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‘I remember,’ I say, nudging him out of the reverie he seems to have slipped into. ‘It’s one of the clearest memories of my childhood, despite Mum trying to pretend it didn’t happen.’
‘He danced with you that night,’ Johnny says, ‘and with your mother. I honestly thought they were going to get back together, but something happened and he left. We didn’t see him again for years.’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure. I took you up to bed and by the time I came back down Bruce was on his way out. I think he’d asked if he could see you, if he could take you out or something. But your mother said no. There was an argument, which everybody pretended not to hear.’
‘Did everyone know?’ I ask. ‘Did all of your friends know he was my father?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not at all. Your parents kept it very close. Those who did know, or who’d guessed, knew better than to say anything.’
‘Why was it always such a big secret? Why did she always say she couldn’t remember who I danced with? Why did she always say she couldn’t remember who my father even was?’
‘She couldn’t bear for you to see him if she couldn’t. She was so in love with him. She always was. But he was an addict. For years and years his love of booze always came first and after he got sober, which was around the time of your third birthday, he didn’t want your mother any more; he just wanted you. I think keeping him away from you was her way of punishing him for not loving her like she loved him.’
My head is reeling. I can’t take it all in. I know my mother is self-absorbed but this is ridiculous.
‘So how did he end up buying this house?’ I ask.
‘Ah yes, well. Do you remember Frank?’
‘Uncle Frank?’
Johnny nods. Uncle Frank was another guy who was always hanging around Mum. I think he lived here for a little while. I remember him coming and going and always giving me a pound coin or two when I was little. He was a painter I think.
‘Frank was Bruce’s younger brother. He lived constantly in Bruce’s shadow. They both went to St Martin’s but Frank was never going to be as good as Bruce. He ended up earning a living as a portrait painter. But for some reason your mother always kept him close and I suppose news of you got back to Bruce that way. That’s how Bruce ended up finding out about your mother’s money problems.’
‘Did Mum know it was Bruce who bailed her out?’ I ask. I feel as though I’m asking questions about a soap opera that I’ve lost track of.
‘She knew; she just preferred to pretend it wasn’t happening.’
I look at the box of photos in my lap. I don’t even know where to begin with them. I put the lid back on them and put them on the table. I keep hold of the one of Bruce. The one of my dad. I drain my teacup and watch as Johnny refills it. I pop a tiny sandwich in my mouth and chew slowly as I think about my next question.
‘If you knew all of this why did you never say anything? Why did you always keep my mother’s secrets and always do exactly as she said?’
He paused for a moment picking at a thread on his cuff, before looking straight at me.
‘Because I was in love with her,’ he said.
Johnny has been working for my mother since she first came to England and I have known him my entire life. At no point did I ever think there was anything between them other than employer and employee; maybe friends at a push. This latest revelation is more than I can believe. If I’m honest, I’d always thought Johnny was gay.
‘You have to be kidding me,’ I say, rather uncharitably. Forgive me if I don’t find my mother very loveable right now.
‘I’ve been in love with her as long as I’ve known her. There’s never been anyone else. Didn’t you wonder why I never had relationships?’
‘I just thought you were married to your job,’ I lie.
‘You thought I was gay, didn’t you? Yes, lots of people do.’
‘Does Mum know?’ I sound more incredulous than I should. I’m probably not handling this very well, but it’s a lot to take in to be fair.
‘She didn’t realise for a long time. She was always in love with Bruce or throwing herself into relationships with unsuitable men to prove to herself she was over Bruce. She knows now though. He pauses, smiles slightly. ‘I keep my flat but mostly I’m here.’
‘Do you…? Are you…?
‘Quite frankly, Julia, that’s none of your business.’
I suppose it isn’t.
He starts to clear up the tea things.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. And I am. I would hate to upset Johnny. Him being in love with my mother for all these years puts a whole new perspective on his relationship with me. He did it for love, not money. By the sound of things, there hasn’t been much money to pay him with over the years.
‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘You’ve had quite a week and it’s all a lot to take in. I’ll give you some peace and quiet.’
I pick up the box of photos and hand it to him.
‘No you keep them; look through them if you like. I’ll only be downstairs if you have any questions. I’m not going to desert you; at least not until I’ve got your mother back from New York.’
‘Good luck with that.’
As he gets to the door he looks back over his shoulder. ‘How’s Alec?’ he asks.
Despite my best efforts I can feel myself starting to cry again.
Johnny puts the tea tray back down on the table and comes to sit next to me. He doesn’t ask any questions, he just offers me the pristine pressed white handkerchief from his pocket and waits until I’ve pulled myself together.
‘We broke up,’ I say. ‘He’s moving to America to take up a post at Harvard. I’m not invited.’
‘Oh, Julia.’
Slowly, in between sobs, I tell him about seeing Alec earlier in the week. About how I’ve come to realise that it hadn’t been working for years. About a more recent realisation that I’d only been with Alec for stability rather than love.
‘The tears aren’t for him exactly,’ I say. ‘They’re for the ten years of my life I wasted on him.’
‘The first week of your thirties has certainly been eventful so far,’ Johnny says, stroking my hair. ‘But think of it this way, with this inheritance you get a chance to start all over again, to live the life you’ve always wanted.’
