The Penningtons (25 page)

‘And how much is there?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just a secretary.’

‘Not just a secretary,’ he corrected. ‘A very good secretary!’

Her plain face lit up at the compliment. ‘Thank you, Mr Anders! I do my best.’

‘So–o . . . we send for this adoptee and the adoptive parents, read them the contents of the letter and wait for the fireworks to start!’ Steven spoke lightly but he was somewhat daunted by the prospect of having to possibly deal with the problem alone and made up his mind to check through his various text books to find something helpful. It would be a coup to deal with it satisfactorily but a rather large blot on his early career if he failed in any way.

‘Have you ever been involved with a similar case?’ he asked her.

‘Only one. It was the first year I came here and I didn’t understand much about it – too busy trying to type Mr Desmond’s letters without too many errors!’ She laughed. ‘But it must have been traumatic. The boy concerned was twenty-one years old and was told that the woman he thought was his mother was actually his grandmother –’ she frowned – ‘and the young woman he thought was his cousin was his mother! I think that’s right.’

‘Good lord!’ he stared at her, appalled. ‘Poor young man!’

‘Indeed!’

‘And do we have an inkling of the name of Cressida Pennington’s daughter?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But the adoptive parents know, of course.’

‘Of course they don’t. They only know the girl was put up for adoption and the mother was a wealthy local woman – and there are plenty of those in Bath! The town must have other wealthy women who keep the name of a child’s father from their elderly husbands!’ She laughed at the expression on Steven’s face. ‘You’re an innocent, Mr Anders!’

It didn’t sound like a compliment and he at once denied the accusation but he was shocked nonetheless. Adoption. What a minefield, he thought, and he was at once repelled and fascinated by the complexities of the subject, and the idea came to him that once he was fully qualified, he might specialize in this particular aspect of the work.

When the telling could no longer be put off until the next day, Martha and Tom asked Daisy to come home for another Sunday dinner, So Daisy had arranged for Monty to go to dinner with Dilys. Hettie was still in her own home where, having refused Dilys’s offer of help, she was dealing with the various matters that always arose after a death.

Martha and Tom waited until they had finished their Sunday dinner – a more homely ham casserole instead of a roast hen – and then, at a sign from his wife, Tom cleared his throat and began the little speech he had prepared for the occasion.

‘Your ma and me have got something to say to you,’ he began, ‘and you needn’t fret yourself because it’s not bad news. Not really . . . at least we don’t reckon so.’

He glanced at his wife for support.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

At these words Daisy was immediately alarmed and stared from one to the other until her gaze finally settled on her father. Her mind began to search for possible disasters. ‘They’ve bought a tractor! You’ve lost your job. You’re . . .’ She tried to swallow but her throat was dry. ‘We’re going to lose the cottage!’ Daisy was stricken by the imagined news. Firstly on their own account and secondly because of Steven Anders. Whatever would he think when they were thrown out on to the street? It was every family’s worst nightmare and the shame it brought was only part of it.

But to her surprise her father tutted with annoyance. ‘They’ve done no such thing!’ he told her. ‘And don’t go guessing like that. Now you’ve put me off what I was going to say.’

‘I’m sorry, Pa.’

‘Where was I?’ He looked at Martha.

‘You were saying as it’s nothing to worry about.’

He frowned. ‘Oh. Right . . . The thing is that it’s to do with you, Dais, and me and your Ma.’

Daisy clasped her hands nervously. Now she
knew
it was something bad. Forcing herself to stay calm she watched him as he struggled to form the words which she knew would turn her world upside down. Suddenly it came to her. ‘You’re ill!’ she cried. ‘One of you is ill! Oh, don’t tell me! I can’t bear it!’

Martha said, ‘No, Daisy. We’re both well. It’s nothing like that. We told you – it’s nothing to worry about.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Get on with it, man! You’re making things worse!’

Daisy covered her face with her hands, her heart rate quickening. What could be worse than one of her parent’s getting ill and dying?

Tom cleared his throat for a second time and took a deep breath.

