What would he say to her? More importantly, how would she react? She wasn’t exactly the epitome of tolerant understanding these days. What if she insisted on bringing Niamh into their home? How would he cope? How would he explain Niamh’s resence to his own family and friends?
Hell.
He cradled his head in his hands. He had to think this through. Right now wasn’t the best moment to rush into the kitchen and announce…
He sighed. Announce what? That the past had caught up with them?
No. He slipped the letter back into its envelope. The whole situation needed further thought; time to come to terms with the matter before discussing it. Time to compose himself. He tucked it away in a desk drawer and went in search of Bridget.
He trudged through the lounge and wiped the back of one hand across his brow. The lethargic drone of his neighbour’s lawnmower floated across a high beech hedge. He glanced out through the gaping patio door towards the rear lawn where Rebecca was again sunbathing semi-nude. Her pale skin glowed under direct sunlight, stark against the lush green grass.
Douglas gritted his teeth. He’d lost track of the number of warnings he’d given her. It embarrassed him and his nephew, Mark Lomax. Mark had never voiced a complaint, but he kept out of the way whenever Rebecca indulged herself.
Rebecca looked up, a dark expression of defiance spread across her face. Her hands clasped an empty wine glass. His gaze found the claret bottle propped up against her left buttock. Damn the girl! Just look at her! Youth laying claim to a maturity that just wasn’t there.
He marched through to the kitchen and drew back abruptly at the culinary battlefield before him. Scattered about the worktop, bowls of uncooked food waited for a mass assault on the gas hob. Bridget was up to her elbows in a dough mixture, a white splodge smearing the side of her nose. Barely five foot tall, his wife looked vulnerable even in her own kitchen. Vulnerable. The word stuck in his mind. She was vulnerable because of the very existence of Niamh O’Driscoll. For the moment, he had to keep silent about the letter, had to. He would reveal its existence later, when the time was right and he had a better idea of how to spring the news.
He grunted, jabbing a thumb towards the back lawn where Rebecca lay. “Have you seen—?”
“You’re early,” Bridget muttered, her gaze focused on her cookery book. Then she drew out a long elastic tongue of dough and eyed it sceptically.
“I know.” He thumbed the air again. “Have you seen what Rebecca is—?”
“You should have called me.” She released the pressure on the dough and it recoiled.“Dinner’s going to be late tonight. I could have made you a sandwich if I’d known you’d be early.”
“You still can. Have you seen—?”
“Willie and Maggie are coming to dinner around seven. You did remember, didn’t you?”Her deep blue eyes shunted from the dough mixture back to her book. Not once did she look towards him and talk straight at him. He let out an impatient sigh.
Go on, take a look at me, I’m only your husband. The words had been festering inside his mind for quite some time. I’m the one who goes out to earn a decent crust so that we can live here! I’m the one who fathered Rebecca, the daughter who treats me as if I’m some sort of dogshit.
He drew a breath and let it out slowly, shedding animosity. “Why don’t you look at me, Bridget?”
“I do.” She darted a glance at him and quickly returned to her cooking. “Don’t be silly.”
He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. The same old reply left him feeling worse than if he hadn’t raised the question. It was almost as if she didn’t like the look of him. Oblivious to his annoyance, she wiped her hands on her apron, reached for a stray shoulder-length black curl, still shiny though speckled with grey, and hooked it behind an ear.
He sighed again and followed it with audible groan. “Willie and Maggie, you say?” He breathed. “I’d forgotten about them, ’til Rebecca reminded me.”
Bridget looked up through dazed, unfocused eyes. Then, once again, she snapped her gaze back to her cooking. She said nothing and that was worse than a barbed comment.
He grimaced. The situation couldn’t be worse. If the O’Driscolls were coming, a depressing evening lay ahead. He shuffled towards the door.
Bridget called out to him. “You might as well pour yourself a drink and relax for an hour. Have a bath. Go on, leave me in peace.”
Douglas stopped at the doorway. “I thought Rebecca should be at college getting her exam results. And she shouldn’t be–”
“She’s had a row with her boyfriend.”
The relevance escaped him.
He trudged through the lounge and valiantly tried to avoid a sidelong glance at the back lawn. He paused with the idea of starting another argument. She raised her head and glowered at him.
What was the point?
