Читать книгу Conspiracy of Secrets - Bobbie Neate - Страница 9

When newly married, my stepfather imposed a more fundamental change to my mother’s life than tougher domestic duties, for she was to receive two uninvited guests who occupied the best rooms in her house for many future years. She had to wait another thirty years to get her suite of rooms back.

I was probably only six, so I don’t remember the details. I only know that one Christmas Stepfather’s mother and elder sister came to stay, and that during the visit the senior woman apparently fell ill. I could never quite work out why the two women stayed, because they had a flat of their own in Cambridge, but I hasten to add there was a kind of rumbling, from where I don’t remember, about how sick the older woman actually was. But Mum adapted and quickly changed our old nursery, a long tapering room that dominated the downstairs, into a flat for her new in-laws. As my siblings had been recently sent away to boarding school, my mother had looked forward to converting the newly available space, the best room in the house, into a sitting room. But her plan never came to fruition because Stepfather persuaded Mum that his two female relatives needed the downstairs washroom and pantry as well. My mother also lost her attractive Edwardian conservatory, as this provided the two women with their own front door.

I never heard her complain about the lack of rooms, but she found Auntie Mamie difficult to deal with. So did we all. She had no idea how to treat children. I soon learned to keep my distance. At the kitchen table my mother would occasionally lose her temper, telling Stepfather that it was his job to keep his relatives in order. Auntie Mamie told my mother tales that made Mum angry and occasionally she would declare she was a troublemaker. I never understood why. Now I suspect I can guess what the nature of the tales might have been, but even now I’m not sure. It was not until I was much older that I realised just how exasperating Auntie Mamie must have been.

My mother always encouraged her younger uninvited guest to take more care of herself. She was always giving her presents to cheer her up. On Sunday afternoons the two women walked across the hall from their side of the house to ours and joined us for afternoon tea. I don’t know what I called Stepfather’s mother. It may have been ‘Home Granny’, as she lived in our house, but, since she never became part of my life, I have few recollections of her. Conversation flowed easily between my mother and Home Granny but, as to her looks, I am hazier. I have no family snaps to remind me. Sadly, those were all thrown into a skip. But I get ahead of myself.

Little did I know then how important Home Granny and Auntie Mamie would become in my detective story. Just like Stepfather, they never talked about any relatives or their past lives. Home Granny never talked about her lost husband, nor did she ever mention the antics of Stepfather as a little boy. As far as I know neither she nor Auntie Mamie ever had any visitors. They just kept to their side of the house. The agreement struck between Stepfather and my mother was that, after Home Granny died, Mamie would move out. But of course she didn’t. Stepfather was a great persuader and Mamie acted up her incapacity by painting her face with white talcum powder. The trick worked, so our dining room continued to be our sitting room and Mum only ever had half of the ground floor of her house.

Each morning as I got ready to go down to breakfast, I asked myself if Stepfather would be nice or nasty. I was now living in an uncertain world and I had to learn quickly that he could turn in a flash from being agreeable to being unpleasantly cruel.

Throughout my childhood it was an important part of Stepfather’s morning ritual to walk across the yard to the letterbox, which was fixed to the inside of the blue gate. Eventually, when the weather turned foul, he let me retrieve the post for him, with strict instructions not to pry. Among the pile of letters often nestled a magazine or a journal in a strong brown cover, occasionally rolled like a newspaper. Each morning he balanced the hefty pile on his side plate. Then he poured ‘today’s’ milk (the rest of the family had yesterday’s offerings) over his Rice Krispies. He sorted the post into three heaps: one to be opened at breakfast, another to be taken upstairs, the third for my mother. She rarely showed interest. Her post was the bills.

I used to watch him slit open the envelopes from his breakfast pile, wrapping his thick fingers around the kitchen knife. He had huge hands. Occasionally I glanced at the back covers of the journals. Many of them had the word ‘Economist’ in their title, but the journals that caught my eye were the organs of The Royal Institute of International Affairs and the United Nations. There was another document with a bluish-grey cover that seemed to be about political affairs. I wondered why he had these journals, for they didn’t seem to fit in with his life as an author on golf.

There was always trouble with the postal delivery to the Old Mill House, or at least that is what we were led to believe. I can remember numerous times when accountants or relatives told us they had sent letters. It always seemed that it was the post for my mother that never arrived. Tickets would go astray; letters from my mother’s company would not arrive. Even those that had been sent by recorded delivery went missing. Louis’s tactic was always ruthlessly to blame others, and on these occasions it was the bemused postal workers.

