Forgive Me Page 19

Eva opened the book to look. She read each page, but it was the stunning pictures that brought the simple stories about a family of brown bears to life.

  Mr Bear was hapless, and his long-suffering wife was constantly sorting out his mistakes. One picture, where it transpired that Mr Bear hadn’t packed the tent poles for their holiday, made Eva laugh out loud. Mr Bear was scratching his head and looking helplessly at the heap of canvas on the ground, and the various little bears were either crying, sheltering under trees or climbing them. Mrs Bear was standing with her hands on her wide hips, with a very grumpy expression on her face, saying: ‘I can’t trust you to do even the simplest thing, Mr Bear. I asked you before we left home if you’d packed the poles.’

  ‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ Mr Temple said. ‘It’s all the detail: one little bear seizing the opportunity in all the confusion to steal an apple from the picnic basket, another one pinching his little sister, and that one trying to snuggle into a blanket. When you read to small children it’s good to have stuff like that to point out. But Mr Bear always triumphs in the end. He catches a big fish for their tea, or he chases away a scary eagle or something. Look at the last picture,’ he said.

  Eva turned to it. The tent canvas was tied to bushes and the whole bear family were snuggled up together under it. She smiled; it gave her a good, safe feeling. She could imagine a small child dropping happily off to sleep at that picture.

  ‘Would you know how I could contact Mr O’Donnell?’ she asked. ‘He was a great friend of my mother’s, and she died recently. I wanted to talk to him about her.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about your mother,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to Patrick at book events, but I haven’t a clue where he lives. The best thing to do is write to him care of the publishers – they will pass the letter on to him.’

  Eva bought the book Mr Bear Goes Camping, thanked Mr Temple for his help, and then she and Phil left the shop.

  ‘Wow,’ Phil said as they got out on to the street. ‘If he is your dad, he’s someone to be proud of.’

  ‘He might not be,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to build my hopes up.’

  But as Phil drove back home she couldn’t help but hope that he was. A man capable of such sensitive and beautiful illustrations was going to be a lovely person. She just hoped he’d want to meet her.

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be alright tonight on your own?’ Phil said as he got his things together ready to leave, at about ten.

  ‘Yes, I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I’m going to write a letter to Patrick and then I’m going to delve into Mum’s diaries a bit more. Thank you so much for staying last night. And for taking me to the bookshop. You are such a good friend.’

  ‘I only came for the shower and the spag bol,’ he joked. ‘I suppose you’ll be out tomorrow, looking for stuff for the new bedroom?’

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I want to find a Victorian or Edwardian dressing table.’

  ‘Well, don’t go looking in Portobello Road, they are silly prices. There’s a shop near Shepherd’s Bush market that has stuff like that at half the price.’

  She gave him a goodbye hug, and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Nigh night,’ he said at the door. ‘I’ll ring you later in the week.’

  An hour later, in bed, Eva looked at the Mr Bear book again. She had written to Patrick at the publishers. Because she thought the letter was likely to be read before being passed on to him, she kept it very brief: just that she was Flora’s daughter, that her mother had died recently and she hoped he would agree to meet her, as she knew they were old friends.

  ‘I hope you are my dad,’ she said, turning the book’s pages and poring over the pictures. ‘I could really use a dad now.’

  Chapter Twelve

  At the knock on the door on Saturday morning, Eva came running down the stairs. She paused only a second at the mirror to check her appearance. She was pleased at how good her blue sundress looked against tanned skin, and how flattering her scrunch-dried hair was.

  It was mid-August now and London was in the grip of a heatwave. She’d almost given up on Patrick O’Donnell responding to her letter, but last night he had rung her and asked if he could call on her today. She had been so excited after their very brief telephone conversation that she found it impossible to sleep, so she’d got up at five to spring-clean the house. Now he was here at last.

  As she opened the door she was surprised to find him looking older than she expected, with saggy bloodhound-type jowls. But though he was portly and probably in his mid to late fifties, he was tall and held himself straight-backed. His grey receding hair was long and tied in a ponytail, and his smile was warm. He had the look of a man who normally wore very casual clothes; she felt that his smart cream linen suit and pink shirt were for her benefit.

