Chapter Sixteen

‘Mr Townsend? This is Jess Channing. Kirsten tells me you want to talk to me. What’s it about?’

‘Oh – hallo, Mrs Channing. It’s very good of you to ring me. Yes, I did. I’m a journalist – ’

‘Yes she told me that. She seems to think quite highly of you. I wouldn’t see you if she hadn’t, I don’t trust the press. But your paper seems quite decent, not one of those rags. Now what is the article about exactly?’

‘It’s about socialism, Mrs Channing. About its changing face. And people like you, who have made it your life’s work.’

‘Oh yes? Hasn’t done it much good, has it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The party. Hasn’t done it much good, making it our life’s work. Dreadful mess it’s in and it’s getting worse. Smith and now Blair, nothing more nor less than Tories. I don’t understand people, I really don’t.’

‘No,’ said Gray carefully. ‘No indeed.’

‘Are you a socialist?’

‘I’m afraid not, no.’

‘Never be afraid of declaring your politics,’ she said sternly. ‘If you’re a Tory then just come out and say so, don’t apologise. Anyway, I don’t think there’s much point you talking to me. I can’t tell you much. Talk to Barbara, she’s your girl.’

‘Barbara?’

‘Yes, Barbara Castle. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about it all. Want me to ask her for you?’

‘Oh – yes. Yes please.’

He was so engrossed in his fictional piece, so delighted at the prospect of talking to Barbara Castle, that he forgot, briefly, his real reason for wanting to talk to Jess Channing. Just as she was ringing off he realised what he was doing.

‘Mrs Channing, don’t go. Please. I really do want to talk to you as well. I feel you’re a bit of living history. It’s so marvellous, talking people of your generation.’

‘Living history!’ she said, and emitted what he imagined might be a laugh. ‘I’m very old, if that’s what you mean. You’ll have to use plain language if you’re going to talk to me. Well, you can come if you like. I don’t want to be taken anywhere, I don’t like the sort of place I imagine you’re thinking of and I don’t approve of expense accounts which is what I expect you’ve got. You come here and I’ll give you some lunch’.

‘Oh, but – ’

‘Look, it’s either that or nothing. It’s all the same to me. I’ll give you a good meal. Not that men seem to eat properly any more.’

‘Well – thank you. I’ll try to be worthy of it. Thank you very much. Will Kirsten be there?’

‘I don’t know. She said she was very busy with her job. I think you helped her get it, didn’t you?’

‘Yes I did,’ said Gray.

‘Very good of you. She’s a nice girl, under all the nonsense, Isambard and her mother between them have given her a rotten start.’

‘Er – well – ’ Gray heard his own voice floundering.

‘Come tomorrow, that suit you, one o’clock? Don’t be late.’

‘No, Mrs Channing. Thank you.’

 

Just before he left for Kennington, he had a quick graze through the Channing file. He had been through it so many times now he was beginning to know it by heart. And the early cuttings. But there was nothing. No clues, no leads, nothing even remotely suspicious, just a long catalogue of success. Always less interesting than failure. He was no nearer making any kind of progress with his investigations, about what might have happened twenty years ago. Hopefully today would help.

 

Teresa Booth had just finished turning out Duggie’s desk when she discovered an old Ordnance Survey map of what appeared to her to be a remote district of Scotland. Closer examination confirmed that it was a remote district of Scotland, with an area heavily circled in pencil. On the edge of the pencilled circle was a small town called Auchnamultie. Intrigued, she lifted her phone and dialled Graydon Townsend at his office. He was out, but his nice assistant said he would be back after lunch.

‘Just tell him there’s a place in Scotland called Auchnamultie,’ she said, ‘and I’m sending him a map. He’ll know what it’s about.’

‘Fine,’ said the nice assistant.

Jess Channing was waiting for him in her small house. She was wearing the same stark black as she had at the funeral; it was obviously not purely for purposes of mourning. She was a very tall woman, he realised, as she ushered him in, and he realised too where Kirsten’s fine bones came from – and her wild hair. Jess Channing’s was white, drawn back into a large bun and kept most severely under control with what looked like over a hundred hairpins, but there were tendrils escaping nonetheless around her neck, which was long and delicate (again like Kirsten’s) and her forehead, which was high and hardly lined.

