All The Fire. Anne Mather
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didn’t have to.’ Jimmy hunched his shoulders. ‘Hell, this beats everything! Don’t I get any say in this at all?’
Joanne felt unutterably weary, the day finally exacting its toll upon her. ‘Jimmy, if it was your father, what would you do?’
‘That’s a bit different.’
Joanne poured the tea she had made down the sink. ‘Let’s join the others,’ she suggested tiredly, and with ill grace Jimmy preceded her into the lounge.
It wasn’t until later when Joanne was in bed that she allowed the whole weight of the problem to invade her mind. Was she being unreasonable in agreeing to go and see her father? Was she being careless of Jimmy’s – of her aunt’s – feelings? In truth only Jimmy knew as yet, but she knew if she did decide definitely to go she would have to tell her aunt if only because she would hate her to hear it from any other source, and Mrs. Lorrimer, Jimmy’s mother, knew her aunt reasonably well.
Not that she expected Jimmy to divulge her private affairs, but if he felt driven enough by his own feelings he might be unable to hide that something was wrong from his parents.
Joanne punched her pillow into shape, trying to relax. She knew she really had no need to consider the problem; she had to go. Her conscience would not allow her to refuse. And anyway, if what Dimitri Kastro had said was true then her father deserved the chance to meet his elder child.
She didn’t know who to believe. Her mother had always been so bitter when it came to her father that she had not persevered with too many questions and consequently she knew very little about their divorce. If it was true that her father had been sending her mother money all these years then her mother must have decided it was better to keep the knowledge to herself. It was hard to exist on one person’s salary, Joanne excused her thoughtfully, and who could blame anyone for accepting what was, after all, their due?
Even so, it was a little disturbing to discover that the woman around whom you had built your life had been systematically deceiving you.
Her thoughts turned to more immediate matters. The following day was Friday and she was not expected back at her desk until Monday morning. But once her decision was taken she would have to contact Dr. Hastings, the senior partner in the practice, and explain the position to him. It was extremely doubtful that he would appreciate her problems, for her work required a certain amount of local knowledge and she was very efficient in this respect. She knew most of the patients, she knew which doctor they invariably saw, and she was capable of deciding what was serious and what was not. She had been with the practice for three years and as she was rarely absent herself they relied upon her completely.
Still, she sighed, that was something she would have to face, and if they chose to dismiss her and find someone else then no doubt she would not find it too difficult to obtain another job on her return. She was an experienced secretary and she was sure that in spite of their feelings the doctors would be only too willing to supply her with a reference.
The biggest stumbling block was, of course, Jimmy. It was natural that he should feel resentful. He didn’t know all the facts and besides, he was not involved as she was. He must be made to understand the tenuous threads of a blood relationship that were impossible to destroy entirely. He hadn’t considered that she might actually want to see her father. That thought had not occurred to him. But it had occurred to Joanne, more strongly every minute, and the idea of meeting Matthieu Nicolas filled her with a forbidden sense of excitement that no amount of self-recrimination could erase. She was only human, after all, and she had never before allowed her thoughts such free rein.
Her mother had always refused to discuss personal matters with her daughter, and the little Joanne had learned had been from Aunt Emma. Naturally Aunt Emma was biased, Joanne had realized that, but even so there had had to be a certain amount of truth in what she had told her.
Her mother, Ellen, had first met Matthieu Nicolas while he was at college in London, just after the war. Ellen had been working as a secretary, taking a commercial course in the evenings. She was a couple of years older than Matthieu, but with the kind of English beauty that attracted the swarthy young Greek. When she discovered his parents were rich, she had tried to put an end to their affair, but Matthieu’s attraction had proved too great for her and eventually she had succumbed. Matthieu’s time at college ended, and when he found that Ellen wanted to stay in England, he arranged to work at the British-based branch of his father’s company. To begin with, they had been happy, but it was after Ellen became pregnant that the trouble started. Joanne had always been aware that her mother had not wanted children so early in their marriage, and in consequence she had blamed Matthieu for her condition. He on the contrary had affirmed that he wanted many children, and while on Aunt Emma’s lips that had sounded coarse and unfeeling, now Joanne wondered. Was it so unreasonable to want a large family? Had her mother been entirely reasonable in refusing to consider a second child? Joanne didn’t know. She only knew that after she was born her father began to spend time away from them, often in Athens with his family, and eventually the break-up came. There was another woman, of course, this Andrea, that Dimitri Kastro had spoken about, and now they had a daughter, too. But that was hardly the large family her father had previously planned, so maybe her mother had not been so unreasonable after all.
Joanne heaved a sigh and slid out of bed. It was impossible trying to sleep with so many thoughts tormenting her brain. It was still hard to realize that her mother was not asleep in the next bedroom, and a shiver ran through her at the knowledge that she was alone in the house. Aunt Emma had wanted to stay, but she had not encouraged her to do so. Sooner or later she would have to get used to living here alone, and the sooner the better.
But it had been a shock when she learned of her mother’s sudden illness that precipitated her death, and now the whole affair assumed overwhelming proportions.
Leaving her bedroom, Joanne went down the stairs and going into the kitchen she put on the kettle. Tea, she thought, with some sarcasm, the universal tonic.
While the kettle boiled she went into the lounge. The house was not centrally heated, but there was an all-night burner in the lounge, and now she opened it up and glanced at the clock. It was only a little after midnight. Still quite early really, but after Aunt Emma and Jimmy and the others had gone, she had gone straight to bed feeling exhausted. But not exhausted enough, obviously, she thought now.
When the doorbell rang a few minutes later she almost jumped out of her skin. ‘Wh – who is it?’ she called nervously, suddenly aware of her own vulnerability.
‘Joanne! It’s me, dear. Mrs. Thwaites,’ came a voice through the letter box, and with a sigh of relief Joanne went and opened the door.
‘Mrs. Thwaites!’ she exclaimed, in astonishment. ‘What are you doing here?’
The older woman smiled gently. ‘Oh, Joanne, I wanted to come back earlier on, but I knew your aunt was here, and Jimmy, of course, and I didn’t like to intrude. How are you? Are you all right? I was just going to bed when I saw this light come on.’ The Thwaites just lived across the road.
Joanne invited her into the lounge and said: ‘I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep, so I’m just making some tea. Will you have a cup?’
Mrs. Thwaites’ eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, please. I never say no to tea,’ she confessed, with a chuckle.
Joanne went and made the tea, her spirits rising considerably. She liked Mrs. Thwaites. Indeed, in her younger days she had been the recipient of many of Joanne’s confidences, and had always been there with a friendly ear to listen to her troubles. Somehow her own mother had not been so easy to talk to.
When the tea was made and they were seated round the now roaring fire, Mrs. Thwaites said: ‘Well? Did you talk to Mr. Kastro? Or is it private?’
Joanne sighed. ‘Of course it’s not private,’ she said, pressing the older woman’s hand. ‘I told Jimmy, but I haven’t told Aunt Emma.’
‘Told her what? Is it about your father?’
Joanne gasped. ‘How