Conspiracy of Secrets. Bobbie Neate
absolutely adored him because he was the baby she had always longed for.’
But her words did not justify to me why he couldn’t drink the same milk as we did and why his toast was eatable only if it was one special shade of brown, with no crusts.
Sometimes my mother would elaborate: ‘You see they wanted a baby and no baby arrived. That’s why they had Auntie Mamie.’
She talked of ‘they’ and I had no idea who ‘they’ were, so I assumed she meant Home Granny and her husband – the man nobody ever talked of.
‘What do you mean?’ I would ask.
‘Well, they were desperate for a baby and when none arrived Home Granny took Auntie Mamie from a hospital.’ She paused. ‘You know, she is much older than Poppy and she’s his adopted sister.’
I still didn’t understand the situation but she always finished her story with these words: ‘What a thrill it must have been when Poppy turned up. How exciting it must have been.’ And Mum always threw open her arms in empathetic glee. It did not explain why we all had to run around pleasing Stepfather, but as a child I accepted what she said.
I can recall many incidents that involved my stepfather’s love of golf. He also enjoyed going out in the car and in those early days we dreaded his directing my mother to take him to another golf course. Here, he would walk to the golf professionals’ hut, and all of us, including my mother – who had kindly driven him there – would be left sitting in the car with nothing to do but wait.
When we visited his hometown of Hoylake on the Wirral he told us he had been a scratch player. He boasted that all he had to do was cross the road from his house to play on his local course, the Royal Liverpool. At the time I thought he must have an exceptionally good player, as he had written instructional books such as Swing to Better Golf.
Then there were the many visits to golf championships. One day he and my mother collected me from primary school and sprang the surprise that, instead of going home to tea, I was going to the Open Championship at St Andrews. Mum, of course, drove all the four hundred miles far into the night. The town was like another home for Louis. He loved the Scottish settlement. Another golfing town we often visited was Lytham St Annes. It was fun to be out of school but I was beginning to miss vital lessons, and the fascination of walking on miles of flat sand soon lost its edge as Stepfather talked endlessly with his golfing friends in the failing light. On a rare occasion of honesty my mother whispered that she was bored as well.
Much later, I recall, when I was not living at home any more, he gloated that he was paid £10,000 for one golf article. I couldn’t think why his words were worth so much, but I accepted that he had earned that amount of money, otherwise how did he keep up his lifestyle? It was not until much later that a cousin suggested to me that perhaps he was wildly exaggerating how much he earned. But, as life got busier and we became older, my mother finally put her foot down. She’d had her fill of striding around golf courses rushing to keep up with the players. She cleverly persuaded him to watch the competitions on the TV from his armchair. So he wrote golfing articles without actually being present at the tournament, which was quite an achievement in those days.
If he wanted to, Louis could be witty, entertaining, humorous and charming. It all depended on his mood, and more importantly the social status of the person he was with. If they were important to him he was almost a good host; however, if he thought the man would be of little value to him he would be treated with distain. Women were regarded differently.
Mum was allowed to tease him on the odd occasions. One Easter Sunday was especially memorable and relevant to this story. Louis had plonked himself down in his armchair after a chocolate filled day with one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other playing with the armrest. He had been in a reasonable mood all day and Mum decided to risk a little tease. ‘It’s hard to imagine that the Great Louis T was ever a baby.’ She watched for a reaction before continuing, ‘You are just too huge, too distinguished, too illustrious.’
‘Go on, show them,’ said Mum, making bigger waves with her arm in the direction of his seat. He was slumped low, his left hand was still jammed in his blazer pocket. Could I detect unease? We caught Mum’s bravery. ‘Show us,’ we demanded. Cautiously he drew a small card out of his pocket. It was unlike Mum’s photos, not shabby or curled or stuck with ageing corners. This print appeared pristine. An Edwardian baby sat in a pot-bellied perambulator wearing a lacy jacket and a frilly bonnet with ribbons tied under his chin. We took turns to study the picture but he never let go of the card. ‘The great Louis T started as an exceptional baby,’ Mum joked. ‘So big for a one-year-old,’ she giggled, ‘really exceptionally large for an exceptional man.’
The Old Mill House had grown haphazardly over the four centuries it had been a family home. There had been three Victorian extensions with no architectural planning, so this meant the flooring upstairs was irregular. At the top of the steep back stairs was the long landing. Then two further steps led up to the bathroom, the toilets and the guestroom. At the top of the steps there was a loose floorboard.
Stepfather’s hobby was photography, and when he first moved in he used to bury himself in the old scullery with a large collection of chemicals and trays of fluids. It was a large room. He used to give me undeveloped rolls of film, on which, I could etch a story sequence. Also there was a certain fascination watching the images emerge in the chemicals. With the noise of constantly flowing cold water washing the new prints, mixing pleasantly with the noises of clanging saucepans, chopping knives and family chatter from the kitchen, I felt safe. However, because his relatives had moved in and taken over the pantry he was soon relocated into one of the upstairs toilets. He now had a designated room. The toilet bowl was taken out and replaced with the large sink taken from downstairs. Cold taps were fitted and shelves made for all his materials. It was equipped with a high stool, a draining board, various trays for developing fluid and the latest photographic machinery including a large contrivance with a bulge that enlarged the image. There was a thin rope strung above the shelves for hanging prints to dry. The room was tiny. It could only be described as a cupboard. He was a large man, so there was little room for anybody else. The window, with its bubble-frosted glass, criss-crossed by shadows and outlines of wisteria branches, was lost for ever, as he had fixed a thick black roller blind over it. The only glimmer in the dark was the low-wattage bulb that had been painted red. The glow made the machinery look menacing.
The only lavatory in the house was located around the corner to his cupboard. To reach it I had to step on the loose floorboard that was at the top of the two steps outside his den. Luckily, his cupboard door had a noisy roller snap fitted. The slipping roller ball made a loud distinctive click as it was opened, and this sometimes gave me the opportunity to hide before he enticed me into his hellhole. And I mean a hellhole.
When I was small my mother always found time to visit my long-widowed maternal grandmother, of whom she was very fond. After the long journey from Cambridge I looked forward to spotting the two tall manorial columns that announced we had finally arrived on the New Hall estate. Built of large blocks of seasoned red sandstone with mullioned windows, the house resembled a fairytale castle. The name New Hall confused me, as it was so old. The house was originally built as a hunting lodge in 1071 but after an extension was added in 1340 it was called ‘New Hall’ and had retained the name ever more. With its many bold extensions over various periods it made a stunning country home. The moat held a particular attraction. As soon as the car stopped I used to leap from it and run across the tile-covered bridge, stopping for a split second to confirm that it still had crystal-clear water.
I was as enchanted by the moat as my mother had been. It retained its original depth and width, being fed by seven nearby springs. The clear water flowed through the moat and down to a millrace, where there had once been a working watermill. Large carp, pike and smaller freshwater fish had been caught by my uncles and were displayed as trophies on the walls of the billiard room. Obscuring the edge of the moat grew damp loving plants in abundance: marsh marigolds, buttercups and bulrushes.
But it was the water lilies I loved. Olive-green leaves formed huge matted clumps while the lilies’ fibrous roots reached