Child on the Doorstep. Anne Bennett
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say you used to write to my father?’ he said to Angela in the end.
‘Yes,’ Angela said. ‘Barry didn’t mind me doing it. He said some of the chaps in his unit that got no post looked really sad when the letters were handed out. It connected you to the people back at home and if no one wrote to them they might feel sort of forgotten.’
‘I understand that perfectly well,’ Daniel said. ‘But you shouldn’t have been writing to him. Or, at least, what I mean is you shouldn’t have been the only one writing to him. My mother is his sister-in-law. Oh, I know there was that thing about him not contacting me, but as he was away fighting in a bloody world war, surely that should have changed everything.’
‘Not in Betty, your adoptive mother’s, book,’ Angela said and she fought to keep any bitterness out of her voice, for she had thought Betty heartless. ‘When Stan enlisted, he wrote and told Betty, but she never replied. And when we’d had no letters for weeks at the end we knew there was something wrong and eventually I got the telegram saying Barry had been killed in action, but there was no word of your father. I thought that, although the letters were sent here, he might have listed Betty as next of kin when he enlisted and so I wrote to her, telling her of the death of Barry and asking if she’d had any word from Stan. She must have replied by return and she made no mention of Barry at all and said Stan would never contact her as that was part of the deal they made and she would be obliged if I didn’t write again.’
Daniel shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You know, that is so callous,’ he said. ‘My father was the husband of the younger sister that she was supposed to adore and she passed me off as her child. She appears so hard-hearted. I have never seen that side of her, and though I don’t doubt a word you say, you are describing a woman I don’t really recognise.’
‘Daniel, have you ever opposed your mother?’ Angela asked.
Daniel shook his head. ‘No, and if I had ever tried my father would have been very angry with me. That is, until now of course. When my last exams were over, my mother advised me to have a break for a while because I’d worked so hard. I wasn’t that keen because I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself. Those of my friends from uni who were not starting jobs immediately were going on proper holidays or camping somewhere. I knew my parents would never stand for me doing anything like that.’
‘Maybe they have a holiday planned for all of you?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘We never went on holidays. Don’t know why, except for the fact that my father never seemed to have much free time. My mother used to say he was married to the bank. I imagine what my mother wanted was for me to sit with her and keep her company and the idea of doing that day after day filled me with horror. Of course, the letter from the solicitor chap changed all that. Tell me, did she know about the letter and money?’
Angela nodded. ‘Stan wrote and told her,’ she said. ‘Mammy said it was too much of a shock to find out like this and she should tell you of Stan’s existence at least. But that was another letter she didn’t acknowledge and apparently told you nothing.’
‘No, and another thing I must challenge her about,’ Daniel said, getting to his feet.
‘Go easy on her,’ Angela said.
‘Why d’you say that?’ Daniel said.
Angela shrugged. ‘She loves you very much. Maybe a little too much and that has made her act in ways that have not been sensible and sometimes downright hurtful, but she has never stopped loving you. Remember that when you are talking to her. Now I must try and rouse Mammy or she will never sleep tonight.’
‘Can I come again?’
‘Of course,’ Angela said. ‘Stan was always welcome here and so is his son.’
‘Come and talk to my granny about days gone by,’ Connie said as she let Daniel out of the door. ‘She likes nothing better.’
‘I will,’ Daniel said with a smile for Connie and she watched him stride down the street till he reached Bristol Passage.
They talked about Daniel often over the next few days and Angela wondered if he would return.
‘Why?’ Connie asked.
‘Oh, you know,’ Angela said vaguely. ‘Maybe it would have been better for him not to know. I mean, you could see how it had upset him and his life had been going on fine and dandy till then.’
‘I don’t think it was,’ Connie said. ‘His aunt and uncle seemed to want to control everything he did. You heard him.’
‘You’re right,’ Mary said. ‘And if he had known about his father much sooner he wouldn’t be so upset now. I said so at the time. How would it be if I told you nothing about your parents, Angela, and let you think you were our wee girl? How would you feel if you found out I had been lying all those years?’
‘Granny’s right,’ Connie said. ‘I would hate not knowing who my parents were.’
Connie’s words caused a pang of guilt to slice through Angela’s heart.
Connie had no idea of the huge shame that had lodged in Angela’s heart when she’d been forced to sacrifice her helpless baby to a loveless life of drudgery for the good of everyone else. Even after all these years the self-reproach never completely left her.
She was wrong about Daniel, though, who came that very afternoon before Connie had returned home from school. She was so pleased with the gentle and patient way he had with her mother, who seemed delighted to see him. Sometimes Mary was very slow at conversation, but she never seemed to have a problem with Daniel. Mary had once explained that, though sometimes her mind was perfectly clear, other times it seemed to slip and she had trouble remembering what they had been talking about. It was different with Daniel though, because generally he wanted to know things about his father before that terrible war and her mind was usually crystal clear about events that had happened long before.
In addition, Angela could tell him about the Stan she knew, a great friend of her husband, Barry. She told him about the Christmas of 1913, which Stan had spent at their house.
‘After a stupendous meal, as we couldn’t go out as the weather was foul, he had us all singing carols. Remember that, Mammy?’
‘Oh I do indeed,’ Mary said. ‘Your father had a good voice, Daniel, and your mother too. She was in the choir at the church and they both loved to sing. My lads spoke of it when they stayed there and when Kate was expecting you she used to sing you lullabies. She had a lovely singing voice. She told your father you might possibly remember the songs after you were born and know how much you were loved even before you actually arrived.’
Daniel’s voice was husky as he said, ‘I wish I had got to know her, that she hadn’t died.’
‘Oh so do I, Daniel,’ Angela said earnestly. ‘I had never heard your father’s voice till that Christmas Day, because after your mother died, when I was too much of a child to notice such things, he never sang again. That day he began with “O Little Town of Bethlehem”, which he said was her favourite carol.’
‘I used to like singing too,’ Daniel admitted. ‘My mother used to hate to hear me singing so I never sang at home.’
‘Why did she object?’
‘I never could understand it,’ Daniel said. ‘I must have had some promise because the priest wanted me to be in the church choir and the music master at my grammar school choir, but my mother vetoed it both times. She said that she sent me to school to study not sing, and my father took me to one side and said it wasn’t a very manly pursuit and I wasn’t to keep on about it and risk upsetting my mother. But now I know the truth about my parents I think my mother didn’t want me singing because it would have reminded her of how well they could sing and