What She Never Told Me (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

Eventually, more than two months after I sent my email, the brewery contacts me.

‘Am I speaking to Sandra Munro?’

‘You are.’

‘My name is Jill Tomlinson. I’m company secretary at Tennyson’s. The brewery. You contacted us a little while ago.’

‘Ah, yes, I did.’

‘I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to get back to you, but we don’t often have requests like yours. Writers and journalists tend to be so much more interested in the Quaker companies. They don’t seem to realise that some of the brewing companies also indulged in a great deal of philanthropy and looked after their employees very well indeed,’ she says.

‘Yes, it’s a shame, really.’ I can’t think of anything else to say.

‘Now, would you mind telling me a little bit more about your project? About your previous work in this area?’

I’m not prepared for this, but I’m good at thinking quickly. I know I can’t lie. If I tell her I’ve had work published, she may check me out on the internet. So I tell her that I studied sociology at Birkbeck College in London as a mature student and, through my degree, became interested in corporate philanthropy. I tell her that this is my first major project and that it may eventually form the basis for a doctorate.

She seems to be happy with this.

‘I don’t know what your schedule is, but what I suggest is that you come and visit us and see our archives. You also asked if you might be able to talk to any former staff who worked in Dublin. I’m afraid there aren’t many still alive, but there are a few. That’s another reason we’ve taken a while to respond to you. We had to contact them and ask if they would be willing to talk to you. Happily, they are, so if you have a pen handy . . .’

My hand shakes as I begin to write. She gives me four names and a little bit of background on each, but only one of them was in Dublin during the 1960s, and his name is David Prescott. My heart is racing so fast that I feel it’s going to burst. I can hardly speak. She gives me the addresses. David Prescott lives in a village near Northampton called Friars Ashby.

Jill Tomlinson has suggested that I visit the brewery’s head office in Northampton, where she will give me access to the company archives and be available to answer any questions I may have. I agree, because even though I now have what I want, I don’t want to raise any suspicion on her part that I have a different agenda. And maybe I’ll discover some useful information in the archives, possibly even see my mother in a photograph. Down the phone line I can hear her flicking pages. When she speaks again, she suggests a date two weeks away.

‘Actually, I wonder whether you might be able to fit me in this week. I’m afraid I have a full schedule next week and for a few weeks after that.’

‘Let me see . . . Yes, I think we can manage it. How does eleven o’clock on Thursday work for you?’

It’s Tuesday now.

‘That works perfectly for me,’ I tell her. ‘Thank you so much, Jill.’

*

I have a session with Julia, this time at the flat because the studios are booked up. She’s embracing the lessons with a fervour bordering on the religious. Her singing is improving, her voice opening up, becoming freer. I’m delighted with her progress and she’s happy, too.

‘I can’t believe my luck in having you as my teacher! I never imagined I could sing like this,’ she says as the session ends.

There’s no one coming after her, so I ask whether she’d like a cup of tea.

‘I’d love one!’

Today she’s wearing a close-fitting navy top with a sweetheart neckline, over a pair of white capri pants. Her perfect little feet are encased in expensive-looking pointy-toed flat shoes. I tend to wear loose, comfortable things when I’m teaching at home. An old T-shirt or jumper and slouchy pants. But when Julia is around, I take extra care with my clothes because I don’t want to feel like a slob. Today, I’m wearing a white silk shirt over a pair of skinny jeans. It will be just my luck to spill tea over it.

As I fill the kettle and take out a couple of mugs, Julia continues in her enthusiastic way, admiring just about everything in the flat – the big windows overlooking the communal garden at the back, the wooden floorboards that we’ve painted white, the paintings on the walls.

‘I painted them,’ I say.

‘They’re yours? But they’re marvellous!’ she exclaims.

I know my paintings aren’t bad. They’re certainly big, and Sandy likes them because they provide striking colour against the white walls and floor. But they’re not
marvellous
. They’re abstract canvases on which I have let loose paintbrushes dipped in various shades of blue and green. Sometimes I throw in some streaks of red, purple, orange, yellow, but the dominant colours are always blue and green. I’ve never thought of my colour preferences as being psychologically significant, but seeing Sheila regularly has made me think about ordinary things a bit more. Maybe I should mention the paintings to her. What would she make of them?