‘Drink?’ she said. ‘No alcohol, but there’s plenty of water and some ginger beer. Which I made.’

‘I’ll have ginger beer. Thank you.’

‘We’ll start straight away,’ she said, leading him into her dining room. He was surprised by how pretty it was.

‘Kirsten looks like you,’ he said as he sat down, shook out his napkin. ‘I expect lots of people tell you that.’

‘They don’t and I’m delighted to hear it. If she dressed a bit better she’d be a nice-looking young woman. I worry about her though. No inner resources. All emotion, no intellect.’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Gray, ‘she seems very bright to me.’

‘I didn’t say she wasn’t bright,’ said Jess severely, ‘I said she had no intellect. There’s a difference. Ill-read. Do you read?’

‘Well – not very much now. No time. I did though.’

‘You should make time for it. What takes all your time up, anyway? Your work I suppose. Dangerous that. It’s what my son does. Works and nothing else. You’ve met Isambard, have you?’

‘Oh – yes. Once or twice.’

‘Do you think that company of his is in trouble?’ she said suddenly. Gray was so startled he dropped his tape recorder. Fiddling about with it, re-setting it, gave him something to do, and he hoped concealed his real feelings. This looked as if it would be better even than he had hoped.

‘Well, I really have no idea,’ he said.

‘Oh come along. Of course you have. You work on the financial pages, don’t you?’

‘Well – obviously it’s having a tough time. All property companies are. And it doesn’t seem to be getting any better for any of them. But he’s very clever, is Mr Channing. A survivor.’

‘I think,’ she said calmly, ladling soup into a bowl, ‘it would be the best thing in the world for him if it crashed.’

‘Oh,’ said Gray. ‘Oh I see.’ He smiled at her uncertainly. ‘This is very nice soup.’ It was: delicious.

‘Leek and potato. Nothing fancy. Yes, it would bring him back to basics. He’s lost sight of everything that matters. He could start again, he’d be fine. What did you think of that service, incidentally?’

‘Oh – very nice. Yes.’

‘I thought it was shocking,’ she said, ‘really shocking. Dreadful plastic place, piped music. You need a church at your departure whether you believe or not. Some good hymns to send you on your way and a sense of eternity. That place felt like a supermarket that opened yesterday and will close tomorrow. More soup?’

‘Yes, please. Did you make the bread?’

‘Yes of course. And what did you think of Mrs Booth’s little outburst?’ The black eyes, so like Bard’s, were gleaming with pleasure.

‘I – well, I thought – ’

‘You like her, don’t you? I saw you with her at the house. Nothing wrong with that, I like her too as a matter of fact. I think she’s honest. Very important, honesty. Kirsten’s honest, you know. Just the same, she shouldn’t have done it. Teresa Booth I mean. Not then. If poor Douglas was anywhere there, he’d have been very upset. So let’s hope he wasn’t. Now then, what can I tell you about the old days? I can remember Mosley coming to the East End, you know, him and his Blackshirts. I was only just married, my husband was in the party as well of course, and two of his friends got hurt in the fighting. That wasn’t about politics of course, that was gang warfare.’

‘So what is about politics?’ said Gray. He really wanted to know, his genuine quest set aside.

‘People. People and their needs and their ideals. And balancing those things. That’s where the party’s gone wrong. It’s all about needs and not about ideals. Thatcher, she got it right, in her way. I didn’t approve of her of course, but she knew about that balance. You know what Nye Bevan said? The Tories are hard on the outside and hard on the inside, whereas we’re hard on the outside but soft inside. Quite true.’

‘And when did you join the party?’

‘Oh, when I was eighteen. Wonderful years. To be working in it, watching it grow, seeing the Trade Unions getting strong, looking out for the workers, for the unemployed … But perhaps the most exciting time was after the war. When we got in finally. They sang “The Red Flag” when they met in the Commons for the first time ever you know, the new government. The officials were horrified, hurried on with things, as if they were covering up some dreadful social gaffe.’ She smiled at Gray. ‘Is this the sort of thing you want?’

‘Oh – yes. It’s wonderful.’ He was already writing this piece in his head; it was far too good to waste.