When I was older I recognised the journal with the greyish-blue cover. It was Hansard. One day, even though I knew I was encroaching on dangerous territory, I could not resist asking, ‘Isn’t Hansard about what they say in the House of Commons?’

‘Yes,’ came the flat reply.

‘Why do you have Hansard?’ I nervously asked, but he must have been in a good mood that day because he smiled. ‘I just like collecting them,’ he joked; ‘I don’t read them.’

Years later I was to discover that hiding the post was one of his games, but again I am getting ahead of myself.

Stepfather and I had one common interest: sport. He told me he was a leading authority on golf and, as there were many books on this subject with his name blazoned on the cover as the author, this seemed likely to be true. Stepfather appeared to understand my childhood thrills of running faster and hitting a ball further and harder than anybody else. When he was new to our life at the Old Mill House he encouraged my mother to enter me for the ‘brothers and sisters’ race at my brother’s school. I won with ease. My prize was a huge powder-blue box of chocolates, with a matching ribbon and floppy bow. Later I was teased because, rather than share my prize, I went down to my den in the garage and ate the lot. However the box remained a treasured possession, which I hoped to show to my own children one day. Stepfather was proud of the action photograph he had taken of me as I rushed for the finishing tape. At the time I had no idea he had worked as a photographer. Sport gave us a certain affinity but it was a strange kinship. I didn’t trust his motives for getting close, and desperately hoped I wouldn’t find myself alone with him. If I did, I knew something horrid would happen.

Stepfather’s past remained a mystery even when I was older. When I started to talk of school exams he told me that he had achieved a double first in English at Emmanuel College, Cambridge. I never doubted that this was true, for in those early days he always wore the college tie, while the scarf was part of his winter uniform. The colours were navy with cerise stripes. I disliked them and thought them garish. Stepfather seemed to be a walking encyclopedia on the cities of Cambridge and London, so again I never doubted anything he told me.

There was a time when I began to wonder whether Louis had been married before. Until then it had not concerned me. One night when I was about 12 my sister went to answer the phone. She came back into our sitting room in a state, saying, ‘There’s a man on the phone. He says he’s Poppy’s son.’

Everybody stopped what they were doing and looked at each other in shock. Louis pulled himself out of his deep chair and struggled to his feet; he had been in a half-slumber. But he was wide awake when he glanced at my mother on his way out. After the door closed behind him there was a long awkward silence, which nobody broke. We had been too well groomed to discuss any delicate matters among ourselves. Each person was left to ruminate on the significance of the call, as nothing was forthcoming on his return.

There were other embarrassing times when Auntie Mamie tripped up and called my brothers by the wrong names. At the time it was too unsettling to consider why she might do this. So we all ducked the issue. Just as I did with the memories of my own father, I buried them.

It is only now that I can allow myself to recall some memories of my biological father.

A three-flame gas fire had been fixed into the angular chimney-breast that dominated the room I had as a toddler in the Old Mill House. Mum had insisted on retaining the original floor tiles with only a low, raised brick rail, warning of the potential hazard of the heat of the fire. My real father must have left the family home in the colder months of the year, because I recall that my cot was placed parallel to the fireplace, which meant that it was at a peculiar angle to the long rectangular bay window that overlooked the sprawling lawn.

In those days children slept in their cots until they were four or five, so I can easily recall mine. It had solid legs and a sturdy frame with dropdown sides, and it was painted off-white. On the inside of the two curved wooden ends were hand-painted images of angels and clouds. I remember listening and waiting for the clickety-click of a side panel moving down over its ratchets – the signal that I would soon escape from my secure containment.

I don’t know how long the tall greying man in the dog collar had been standing over my cot. My recollection was not of fun but of tears – tears that splashed, from a height, onto my upturned face as I tripped on the ends of my long nightgown, reaching up with my arms. His tall, thin body heaved and whimpered in his effort to disguise the pain. When he finally held me, the tears abated, but then a voice called from some eerie distant place that interrupted our moment. We heard the high-pitched, almost distorted, voice.

‘Leslie, it’s time to go. Come on, you must go.’ He held me tight, looking over my shoulder.

The voice became more shrill.

‘Leslie, it’s time to go.’

