Chapter 29

Claudia’s telephone rang.

‘I’ve got two tickets for a West End show this afternoon.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘I would like you to come with me.’

‘I never go to shows.’

‘You never go to the theatre?’

‘Yes … to see something serious … not to a show.’

The last word was spoken with a withering sarcasm that might have daunted a less stout heart.

‘You’ll love this – I know you will.’

‘What sort of a show is it?’

‘It’s a musical.’

‘A musical!’ Again that scathing tone. ‘If you had suggested a classical concert I might have been interested.’

‘We’ll meet in the foyer – it’s the Prince of Wales Theatre – and a matinee performance so you won’t be late back. I’m going to be in the office that morning – doing some overtime – so it would work out well to meet you there. I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Then you’ll be wasting your time. I won’t be coming.’

‘See you there.’

No you won’t, thought Claudia. Did this woman ever take no for an answer? It was quite ridiculous to expect her to go to a show – and a musical of all things! The telephone rang again.

‘I forgot to tell you what it was.’

‘That’s immaterial, since I shan’t be coming.’

‘It’s a great show – everyone’s raving about it. It’s Mamma Mia.’

‘Fran! Is this your idea of a joke?’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

Saturday was three days away. She would simply put the whole conversation out of her mind. For the next two days she concentrated on not thinking about it. Claudia Hansom was known for her determination – any course of action she had decided would be advantageous to her school usually took place. It was a brave colleague who tried to oppose her. It had happened, once or twice. Poor Rita Worthington, who had been the English teacher at the time, had wanted to stage a drama production that Claudia considered totally unsuitable. She could see Rita standing in her office now.

‘But really, Miss Hansom, the children would so enjoy dressing up as animals. It would release their inner spirit and help them to express themselves without the inhibitions they experience when playing the parts of humans. The very fact that we wouldn’t see their faces would enable them to feel they were free – free as the air – an empowering and enriching opportunity that may not come their way again.’

What rubbish! What words to use where eight- and nine-year olds were concerned! Miss Worthington had gone away with her tail between her legs, and had left the school a few months later. Her letter of resignation had stated that it seemed fruitless to produce ideas of her own and she felt her opportunities to enhance the children’s self expression were being limited.

It was proving difficult to fill her mind with other matters. The house seemed so empty without Socrates. Somehow, with him in his usual place, she had been able to take an interest in various projects. Without his presence it was hard to summon up the motivation – even her latest book on the classical ruins to be seen in northern Africa failed to inspire. With an effort she attempted to lose herself in its pages and congratulated herself that there was nothing else on her mind now to distract her from reading.

Why was it, then, that when Saturday came, she found herself watching the clock? Why did she go to the wardrobe to see if there was something suitable to wear? The light grey suit was not too formal – with a cream blouse it might do. She put it on. Then she picked up her handbag.

On the underground train she worked out why she was going. It certainly wasn’t to see the show – it was out of curiosity to see if Fran really would turn up. Perhaps she would take someone else, to use the tickets. Claudia would try and position herself where she could just peep round the corner – and then she’d withdraw.

Her plan was foiled because Fran was waiting on the pavement outside, and spotted Claudia as soon as she crossed the road from Piccadilly station. She showed no surprise whatever.

‘We’re in the circle. They’re good seats.’ Only three rows from the front, the seats gave them an excellent view of the stage.

‘I’ve ordered some drinks for the interval.’

Claudia couldn’t contain herself.

‘You did that before I came? How could you, when I gave you so little encouragement?’

‘That’s something of an understatement. But Nigel says I’m a very positive person – always expecting things to go well. Like when I started looking for you – I knew I’d find you in the end. And I was prepared to give it as long as it took.’

‘Who’s Nigel?’

‘My husband.’

‘You’re married!’ Claudia was astonished.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘But you are in full-time employment and you don’t wear a ring.’

Fran was secretly pleased Claudia had taken enough interest to notice.

