Dying Flames Read online

  “Ah, yes. It was Peggy I came to talk about.”

  “Yes. There’s not many topics of conversation in this village, like I said, so Peggy and the Somerses have lasted a long time, even though they’ve been gone from here now twenty-five years or more.”

  “But you’ve always kept in touch with them?”

  “Oh, yes, by letters and through visits. You’ll have been told that in The Haywain. Mary was my best friend in the village, and I’ve kept in touch with Ted since she died. That will certainly have been told you by those awful old women in there.”

  “I’m a bit bewildered,” said Graham slowly. “I’ve talked to Peggy recently, and she said both her parents were dead and had been for some time.”

  Mrs. Moores considered, then said, “I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere if we circle round and round what Peggy has said, or why. What she says has very little connection with reality. She’s had little or nothing to do with either of her parents since she got the house off them.”

  Graham shot her a quick glance. “Is that phrase ‘got the house off them’ significant? Was that the cause of the breach between them?”

  “Yes, it was. By then she had Christa and Adam, and she wanted space. She persuaded Ted and Mary to move out to a bungalow and said she’d pay the market price for the house. What she in fact paid was about half that, and some of that was a loan from her brother, which she never paid back. She relied on them not suing or calling in the police, and of course they didn’t. She’d been the apple of their eye when she was growing up—much more than her brother. So they couldn’t bear to wash the family dirty linen in public, and they just broke off relations with her. And that suited her very well, and hurt them very much.”

  “Didn’t they see the grandchildren at all?”

  “Christa has been going round fairly regularly since she was about sixteen. Adam goes with her now and then. It’s better than nothing. Ted values it, specially now he’s on his own. He’s retired as well, so he’s lonely, and time hangs heavy. We’re thinking of getting married, but nothing’s decided yet. It’s a big step at my age, with my husband having been dead thirty years. You get used to your independence if you are widowed at an early age. Ted is too old to do that.”

  Graham felt he was trespassing too long on her time and her memories, but one thing still bothered him.

  “You said you knew my name before you read any of my books.”

  “Well, yes. Your name came up between us—me and the Somerses.”

  “When was that? Was it when Christa was born?”

  “Christa? Why would you think that? That was much later. No, it came up at the time when they felt they had to move from this village. When Peggy was eighteen and pregnant. It was still quite a big disgrace in those days.”

  “So she had a child then, did she? Why has she told Christa that I’m her father?”

  Kath Moores raised her eyebrows and thought.

  “Because you’re famous, and she doesn’t want to lose the prestige of having…gone with you.”

  “But the baby itself?”

  “She had it adopted, of course. So it’s not around to be boasted to about its famous father.”

  “And the baby was…?”

  “A boy.”

  “That’s what she told me. That at least was true.”

  “Oh, she mingles truth with the rest. It makes it seem that it’s all true. You’d really do best to avoid her altogether, you know. She’s trouble, that girl—woman.”

  “If she had my son without even telling me, I don’t know whether I can do that,” said Graham sadly.

  Chapter 5

  Starting Again

  Graham almost had to rub his eyes when it happened again. He opened the front door and there she was.

  “Hello, Graham. Are you going to ask me in this time?”

  The background was the familiar one of a street in Hepton Magna rather than a hotel corridor, but she was exactly the same. And he felt a surge of pleasure at seeing her again. There was now no suspicion or skepticism, nor any fear at all. There was a surge of that well-recognized lust, but also something that, for him, was so much rarer: that other four-letter word beginning with l.

  “Of course. Come in.”

  She marched confidently in, through to his living room, then looked around her appraisingly.

  “Nice!”

  Graham was quite aware, as perhaps Christa was not, of an undertone that qualified the praise: “not much personality” seemed to be the doubt expressed in her tone. He decided they shouldn’t go into all that. As far as he was concerned, personality was something to be kept submerged. He just said, “Thanks.”

  She turned to him, smiling a little satirically.

  “So why did you invite me in this time without my having to force you into it?”

  “There was one word that you said last time but didn’t say this time.”

  “Yeah, well, we’d better talk about that.”

  “In a minute. Would you like coffee?”

  “Tea, if that’s all right.”

  “Tea it is.” He bustled out, but from the kitchen he shouted, “So who’ve you been talking to? Your mother?”

  “Not much good talking to her. I expect you know why.”

  “Yes. She lies. But why did you believe her when she told you I was your father?”

  “Because she’s been telling me that ever since I was little.”

  Graham came back with cups and saucers and began setting them out on a coffee table.

  “Fantasies are things people cling to,” he said slowly. “Eventually some people come to believe them themselves. Though I don’t think that’s true in this case.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because when I met her—you knew I had met her?”

  “Oh, yes. She told me about it and said you were still desperately in love with her.”

  “Ha! Anyway, when I met her, and as she was saying good-bye, she just said that the baby was a boy.”

  He left her thoughtful as he went to make the tea. When he came back, she asked immediately:

  “The baby you were the father of?”

