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‘No. She started writing them after we got married. She said she wanted to document our married life and pass it on to our children and grandchildren.’
‘That’s a good idea.’ I smiled.
‘So, you see, it’s only right you should have them.’
‘Thank you. I’ll take good care of them.’
‘I know you will. Will you come back to visit me again?’
‘Of course.’
His smile was genuine. ‘I’d like that. The only person I seem to speak to these days is whoever’s presenting the weather after the news. They never get it right. I tell them so, too.’ He chuckled.
Chapter Eighteen
Dear Dawn,
I was surprised when I received a visit from Clare Delaney, and she told me you had been to see her. It made me smile for the first time in years. I’ve often thought of you. I did think of writing to your mum, many times, over the past twenty years, but I didn’t think she’d want to hear from me. I guessed she knew where I’d be, and if she wanted me to be involved in your life then she’d contact me.
I’m getting out in a few weeks. Clare has probably told you all about that. I was planning to look you up. I don’t know if you’re interested in meeting me for a coffee or a chat to get to know each other, but it would be nice for me to have something to look forward to when I come out. I don’t know anyone.
Clare told me you’ve been in touch with my father. How is he? I hope he’s well and looking after himself. I write to him regularly, but he never replies. That’s understandable, I suppose. I’ve caused him a great deal of pain over the years.
Your mum kept my identity from you for a long time, I hear. That couldn’t have been easy for her, but I’m pleased she finally told you about me. I’m guessing you weren’t pleased to hear the father you’ve longed for is serving a prison sentence for murder. I’m not a murderer, Dawn, I promise. I’m not any of the things the newspapers have said I am. I’m no good at letter writing, but I would like to explain everything to you. I’ve included a visiting order with this letter, so you can come and see me. As I’ve said, I’d really like to get to know you, but if you don’t want to, or if, after we’ve talked, you want nothing more to do with me, I’ll completely understand, and I’ll leave you to live your life.
Love,
Dad
It was a while before I could bring myself to read the letter. I arrived home, put all my shopping away and left the envelope on the table. I seemed to be able to see it from wherever I was in the flat. It was taunting me, always on the edge of my peripheral vision, begging, pleading with me to open it.
I gave Mrs White a call. I asked if she’d like to meet for a coffee, and she told me she was free tomorrow. I didn’t mention anything about bringing Robyn along and her having seen Stephanie on the day she went missing. When I ended the call, I wondered whether I should have prepared her. It didn’t seem fair to ambush her. Eventually, with nothing left to distract myself, I opened the letter from Dominic.
I was surprised by how neat and tidy his handwriting was. I suppose he looked to me as a silver lining on his dark horizon, a prospect of happiness on the outside. All I could think about was the pain Anthony was in. How would he feel if I met my father – his son – and began to forge some kind of relationship? The same question could be asked of my mum, too. We often went out for meals or trips to the cinema together, but what if I couldn’t make it on a particular evening because I was going to the pictures with my dad instead? How would Mum feel about that, after all these years of being my sole parent?
On the other hand, I had every right to get to know my dad, and people should understand and be supportive of that.
‘Oh, I don’t bloody know,’ I said out loud, falling back on the sofa in frustration.
The visiting order was on the coffee table in front of me. I’d got this far into investigating my father – I couldn’t stop now.
I’d always wanted to meet my father. Even when I was a child and had no idea of his identity, I’d pictured him in my head. He had been tall with dark hair and smiling eyes. He was clean-shaven, strong and always looked happy. He’d hold my hand firmly as we went to the park, and he always bought me an ice-cream. I was far too old for all that now – although I never turned down the offer of ice-cream – but I’d be denying my younger self if I didn’t meet him now I had the chance. And meeting him might finally answer all the questions that were burning inside me. It might bring me the peace I so desperately needed.
Chapter Nineteen
I spent most of the night in bed with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s while reading Carole’s diaries. It wasn’t long before I was so engrossed that I forgot about the ice-cream, which wasn’t like me at all. They gave me a snapshot of what life was like for Carole and Anthony in those early years of marriage. Some of the entries had Polaroid photos stuck beneath them. I looked at them closely, smiling at the fashions of the Seventies and the hairstyles and the Griffithses’ gaudy choice of decoration. It was amazing to see Anthony looking young, cheeks full of colour and standing upright. And he was right, there was a resemblance between me and Carole. They looked genuinely happy in those early years.
Smiling at the photos, exhaustion from the past few days finally caught up with me, and I fell asleep while reading – I hadn’t even got to Dominic’s birth yet.
The next morning, when I eventually woke, the cardboard tub of ice-cream was a soggy mess of melted chocolate, and there was a suspicious-looking brown stain on the carpet which would take some explaining and probably a great deal of effort to get out. I immediately got back to reading the diaries. In the first few years of wedded bliss, Carole had written about how happy she was to be married, how much she loved her husband and how excited she was to move into their first home together. Soon, the subject of motherhood came up, and she was looking forward to giving her husband a child. She actually used that phrase, as if having a baby was a gift to present to the man of the house. There were several false alarms and a couple of miscarriages, and by the end of the Seventies, Carole was beginning to suspect she’d never have a child. From the language she used, this was unacceptable. She had to become a mother. The mental anguish she felt was evident in the way the writing on the pages became more untidy and deeper-etched, as Carole vented her anger on the pages. She began to despise herself, and I felt tears of sympathy begin to run down my face as I read about how my grandmother hated waking up each morning as a failure of a woman, incapable of performing the most basic function of her gender – to have a child.
Over breakfast, I read more of the diary entries:
Wednesday, 10 March 1976
Another fucking miscarriage. That’s four now. Why don’t the doctors just scoop out my insides and have done with it? What is wrong with me? If I hear the sentence ‘it’s just one of those things, Mrs Griffiths’ one more time I’m going to kill someone. Why is my alien body rejecting life?
Thursday, 11 March 1976
