Father Unknown (5 page)

‘And she didn't clam up? Or stalk out of the room?'

‘I guess she's feeling just a little bit guilty. Glad to have someone put the record straight.'

‘But why wouldn't she tell
me
?' Suzie protested.

Prudence's colour heightened. ‘You guys have been so kind to me, I feel bad about saying this. But I kinda think Millie wasn't levelling with you because she was angry.'

‘Angry? About what?

‘We–ell, maybe you jumped to conclusions about what was going on. I mean, it's only natural. Most parents would.'

‘What was I supposed to think? What else could it have been?'

‘Did you ever think that kit might be for somebody else?'

Suzie and Nick stared at her. A sudden joy was flaring in Suzie's heart.

‘
Not
Millie?'

‘I think she was kinda hurt that you thought it might be her. Plus, she's protecting someone.'

Nick buried his head in his hands. ‘I thought . . . I was afraid . . . someone had forced her into it. Someone older.'

‘It's not that bad,' Prudence consoled him. ‘Or not for Millie. But I'd better warn you. Millie wasn't telling me everything by a long shot. There's something else going on here. And whatever it is, it's got Millie scared.'

SIX

W
hen Nick had taken Prudence back to her hotel, he and Suzie found Millie back downstairs in the conservatory. They took up positions on either side of her. It felt, Suzie realized, shamefaced, as if they were guilty teenagers and she the adult.

‘I'm sorry,' Suzie began. ‘I jumped to conclusions. I shouldn't have done.'

‘It's because we love you so much,' Nick put in. ‘We couldn't bear to think someone had taken advantage of you. We weren't blaming you.'

Millie eyed them warily. She said nothing.

‘Look, you can tell us,' Suzie said. ‘Whatever it is that's going on, you can share it with us. I know it's confidential. But you can trust us. We won't spread it all over the place. Only, it's a big responsibility for a fourteen-year-old to carry alone. We can help.'

‘Is that what you think? Adults know best? Trust me, I'm a parent?'

Suzie felt the shock of rejection and knew that Nick shared it.

‘It's what parents are for, Millie,' Nick said.

‘
Some
parents.'

‘Not us?'

Suzie watched the struggle in Millie's face. She decided to move forward. ‘It's one of your friends, isn't it? You were trying to help her. Not
Tamara
?'

She saw the sudden flinch in Millie's expression and knew that she had struck home. She had a sudden vision of Tamara rushing past her in the hall, the first time she had brought Prudence back with her. The flushed face, half hidden behind a fall of brown hair. The over-brightness of her eyes. ‘
Is
she pregnant?'

No answer.

‘It is her, isn't it? Two days ago, when I brought Prudence home, Tamara ran past us. I was too taken up with Prudence to wonder why. Is this what she was upset about?'

Millie's mouth set in an obstinate line.

‘Millie, if Tamara's expecting a baby, she needs help. Does her mother know?'

Millie stared at her knees. At last she burst out, ‘It's not that simple. You just don't know!'

Suzie racked her mind, trying to think what could be so bad that Tamara couldn't confess it to her mother. A boy they wouldn't approve of, for some reason? Race, religion? Though their daughters had been friends for years, she didn't know Lisa Gamble all that well. They met at school functions and on the occasional Sundays Suzie went to the Methodist church. Sometimes they rang each other to decide who should transport the girls. She seemed a sympathetic enough woman. It would be a difficult confession for any schoolgirl, but sooner or later it had to be done. Most mothers stood by their daughters, in the end.

And Tamara's father? A flash of memory pulled her up short. Tamara's parents had been separated for years. But recently . . .

‘Her mother's remarried, hasn't she? There's a stepfather. I think I met him at the last parents' evening.'

A large imposing man, she recalled. Rather pompous.

Millie's grey eyes flew to her, suddenly alert. ‘At Easter.' There was an edge to her voice.

‘Is he the problem? Would he come down hard on Tamara?'

