Forget Me Not (34 page)

‘Would you show it to me?’ Dad said quietly.

I nodded, relieved, ran upstairs to my workroom, found the book and ran down again, my knees trembling. I opened it and handed Dad the photo first.

He reached into his top pocket for his reading glasses. ‘Ah,’ he said. He turned the picture over and looked at the back. ‘Ah,’ he repeated, frowning slightly. ‘Chichester. Yes … June 1977 …’

‘His name’s Carlo, isn’t it?’ I said quietly.

‘Yes.’ Dad sighed. ‘This is Carlo.’

‘And he gave Mum this book.’ Dad opened
Flowers of
Southern Italy
and then read the inscription. ‘With many happy memories,’ he said. I stared at him, willing him to say more. ‘Well …’ He closed the book and took off his glasses. ‘They
did
have many happy memories.’

‘They did?’ Unable to contain myself I blurted out, ‘But he’s just like Cassie! Or, rather, Cassie’s just like him.’

‘Ye-es,’ Dad said, looking at it again. ‘There’s definitely a resemblance.’ A silence followed in which all I could hear was the sound of a distant helicopter.

‘He could almost be Cassie’s father,’ I ventured.

Dad was still looking at the photo. ‘Your mother was beautiful,’ he murmured.

‘He really could be.’ Dad didn’t reply. I took a deep breath. ‘
Is
he her father?’ I finally said.

Dad looked up at me. ‘Is he
what?
’

‘I’m sorry to ask you, Dad, but is Carlo Cassie’s father?’

Dad stared at me. ‘Is Carlo Cassie’s father?’ His neck was stained with red. ‘What an extraordinary question, Anna, whatever makes you think that?’

‘Well … the … likeness,’ I stuttered. ‘It’s so striking.’

‘But Anna,’ Dad said, as he put down the photo, ‘we all resemble a few people to whom we have no family connection. You look a little like Gwyneth Paltrow, but you’re not related to her.’ He looked at the photo again. ‘But there is a similarity of type between Cassie and Carlo, I quite agree.’

Dad was clearly in denial. But I needed to know the truth. ‘But it isn’t just that Cassie looks like Carlo,’ I pressed on. ‘She looks nothing like you or me, or Mark.’

‘That’s true. But Cassie
is
like my mother, Anna. Didn’t you ever see that?’ I shook my head. ‘She’s very much like Granny Temple – when Granny was a young woman. She was rather dark-complexioned too and Cassie’s build is similar.’

‘Oh,’ I said faintly. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen any photos of Granny in her younger days.’

‘I’ll show you a few some time, then you’ll see. The resemblance is unmistakable.’ Dad shook his head in bewilderment, then put down the photo. ‘But where did you
get
this idea?’

‘Well, the thing is,’ I struggled on. ‘The thing is it isn’t just the photo. I worked out that you were in Brazil when … erm … when … nine months before Cassie was born,’ I concluded delicately. ‘You were there from January to August 1977; you told me that recently.’

‘That’s right,’ Dad said. ‘I was.’ A look of enlightenment suddenly crossed his face. ‘So that’s why you were asking me those odd questions about how long I was out there for?’

‘Yes. Because if Cassie was born on the fifteenth of March 1978, and you hadn’t returned from Brazil until the ninth of August 1977, then I don’t see how … how she …’ My skin was prickling with embarrassment.

‘How she could be my child? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes. It just didn’t add up.’

‘Anna,’ Dad said patiently. ‘It did. Very simply.’

‘How?’

‘Because Cassie was premature.’ I stared at him. ‘She was born nine weeks early – didn’t you know that?’

‘No. I
didn’t
. You and Mum never said.’

‘Well, I suppose we didn’t talk about it, no; but that was because Cassie so nearly didn’t survive. And your mother never talked about things that had been sad or distressing once they were over. That was always her way.’

‘Nine weeks?’ I shook my head. ‘That’s a lot …’

‘She was tiny, Anna.’ He turned up his palm and I suddenly imagined Cassie lying in it. ‘She weighed two and a half pounds. She was in an incubator, with all these wires and drips, her little ribcage heaving up and down. The doctor warned us that she’d probably die, as so many premature babies did in those days. So we had her baptised in hospital, the day after she was born. We couldn’t hold her, so we just stroked her and told her that we loved her …’ He turned away.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. But I never knew this. The only thing Mum ever said was that we were all a “bit early”.’