I felt him shake as he gently kissed me on the cheek. Then he hurriedly put me back in my cot. I had no idea that he was leaving for ever but, as he left the door ajar, I heard his measured steps retreating down the back stairs.

Other memories of my father were scant. I could recall what must have been the Christmas Eve before his final departure. There were many excited adults and children in our large nursery. I remember a glittering Christmas tree placed in a wooden box in the huge bay window, and people were attaching clip-on candles to the lower branches. A lofty man whisked me up high in the air and flung me over his head. I sat perched on his shoulders way above the rest, so high I felt I could reach the beam that swept across the ceiling. I was thrilled with his jiggling shoulders that danced me around the tree. Exhausted, he settled down in a comfy chair and sat me on his knees. I was warm and secure in his arms as we looked at the elegant timepiece that he had on his left wrist. It had a worn and stained brown leather strap. We both gazed at the ticking of the tiniest hand, in its little sphere, a circle within a circle. The movement jerked as it jumped from one little division to the next, while the other larger hands had miniature arrowhead tips that tediously moved towards the Roman numerals and my bedtime.

At times I ventured into wondering if my memories had been wrong. But, if I was right, why was Stepfather so keen to introduce us as his offspring? Children are often uneasy with introductions, but for years I continued to find them embarrassing. The greatest discomfort was experienced on the motor-racing circuit. Through my mother’s interest in Formula One, racing cars and their drivers were a normal part of our lives and Stepfather insisted that everybody be told that we were his natural children. Nobody ever dared to argue with him, and even when we were older fear kept us from ever using the term ‘stepfather’ even with our best friends. He had ensnared us in his lie and I carried this untruth into my schooling. Boarding-school friendships, like any others depend on honesty, so I never felt completely comfortable with my pals. To them this bulky man whose appearance was so frightening was my father. Each time he accompanied my mother and arrived in the school driveway I felt pangs of betrayal. I had let myself down. I parried if friends asked about his role in my life. I did not want anybody to know how much I distrusted him. What had started in youth continued into later life. I had been party to a lie and I knew no way to escape. What was my fear? I am not sure I can explain.

As we grew older we probably probed with our questioning a little more. Stepfather had no sympathy with teenage angst and, as he never mentioned his own father, we began in concert to be a little braver. On one memorable evening he rasped that his father had been a ‘cotton executive’, as he had told us on one occasion before. But when we asked a further question about his father we put him into a terrifying mood that lasted until the next day.

There was another time when I got into trouble asking about names. One evening Stepfather and Mum were talking about somebody with the surname Bonham Carter who had been mentioned on the Home Service (which later became Radio 4) on Mum’s kitchen radio. ‘Bonham Carter, that’s a strange name,’ I ventured.

‘Yes,’ said Mum in a supportive tone, her voice reaching me from around the corner where she was doing the pans at the old butler’s sink.

‘Fancy being called Bonham Carter!’ I giggled.

But this was one step too far for him. ‘How dare you?’ he scowled. ‘You ignorant little tyke!’

His retort was so harsh I felt as if a ton of rubble had fallen on me. Mum tried to defuse the situation and talk about our dogs, but the damage had been done. I was never going to forget the name Bonham Carter. But strange names kept cropping up in Stepfather’s vocabulary. I was desperate to make some comment about the Aga Khan, Masterman or Trevelyan, but I had learned my lesson.

Beaverbrook was a surname that captured my imagination. One evening I was grateful to Bette Hill for helping me out when she and her husband Graham Hill, our entertaining racing driver and a world champion, came to dinner.

She was sitting in one of the broad chairs in the dining room, when Louis started to name-drop: ‘When I saw Beaverbrook last week in the Dorchester Grillroom, he told me he was enjoying life but he asked my advice about what to do in a difficult…’ ‘Oh, so, you know that tycoon, as well, do you, Mr Stanley?’ Bette Hill was one of the few people I knew who were brave enough to interrupt Stepfather. Perhaps she knew Stepfather was more civil to those who were useful to him. The evening must have been going well, because Mum was also in a jovial mood and allowed herself a sideswipe: ‘Oh, Bette, Louis knows everybody, don’t you, dear?’

He sighed at her but from his demeanour it was clear he took her words as a compliment.