*
He soaked in the bath, allowing the warm water to smooth the passage of uneasy reflection. Thoughts of the distant past replaced his anger. After twenty-three years of marriage, he should be able to pinpoint what happened during their courtship, but time clouded his memory. Back in 1960, newly released from his period of army national service, he was an apprentice accountant. That summer he was hospitalised for treatment on an acute in-growing toenail. Not exactly a major operation, but it was painful and he played it for all it was worth with his Irish nurse, Bridget O’Driscoll. She was very shy and more than a bit awkward in those days. When she spilled his dinner tray all over the floor, he lied to the ward sister, claiming he’d had a spasm in his bandaged foot. Bridget had paid the price with the promise of a date.
She’d come to England from a village in the Mourne Mountains where her mother raised twelve children on little more than home grown potatoes and water from a peat bog. When they began dating, she was almost cold with the fear of sex. That night in the park she explained why.
The memory of it was still sharp in his mind.
*
Douglas was setting the dining table, his mind only half focussed on the task, when Mark arrived home and apologised directly to Bridget. He had a business appointment, he announced, and he wouldn’t be able to enjoy a meal with the O’Driscolls.
“Sorry about not telling you sooner, Aunt Bridget,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek. “This BBC man is in the area. It’s my opportunity to interest him in a project we’ve got on hand.”
Bridget gave him a look filled with consternation. “But I’ll have food left over.” The words were uttered softly. It was no secret that she loved Mark as if he were her own son.
Douglas picked up an assortment of pickles in one hand and relishes in another. Slipping past Mark, he raised a brow at his tall, fair-haired nephew, smelling a put-up job to avoid the dinner guests. Mark had been orphaned at the age of five, when his parents met their death in a motor accident in Adelaide. Since then he had been a permanent part of the Hadleigh household. He’d long since shed his Australian drawl and spoke with a remarkably clear English accent. At age twenty-five, he was doing nicely for himself in his adopted homeland. He resembled his father, with broad shoulders and the muscular build of a fighter. But he was born with an even temperament and an intellect neither of his parents could have matched. Though Bridget would never admit it, Douglas knew she had a desperate interest in Mark’s life with them. He was her link with the place where Niamh was born. He was the surrogate for the child she had lost in Australia.
“What’s your meeting about?” Douglas asked.
“We’re looking for financial backing for a new project.”
“Good luck.”
Mark had borrowed heavily on Douglas’s financial expertise to set up his half share in a film production company, but it had prospered without further help.
Douglas was pleased to see his nephew doing well for himself.
*
Dinner was long ended and a full moon hung high in the sky when Willie and Maggie O’Driscoll finally left. Bridget yawned as they waved their car down the driveway. Douglas breathed a long sigh as he shut the front door and bolted it. In the background, Bridget stifled yet more yawns as she trudged up the stairway. Douglas was well aware of the significance. If he allowed it, she would be fast asleep before he got into bed. But he had come to a decision. It had crept over him during the evening—words and strategies slowly forming in his brain—and now he was determined. No amount of tiredness was going to detract him from the task ahead. It was time to face up to Bridget, resurrect her old ghosts.
The existence of the letter could not wait until morning, he was certain of that now. He dug it out of his desk drawer and tackled the stairs one at a time, one hand rubbing at his forehead, where the stress headache had returned. While Bridget brushed her teeth and changed in the bathroom, he placed the letter on his bedside cabinet, in plain view. He stripped off and climbed into bed. The sheets felt cool, a marked contrast to the heat of the day, but not entirely unwelcome. He snuggled down, mentally rehearsing his words. His determination remained, but worry drained him of coherent thought. How do you tell your wife a bygone nightmare has returned?
Bridget entered the bedroom, wearing her flowery pink nightie, her underwear neatly folded across one arm. She averted her gaze, looking as shy and demure as when they were first married.
“You tired?” he asked. He eyed her cautiously.
She crept beneath the sheets. “Uhuh.”
“Mind if we talk for a while?”
“I’m very tired.” She closed her eyes.
“It’s important.”
“You mean Rebecca? I told you—”
“It’s not about Rebecca.” He spoke firmly now.
She opened her eyes and half turned in his direction, a frown marring her face.
He cleared his throat. “It’s Niamh O’Driscoll.”
Bridget stiffened. Her hushed voice went instantly hoarse. “What about her?”
“She’s trying to get in touch with us.”