I saw him swallow. ‘You were – that’s how it was with your mother’s pregnancies. Mark was a fortnight early – we had him in the airing cupboard for a while. Then you came three weeks too soon, which is why I had to deliver you because of the heavy snow we had that February. But Cassie was dangerously early – she should have been born in late May, but arrived in mid March.’

‘I see,’ I whispered. I imagined her tiny body, striving for life.

‘I think that’s why I’ve always spoilt her,’ I heard Dad murmur. ‘It’s probably been bad for her, but I couldn’t help it because I could never eradicate from my mind that image of her struggling to survive all those weeks. And because your mum had you and Mark to look after, I used to go to the hospital every day; I took time off work. And I’d sit outside the special unit she was in, looking at her through the glass, just willing her to hold on – to keep breathing – and, by some … miracle she did. So I’m afraid your calculations about her birth are quite wrong.’

‘But … it wasn’t only that,’ I persisted. ‘It was because you said that it was hell while you were in Brazil.’

He sighed. ‘It was – the separation was so hard, for both your mother and me. She felt abandoned – she was angry about it. And when I came back in August she got pregnant straight away, even though we’d regarded our family as complete. I think she thought that if she had another baby it would be harder for me to leave again.’

‘Ah.’

He looked at me wonderingly. ‘So you thought … that I wasn’t Cassie’s father? Is
that
what you thought, Anna?’

‘I did,’ I replied quietly. ‘I’d worked it all out …’

‘Overlooking the fact that not all babies are born at forty weeks. As you’ve had one yourself, Anna, I’m a bit surprised at that.’

‘I didn’t think of it.’ Now I remembered the long conversation I’d had about it with Jenny and cringed. But the fact that Carlo wasn’t Cassie’s father didn’t mean that Mum hadn’t had an affair with him. The photo suggested that she had.

‘Your mother would never have been unfaithful,’ I heard Dad say as though he’d caught my thoughts. ‘Any more than I would have been. Carlo was just a good friend.’

‘How did she know him?’

‘When she left school your mother spent some time in Naples, learning Italian. Did you know that?’

‘Yes – vaguely.’

‘She was a paying guest with a family called the Rossis. They had a daughter of the same age, Maria.’

‘I remember Mum mentioning her from time to time.’

‘Maria and your mother got on very well and your mother stayed with them for three months.’

‘So that explains her interest in southern Italy.’

‘Yes. Anyway, Carlo was a friend of Maria’s and after your mother left they all kept in touch and when I was in Brazil I remember your mother saying in one of her letters that Carlo was coming to the UK to see some play or other at Chichester – he was a successful theatre designer by then – and they arranged to meet for the day. She was delighted to see him again. I think he reminded her of a very happy time in her life when she was so very young and completely carefree.’

I looked at the snap again. ‘But the way he’s holding her …’

‘Well …’ Dad shrugged. ‘He was very fond of her, but they were never … lovers.’ I wondered how he could possibly have known that for sure. ‘Your mother told me that when she first met him she did fall in love with him. But she said that Maria told her, very tactfully, that her affection was unlikely to be returned as he’d never shown much interest in girls.’

‘Oh. I see …’

‘But they remained in friendly touch over the years. He was a nice man,’ Dad added. ‘A very exuberant, creative man – warm and tactile – he was always laughing. I met him twice and liked him enormously.’

‘He
was
a nice man?’ I echoed.

‘Yes. He died. In the mid eighties.’

‘How sad.’

‘It was. He was only forty-three. His parents said it was cancer.’

‘Oh … But Mum never talked about him,’ I said. ‘I remember her mentioning Maria, but never Carlo.’

‘As I said, she tended not to talk about things that made her feel sad.’

I looked out of the window. ‘But this letter,’ I said, picking it up. ‘This threw me too.’ Dad held out his hand and I gave it to him. He put on his glasses again and as he peered through the half-moon lenses I saw his expression darken.

He took off his spectacles and closed his eyes. ‘If I’d known that this existed, I would have burned it with the rest of your mother’s papers.’

‘Is it about Carlo?’

He shook his head. ‘No, it has nothing to do with him. But for some reason your mum kept it in the same place as the photo and that’s obviously misled you as it’s an undated draft.’

