She has brought so much joy into our lives, and every day I thank my stars that we have her.
Being a Mum has made me think of you and everything good that you and Dad did for me. On her first birthday, I decided I would get in touch. We cannot change the past but we can try to make the present better and the future hopeful.
Bob and me would like to visit, Mother, now Daisy is settled, to show you your beautiful granddaughter.
I have forgiven you – but have you forgiven me?
I enclose a photograph of Daisy. Her middle name is Lily after the grandmother that I hope will one day know her.
With love from your daughter, Lynn
33
Simon surveys the pile of letters on his desk. He recognises David’s writing on one envelope. He hopes it contains a cheque for the ‘cottage maintenance and repairs’ fund. Last month, David admitted to Simon that he was ‘a bit short’ and asked if Simon could sub him the money? Simon was happy to agree. He opens the letter. He hopes owning this cottage jointly with David and Maggie will not be a recurrent administrative and financial headache.
He is not reassured. The letter not only asks for an extension to the loan but requests another to cover this month’s contribution. As a postscript, David adds that he can’t use the cottage this weekend; he’d forgotten his band has been booked for a gig. Can Amy shift the rota so he can go later in the month?
The front door house opens. Downstairs he hears Amy and Chloe coming into the house, dragging their cases. ‘You c-c-could have stayed at the c-c-cottage!’ He shouts.
The traffic sounds leaking through the open door drown his voice. He’s irritated. Why didn’t David call by phone to rearrange his visit rather than write?
Chloe stomps up the stairs past his office. She mutters ‘Hi Dad,’ followed by the click of her bedroom door. The countryside has marginally improved her mood it seems. At least she has acknowledged her father’s existence.
‘Did you call?’ Amy says, kissing the top of Simon’s head. ‘How are you, darling? I’ve left the cottage nice and tidy for David’s arrival tomorrow.’
‘You needn’t have bothered. He’s not going down after all. He’s got to rehearse for a gig.’ Simon practically spits the word.
Over the years, Amy has noticed that Simon’s stutter disappears, not when he is angry but when he is very angry. Her husband gestures dismissively at a letter.
‘And David says, can you sort out a different weekend for him to use the cottage. And oh, can he have another loan? I’d forgotten he was an irresponsible nuisance.’
‘Sometimes we are all faced with responsibilities we were not expecting,’ she replies.
‘That’s a bit c-c-cryptic, darling,’ Simon said. ‘I always m-m-meet my responsibilities.’ He gives her a quizzical look.
‘Oh, do you? Then let me remind you of one you may have forgotten. The young man I met in the village pub – Aubrey? He came for supper last night with me and Chloe.’
‘Very n-n-nice for you. How is this r-r-relevant, may I ask?’ She is annoyed now. How can he possibly have forgotten? ‘Aubrey told us about his past. How he was given away at birth and adopted. Now he’s now searching for his mother who apparently used to live in or near the village. The village near Wyld Farm.’
‘Yes?’ Simon is still flummoxed. She is hinting at something but he cannot imagine what.
‘Aubrey was born in 1974. Have you forgotten creeping off to a barn for a bit nookie in the hay? Lynn Morle, darling. Think about it. The dates match. What I’m saying is – could Aubrey be your and Lynn’s son?’
For the second night running, she had barely slept. The thought that Aubrey could be her stepson was one thing, something she might even come to welcome in different circumstances. He was a charming young man. But when Chloe had announced last night that she thought she was falling in love with him, it was horrifying. Incest was not something Amy wanted to grapple with.
Simon shakes his head. ‘Silly g-g-girl, I was only t-t-teasing you!’
‘Teasing? What do you mean?’
‘I told you a l-l-lie about sleeping with L-L-Lynn. Of course I didn’t s-s-sleep with her.’
‘A lie? Why in hell did you say you had, then?’
‘Because you weren’t being honest with me. Remember? You kept things back from me that night. We were meant to be open and honest. When we got engaged. But you kept something from me.’
She stares at the man she’d been married to for the last twenty years.
‘It w-w-was a little g-g-game I played with you.’ His tone is serious. ‘I wanted to t-t-test you, Amy. I knew you had been, shall I put it bluntly, s-s-screwing Seymour. It was obvious to everyone, except D-D-David, perhaps. I wanted to see if you would b-b-be honest.’ He takes her hand. ‘And darling, you were not.’
A dealer in Germany is interested in buying some of Seymour’s work. For several days, her letter lies on the kitchen table. Miriam reads it again. The condolences in stilted English, the carefully-phrased request to see ‘more of the great man’s’ work. There are other letters, too; one from Seymour’s agent. His book of photographs, models, politicians, actors, footballers and entertainers from the 1970s, is still selling well.
‘We’ve got to start sorting out your father’s affairs. A dealer wants to visit,’ Miriam says.
Her husband is checking his beard for toast crumbs. No point in reassuring him there are none. It’s one of his tics. ‘She saw the obituary in the Times. What are we