  “Apparently.”

  “How old would he be now?”

  “Middle twenties…. Did you hear the truth from your grandfather?”

  “Yes. I went round for a talk.” She giggled but it was a troubled sound. “It’s stupid—I was so surprised to hear that you weren’t my father that I didn’t ask him who was.”

  “Perhaps the grandparents were never told. Your mother could have been their only possible source of information, so they could have realized that anything she told them was suspect.”

  “Of course. Yes, I expect that’s true. Well, if it’s not you, I don’t know that I’m interested.”

  Graham thought this was a healthy reaction. Christa accepted a cup and sat sipping at it and nibbling a biscuit.

  “This is nice. This is how I thought it would be in Colchester.”

  “How did you find out my address?”

  “I’m doing a librarianship course at college.”

  “So you found it in Twentieth Century Novelists?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s the only reference work that gives addresses. Are you really going to be a librarian?”

  She shrugged, smiling. “Oh, it’s just one of my units. One of my ‘mights.’ I’m doing it with Art History and Ancient Egypt.”

  “Why Ancient Egypt?”

  “It’s there. I just fancied it. And the teacher, if you must know.”

  Graham sighed. “I see. It’s like a different world.”

  “Oh, don’t go all ‘older generation’ on me. So what about this twenty-five-year-old baby, then?”

  “What about him?”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Search me. I’ve been told he was put out for adoption.”

  “Aren’t you interested?”

  Graham thought.


  “I suppose I am. I’m in an almighty muddle about him. I’ve only recently known anything about him. I did really get intrigued, though, when you turned up with the claim that I knew couldn’t be true. Was there a baby who was not you? But actually getting interested in the baby as a young man—I don’t know if I can—or should.”

  “The way you put it, it sounds as if you just saw me as a problem, a puzzle.”

  “Not true. Quite the reverse. But being interested in you did involve a problem, and I’m glad to have solved it.”

  “Leaving the other problem of little Incognito.”

  “I think Ignoto might be a better name.”

  “What’s that when it’s at home?”

  “ ‘Unknown.’ Our unknown quantity.”

  Christa nodded, now relaxed again.

  “Sounds about right. Anyway, you can call him what you want. He’s your son. There are places you can go, you know.”

  Graham frowned. “To find out what happened to him? Adoption agencies, do you mean?”

  “No, I meant on the Web. I’ve heard of a couple of sites. One’s called Parents and Children, and I think there’s another one called Find Your Family.”

  “Wouldn’t that depend on him wanting to get in touch with me?”

  “Yeah. Or with Mum. I’ve read that most of them want to contact their mothers.”

  “I suppose that’s natural. Fathers are expendable things these days.”

  “I didn’t think so. And I’ve still got that problem.”

  On an impulse Graham said:

  “You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you? I was just going to have toasted cheese. Or we could go to the pub.”

  “I’d rather have it here. I make a mean Welsh rarebit. Would you let me make it for us?”

  “I’d be honored. Come through to the kitchen. What do you need apart from bread and cheese?”

  “I’ll find everything. I’m an expert on other people’s kitchens. You go and read the paper and I’ll bring it to you.”

  As Graham sat in his easy chair, he thought he was being treated by Christa rather as she probably treated her grandfather. The idea made him feel oddly uneasy, and also sad. He tried to read the morning paper, but kept being distracted. He would have liked to go and see Christa finding her way round his kitchen, but could think of no way he could do that without being spotted. It was only ten minutes or so before Christa came back with odorous and still-sizzling plates.

  “Your kitchen was a doddle. Everything in its place. I’ve never known an easier one, apart from boyfriends’. They’re always so boring. No wonder most boys prefer to stay at home, when they’ve so little imagination when it comes to food.”

  Graham preferred not to think about Christa and boyfriends.

  “I suppose your grandfather’s is a kitchen you know well.”

  “Oh, yes. I cosset Grandad when I go round to see him.”

  “What has he told you?”

  Christa watched him tucking in greedily, thought, then replied:

  “About my background? About Mother? Not very much, really. Like you said, I don’t think he and my grandma were told much about how I came into the world. I guess it was probably the same with little Ignoto. Or perhaps what they were told was lies, and they realize that. About Mother, Grandad feels he has to be careful. He doesn’t want to undermine her with her own children. I should think me and Adam know more about her than he does. He and Grandma seem to have worn rose-colored spectacles all the time she was growing up, and then lost them in a big way.”

  “It was that time I was wondering about…. This Welsh rarebit is marvelous. I could never make it as well.”

  “Mum’s recipe. Didn’t she ever make it for you?”

  “She never made me a meal. It wasn’t that sort of relationship. We were very young, and it was very short.”

  “Gran and Grandad never said much about that time. When I talked to Grandad, he said giving up the baby for adoption was ‘for the best.’ He and Grandma may have taken the initiative, but I got the impression that Mum was happy to go along with it.”

  They ate companionably for some time in silence. When Graham had finished, he put his cutlery on his plate, then suddenly burst out:

  “Why should I want to find this son?”