‘Lots of married women work – and I don’t like being forced to wear a badge of office.’

Claudia was silent. This news disturbed her, although she had no idea why it should.

‘Nigel and I have a very good relationship – we are both independent people and need our own space. He knew I wanted to pursue a career and was inclined to do my own thing now and again, and I knew his hobby would absorb a lot of his time. He’s a bit of an eccentric, really.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Basically he’s an engineer. That’s what he does for a living. But he’s a bit older than me, and he can afford to arrange some free time so that he can indulge in his chief joy in life – getting his hands thoroughly immersed in engine oil, and accumulating oily rags. He loves fiddling with old engines and trying to make them work.’

‘Where does he do all this?’

‘In his workshop, which is supposed to be our garage. He has been known to buy a bag of rusty bits for £5 and fifteen years later there is a gleaming, apparently brand new, Douglas motorcycle – every detail authentically reproduced.’

The overture was starting. There was no escape now. The curtain lifted revealing white walls against a dazzling blue background, invoking a Greek atmosphere of warmth and happiness. As the story unfolded the music swelled, filling the auditorium. The catchy rhythms captivated the audience, setting feet tapping and hands clapping, until finally people were standing, waving their arms, and dancing in uninhibited abandon.

Claudia, embarrassed initially, found her foot beginning to move, despite her best endeavours to keep it stationary. Fran did not stand, but clapped enthusiastically, swaying from side to side in her seat. Suddenly Claudia found tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. How ridiculous! Whatever was happening to her?

Nearly two and a half hours later Claudia, bewildered by the sensations that had flooded through her, followed Fran out of the theatre.

‘I thought we’d go for a bite of supper – I know a good place only five minutes away.’

‘I suppose you booked that too.’

‘Actually, no – I didn’t think it would be too full at this time.’

A hand under Claudia’s elbow guided her at what seemed almost a running speed, and soon she found herself sitting opposite Fran in a pleasant Italian restaurant.

‘Won’t Nigel be expecting you back?’

‘No – I told him to look after himself – he’ll probably make an enormous cheese and pickle sandwich and eat it in the workshop. No doubt the bread and his hands will absorb black oil in the same proportions.’

While musing over the menu Claudia remarked, ‘What an idiotic plot that was.’

Fran smiled. ‘I saw your foot tapping, so don’t pretend to be an old grump.’

‘I can see this was all part of your plan. The significance of the title scarcely escapes my notice.’

‘I didn’t think it would – you’re too much of a cute cookie.’

Claudia grimaced. ‘What’s wrong with using the Queen’s English?’

‘Nothing at all. The Queen’s welcome to it – but if you’re going to associate with me you might have to get used to something a little less formal.’

‘I can’t think why you’ve been so persistent – first I’m a “grump”, then I’m too correct for you. Let’s face facts – we have very little in common.’

‘I think we have something so big in common I can’t ignore it. Anyway …’ Fran’s face softened, and her voice was gentle, ‘I knew when I set out to look for you that I wasn’t going to find “the perfect mother” at the end of the trail. Which is just as well, because I’m hardly the perfect daughter. I knew I’d probably find someone who bore the scars of past sorrows. Well, in my own way, I’ve had a struggle over the years too, coming to terms with not knowing who I am. And now I’ve found you, I want to get to know you, and I’m not going to let you get away easily.’

Claudia lowered her head. She fought to allow herself to speak from the heart. It was so hard, after all these years of suppressing her emotions.

‘You’ll have to give me time – I think I’m probably a terrible disappointment. And I know if we go on seeing each other you’re going to want me to answer the other question.’

‘Which is …?’

‘You know very well what it is – the same question Sophie, in that stupid musical, was asking.’

Fran nodded.

‘I realise going back over the past will be painful, but the question isn’t going to go away. Of course I want to know who my father was, and what happened to him. I’m not looking for a relationship with him – it is enough that I have found you, but I am looking for information. I’m not asking you now, but, Claudia, I need to know. I really do need to know.’