Louis obviously thought we should be impressed, but the name Beaverbrook meant nothing to me, just like his other brags. But, as I got older, there remained a fascination about his mysterious past and I began to invent motives for why he refused to chat about his previous existence. I decided he and his mother, Home Granny, were suffering from unresolved grief. As neither of them ever talked about his father, I was sure this mysterious figure must have died when Stepfather was very young.

Mum used to try to justify to us why Stepfather was such a fussy eater – he wanted only plain food and always refused to try anything new. She explained, ‘He had been a very spoilt child. His mother absolutely adored him because he was the baby she had always longed for.’

But her words did not justify to me why he couldn’t drink the same milk as we did and why his toast was eatable only if it was one special shade of brown, with no crusts.

Sometimes my mother would elaborate: ‘You see they wanted a baby and no baby arrived. That’s why they had Auntie Mamie.’

She talked of ‘they’ and I had no idea who ‘they’ were, so I assumed she meant Home Granny and her husband – the man nobody ever talked of.

‘What do you mean?’ I would ask.

‘Well, they were desperate for a baby and when none arrived Home Granny took Auntie Mamie from a hospital.’ She paused. ‘You know, she is much older than Poppy and she’s his adopted sister.’

I still didn’t understand the situation but she always finished her story with these words: ‘What a thrill it must have been when Poppy turned up. How exciting it must have been.’ And Mum always threw open her arms in empathetic glee. It did not explain why we all had to run around pleasing Stepfather, but as a child I accepted what she said.

I can recall many incidents that involved my stepfather’s love of golf. He also enjoyed going out in the car and in those early days we dreaded his directing my mother to take him to another golf course. Here, he would walk to the golf professionals’ hut, and all of us, including my mother – who had kindly driven him there – would be left sitting in the car with nothing to do but wait.

When we visited his hometown of Hoylake on the Wirral he told us he had been a scratch player. He boasted that all he had to do was cross the road from his house to play on his local course, the Royal Liverpool. At the time I thought he must have an exceptionally good player, as he had written instructional books such as Swing to Better Golf.

Then there were the many visits to golf championships. One day he and my mother collected me from primary school and sprang the surprise that, instead of going home to tea, I was going to the Open Championship at St Andrews. Mum, of course, drove all the four hundred miles far into the night. The town was like another home for Louis. He loved the Scottish settlement. Another golfing town we often visited was Lytham St Annes. It was fun to be out of school but I was beginning to miss vital lessons, and the fascination of walking on miles of flat sand soon lost its edge as Stepfather talked endlessly with his golfing friends in the failing light. On a rare occasion of honesty my mother whispered that she was bored as well.

Much later, I recall, when I was not living at home any more, he gloated that he was paid £10,000 for one golf article. I couldn’t think why his words were worth so much, but I accepted that he had earned that amount of money, otherwise how did he keep up his lifestyle? It was not until much later that a cousin suggested to me that perhaps he was wildly exaggerating how much he earned. But, as life got busier and we became older, my mother finally put her foot down. She’d had her fill of striding around golf courses rushing to keep up with the players. She cleverly persuaded him to watch the competitions on the TV from his armchair. So he wrote golfing articles without actually being present at the tournament, which was quite an achievement in those days.

If he wanted to, Louis could be witty, entertaining, humorous and charming. It all depended on his mood, and more importantly the social status of the person he was with. If they were important to him he was almost a good host; however, if he thought the man would be of little value to him he would be treated with distain. Women were regarded differently.

Mum was allowed to tease him on the odd occasions. One Easter Sunday was especially memorable and relevant to this story. Louis had plonked himself down in his armchair after a chocolate filled day with one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other playing with the armrest. He had been in a reasonable mood all day and Mum decided to risk a little tease. ‘It’s hard to imagine that the Great Louis T was ever a baby.’ She watched for a reaction before continuing, ‘You are just too huge, too distinguished, too illustrious.’

‘Go on, show them,’ said Mum, making bigger waves with her arm in the direction of his seat. He was slumped low, his left hand was still jammed in his blazer pocket. Could I detect unease? We caught Mum’s bravery. ‘Show us,’ we demanded. Cautiously he drew a small card out of his pocket. It was unlike Mum’s photos, not shabby or curled or stuck with ageing corners. This print appeared pristine. An Edwardian baby sat in a pot-bellied perambulator wearing a lacy jacket and a frilly bonnet with ribbons tied under his chin. We took turns to study the picture but he never let go of the card. ‘The great Louis T started as an exceptional baby,’ Mum joked. ‘So big for a one-year-old,’ she giggled, ‘really exceptionally large for an exceptional man.’