  Christa looked at him, surprised. “Why wouldn’t you? I thought every man wanted a son.”

  “I never knew I had a son till your mother told me. I didn’t miss having one, I didn’t feel incomplete without one. I didn’t ache to believe your mother was speaking the truth.”

  “Oh, she was. Grandad definitely said that the baby was a ‘he.’ ”

  “Does everything your mother says have to be double-checked?”

  “Pretty much. Most of the time we’ve learnt—Adam and me—to ignore her. She tells us things, and we just say, ‘Oh, yes?’ and get on with our lives. It’s only if what she says is something major—like a new man moving in with us—that we take any notice.”

  “I see. It seems a curious upbringing.”

  “I suppose it has been, in a way. I sometimes hear other people talking about their home life and I think, ‘You’ve had it easy.’ Then I think, ‘You’ve got it dull too.’” She laughed. “My mum’s never been dull, I can say that for her.”

  “All this isn’t answering my question. What use do I have for a son?”

  “I can’t answer that for you. But couldn’t we just wait and find out if we can identify him? Then you can think it over and decide if you want to meet him.”

  “But by then I’ll feel I’m already committed.”

  “You won’t be, though. To meeting him, maybe, but not to anything else.”

  “Emotionally I will be committed. I don’t think people should be played with. And I might have to go through the motions of being interested in someone I find thoroughly boring and antipathetic, just because of a ten-day fling back in 1979.”

  “Is that all it was?”

  “Yes. Three or four individual days when we met up and…you know. So what is there in it for me? Come to that, what is there in it for him?”

  “Well,” said Christa, clearing up the plates, “I know what I’d want if I were him. And you can’t know what’s in it for either of you unless you actually meet up, can you?”

  Graham helped her, ran some water in the sink, and together they washed up the pots from breakfast and lunch. All the time he was thinking what a sensible girl she was, how adult, as well as how lovely. When they were finished, Christa began collecting her things.

  “Time I was going. You’ll be wanting some time to write.”

  Graham could have told her that he didn’t write in the afternoon, and that he wasn’t writing anything at the moment anyway. But he didn’t. He did want to be alone, he did want time to think.

  “We must keep in touch,” he said. “I’ve got your mother’s telephone number. When’s the best time to ring—when she won’t be there?”

  “Friday evening is late opening at the shop. I cook a meal for when she comes back just after seven, even if I’m heading out later.”

  “Maybe I should have your grandfather’s address.”

  “I suppose so. Though if you do go and see him, I should probably come with you. But why would you go and see him except to find out more about your son?” she added with a sly smile on her face.

  Graham felt he’d walked into a trap.

  “I suppose there might be some tiny itch of curiosity and paternal interest. Anyway, it occurs to me that I’m being selfish. Whatever I may feel, you very likely are interested in an elder brother you’ve never seen. And if you want to make contact, there’s nothing in the world I could or would do to stop you.”

  “True. And, yes—I am curious. And if he wants to find his mother, I could help him.”

  “Would that go down well with Peggy?”

  That brought Christa up short. She frowned.

  “Do you know, I’ve no idea. Why should she not want to be found?”r />
  “Is she afraid of aging? A twenty-five-year-old son suddenly appearing puts a few more years on her age than a nineteen-year-old daughter.”

  “Oh, I think she’d get over those feelings quite quickly. She’d probably like the novelty of the situation, especially as she’d be the center of attention.”

  “So I’d imagine. You know we met when we were both in a school play, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Grandad told me that.”

  “She had testosterone-stoked young men around her for those three months, all lusting after her like crazy. That’s probably where she got the thirst for being the center of attention.”

  “Do you think? I’d have thought she became an amateur actress because of liking the limelight.”

  She’s really very sharp, thought Graham. Or has learnt a lot from her upbringing. At the door she kissed him.

  “A chaste kiss from your nondaughter,” she said. “And we’ll keep in touch.”

  She made it sound inviting.

  It was over a week before Graham heard from Christa again. He found the days long and empty. It was ridiculous to have become dependent on seeing or hearing from someone he had initially regarded as a threat, but there it was…. He told himself now and then that he was just curious to know whether Christa had turned up any facts about the boy who was his son, but he knew that was not so. It was Christa herself, her personality, her enthusiasm for life, that he missed.

  One day, when he was out, she left a message on his answer machine. It just consisted of “Love you, Christa.” Not very sustaining in itself, but it gave him the sound of her voice, and he didn’t wipe the message. He thought it was a lovely voice—a joyful, heart-lifting voice. The voice of an actress’s daughter. He thought about Peggy, and her parents’ story about her having won a scholarship to one of the drama schools. What wonderful things might have happened if it had been true! What rich pleasure she might have brought to theatergoers, television watchers, and cineasts up and down the country. He was convinced, like everybody in St. Joan, not just that she had talent, but that it was a peerless talent, that with training she could have stood alone among actresses of her generation.