  ‘Patrick!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am so pleased to meet you. Do come in.’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t give you more warning but, as I said on the phone, I’ve been away and your letter had been lying with other post, unopened,’ he said as he stepped in. ‘But I was very saddened to hear of Flora’s death, and I felt I had to come and see you immediately.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said. Their phone call last night had been very brief, as he had said he was already late for an engagement. She’d already told him in her letter that she’d come to live here after her mother’s death, that she knew very little about her mother’s youth, and that she hoped he’d feel able to tell her a little more, so she didn’t add anything to this during the phone call.

  She was just touched that her mother still meant enough to him to call round for a chat. ‘Shall we sit in the garden? It’s such a beautiful day.’

  He stopped short in the living room, looking around. ‘My word, this all looks so lovely and stylish,’ he said. ‘A far cry from how it looked when I lived here.’

  ‘It was hideous and disgustingly dirty when I first got here,’ she said. ‘I sometimes think I never want to look a paint brush in the bristles again!’

  Since leaving the bistro she’d been very busy; the whole house was painted now, including the banisters, which had taken many hours. The landing, stairs and living room had grey cord carpet, a bargain that had been salvaged from Earl’s Court Exhibition Hall by someone Brian knew. Both the bedrooms had new cream carpet, gas central heating had been put in, and there was a new modern bathroom.

  There was still very little furniture downstairs – just a red sofa, her one extravagance, and a small table and chairs which she’d found in a junk shop and painted pale grey.

  Flora’s paintings, as well as the curtains, which were a fabulous poppy print on a white background, added splashes of colour, and Eva had put a huge vase of red silk flowers in one corner.

  ‘I can imagine how bad it was.’ Patrick winced. ‘I drove past here one night a few months ago, and it looked very rough. You’ve even painted the front and garage doors, and put in new windows.’

  She was glad he commented on the doors because she’d really laboured over them, rubbing them down for hours and then painting them a glossy French navy. They made her feel happy each time she got home. ‘Let’s go outside. Would you like tea or coffee, or a cold drink?’

  ‘Something cold,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’ll take off my jacket. I’m roasting.’

  He paused to look at Flora’s paintings before going outside and taking a seat in the shade. He didn’t comment on the paintings but she sensed he was moved to see them.

  She poured two glasses of orange juice and carried them outside.

  Patrick smiled at her. ‘You’ve got your mother’s green fingers. It takes me right back, she was always out here, deadheading and pottering.’

  ‘The framework was already here,’ Eva said, pointing to the honeysuckle, climbing roses and clematis. ‘I just tidied it all up and added more flowers and the tubs. I used to buy fashion magazines, now I get gardening ones. I practically live out here.’

  ‘Flora did to
o. She would paint out here, even when it was quite chilly, she said it made her feel happy. The room upstairs which was supposed to be the studio was freezing in winter and too hot in summer. Ironic, really, as she bought the house because of that room.’

  Eva nodded. ‘She was the same about the garden at our old house, she would be out there in all weathers. I used to think that was a little peculiar, but I’m getting just like it too. Unless it’s raining I come out here the minute I wake up, I have a cup of tea, listen to the birdsong and admire the flowers.’

  He smiled, looking at her speculatively. ‘I imagined you with red hair and pale skin like Flora, but you are blonde and suntanned. You must take after your father.’

  That remark was evidence that it had never crossed his mind she could be his child, and she realized she must tackle the subject carefully.

  ‘I’m not a natural blonde.’ She blushed as she admitted it. ‘I had it lightened. And I don’t actually know who my father is. That is one of the reasons I wanted to meet you.’

  Patrick folded his arms and raised one eyebrow. His stance seemed to confirm she had shocked him.

  ‘You see, I believed Andrew Patterson was my father. There had never been anything to make me doubt that,’ she continued, ‘but soon after Mum died, he told me he wasn’t, and in a very nasty way. It was a total shock. It seems I was already around when he met Flora.’