Julia’s voice interrupts my thoughts. She’s looking at a photo collage in the kitchen.

‘Is this you?’

She’s pointing at an old Polaroid snap of me aged about twenty. I’m standing in a queue outside the Royal Albert Hall and I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly photogenic, but I like this photograph, taken when I was still a student. I look good in it. My hair is piled up on top of my head. I’m smiling and I look happy and attractive.

‘That’s me. My friends and I queued for hours for a prom. I got bad sunburn on the back of my neck.’

‘You wouldn’t catch me standing in a queue for hours,’ she says, continuing to examine the collage.

‘Is this your husband?’ She’s pointing to an old photograph of Sandy.

‘Yes, but that was taken a long time ago.’

‘He’s rather attractive, isn’t he?’ she says. ‘I bet he looks even more handsome now. Men often improve as they age, don’t they?’

‘Well, I don’t know if that applies to too many of them, but I have to agree that Sandy still has whatever he had then. I’m not sure I can say the same about myself, though.’

I laugh as I say this, waiting for her to come out with something complimentary, to say that I still look good, but she says nothing, just smiles, bends her head and takes a long sip of her tea.

I feel as if I’ve been slighted. Admitting to myself that I’d hoped for a meaningless compliment from Julia makes me want to lash out at her, say something about her singing to take her down a peg or two. But, of course, I don’t. Instead, I mention that Ben hasn’t been to see me for a couple of weeks because of one family commitment or another. She and Ben are now overlapping regularly and, because they’re so easy with each other, I’m convinced that they’re meeting away from the studio as well.

‘Yes, I know,’ she says. ‘He has rather a lot on his plate. Difficult wife and all that.’

‘Difficult?’

‘She resents him having a singing lesson every week because it’s time away from her and the children, and because it costs money. I can understand that, but I do feel sorry for him. He loves the sessions with you so much.’

I’ve met Ben’s wife a few times – often enough to know that she doesn’t resent him having singing lessons. That Ben is clearly discussing his marriage with Julia makes me worried that their friendship is progressing towards a boundary that it shouldn’t cross.

‘Julia, it’s none of my business, but I do feel in some way responsible for . . . for anything that may be going on between you and Ben.’

I pause. Her expression tells me nothing. She stares at me, waiting for me to continue.

‘I don’t want to see him hurt or his marriage jeopardised. I just think you should be . . . well, careful.’

She sighs and smiles.

‘Oh, Louise, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to threaten Ben’s marriage. He and I are friends. Yes, I do know he’s got an enormous crush on me and we meet up sometimes for a drink. But that’s all it is. You can be sure there’s nothing going on between him and me.’

I’m not convinced, but maybe that has less to do with her and more to do with me and the lack of security I feel in my own marriage. When she finally leaves, I wave her off with relief.

*

By the time Sandy comes home, I’ve put Julia and Ben out of my mind and I’m thinking, with a mixture of nervousness and excitement, about my trip to see David Prescott. Sandy picks up on my mood.

‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ he says, holding out his hand for the glass of red wine I’ve just poured for him.

I’ve noticed that, since our reconciliation, he doesn’t directly ask me to explain anything. Instead, he makes a comment that provides an opportunity for me to elaborate. He’s still being careful with me.

‘Am I? Well, I’ve had a few good sessions today.’

‘Found a new Callas or Pavarotti?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m seeing a lot of improvement in a couple of people. It’s very gratifying. It’s a nice feeling.’

I know I should tell him about my plan to drive to Northamptonshire on Thursday, but if I do that I’ll end up telling him all about my elaborate deception, so I keep quiet.