‘Right. Fish pie? Just wait a minute and I’ll carry on.’

She did carry on; it was wonderful. Gray’s tape ran out twice. She had known them all, Bevan, Morrison, Attlee, Stafford Cripps. She saw the birth of the National Health Service – ‘Disgraced now, Nye would weep’ – the burgeoning of the welfare state – ‘Out of hand these days, I’m afraid’ – the housing boom –

‘Ah,’ said Gray, seeing his chance, ‘and when did Bard – Mr Channing – become involved in the property scene? Was he involved in housing from the beginning?’

‘I suppose so. Not what I’d call housing. He worked for an estate agent. Profit-making, that’s all that was.’

‘And when did he get into the development side of things?’

‘Oh — not until the late ’sixties.’

‘When he went in with Dunsford?’

Jess Channing looked at him for a long moment without speaking. Then, ‘Mr, Townsend,’ she said very firmly, ‘if you wanted to talk about Isambard, you should have said so. And I probably wouldn’t have seen you.’

‘But you were talking about him earlier,’ said Gray reasonably.

She stopped, thought again, then nodded. ‘Perfectly correct. But I said what I chose to say. I don’t want to be questioned about him.’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘So – you still work for the Labour party?’

‘Of course I do. Shall till I drop dead. Now that’d not be a bad place to go, the Walworth Road. The local parties are the lifeblood, you know. The veins that feed the arteries.’

She talked on; Gray listened enthralled. Finally, after a meltingly good apple pie, he sighed and said, ‘That was marvellous. Both the food and the talk. But I think I shall have to get back to my office.’

‘Have a cup of tea. Or I suppose you like coffee?’

‘No,’ said Gray, ‘I like tea. Very very weak.’ She chuckled. ‘No wonder you’re a Tory. Come into the other room.’

‘This is such a pretty house,’ he said.

‘I know. They tried to pull it down once, this street, put up some awful high-rise rubbish, but thank heavens they couldn’t get planning permission. Duchy of Cornwall all round here of course. Only thing that family’s good for, if you ask me, preserving things. That was what was wrong with the first property boom, you know, the way all those awful high-rise blocks and development went on. Right through the’seventies. And dreadful shopping centres in the middle of towns. Destroyed communities. People lost touch with each other. Isambard made his money that way, of course. I didn’t approve then and I don’t approve now. He should never have got permission to build half of them, in my view. I never could quite see how and why it happened.’

Gray managed to go on holding his cup and smiling at her and nodding, as if nothing at all had happened, nothing important had been said; and thought that this must have been very much how St Paul had felt on the road to Damascus.

 

Without knowing why, Francesca felt slightly frightened. Ridiculous, when all she was going to see was some convent and meet a few nuns – and probably a few of the residents of the home as well. But everything to do with this venture of her mother’s had been so mysterious – more than mysterious, totally baffling – that she found the prospect of actually confronting it unnerving. Yes, that was a better word. Unnerved. She glanced at her mother who was sitting next to her, extraordinarily quiet: that was probably what was really unnerving her. No chatter, no nonsense. She had wanted to bring Jack, but her mother had said it was a bad idea. ‘It’s a convent, darling, and the nuns are – well, a bit fuddy-duddy, some of them. And he’d get terribly bored, it’s a long way.’

‘Oh Mummy, don’t be silly. He’d love it, he likes meeting people, and we can stay the night somewhere, go the beach, make a proper trip of it.’

‘Francesca,’ said Rachel, and the tone of her voice was the same as when Francesca had wanted to go somewhere when she was a teenager and there was no way she was going to be allowed, ‘Francesca, it is not a good idea. Leave Jack with Nanny. We shall need plenty of peace and quiet to talk.’

That too had been unnerving.

They were on the A30, following the coast; ‘About another ten miles,’ said Rachel, ‘then we turn off onto the Hartland road. Then it’s some very difficult Devonshire lanes, I’m afraid.’ And fell back into her strange silence.

The lanes were difficult: so narrow, so high-hedged and banked they were quite dim, in spite of the brilliant sunshine, beneath their overhanging trees. The hills were steep, and there was no room for cars to pass – certainly not when one was a Mercedes and the other a tractor. The tractors gave no quarter; twice Francesca had to back downhill, round sharp blind corners for what seemed like miles. It added to her sense of unease.