  Patrick’s pale blue eyes widened. ‘He was that callous? At such a time? That is appalling!’

  ‘It was. I felt as if my whole childhood had been built on a lie. It was bad enough losing Mum, but then to be told I was a kind of cuckoo in the nest, that floored me. I’ve tried to make excuses for him – he was, after all, in shock at losing Mum. And he’d also just found out that she’d left me this place and her half of the family home to my brother and sister. But that doesn’t really excuse him, does it?’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t. It sounds to me as if he was making you his scapegoat. Are you sure this is true?’

  Eva nodded. ‘Oh yes. I found my full birth certificate here, in a box with some of Mum’s things. There’s just a dash where my father’s name should be.’

  ‘You didn’t say in your letter what Flora died of,’ he said. ‘Would that have any bearing on it?’

  ‘Well, yes. It does explain his bitterness. She committed suicide, Patrick.’

  He gasped and covered his face with his hands.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I should’ve found a less blunt way to tell you,’ Eva said. ‘But it isn’t something you can dress up to make it sound less shocking.’

  He took his hands from his face and she saw his eyes were swimming with tears. He reached across the table and caught hold of her hand. ‘Don’t apologize to me, Eva. You are the one who deserves sympathy. I can imagine how terrible it must have been for you!’

  ‘For all of us,’ she said. ‘We didn’t see it coming.’

  He was silent for a while; he looked as if he was struggling with the news and what he should say next.

  ‘As shocked and horrified as I am,’ he said eventually, his blue eyes now fixed on her, ‘in a way it was almost predictable. You see, Eva, the Flora I knew, for all her talent, was slightly off balance. She was complex, at times gregarious, outrageous even, at other times behaving like a hermit, hiding away here. She was also very impetuous and she often acted irrationally.

  ‘I loved her unpredictability, because it was exciting never knowing what was coming next. Yet she also scared me, because she didn’t accept boundaries, and often she went too far, too fast and had scant consideration for anyone caught in the fallout.’

  ‘People at her funeral hinted at that too,’ Eva said. ‘But I never saw that side of her. In fact I didn’t recognize the woman they described as being my mother. I was never aware of the wildness they spoke of; I never even knew she’d been a successful artist. While she certainly wasn’t conventional, she was a good mother, always there for us.’

  ‘Did anything unusual happen prior to her death?’

  ‘No, nothing at all. My brother and I had noticed that for some weeks she seemed kind of distant and withdrawn, but she often had periods like that and she would never talk about it. She was unpredictable, like you said. Some days I’d arrive home to find she’d made enough cakes for the whole neighbourhood, and on other days she hadn’t done a thing all day, not even clearing away the breakfast things. So there wasn’t any reason for us to think there was anything seriously wrong. Our home was beautiful, and there were no rows or money worries. It is such a mystery.’

  ‘Then she left no explanation for you?’

  ‘Only a note saying “Forgive me”, nothing more. Nothing further has come to light. I’m still as much in the dark about it as I was that day in March.’

  Patrick sighed deeply. ‘I know how that feels. When she left me there was no real explanation either,’ he said sadly.

  The ideas that Eva had formed about this man just from his illustrations seemed to be correct. He was caring, sensitive and he had great warmth. She felt he had a strong moral code, and that she could trust him.

  As they continued to talk – about her old home in Cheltenham, Sophie and Ben, and the kind of life they’d had before Flora died – Eva found herself liking him even more. He didn’t shy away from asking questions and she found it easy to answer them truthfully, because he wasn’t judgemental. In no time at all she was telling him how her mother’s death had changed everything she had once thought was set in concrete.

  ‘It felt like I’d been pushed out to sea in a small boat without even any oars. I felt totally alone. If Andrew had told me that he wasn’t my true father for a good reason, I think I could have accepted that quite easily. It was the maliciousness of it that hurt so much, as if he’d always despised me and I’d only ever been there on sufferance.’