The Old Mill House had grown haphazardly over the four centuries it had been a family home. There had been three Victorian extensions with no architectural planning, so this meant the flooring upstairs was irregular. At the top of the steep back stairs was the long landing. Then two further steps led up to the bathroom, the toilets and the guestroom. At the top of the steps there was a loose floorboard.

Stepfather’s hobby was photography, and when he first moved in he used to bury himself in the old scullery with a large collection of chemicals and trays of fluids. It was a large room. He used to give me undeveloped rolls of film, on which, I could etch a story sequence. Also there was a certain fascination watching the images emerge in the chemicals. With the noise of constantly flowing cold water washing the new prints, mixing pleasantly with the noises of clanging saucepans, chopping knives and family chatter from the kitchen, I felt safe. However, because his relatives had moved in and taken over the pantry he was soon relocated into one of the upstairs toilets. He now had a designated room. The toilet bowl was taken out and replaced with the large sink taken from downstairs. Cold taps were fitted and shelves made for all his materials. It was equipped with a high stool, a draining board, various trays for developing fluid and the latest photographic machinery including a large contrivance with a bulge that enlarged the image. There was a thin rope strung above the shelves for hanging prints to dry. The room was tiny. It could only be described as a cupboard. He was a large man, so there was little room for anybody else. The window, with its bubble-frosted glass, criss-crossed by shadows and outlines of wisteria branches, was lost for ever, as he had fixed a thick black roller blind over it. The only glimmer in the dark was the low-wattage bulb that had been painted red. The glow made the machinery look menacing.

The only lavatory in the house was located around the corner to his cupboard. To reach it I had to step on the loose floorboard that was at the top of the two steps outside his den. Luckily, his cupboard door had a noisy roller snap fitted. The slipping roller ball made a loud distinctive click as it was opened, and this sometimes gave me the opportunity to hide before he enticed me into his hellhole. And I mean a hellhole.

When I was small my mother always found time to visit my long-widowed maternal grandmother, of whom she was very fond. After the long journey from Cambridge I looked forward to spotting the two tall manorial columns that announced we had finally arrived on the New Hall estate. Built of large blocks of seasoned red sandstone with mullioned windows, the house resembled a fairytale castle. The name New Hall confused me, as it was so old. The house was originally built as a hunting lodge in 1071 but after an extension was added in 1340 it was called ‘New Hall’ and had retained the name ever more. With its many bold extensions over various periods it made a stunning country home. The moat held a particular attraction. As soon as the car stopped I used to leap from it and run across the tile-covered bridge, stopping for a split second to confirm that it still had crystal-clear water.

I was as enchanted by the moat as my mother had been. It retained its original depth and width, being fed by seven nearby springs. The clear water flowed through the moat and down to a millrace, where there had once been a working watermill. Large carp, pike and smaller freshwater fish had been caught by my uncles and were displayed as trophies on the walls of the billiard room. Obscuring the edge of the moat grew damp loving plants in abundance: marsh marigolds, buttercups and bulrushes.

But it was the water lilies I loved. Olive-green leaves formed huge matted clumps while the lilies’ fibrous roots reached into the unsullied waters. The firm, elongated buds unfolded into leathery petals as the sun’s heat warmed them. Some of the flowers had pencil-line brushes of pale pink.

But not all my memories of New Hall were so pleasant. One day when I was eight my mother hurried me into the car and told me that New Hall had been burgled. Both Granny and my mother were deeply upset when the police suggested that an intimate knowledge of the house had been required to carry out the crime. Hilda the cook and the butler, Green, had been there for twenty years, so Granny was sure they were not implicated. Even in those days I had vibes that Stepfather could not be trusted. I am not sure why but I didn’t want to spend any time thinking about him.

A few months later two youths were found in the grounds mucking around in the outhouses. Stepfather wanted to take control and called the police. As the boys were too young to be charged he insisted they be taught a ‘real lesson’. Granny’s health was deteriorating by then, so she grudgingly agreed that the boys be given a beating. Stepfather made sure that my brother and I heard over and over again his plans to beat the lads. I have no doubt his gloating of the success of the thrashing was designed to terrify.