Millie's already slight form seemed to shrink into itself. ‘It's Tamara's secret,' she muttered. ‘It's not my business to tell anyone else.'

‘Millie.' Nick's voice hardened, in spite of his efforts. ‘Tamara's under age. If she doesn't want to have the baby, it should be easy to arrange an abortion. Nobody wants to saddle her with a problem she can't cope with. But it has to be done properly, safely. People have to know.'

Again, that grey stare which gave so little away. ‘Do they? Have to know?'

‘Well –' Suzie backtracked for Nick – ‘there are confidential advice services. I don't know if it covers an actual abortion, for someone her age. But, at the most, I think it would only be Tamara's mother who needs to know.'

A little voice in her head wondered about that. Would they have to get hold of her birth father, too, for permission? She decided not to ask aloud.

A slight relief softened Millie's features. Then she seemed to recollect something that made her defensive again. ‘What if she doesn't want an abortion? What if she doesn't believe in killing babies?'

‘That's her decision. If it were you, we'd support you, whatever you chose. Wouldn't Tamara's family?'

Millie got up and stalked to the door. ‘You don't know anything, do you?'

Next day, Millie went off to school in an obstinate silence.

Suzie was still uneasy, though her worst fears had been allayed. There was that puzzling observation Prudence had made, that Millie had seemed scared about her friend's situation. Shock, pity, concern, these would be normal reactions. But fear?

She tried to shake off these troubling thoughts and invited Prudence to abandon the Record Office for an afternoon raiding the Fewings' bookshelves. Soon the table, and even the carpet, were covered with open volumes and maps. It gave Suzie a feeling of smug satisfaction to be able to turn up an eighteenth-century engraving of Corley, the village where Johan had given birth to Adam. It showed an expansive green, bordered by a rather grand house, with humbler cottages crouching in the corners. In front of the wrought-iron gates of the house paraded a gentleman and lady. The latter wore the spreading skirts of the period and carried a parasol. A little boy in a smart suit bowled a hoop, and a tiny dog frolicked beside him.

‘That's not really how I thought an English village would look,' Prudence commented.

‘These would be the local gentry. Possibly real ones, who lived in that big house – they may have commissioned the picture. Or just ones the artist made up. It doesn't look as though he thought real country folk like the Claysons were interesting.'

‘Do we know what that big house is?'

Suzie thumbed through a book which gave a potted description of all the parishes in the county. ‘Corley. Let's see. Yes, here it is.
Corley Barton was built in 1721, beside the village green. It replaced a medieval farmhouse. It was the home of the Marsdon family until the mid-twentieth century.
They must have been the local squirearchy. Country gentlemen.'

‘Squirearchy. I love that word. You said something, the first time I met you, about those kind of folks. How they might take advantage of a servant girl.'

‘Oh, yes. It's a common story, I'm afraid. Droit de seigneur, sort of. The lord's right. Difficult for a girl to say no to her employer. Or his son. You can't usually tell. If the girl got pregnant, the decent ones might pay a local man to marry her. Give him a sum of money to set the couple up. If the first baby was born rather soon, you wouldn't know if the father was her husband or somebody else who'd rather not be named. Well, there was probably gossip in the village, but it doesn't go down in the parish register. Other times, I'm afraid, they just threw the girl out.'

‘And you think that happened to my Johan?'

‘Who knows? It's a possibility. It would explain why she didn't get a husband.'

There were even darker scenarios. Should she mention to Prudence the possibility of incest? There were families then, as now, who nursed uncomfortable secrets. If Johan
had
grown up in Hole, hidden away in its hollow, who knows what might have gone on in secret? If the girl's mother was still living, when Johan fell pregnant, she would probably have put it out that the child was her own.

Suzie decided not to venture down that road. Prudence had gamely come to terms with bastardy. Incest might be a step too far.

