House of Echoes

‘I’m sorry. This is obviously not a good time –’

‘Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that, my dear.’ He spoke with ill-concealed though mild irritation. ‘Once you have told me the purpose of your visit.’

‘I think you know my mother.’ She blurted it out without preamble, transfixed by the unblinking eyes.

‘Indeed?’

‘Laura Duncan.’

For a moment he stared at her in complete silence and she saw that at last she had succeeded in disconcerting him. She held her breath, returning his gaze with difficulty.

‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are little Lydia.’

Suddenly Joss found it difficult to speak. ‘Jocelyn,’ she whispered. ‘Jocelyn Grant.’

‘Jocelyn Grant. I see.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You and I should walk, I think. Come.’ Stepping out onto the path he slammed his door behind him and turned right, striding purposefully along the road behind the sea wall without a backward glance to see if she were following.

‘How did you find out about your mother?’ He spoke loudly against the noise of the wind. His hair was streaming behind him, reminding Joss irresistibly of an Old Testament prophet in full cry.

‘I went to St Catherine’s House to find my birth certificate. My name is Jocelyn, not Lydia.’ She was growing short of breath, trying to keep up with him. ‘Jocelyn Mary.’

‘Mary was your great grandmother, Lydia your grandmother.’

‘Please, is my mother still alive?’ She had had to run a few steps to stay beside him.

He stopped. His expression, beaten by the wind into fiery aggressiveness suddenly softened with compassion. Joss’s heart sank. ‘She’s dead?’ she whispered.

‘I’m afraid so, my dear. Several years ago. In France.’

Joss bit her lip. ‘I had so hoped –’

‘It is as well there is no chance of your meeting, my dear. I doubt if your mother would have wanted it,’ he said. The kindness and sympathy in his voice were palpable; she was beginning to suspect that he must have been a very good pastor.

‘Why did she give me away?’ Her voice was trembling and she felt her tears on her cheeks. Embarrassed she tried to wipe them away.

‘Because she loved you. Because she wanted to save your life.’

‘Save my life?’ Shocked, Joss echoed him numbly.

He looked down at her for a moment, then he reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. Carefully he wiped her cheeks. He smiled, but there was unhappiness in his eyes as he shook his head. ‘I prayed you would never come to find me, Jocelyn Grant.’

He turned away from her and took several steps back along the path then he stopped and swung back to face her. ‘Are you able to forget that you ever went to Belheddon? Are you able to put it out of your mind forever?’

Joss gasped. Confused she shook her head. ‘How can I?’

His shoulders slumped. ‘How indeed.’ He sighed. ‘Come.’

Abruptly he began to retrace his steps and she followed him in silence, her stomach churning uncomfortably.

His narrow front hall, as he closed the door against the roar of wind and sea, was uncannily quiet. Shrugging off his own coat he helped her with her jacket and slung both onto a many branched Victorian hat stand then he headed for the staircase.

The room into which he showed her was a large comfortable study overlooking the sea wall and the white-topped waves. It smelled strongly of pipe smoke and the huge vase of scented viburnum and tobacco flowers mixed with Michaelmas daisies, which stood on a table amidst piles of books. Gesturing her to a deep shabby arm chair he went back to the door and bellowed down the stairs. ‘Dot! Tea and sympathy. My study. Twenty minutes!’

‘Sympathy?’ Joss tried to smile.

He hauled himself onto the edge of his large untidy kneehole desk and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Are you strong, Jocelyn Grant?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I think so.’

‘Are you married?’ His eyes had travelled thoughtfully to her hands and his gaze rested on her wedding ring.

‘As you see.’

‘And do you have children?’

She glanced up. His gaze was steady. She tried to read it and failed. ‘I have a little boy, yes. He’s eighteen months old.’

He sighed. Standing up he walked round his desk and went to stand at the window, staring down at the sea. There was a long silence.

‘It was after I had Tom that I realised I wanted to find out about my real parents,’ she said at last.

‘Of course.’ He did not turn round.

‘Is that my father – the Philip who is buried in the churchyard at Belheddon?’ she went on after another silence.

‘It is.’

‘Did you bury him?’

He nodded slowly.

‘What did he die of?’

‘He had a riding accident.’ He turned. ‘I liked Philip very much. He was a kind and courageous man. He adored your mother.’

‘Was it because of the accident she gave me away?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes, I think that was part of it, certainly.’ Sitting down behind his desk he leaned forward on his elbows and rubbed his face wearily. ‘Your mother was never very strong physically, although emotionally she was the strongest of us all. After Philip’s death she gave up. There had been two other children before you. They both died before they reached their teens. Then there was a long gap and then you came along. She had already planned to leave. I don’t think she and Philip wanted any more children …’ His voice died away thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but you must have been expecting some tale of woe; why else would a woman of Laura’s background give away her child?’

‘I …’ Joss cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I didn’t know anything about her background. Only the address.’

He nodded. ‘Jocelyn. Once more, can I beg you to forget about all this? For your own sake and the sake of your family don’t embroil yourself in the affairs of the Duncans. You have your own life, your own child. Look forward, not backwards. There is too much unhappiness attached to that house.’ His face lightened as a quiet tap sounded at the door. ‘Come in, Dot!’

The door opened and the corner of a tray emerged, pushing it back. Mr Gower did not stand up. He was frowning. ‘Come in, my love and join us for tea. Meet Jocelyn Grant.’

Joss half turned in her chair and smiled at the small, slim woman who had appeared, bent beneath the weight of the tray. Leaping to her feet she reached out to help her. ‘It’s all right, my dear. I’m stronger than I look!’ Dot Gower’s voice was not only strong but also melodious. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ She plonked the tray down in front of her husband where, balanced on top of his papers it sloped alarmingly towards the window. ‘So, shall I pour?’

‘Dot,’ Edgar Gower said slowly. ‘Jocelyn is Laura Duncan’s child.’