After supper, we decide to watch a film, but, as usual, we can’t make up our minds. So we open the box of DVDs and go to our default favourite,
Withnail and I
. We both love that film, although I’m no longer able to watch the last few minutes because I find them unbearably sad. But I notice that, even at the funniest moments, Sandy isn’t entirely engaged with it and is even a bit fidgety. He checks his phone several times.

In the old days, I would have joked with him, asked him whether he was expecting a text from his lover. But tonight I say nothing. I pretend I haven’t noticed anything, but I can’t help being a little bit anxious.

‘I could do without this bloody trip,’ he says eventually, putting his phone down.

‘Trip?’

‘The Vienna one. Tomorrow.’

‘Oh. That’s a bit sudden.’

‘No, it’s been in the diary for ages.’

‘First I’ve heard of it.’

‘Shite, sorry, I must have forgotten to mention it.’

What he means is that it was arranged during our time apart.

‘How long will you be there?’

‘I’ll be back on Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday? That’s a long conference.’

‘It’s two conferences, really. The one in Vienna is Thursday and Friday and a bit of Saturday, but I’ve been asked to stand in for a speaker who’s had to drop out of a seminar in Prague on Monday. There’s no point in coming back here for a day and then heading off again, is there?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Don’t look so glum, hen. I’ll bring you back a Sachertorte.’

‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’

It’s hard pretending to be bright and confident. I have to keep reminding myself that Sandy has chosen to be with me. He left for a while and now he’s back. I shouldn’t concern myself with anything else. I shouldn’t be suspicious, or jealous. I could ruin everything.

So I try to be enthusiastic about his trip, suggesting that he might be able to get to the opera on Saturday evening.

‘I’ve already thought of that,’ he says, with a big grin. ‘
Der Rosenkavalier
. Managed to get a ticket.’

Rosenkavalier
. Of all operas, the one I love best. Well, apart from
Butterfly
and
Otello
and . . .

‘I’m green with envy,’ I say.

And even as I say this, I hear in my head the heartbreaking strains of the final trio, in which the Marschallin accepts that she must give her lover, Oktavian, to the younger Sophie. I hope it’s just my fatalistic streak breaking through and that my sense of foreboding has no foundation.

I lie awake long into the night. My thoughts are full of Sandy and the fear that he may still be seeing someone else, someone he’s going to be with in Vienna. But they’re also full of the trip I’m going to make to Northampton on Thursday to meet the man who may be my father.

Sandy leaves early the following morning and I do something despicable when I eventually get up. I go through his clothes, looking for evidence I hope I won’t find. A hair that isn’t mine on the shoulder of a jacket. A crumpled note from a woman whose name I don’t recognise. A restaurant bill. But there’s nothing incriminating. I have to give him the benefit of the doubt.

My mother once read my diary and challenged me about what I had written. Appalled and embarrassed, I promised myself then that I would never do what she had done. Yet here I am, examining my husband’s clothes, taking things out of his pockets, even separating pairs of socks to check whether there’s something hidden in them, some love token. I’m filled with shame.

I am afraid and excited at the same time.

I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Mamma. I wonder what she will say, how she will react. We aren’t getting along very well at the moment and that’s probably my fault. I think she sees me growing up and growing away from her. I just wish she would be a little more patient and leave me to myself. I’m not going anywhere. All I want to do is be in charge of my own life and my own future.

I will probably have to tell her soon that I’m going to have a baby. I think that will mend things between us. She’ll understand that we may have our differences but that underneath everything we are the same.

I don’t know what I will say to Declan, or even if I will say anything at all. I look at him sometimes and wonder whether I really love him. I think I do. But Mamma keeps telling me I can do better, get a boyfriend who’s better looking. If I really did love him, wouldn’t I stand up for him and say I didn’t want anyone else?

‘What’s this?’ my mother demanded, holding up the green exercise book I used as my journal.

I wasn’t sure what she meant. I turned to my journal first thing in the morning and last thing at night, and I often forgot the extent to which I recorded the mishmash of thoughts that flitted through my head.

‘
I will probably have to tell her soon that I’m going to have a baby
,’ she read, putting heavy emphasis on the final six words.