‘But what’s it about?’ I took it from him and read it again.
I blame myself … feel so ashamed … I agree that
no one
should know
… ‘What did she feel ashamed of, Dad. And what was it that no one should know?’

Dad didn’t answer. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. ‘There
is
something I’ve wanted to tell you, Anna, for a very long time. It’s something that will probably make you very angry, so let me apologise in advance.’ I didn’t reply. ‘Your mother and I thought we were doing the right thing,’ he went on, ‘but it’s clear that we mishandled things and I feel very sorry about that now.’ He sipped his coffee again, sadness furrowing his brow.

‘What did you mishandle?’ He didn’t reply. ‘What is this letter about, Dad? Please will you tell me.’

He pushed away his cup. ‘I will. It isn’t going to be easy, so you’ll have to bear with me.’ He sat back, gazing into the middle distance, then folded his arms across his chest. ‘Do you remember the awful row that your mum had with Mark?’

‘Of course I do.’

He looked at me. ‘And you know what happened?’

‘Yes.’ Why was Dad asking?

‘Tell me, then.’

‘Well, you and Mum bumped into Mark with his new girlfriend, Carol Gowing, at Glyndebourne. You both disliked her on sight and the next day Mum told Mark not to get involved with her. He and Carol then broke up, and Mark was so upset at Mum’s interference that he moved to the States and has barely been in touch with us since.’

Dad nodded slowly. ‘That’s right. But why do you think Mark didn’t just carry on seeing Carol and tell your mother to mind her own business?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘To be honest, I was surprised he didn’t. He was thirty-three – he could see who he liked.’

‘That’s true. But there was a very good reason why Mum objected to Carol.’

‘Which was what?’

Dad folded his hands in front of him. ‘It was to do with something from your mother’s past.’

‘I didn’t think Mum
had
much of a past, given that she was only twenty when she married you.’

Dad didn’t reply. ‘When she got back from Italy she began looking for work. She took a flatshare with another girl in South Kensington and started temping. This led to a secretarial job at Granada TV.’

‘I never knew she’d worked there – she never mentioned it.’

‘She was only twenty and was very unworldly. And there was a producer there – about ten years her senior. He was very attractive, ambitious – and married with two children.’

‘And?’ I said impatiently.

‘He made a beeline for your mother and they began an affair. It was the first real relationship she’d had.’

‘Then what a pity he was married.’

‘Yes – but she was, by her own admission, very naive. She believed that this man loved her and that he was getting divorced, because that’s what he’d told her.’

‘Oh. Except that he wasn’t, presumably?’

‘No. But she saw him for about two months, believing innocently that it was a grand passion for them both. Then his wife found out and all hell broke loose, so he ended the relationship with your mum overnight. He also fixed it that she lost her job.’

‘Poor Mum,’ I said. ‘What a shit.’

‘I’m afraid that epithet describes him rather well.’ Dad paused. ‘His name was John Gowing.’

‘Oh,’ I murmured. ‘I see …’

‘It was shortly after that that I met your mother – in the Lyons Corner House on The Strand. She was sitting in the corner, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, and I asked if I could share her table because the café was crowded – and I could see that she was very distressed. So I asked her if she was all right, or if I could help her in any way.’

‘Lucky Mum,’ I breathed, ‘having you ride to her rescue.’

Dad smiled. ‘So we started talking …’

‘Then you both fell in love,’ I went on, ‘got married and had three children. Then, years later – horror of horrors – Mark meets John Gowing’s daughter and falls for her …’

‘Yes. Horror of horrors,’ Dad echoed quietly.

‘Poor Mum,’ I breathed. ‘What a shock – of all the women that Mark could have dated. I suppose she couldn’t bear having all those bad memories raked up – let alone having to see Gowing again when he’d treated her so badly.’

‘He did treat her badly,’ Dad agreed. ‘She was heartbroken. And when Mark introduced us to Carol at Glyndebourne that night your mum immediately realised the connection – not just from the name, but because she could see the resemblance to Carol’s father. She was terribly shaken: and the next day she went up to town and told Mark the truth, face to face …’

‘I understand now,’ I interjected. ‘If a man’s really hurt you, the last thing you’d want, years later, is to be forced to have a connection with him – let alone a family one. It would be ghastly.’