‘The fact is, Daisy, that you are our daughter and always will be.’ He had forgotten what he had rehearsed so diligently and now he simply plunged in regardless. His wife was right. She had to be told. It wasn’t the ‘being told’. It was the way it was told. That’s what Martha had said. She had offered to do the telling but Tom, as head of the household, had insisted it was his responsibility although, when she had finally agreed, the enormity of the task had frightened him.

Daisy slowly uncovered her face.

Her father continued. ‘But a long time ago there was a kiddie born . . .’ He closed his eyes, unable to go on.

Martha seized her chance. ‘Out of wedlock . . .’ she began.

Daisy felt quite faint as the truth dawned. She had been born the wrong side of the blanket! She knew what that meant. How could that have come about, she wondered. Her mother had been expecting a child out of wedlock . . . and her father had rescued her by marrying her? For a moment she could hardly breathe but then she understood how difficult it had been for them all these years.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told them. ‘Truly, it doesn’t.’ She looked at Tom. ‘I’ll always think of you as my father. I’m not upset, Pa.’ Was she upset? She didn’t know. Perhaps she was. She searched for helpful words. ‘These things happen!’ She smiled shakily. Yes. ‘These things happen.’ That sounded wise. That sounded as if she had accepted the news.

Tom groaned.

Her mother reached across the table and took hold of her right hand. ‘We’re trying to tell you that we . . . that we adopted you. You were someone else’s child and the mother didn’t or
couldn’t
keep you and we wanted a baby so we . . .’ It was her turn to fall silent.

Daisy blinked. She had been adopted. That meant that her real mother and father were two other people!

Martha hurried on. ‘Your real mother left some money to help bring you up and then she died but she left a letter for you which you can open when you are eighteen. And I expect she will tell you all about how it happened.’

A letter . . . was that good or bad? ‘So who is she, this mother person?’ she asked in a voice that she did not recognize.

‘We were not allowed to know any details, Dais. That was part of the agreement. It was all kept very private. Secret, almost.’

Tom was recovering. ‘We hoped you wouldn’t blame us for anything. We’ve tried to do the right thing. We had no children and you had no parents that wanted to keep you. Do you see, Dais? It seemed like a blessing in disguise.’

Daisy nodded. ‘Did my . . . my other father die too?’

‘We don’t even know who he was or is.’ Martha’s voice trembled and she blinked back the first tears. ‘We don’t know if he knew about you being born. Your mother might have kept it from him for some reason. As you say, Dais, these things happen.’

Daisy tried to imagine what she ought to be feeling. Questions crowded into her mind. How was she supposed to behave now that she knew the truth? Who was she, exactly? And how would Steven think of her when he knew all the facts?

As the silence lengthened Martha began to cry and Daisy sprang from the chair and ran to her. ‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘As you said, Ma, it’s nothing bad. Nobody is dying and we aren’t going to be thrown out of the cottage. It’s a shock, that’s all, and I’ll get over it. I’ll . . . I’ll just get used to the idea. I know I will – at least, I’m . . . Yes, I will. As long as I don’t have to go with this other father. I can stay here, can’t I? They can’t make me . . .’ Her heart hammered.

Tom said hoarsely, ‘No one can take you away, Daisy, and we want you to stay – don’t we Ma? A hundred per cent. You can bet on that! Martha, do stop crying. You’ll upset Daisy.’ And you might set me off, he thought nervously.

‘It was all legal,’ Martha told her, between sobs. ‘You are legally our child.’ She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then another and another until the fear began to subside. ‘Our daughter,’ she repeated. They watched her until she dried her eyes and returned the crumpled handkerchief to her apron pocket.

Daisy, suddenly weak with emotion, sat down heavily and they looked at each other warily. Was the worst over?

Tom said, ‘Well, I reckon that’s sorted
that
out!’ He beamed with sudden relief. ‘I think we all need a nice cup of tea! What d’you think, Martha?’

‘I could do with one!’ she said. ‘And I’m sure Daisy needs one. She’s been wonderful! Very brave.’ She threw her arms around Daisy and they hugged long and hard, then she headed for the kettle and the tea caddy and found three mugs.

As they sipped the comforting brew, Tom said, ‘Here’s to the future, Dais! May it be a happy one!’

‘And here’s to the past!’ Daisy added. ‘That was happy, too!’

Martha, choked by her daughter’s generous words, reached once again for her handkerchief.