But then, suddenly, the landscape opened up, and they were facing a wide, wide valley leading down to the sea: immediately in front of them was a great grey house. ‘That is what we call the Help House, or will be,’ said Rachel, crossing her fingers. ‘Isn’t it lovely? We’ll come and look at it later. Now take the right fork, darling, and we reach the convent in about five minutes.’

The convent was situated at the end of a no-through lane; a young man, beautifully polite, saluted them and opened a five-bar gate. ‘That’s Thomas,’ said Rachel. ‘Hallo, Thomas, how are you?’

‘Very very well,’ said Thomas carefully, smiling at her. ‘Very very well. Thank you.’

‘Sweet,’ said Rachel briefly. ‘Birth defect. Mental age of five, maybe four.’

Francesca was shocked; he had looked absolutely normal. No-one would have guessed there was anything wrong with him.

She eased the car through the gate into a wide, cobbled courtyard; the convent, which was grey stone, like the house they had just passed, was built round it on three sides. It was Victorian: Victorian Gothic, with stone mullioned windows, and a ravishing wisteria growing over the great arched door.

‘What a lovely place,’ said Francesca, smiling.

‘Isn’t it? Park over there, darling, look,’ said Rachel. ‘Ah, here is Reverend Mother now.’

A nun, aged at the most, Francesca thought, about forty, came out of the building, smiling at them. She was, quite simply, beautiful. Lovely skin, almost unlined, dazzling blue eyes, perfect straight little nose, full, smiling mouth. She wore the modern dress, and wisps of fair curly hair escaped from beneath her headdress. Her legs, exposed from mid-calf, were slim, her ankles elegant above her stout shoes – not so different, Francesca thought wryly, from the ones Kirsten and Victoria wore.

‘Hallo Rachel. And you must be Mrs Channing. Welcome. It’s a great pleasure to have you here.’

‘Thank you. But do please call me Francesca.’

‘Now Rachel, there is lunch ready, in the dining room, but I wasn’t sure how you envisaged the day going.’

Even she, even in her sweet serenity, looked a little strained. What is this, thought Francesca, what on earth is going on?

‘I thought what would be best,’ said Rachel carefully, ‘is for me and Francesca to meet Mary. Has she had her lunch?’

‘She has indeed. And is in the library, waiting for you. But aren’t you hungry, both of you?’

‘Francesca, are you hungry, darling?’

‘Not specially, no.’ It was true, she wasn’t; her inside felt as if it was curled into knots.

‘Nor me. Well, Mother, we’ll go and find Mary, take her for a walk perhaps, and then come back.’

‘Very well.’ Reverend Mother leant forward, kissed Rachel suddenly on the cheek. ‘I hope you have a nice afternoon.’

 

The entrance hall of the convent was wood panelled, with a vaulted white ceiling, and a corridor leading off it on either side; they walked down one, past a small chapel and a vast dining hall with long refectory tables, and into a large room, its walls lined with books. In the corner several people were sitting in a circle, a nun in the middle of the group. She was reading aloud: Francesca recognised The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. As they approached, a young woman saw them, jumped up, hugged Rachel. Rachel hugged her back. ‘Hallo Mary,’ she said quietly.

Mary put her finger to her lips. Rachel nodded, smiling; Mary took her hand and led her outside. Francesca followed.

‘This is Mary,’ said Rachel. ‘Mary, this is Francesca.’

‘Hallo,’ said Mary.

She was small, with brown wispy hair, and wide blue eyes. She had Down’s Syndrome. She smiled at Francesca.

‘Hallo Mary,’ said Francesca.

‘We thought we’d all go for a walk,’ said Rachel. ‘Would you like that, Mary?’

Mary nodded enthusiastically; took her hand. She signalled Francesca to go the other side of her, and took her hand too. She peered up carefully into her face, examining it, then turned to Rachel.

‘Pretty,’ she said.

Rachel laughed. ‘Very pretty.’

‘Thank you,’ said Francesca, slightly awkwardly. She felt she didn’t know quite how to react, what her role was in this strange drama.

‘Get the eggs?’ said Mary hopefully.