My mother was grief-stricken when my Granny died. Mum’s tears fell in deluges on me whenever I saw her. She explained that I was not old enough to go to the funeral service.

‘You’re lucky Papa volunteered to look after you,’ she said. She explained there was nobody else available to care for me.

I watched from my stool in the far corner of the sitting room as my uncles, aunts and cousins congregated. They spoke in muted voices and then slowly gathered to leave the house. Green had aged and was a lost soul. His mistress of forty years had gone for ever. Eventually the heavily clad door with its massive iron hinges closed. I heard the noise of the many car wheels roll on the gravelled quadrangle and then fade away as they made their way up the rutted drive. There was nobody left. I was alone with Stepfather in the massive house.

But I was happy enough. I had the tantalising solitaire board all to myself with hours to play. Stepfather was in the breakfast room next door, reading a pile of papers. Each marble had its own character and I had plenty of time away from competing siblings to admire their individual markings as I laid them in the hollow cups. When all the holes were full, I plucked out the central marble and placed it expectantly into the circular track. It displayed all its charm as it rolled in its groove with the friendly rustling sound of marble on polished teak.

After many a game, nature called and, as I came out of the lavatory, he was sitting waiting for me on one of the chairs in the large hall, which was up one flight of stairs. I have never felt more alone. My cosy bed and teddy bear could not protect me as they had done when ‘things’ had happened before in my bedroom. Abuse in the daylight was far more frightening and now I knew that he had abused my mother’s trust.

When I was 24 and about to get married, curiosity got the better of me. It was, I decided, a suitable time to venture into unknown territories and find my father again. It had been easy to find the details of a man called Leslie Civil Baber in Crockford’s Clerical Directory. It confirmed that my father had indeed been a man of the cloth. More importantly, it gave his address, so I wrote to him and was invited down to the New Forest.

But it was hard. I did not want to find out the dodgy truth about Stepfather’s involvement in the divorce. Nor did I want him to know I had broken rank with his lie about parenthood. If I got found out I would be in for some well-chosen derogatory words. His succinct phrases spoken in his lowest tones would ruin my serenity. I knew his game and my proposed visit made me exceptionally anxious. But this was not my only worry. Maybe to rub salt into the wound he would have an indiscreet talk with Mum. It would ruin her equilibrium and I didn’t want that.

The ageing stranger was ten years older than my mother. However, for a seventy-year-old he was tall and straight with his height exaggerated by his black shirt and clerical collar. It was his watch that caught my attention. It was an emotional moment when I spotted the same timepiece he and I had studied so many years ago

I sat by his tiny gas fire. Had I ever called him Dad? I realised at that moment I had never experienced having a father. Louis had fallen well short. My father must have been a man with energy: he had only just retired from his demanding insurance job in the city but spoke longingly of renewing his professional interest in religion and taking services in the local church. His enforced early release from the Church of England was a subject I did not bring up, but on my third visit, as my father attempted to light a fire with wood collected from our walk in the forest, I ventured into the past.

‘Did you love my mother?’

‘Yes,’ he replied as he reached behind his long legs to find the unfashionable and uncomfortable sofa. He sat down, the slow movement allowing him more thinking time. ‘Yes, I think we loved each other.’

I tried to envisage my mother as a vicar’s wife. There had been times in my childhood when she had allowed herself to make what for her were quite cutting remarks about the uncharitable nature of women churchgoers. What provoked them? Mum was rarely rude about anyone. Maybe her local community hurled hurtful comments in her direction when she divorced. Had my father experienced cruel comments as well? I persisted in my questioning, ‘Did my mother enjoy being a vicar’s wife?’

‘Yes, very helpful. She…’ He paused for some time. I had jerked old memories. Now I had to pluck up courage to ask about the nature of his divorce and I realised I didn’t even know where their parish had been. While he stared at the kindling as it spat out its dampness I persisted against his hesitancy. With his eyes still on the last few flickering flames, he spoke in a softer voice. ‘I did something wrong, very wrong.’ He paused. ‘I can’t tell you: you’re not married.’

He sat back defiantly into the faded sofa. It was my turn to think hard. Was I to surmise that his wrongdoing had been of a sexual nature? If so, the rumours I had overheard as a child must be true. But which rumour? Was it an affair with my maternity nurse or the married woman? Or was it some other sexual act? I resolved to pursue the matter on a later date. But I never brought up the subject again.