  ‘I really cannot offer any explanation for why he, or any man, would do that,’ Patrick said, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘Grief and loss can make us irrational, but he’d taken you on as a baby, so he must have cared for you. But how did you find out about me?’

  ‘From Jack and Lauren, two old student friends of Mum’s that came to the funeral.’

  ‘They came?’ He looked astounded. ‘I lost touch with them years ago, but they were very good friends at one time. Lauren was really the only close girlfriend Flora ever had, and Jack and I were inseparable as students. I’ve often regretted that we lost contact.’

  ‘They seemed to think you were my father,’ Eva blurted out.

  His eyes widened at that. He shook his head and didn’t speak for a moment. ‘They are very much mistaken, Eva,’ he said eventually. ‘The way things have been for you, I wish I could lay claim to that honour. But I am not your father, my dear. Like you, I always believed Andrew was. I think I must tell you more detail about Flora and myself to set this straight.’

  ‘I would appreciate that.’

  ‘Flora and I met at Goldsmiths Art College in South London in 1964. She was twenty-one, studying Fine Art, I was twenty-eight and taking a short course in jewellery design. We became friends, and the following year we and some other people, Jack and Lauren included, shared a house together in New Cross. Let me explain how it was in 1965. That was the year the rigidity of the Fifties gave way to what people now call the “Swinging Sixties”. London was suddenly the place to be, everything was opening up, there was a real buzz in the air.

  ‘Yet, even so, our lot were a little before our time. It was almost unheard of then for men and women to share accommodation, but we art students considered ourselves “Beats”. Beatniks were the forerunners of hippies, really. We wore black baggy jumpers and skintight jeans, and we weren’t concerned with society’s petty rules.

  ‘I think I loved Flora from the moment I clapped eyes on her, but our relationship was a platonic one at that point and she had several other men in her life. We didn’t become lovers until the Christmas of 1965. By then she had her art degree, and I was maki
ng jewellery and selling it to boutiques. But Flora was already becoming noticed as an artist. We had so many dreams then, Eva, commune-type visions of living in an old farmhouse and all sharing our possessions and any income from our art …’ He paused and a wry smile played around his lips.

  ‘Impractical hippy dreams?’ Eva said.

  ‘Oh yes, totally impractical, as none of us was doing more than scratching a living.’ He chuckled. ‘But it was a good time for all of us in that house, we had some wonderful times – that is, when we weren’t freezing or starving, and the landlord wasn’t getting heavy about the rent we owed. Then, in 1967, quite suddenly everything changed for Flora. She became a minor star in the art world. Galleries exhibited her work, and they sold it hand over fist. Her mother had died of cancer before I met her, but during the latter half of that year her father died too, and he left her some money.’

  ‘Jack and Lauren told me some of that,’ Eva said. ‘And that she bought this house.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But what they probably didn’t tell you was that all our friends, Jack and Lauren included, were still clinging to the idea of a commune. When Flora bought a house for herself, not for all of them to share, they chose to see it as selling out to Capitalism. That was ridiculous, really. If any of them had come into money, they would have done exactly as she did. But it soured things. Anyway, Flora and I moved here, and she got pregnant. We were thrilled – completely wrapped up in one another – and we intended to get married. But, sadly, she miscarried at six months. It was a little girl.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Eva said. She could see the sadness etched into Patrick’s face.

  ‘It was never the same afterwards,’ he said glumly. ‘Flora went into a very dark place. At the time I was very afraid that she might end her life. She didn’t of course – she just ended it with me. She just upped and left one day while I was out. Her note said it was over and she’d gone away “to find herself”.’

  ‘How awful for you!’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘I remained here in this house, hoping of course that she’d return before long. I didn’t hear anything from her for weeks. I didn’t even know where she was, and if she was alright. Then I got a little watercolour of a cottage from her in the post. She said in the accompanying letter that she was in Scotland, and that she was sorry it had all gone wrong for us. But then she went on to say that if I wanted to stay on here, I would have to start paying her rent, as she needed an income, and that her solicitor would be in touch with the terms.’