‘No, not without Richard,’ said Rachel. ‘That wouldn’t be kind. Richard is Mary’s best friend here,’ she said to Francesca. ‘They collect the eggs together. Always together,’ she added firmly, looking at Mary. ‘What about the woods?’

Mary nodded. ‘The woods,’ she said happily, and started walking more purposefully, ahead of them, pulling at their hands. It was like going for a walk with Jack.

They went out of the convent gate, down a track; through a split in the hill, Francesca could see the sea, brilliant, dazzling in the sun. So why did it look to her somehow menacing, troubling?

Mary suddenly dropped Rachel’s hand, tapped her head, smiled radiantly. ‘Head all right now,’ she said.

‘Good,’ said Rachel. Mary took her hand again and kissed it; then she kissed Francesca’s too.

‘Poor Mary had a fall,’ said Rachel, ‘didn’t you, Mary?’

Mary nodded vigorously. ‘Down the cellar.’

‘Yes, down the cellar steps. Concussed herself and ended up in hospital.’

‘You came,’ said Mary. ‘She came,’ she added, turning her face to Francesca. ‘Came to see me in – ’ There was a long pause while she was clearly struggling to get the word out right: ‘Hospital.’

‘Oh,’ said Francesca uncertainly. ‘When was that, then?’

‘Oh, a couple of weeks ago,’ said Rachel casually.

So that was where she had been. Not with a boyfriend. Here, with Mary.

 

They walked for about half an hour. Francesca felt increasingly tense. Mary was very sweet, she could see why Rachel was fond of her, but there didn’t seem quite the need for this. There was obviously an end product, an explanation: but why couldn’t it have come earlier?

As they walked back up the lane, she pulled ahead; she didn’t want to be part of them, she wasn’t part of them. They were in some incomprehensible way a unit, and she felt awkward, misplaced in it.

‘You go back to Sister now, Mary,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Later for tea?’ said Mary hopefully.

‘Maybe. We’ll see.’

Mary kissed her again and skipped off. Her legs, Francesca noticed, were slightly mottled, in spite of the warmth of the sun. She looked at her mother and smiled warily.

‘Now what?’

‘I’d – like to talk to you. Then we can go back to see Reverend Mother.’

‘Talk to me. Mummy, what is this about? We’ve had all day to talk.’

‘I wanted you to meet Mary first.’

‘But why? What is this? And what is Mary to you? I don’t understand, any of it’.

Rachel was staring rather fixedly at the door Mary had just disappeared through. She looked pale. There was a silence, then she took a deep breath and, as if bracing herself for a physical blow, turned to Francesca.

‘Mary is my daughter,’ she said. ‘My daughter and – well, and your sister.’

 

What upset her most was her own outrage. She felt ashamed of it, even as she raged at her mother, fearing that it was for the wrong, the worst reason, that it was because she could not bear the thought that she should have such a sister. She knew, she was sure indeed, that it was not: she had done work for Mencap, it was one of her charities, she had attended functions, raised money for them, gone on Fun Days. She was unfazed by the mentally handicapped, or so she had always thought; had managed to communicate with them, had expressed and meant huge admiration for their carers, their families, and the heavy burden they bore. So why, now, did she feel phsycially nauseated, wretched, and so furiously, frantically shocked by her mother?

‘It’s not Mary herself,’ she said carefully, trying to remain calm, negotiating herself into the heavy, weaving traffic on the A30. ‘Of course it’s not. It’s that she’s been there, all these years, and you’ve never told me. An immense, terrible secret. I don’t know how you could do it. Did my – my father know?’

‘No. No he didn’t,’ said Rachel quietly, ‘and so therefore of course I couldn’t tell you. Until he died. And then it seemed impossible, it was much too late.’

‘How could you marry someone and not tell him you had a child? How could you, it’s unthinkable, dreadful – ’

‘Francesca, things were very different then. When I was married. You simply couldn’t imagine it, you don’t understand. My parents never spoke of it, they forbade me to speak of it. I was eighteen years old when Mary was born: I had no job, no status. I made a mistake, a stupid mistake. Her father was almost as young as I was: both he and his parents refused to help in any way. All I was equipped to do, had been trained to do, was get married. That was what life was about then, for a girl like me. You left school, you did the season and unless you were very plain or very lacking in charm, you found a husband.’