She switched the subject of paternity hurriedly. ‘People were pretty two-faced about sex before marriage in those days. If the girl managed to tie the knot soon enough, nobody thought anything of it. In fact, there's a local tradition that says if the banns of a marriage aren't called on three consecutive Sundays, the child in the bride's womb will be born deformed or mentally handicapped. You see? It was almost taken for granted that the bride would be pregnant at the altar. But if she failed to secure a husband in time, it was a very different story.'

She rummaged among the books to find one on church life in the eighteenth century. ‘Listen to this:
Seventh of March 1761. Anne Luscombe of the said parish shall present herself before the Minister in the Parish Church aforesaid upon the next Sunday forenoon, with her head bare and a white sheet upon her, her feet and legs bare, and shall openly confess and acknowledge that she has born a male child unlawfully begotten on her and shall show hearty repentance, beseeching God to forgive her and the Minister and People to pray for her amendment
.

‘Sometimes they had to do penance in the church porch, but it might be in the marketplace. Either way, she'd have to walk there wrapped in her sheet, with everyone watching and half the men hoping it would slip off.'

Prudence's jaw dropped. ‘They really did that? Drove a half-naked woman through the streets?'

‘It was the law. I don't know how long they went on doing it. I thought morals were pretty slack by the late eighteenth century. I expect it varied from parish to parish. I bet there were some that didn't have the heart for it. But I can imagine others where the rector and churchwardens were upright Puritans, who carried out the ruling to the letter.'

‘Well, darn it. Haven't they read what our Lord said when they brought him a woman caught in adultery? “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” And they all went sneaking away.'

‘In my experience, people who are keen on punishment use the bible selectively. They choose the verses that suit them, and they're usually not from the Gospels.'

Prudence was quiet for a moment. ‘I guess I was raised a lot like that. Like we were the holy people, and everybody else was a sinner. Poor Johan. Do you think they did that to her?'

Suzie shrugged. ‘There might be a record about her in the archdeaconry court, but it's a long shot. But they'll certainly have put pressure on her to name the baby's father. It was important, you see, to get money out of him, so that the child didn't become a burden on the Poor Rate.'

Prudence stared at the engraving of the village. ‘It's the queerest feeling. I could be looking at the man who fathered Adam. Another ancestor of our Claysons. But I can't tell. There he is, with his smart clothes, his fine house, and his wife on his arm. And no one knows what he might have done to Johan.'

‘Or it may just have been a tumble in the hay with one of the grooms.'

Prudence let out a long sigh. ‘Don't you just wish you could have a spyglass into the past? Not just questions with no answers.' Then she brightened. ‘Say, do you think I could take copies of some of these? That map? The engraving? The book which says what they did to unmarried mothers?'

‘No problem. I'll scan them on my printer.'

For a while they were busy collecting all the relevant material and copying it.

‘Gee, I'm so grateful. I guess I'll be buying another suitcase by the time I'm finished.'

‘There's something else you could try. There are lots of one-name societies researching a particular surname. There might be one for the Claysons.'

But Prudence stood staring down at the page in her hand, with the punishment for a single mother. ‘This friend of Millie's. Tamara. There's something there Millie's not telling us. Is there anything we should know about the girl? What would her family do if they found she was pregnant?'

‘I know her mother, sort of. She seems normal. I'd expect her to react the same way I would, if it were Millie. I'd be upset at first – well, I was, wasn't I? – but I'd stand by her, whether she wanted to keep it or not.'

‘And the girl's father?'

‘Her real father left them several years ago. He's a famous children's author. He writes under the name of Reynard Woodman. Rather attractive, actually. I liked him, or I did until he walked out on Lisa. I think he's somewhere in the Midlands now. Tamara goes to stay with him occasionally.'

‘But you said there was a stepfather.'

‘Her mother remarried this Easter. Leonard Dawson's a headmaster. Not at Millie's school, but another one in the city. I only know him by sight. But he has the reputation of being a bit of a disciplinarian.'