Savage Innocence. Anne Mather
two personal items Isobel had selected, everything else had been despatched to the saleroom.
It was not until Isobel had opened the trap door into the attic that she’d realised the enormity of her task. Unless they were willing to allow strangers to root around in family papers and suchlike, she would have to dispose of these old trunks and boxes herself. Despite the fact that all she’d discovered so far were old clothes and books and photograph albums, she couldn’t find it in her heart to just burn them, unseen. There might be something of value. She owed it to her mother’s memory to take the trouble to look.
All the same, she hadn’t expected it to be so hot up here. And the nausea that had troubled her earlier that morning was beginning to make her sweat all over again. If she didn’t get something to eat soon, she was going to start retching, and that was one consequence of her efforts she didn’t want to face.
She was crawling back to where the loft ladder pointed down to the first-floor landing when she saw the small dust-covered suitcase. It had been pushed away beneath one of the beams, and it was doubtful if she’d have seen it if she hadn’t been on all fours. As it was, she pulled it out, saying a not very ladylike word when the handle came away on one side and a screw scraped her finger. Then, tucking it beneath her arm, she climbed down to the landing below.
First things first, she thought, looping her curly hair behind her ears and descending the stairs to the ground floor. There was no food in the house, but she had brought a flask of coffee and some biscuits with her. Thank goodness, she thought weakly, stuffing a handful of arrowroot fingers into her mouth.
The nausea subsided, as she’d known it would, and, after pouring herself a cup of coffee from the flask, she carried the suitcase into the kitchen. Then, unlocking the back door, she stepped out into the watery sunshine and seated herself on the bench that circled the old apple tree.
This was where her mother used to sit in summer, she remembered sadly. And when she and Marion were schoolgirls, their father had hung a swing from one of its gnarled branches, but that had gone now. Even the blossom, that had flowered so incongruously, she’d felt, just after her mother died, had faded, the grass at her feet strewn with its decaying petals.
Sighing, she thrust her melancholy thoughts aside and turned to the suitcase. It was little more than the size of a briefcase, really, and Isobel couldn’t remember ever having seen it before. Perhaps it hadn’t belonged to her parents, she thought. Her grandparents had lived in the house before her father and mother were married, so it could have belonged to them. Whatever, it was unlikely to contain anything of importance. All her mother’s private papers had been kept by her solicitor.
She thought at first that the case was locked. Her first attempts to flick the twin catches met with no success. But a foray into the toolshed, which still contained some rusty tools and a broken lawnmower, unearthed an old screwdriver, and when she used this to pry at the catches, they gave in.
As she’d expected, the box was just another repository for papers. Letters this time, postmarked from an address in Cornwall, all of them at least twenty-five years old. Isobel frowned. She was not aware that her parents had known anyone who lived in Cornwall. If they had, neither of them had ever mentioned it to her. And she doubted that if Marion had known about it she’d have kept something like that to herself.
Unless…
She shook her head. Were these letters anything to do with her adoption? She knew virtually nothing about her real parents. She’d been told that her birth mother had been killed in a car accident just after she was born, and that as she’d been an unmarried mother, living alone, her baby had been taken into care. Isobel had always assumed that she’d lived in Newcastle, too, which was how the Dorlands had come to adopt her. Mrs Dorland had always wanted a large family, but after Marion was born she’d discovered she couldn’t have any more children.
Isobel wondered now why she hadn’t asked more questions about her adoption. She supposed the truth was that her mother had always got very touchy whenever the subject was broached. Isobel had been taught from an early age that she was lucky to be part of a proper family, and somehow asking about her birth mother’s background was ungrateful and disloyal.
Which probably had nothing to do with these letters, she decided, pulling off the elastic band, which had held them together, and studying the envelope with thoughtful eyes. It was addressed to her mother, she saw, and her nerves tightened, needlessly she was sure. She was regarding the letters far too seriously, she thought. They were probably from a friend her mother had known when she was young.
She felt a twinge of conscience as she pulled one of the letters out of its envelope. Perhaps she ought to wait and ask Marion what she should do with them. But then curiosity, and the knowledge that Marion had eschewed all interest in their mother’s effects, encouraged her to investigate further. After all, it was only her imagination that was giving them a significance they probably didn’t deserve.
She read the address at the top of the letter first: Tregarth Hall, Polgarron. Impressive, she though wryly, and, even though the letter was old, the quality of the paper was still evident. Then she noticed it started ‘Dear Iris,’ which was her mother’s name, and not Mrs Dorland. Her unease slackened, and she glanced at the bottom of the page. The signature was Robert Dorland. She grimaced. They were obviously from some relation of her father’s.
Wondering why that conclusion didn’t douse her interest, she turned back to the beginning. Dear Iris, she read again, and then went on. All the arrangements are now in place. Matty will bring the child to you on August 8th.
The child? Matty?
Isobel’s throat went dry, but she forced herself to read on.
I know you consider my actions reprehensible, but there is no way I can keep her even if I wished to, which I do not.
Isobel caught her breath, but she had to go on.
I trust George (her father, Isobel acknowledged tensely) will learn to live with it. He was always a sanctimonious devil, even in his youth, and, had it not been for your intervention, I am sure the child would have found no favour with him. Still, who am I to judge him? As George would say, I have made my bed, now I should lie on it. He never could forgive anyone’s weaknesses. Which is why, I suppose, my father left Tregarth to me, and not him. I doubt if we’ll be in touch again, dear Iris. My thanks and my best wishes for the future.
The air escaped from Isobel’s lungs in a pained rush, and the nausea she had defeated only minutes before attacked her again. This time there was no escape. She barely made it to the downstairs cloakroom before she was violently sick, and it was several minutes after that before she was able to drag herself to her feet again.
She felt chilled now. Whereas earlier she had been sweating in the heat of the attic, now goosebumps feathered her skin. She found the jacket she’d left hanging on the banister, and pushed her arms into the sleeves, clutching its warmth about her. But the chill she felt was as much psychological as physical, and it was some time before she could bring herself to return to the bench.
When she did, she found the dozen or so letters scattered in all directions. They’d tumbled from her lap as she’d rushed into the house, and, although she was tempted to toss the lot of them into the dustbin, she forced herself to pick them up again. Looking at the date of the postmarks on the envelopes, she discovered that the letter she’d been reading had been the last one to arrive. They must have been saved, one on top of the other, in reverse order, which was how she’d come to read the last letter first.
And that letter was dated August 1975, which was only a few weeks after she’d been born. According to her birth certificate, her birthday was the twelfth of July 1975, and it was highly improbable that her mother should have been involved with two babies at that time.
Which meant…? That this man, whoever he was, was her real father? That he’d got some poor girl pregnant and then reneged on his responsibilities towards her? Although George Dorland had always maintained that he had no relatives, it seemed obvious now that Robert Dorland must be his brother. His younger brother, by the sound of it. And instead of spending his early years