‘And these husbands, they didn’t like used goods, is that right?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Rachel had become very white, her face drawn. Francesca knew she was hurting her and she couldn’t stop. It was helping.

‘If he’d known you’d had a baby, my father, he’d have backed off. You’d have failed your test, wouldn’t have graduated properly. So you kept your mouth shut. Good God.’

‘Francesca, I would ask you at least to try and understand. Life was totally different then. An unmarried woman with a child was an outcast, and the child too. And a mentally handicapped child – well. Impossible. Beyond the pale. There was no way I could have supported myself and Mary, and no way my parents were going to do it for me. Adoption was out of the question, too, because of – well, because of how Mary is. The Community seemed to me the only answer. Was the only answer.’

Francesca was silent, trying at least to appear rational. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘no, perhaps I don’t understand. But a child, a person; denying her existence, just pretending she wasn’t alive, didn’t exist …’

‘I never pretended that. I did my best for her. Always.’

‘You pretended it to the world. To your husband and your daughter. It’s horrible, it’s obscene.’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Rachel.

‘Well, it may not seem so to you,’ said Francesca. ‘That’s how it looks to me. And yet you told Bard. You told my husband. He was the only person, sharing this awful thing with you. How could you do that, Mummy, how could you make him party to it?’

‘I didn’t want to. I tried not to. But he made me tell him. I think – well, I think he guessed anyway.’

‘When?’

‘When he went down to the convent.’

‘Bard went there? With you? And met Mary?’

‘Yes. Yes, he did.’

‘When?’

‘Oh – a couple of months ago. That was when I — I told him.’

‘My God,’ said Francesca, ‘this is really unbelievable. I don’t think I can stand much more.’

‘I had to take him,’ said Rachel, ‘because I needed the money. He wouldn’t give it to me without visiting the place. Obviously.’

‘No. No of course not. But he still visited it without telling me. Without you telling me. And knew. And never said anything. God, it’s – it’s outrageous. I feel such a fool. What else do you think he might be keeping from me?’

‘Darling – ’ Rachel put her hand out, gently touched Francesca’s arm. She shook it off violently.

‘Don’t. Just don’t. This isn’t something you can charm your way out of. It’s too big, too serious. And I hope you realise, I do hope you do realise, that this is my marriage you’ve been playing games with.’

‘I have not been playing games with your marriage. And you’re driving much too fast.’

Francesca ignored her.

‘Asking a husband to be an accomplice in a deception of this kind is playing games with a marriage. In my book. I’m sorry. And I’m shocked and appalled you should do it. And that he should agree.’

‘Francesca, you’re over-reacting.’

‘Oh am I,’ she said, and she was near to tears now, could feel them rising, painfully harsh, in her throat. ‘Over-reacting. How silly of me. Over such a small, unimportant matter. A sister, aged – what thirty-five, is she? Whom I’ve never known about. Whom my mother and my husband have known about. Lied to me about. Sorry. Of course I shouldn’t react very strongly at all about something like that. God, don’t talk to me any more, Mummy, please. I can’t handle it.’

All she wanted now, she realised, as finally they reached the haven that was London, as she dropped her mother, with a terse goodbye, at the taxi rank at Hammersmith Broadway and headed the car in the direction of St John’s Wood, all she wanted was to see Liam. Liam would understand; he knew about rejection, about estrangement. Liam could ease her pain.

 

Rachel poured herself a very strong gin and tonic, and sat staring over the hot, dusty wastes of Battersea Park and tried to fight off an intense rising panic. She had been right all along, and they had been wrong, Bard and Reverend Mother; it was as impossible to explain as she had known it would be, and Francesca clearly found it impossible to understand. And how indeed could she, how could she possibly be expected to understand, a child of the easily permissive age, how could she grasp the absolute impossibility of keeping a baby, any baby, without a husband, and especially a baby such as Mary? And as she sat there, shaking now with misery, reliving the nightmare of it all, thirty-five years ago, she felt along with her remorse and grief a fierce, wild resentment that she had not been allowed to keep Mary and to love her, as she had so longed to do …