TWELVE

D
aisy lay in bed later that night trying to come to terms with what she had been told. She hoped that her parents did not think that she blamed them in any way for the shock they had given her and she had also been rather quick to say that ‘everything was all right’. Maybe it was but maybe it wasn’t and she now had time to ponder the unknown and that was making her uneasy. Daisy decided she would stay calm and consider the various aspects of what she now knew. Maybe tomorrow she would write it all down. But for now she would simply mull it over in her mind.

‘First,’ she whispered, ‘I had a mother who has died so how will I ever know anything about her? Maybe I never will . . . in which case she will be a mystery mother!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll know roughly what she looked like because I must take after her in some ways so she may have had my hair colour and maybe a few freckles but she might have had dark hair and I may have inherited my hair from my father.’

She thought about Tom and Martha and it dawned on her for the first time that she did not resemble either of them.

‘Not that it matters,’ she reminded herself firmly. ‘Because it doesn’t matter who I look like – I’m just
me
!’

She thought about her parents – the one’s who had brought her up – and smiled. She had been so lucky. She might have been handed over to a couple who would not really love her but her mystery mother had carefully chosen Tom and Martha Letts.

‘Or I might have stayed with the mystery parents who didn’t want me or who might not have been very good parents.’ She frowned into the darkness. She had probably had a lucky escape. Suppose her father had been a criminal! Or he might have been a very famous man who was already married . . . And her mother might have been a very young innocent woman and he had taken advantage of her! That would have been a scandal.

She closed her eyes, confused but not disheartened. It was all rather exciting in a way but there were so many missing details. How was she supposed to understand and accept everything when she did not yet know everything and might never know it? A new thought intruded. Who could she tell who could keep a secret?

Steven? Startled, she sat up suddenly and said, ‘Oh no!’ What would Steven think about it?

A gentle knock on the door interrupted this train of thought and her mother’s head appeared in the doorway.

‘I thought you might be awake and worrying,’ she said. ‘Would you like a mug of Ovaltine?’

Daisy shook her head. ‘Were
you
awake and worrying?’

‘Yes – but your pa’s fast asleep. It would take a hurricane to wake him! He’s lucky like that.’ She crossed the floor and sat on the end of Daisy’s bed. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ she said earnestly, ‘except that now you know about it. Your pa reckons you’ve got a sensible head on your shoulders. He says you’ll be fine.’

‘Suppose the other father was . . . a murderer?’

‘If he was he’ll be dead by now, Dais. Hanged by the neck and all that.’

‘Ah! I hadn’t thought of that!’ Daisy grinned. ‘Or he might have been a handsome prince . . .’

‘. . . who fell in love with a woodcutter’s daughter! Sounds more like a fairy tale!’

Daisy’s expression changed. ‘Ma, when I know all the details . . . Do I have to do anything or can we just keep it to ourselves? What I mean is, I don’t want anything to be different once I know. I like things the way we are. We’re happy, aren’t we?’

‘Of course we are.’

‘So I don’t have to meet my father. I don’t want to know him. If he doesn’t know about me then I don’t have to tell him, do I? Can it be exactly the same afterwards as it was before?’

‘Of course it can. You can tell people or not tell them. It’s going to be up to you, Dais.’

They sat for a few moments in a thoughtful silence.

Daisy said, ‘I might tell Steven . . . if anything happens between us, like getting married, I wouldn’t want to keep things from him.’

‘Quite right. Certainly you could tell him.’ She patted her daughter’s hand. ‘If he was worth his salt, he’d still love you, Dais. Any man would.’

‘So, in a nutshell, everything’s the same as before.’ Relieved, Daisy drew in a long breath.

Martha hugged her. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she promised.

To Daisy’s surprise, however, she was soon of the opinion that, contrary to expectations, everything was
not
fine and this was because she learned on Friday morning that Miss Dutton was to return as Monty’s housekeeper. Her employer broke the news while she was serving up a lunch of sausages and mash.

She stared at him, baffled, a forkful of sausage arrested halfway to her mouth. Slowly she lowered the fork. ‘Coming back here?’

‘Yes. You don’t look very pleased, Daisy. I thought you’d be . . .’