[Bedtime Stories number 3]
Are there some secrets you just can't confess?
I reread the last letter and put it on the top of the pile. Twenty-two love letters written to my father over thirty years ago by a woman who was not my mother. They started friendly, a bit formal even, in the early days of their illicit relationship. But after he'd fucked her, they were full of her passion for him, then later her worry for the child he'd made her pregnant with, and finally her despair when he abandoned her to stay with my mother. I could see from the dates on the letters this other woman was pregnant at the same time as my mother was carrying me. Tricky Dicky was living up to his nickname.
"You were a cunt, Dad. A fucking cunt. But you always knew that, didn't you?" My words bounced off the walls of his living room as I waited for his ghost to answer. He'd been dead a week, so his spectral self must be up and around. Although it would be ironic if the man who was missing from so much of my life should be present in his afterlife.
I remembered our last phone call and how I'd phoned the hospice afterwards just to check he was there and not pulling some stunt. Tricky Dicky had form. Why should he not lie about his death?
I went to see him before the end. The strapping six-foot four man, with a shock of black hair and handsome looks that led his dick into trouble, had been reduced by cancer to a thin, bald, dried up husk. All I could think as I looked at him was Gollum's big brother. He was genuinely happy to see me. Cried even.
"Thank you for coming, son. I wanted to do something for you before I check out. I want to leave you the house and contents. Do what you like with it. Sell it and buy somewhere that will give you happier memories. My solicitor's details are on this card. You just have to agree to be my executor. I don't think your mum would want to do it." The effort of holding the card out to me was making his hand tremble, and I took it before he dropped it. He smiled. "Must be worth at least half a million even in the state it's in. I wish my dad had given me such a present."
I stared hard. "Thanks. But I'd trade it all to have had a father that was there when mum and I needed him. But that was a gift you were not prepared to give us. A last act of contrition does not wipe your slate clean, Dad."
He started crying, and I let him go until the sobbing got louder and ended in a hacking cough. I pulled a tissue from the box on his bedside cabinet. "Here you are, and wipe that snot bubble. It makes you look like a baby."
We made small talk, and I nodded as he wittered on remembering family outings; good times I had no memory of. I wondered if the cancer had reached his brain. But we are all heroes of our own story, aren't we? If the facts don't fit, we just ignore them. In the end, I shook his hand and kissed him on his clammy forehead and left. We both knew we would not meet again.
So, here I was, two weeks later, sitting at his desk and taking care of business. A few last bequests sorted, and I was looking down my nose at the remains of his life, wondering if there was anything I would want to keep as a reminder of the man who walked out when I was eight.
I blame it on those antique programmes that fill day time TV. Why else would I have checked the joints and underside of the drawers to confirm the writing bureau was a genuine antique and not a reproduction? Then I was off, looking for secret compartments, and I found two. One with bank account details, including confirmation he'd closed it ten years ago. The other containing 22 love letters. The bastard had pulled his last stroke, leaving me with the problem of what to do with them.
My initial thought was to burn them. They should go up in flames along with his body. But then I saw the heartbreak and distress of the other woman, and I thought I owed her something. Closure is too American a term for me. Perhaps an understanding. I wanted her to know he was a lousy father, and she was better off without him in her life. I told myself it was for her benefit; it was just a bonus it was another way to punish him. I put the letters in my messenger bag and took a last look around the place. I'd put it on with the estate agent next week. They'd advised me to clear the house first, but I'd get around to that. I just wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. I pulled the front door closed. I would not be coming back.
I'd been busy catching up on work I'd let slide while I'd dealt with Richard's funeral and aftermath. Freelance graphic designers don't get compassionate leave, so I'd pulled a couple of all-nighters to get back on track. The letters were forgotten, and I stumbled across them a couple of days later as I searched for something else in my bag, and thought my idea of contacting the writer after thirty-seven years was ridiculous. They were saved by my faulty shredder. I tried the first one but as usual the machine was gummed up so I took it out of its envelope to make it easier. That reminded me of the address, and curiosity made me Google it and bring up a street view. The houses surrounding the 1930s semi showed evidence of recent renovation, but the one I was interested in seemed untouched since the 1980s. Could the writer still be living there? I checked one of the property web sites, which showed no sales activity on the property in the last twenty years. Invested now, I checked the electoral register which showed the same female name for almost forty years. I could not throw the letters away when they could be the property of June Watson.
I had no phone number for the house; besides, it was the sort of thing you had to deal with face to face. I would go to the house and say who I was and offer to return some correspondence she might have written. I would leave it to her to decide what to do with them.
***
The following day I stood on the doorstep visualizing a grey-haired lady not too dissimilar from my mother. I was surprised when the door opened.
"Hello can I help you?" The brown-haired woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, although I'm lousy with women's ages. She was slim and had an attractive face, were it not currently screwed up watching a strange man with suspicion.
"I'm sorry I was expecting June Watson. This is her house, isn't it?" I hoped my weak smile did not make me look like a salesman or a Jehovah's Witness.
"My mother died six months ago. What is your business with her?" She tensed up.
I realized how stupid my idea was. "I'm sorry to hear that. You have my condolences. It's just that I er... I bought a bureau at a house clearance sale and I found some letters your mother had written in a secret compartment. I wanted to give them back to her and tell her the person she wrote to was also recently deceased." She gave me an odd look. "Sorry, I sound like a lunatic. Sorry to have bothered you, I'll be off." I turned on the path.
"No, you won't!" Her hand on my shoulder was firm, and she turned me round. She was closer than I expected and we collided. I reached out to stop her from tripping and ended up with my hands on her hips, face to face. She gasped. I could not find words. Physical contact had caught us unawares and heightened our reactions at being in close proximity. I had not had a girlfriend since Holly left three years ago, so the entire experience was strange.
I met her gaze and my mouth worked again. "The letters are of an intimate nature. You won't want to think of your mother differently." If there were better words, I could not find them.
Her eyes opened wide. "Who the hell are you are? And let go of me. I demand you give me those letters." She pushed my hands off her hips and held her hand out for me to hand them over.
I opened my messenger bag. "Can I just ask you one thing? Do you have an older sister?"
In that moment, the implications of what I said registered and her legs gave way. I caught her in time, my hands around her waist and her one arm around my neck. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to shock you. Can I help you inside? I'll explain everything I know."
She nodded and allowed me to lead her into the kitchen and sit her at the table. She started crying. "I always knew, but mum never explained. She would not tell me what she and dad argued about and why she did not make more of a fuss when he left. Said I was a kid and would not understand. She avoided the conversation for the rest of her life." She dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
"I'm sorry to have distressed you, Ms..." I took her hand. There was a sensation about touching this woman I could not explain.
"Good god. You don't even know my name. I'm Catherine Watson, June's only daughter." She looked down at her hand in mine but did not remove it. Did she have the same feeling?
"I'm Lawrence Matthews. Like I said, I came across you mothers' letters in an old bureau I bought at an auction and thought she might want them back. It's not the sort of thing you can say over the phone. I'd be suspicious if someone contacted me with such a story."
"Can I see the letters?" Catherine asked?