‘That’s what Pen said,’ I say. ‘The problem is I’ve no idea what I want.’
*
Johnny is in the kitchen making tea when I get up the next morning. He puts a mug in front of me as I sit down on one of the stools and sits opposite me with his own mug.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘Oh fine,’ I say, my autopilot response to anyone who asks at the moment. I’m turning into my mother.
‘This is me you’re talking to,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
I pause. How am I? I haven’t really thought about it. I haven’t let myself, in much the same way as I haven’t let myself read the letters sitting in my handbag, or even think about what I’m going to do with this house.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. Because I really don’t.
‘I spoke to your mother last night after you’d gone to bed,’ he says as he breaks eye contact. He seems embarrassed although I don’t know if it is for himself or on her behalf.
‘And?’
‘She’s inconsolable.’
‘She’s inconsolable,’ I say. ‘What about me? What about the fact she lied to me for thirty years, about everything? Not only did she know damn well who my father was but she spoke to him, regularly. He owned the goddam house for Christ’s sake.’
‘Julia, I know you’re upset…’ Johnny tries to interrupt.
‘And then there’s the letters.’
‘Letters?’
He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Well, well mother dearest didn’t tell him everything after all.
‘The letters my father wrote to me every year on my birthday for eighteen years. The letters that my mother sent back to him unopened every year.’
Johnny stares at me.
‘I had no idea,’ he says eventually.
‘Welcome to the club.’
‘Do you have these letters? How do you know about them?’
‘Edwin Jones gave them to me yesterday. It was off the record and not really part of the estate. Apparently Bruce called Edwin to the hospital a few days before he died to make sure I got them. I haven’t read them,’ I add predicting his next question. ‘I honestly don’t know if I want to.’
‘But you must,’ Johnny says with sudden force. ‘These will fill in all the holes I’m sure, like missing jigsaw pieces.’
I look at him rather astonished. He shakes his head, apologising under his breath.
Of course, my father is Johnny’s greatest rival in love. It’s natural he would want to know all the gory details about the man and I suspect he thinks those details are in these letters. Well even if they are he won’t be hearing them from me.
‘Anyway,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Mum.’
He sighs. ‘Yes. She thinks you’re going to evict her and sell the house.’
‘Of course I’m not going to evict her. I bloody should though, just to teach her a lesson. I’m so angry with her, Johnny.’
‘Will you talk to her?’ he asks.
‘I can’t promise I won’t get angry.’
‘I think she’s expecting that. Just reassure her you aren’t about to evict her. She might come home then.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, can she not just come home and we’ll sort it out when she’s here?’ I am so sick of my mother acting like a spoilt child all the time, and everyone pandering to her as though her behaviour is perfectly acceptable. I’m sick of so many things and I feel as though I’m on my very last nerve with all of it. I’m scared that if I speak to her, thirty years of resentment will come flying out and I won’t have any control over it.
‘Julia, she’s hurting too. I know she did wrong, that she should have been honest with you years ago, but the love of her life has died and, try as I might, I’m no replacement.’ He smiles sadly and I suddenly feel immensely sorry for him and the huge secrets he has had to bear all for the love of a woman who will always hold him as second best. What a mess it all is.
‘I’ll talk to her,’ I agree. ‘But only because you asked me to.’
‘Thank you, Julia.’
‘Do you have a number?’
‘She’s on Skype these days.’
‘Skype!’ My mother has an inherent fear of all things technological. Her excuse for not cooking is the oven is too convoluted for her to understand. She has an old Nokia mobile phone that’s at least a decade old and dictates all her emails to Johnny.
‘So we can keep in touch when one of us is away,’ Johnny says. I don’t want any further details about that, thank you very much.
At the appointed hour I log on to my Skype account and my mother’s face looms into view on the computer screen.
‘Hello, dear,’ she bellows. Her accent has become a lot more New York since we last spoke.
‘Mother, you don’t have to press your face against the screen or yell at me. Just sit back and talk normally.’
She does as she’s told for the first time in living memory. I can’t really tell from the rather fuzzy image but could it be possible that she’s looking contrite?
‘So now you know all my dirty secrets,’ she says resignedly.
‘Yes. Why did you never tell me?’
‘You wouldn’t have understood.’
‘Mum, listen, it’s not about whether I would have understood or not. Bruce was my father and you knew who he was and where he was. I had a right to know my father.’
She sighs and blinks. Is she crying?
‘I’m sorry.’ She sniffs. She’s crying. I hate myself for thinking in the back of my mind that they are crocodile tears, simply for effect.
I take a deep breath. I am not going to get into a Skype argument with my mother.
‘Look, Mum,’ I say, deciding to keep this short and sweet, ‘why don’t you just come home. We can talk about all of this properly then.’
‘What are you going to do about the house?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m not going to evict you. Johnny told me you were inconsolable about it.’
‘Johnny exaggerates.’
‘Yes, well I know all about you two as well,’ I say. ‘But that’s something for another time.’ I notice she has the decency to blush.
‘Just come home,’ I repeat. ‘We’ll sort everything out, I promise.’
