The Golden Thread Read online

  ‘I would like you to come with me.’

  ‘I never go to shows.’

  ‘You never go to the theatre?’

  ‘Yes … to see something serious … not to a show.’

  The last word was spoken with a withering sarcasm that might have daunted a less stout heart.

  ‘You’ll love this – I know you will.’

  ‘What sort of a show is it?’

  ‘It’s a musical.’

  ‘A musical!’ Again that scathing tone. ‘If you had suggested a classical concert I might have been interested.’

  ‘We’ll meet in the foyer – it’s the Prince of Wales Theatre – and a matinee performance so you won’t be late back. I’m going to be in the office that morning – doing some overtime – so it would work out well to meet you there. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘Then you’ll be wasting your time. I won’t be coming.’

  ‘See you there.’

  No you won’t, thought Claudia. Did this woman ever take no for an answer? It was quite ridiculous to expect her to go to a show – and a musical of all things! The telephone rang again.

  ‘I forgot to tell you what it was.’

  ‘That’s immaterial, since I shan’t be coming.’

  ‘It’s a great show – everyone’s raving about it. It’s Mamma Mia.’

  ‘Fran! Is this your idea of a joke?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  Saturday was three days away. She would simply put the whole conversation out of her mind. For the next two days she concentrated on not thinking about it. Claudia Hansom was known for her determination – any course of action she had decided would be advantageous to her school usually took place. It was a brave colleague who tried to oppose her. It had happened, once or twice. Poor Rita Worthington, who had been the English teacher at the time, had wanted to stage a drama production that Claudia considered totally unsuitable. She could see Rita standing in her office now.

  ‘But really, Miss Hansom, the children would so enjoy dressing up as animals. It would release their inner spirit and help them to express themselves without the inhibitions they experience when playing the parts of humans. The very fact that we wouldn’t see their faces would enable them to feel they were free – free as the air – an empowering and enriching opportunity that may not come their way again.’

  What rubbish! What words to use where eight- and nine-year olds were concerned! Miss Worthington had gone away with her tail between her legs, and had left the school a few months later. Her letter of resignation had stated that it seemed fruitless to produce ideas of her own and she felt her opportunities to enhance the children’s self expression were being limited.

  It was proving difficult to fill her mind with other matters. The house seemed so empty without Socrates. Somehow, with him in his usual place, she had been able to take an interest in various projects. Without his presence it was hard to summon up the motivation – even her latest book on the classical ruins to be seen in northern Africa failed to inspire. With an effort she attempted to lose herself in its pages and congratulated herself that there was nothing else on her mind now to distract her from reading.

  Why was it, then, that when Saturday came, she found herself watching the clock? Why did she go to the wardrobe to see if there was something suitable to wear? The light grey suit was not too formal – with a cream blouse it might do. She put it on. Then she picked up her handbag.

  On the underground train she worked out why she was going. It certainly wasn’t to see the show – it was out of curiosity to see if Fran really would turn up. Perhaps she would take someone else, to use the tickets. Claudia would try and position herself where she could just peep round the corner – and then she’d withdraw.

  Her plan was foiled because Fran was waiting on the pavement outside, and spotted Claudia as soon as she crossed the road from Piccadilly station. She showed no surprise whatever.

  ‘We’re in the circle. They’re good seats.’ Only three rows from the front, the seats gave them an excellent view of the stage.

  ‘I’ve ordered some drinks for the interval.’

  Claudia couldn’t contain herself.

  ‘You did that before I came? How could you, when I gave you so little encouragement?’

  ‘That’s something of an understatement. But Nigel says I’m a very positive person – always expecting things to go well. Like when I started looking for you – I knew I’d find you in the end. And I was prepared to give it as long as it took.’

  ‘Who’s Nigel?’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘You’re married!’ Claudia was astonished.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘But you are in full-time employment and you don’t wear a ring.’

  Fran was secretly pleased Claudia had taken enough interest to notice.

  ‘Lots of married women work – and I don’t like being forced to wear a badge of office.’

  Claudia was silent. This news disturbed her, although she had no idea why it should.

  ‘Nigel and I have a very good relationship – we are both independent people and need our own space. He knew I wanted to pursue a career and was inclined to do my own thing now and again, and I knew his hobby would absorb a lot of his time. He’s a bit of an eccentric, really.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Basically he’s an engineer. That’s what he does for a living. But he’s a bit older than me, and he can afford to arrange some free time so that he can indulge in his chief joy in life – getting his hands thoroughly immersed in engine oil, and accumulating oily rags. He loves fiddling with old engines and trying to make them work.’

  ‘Where does he do all this?’

  ‘In his workshop, which is supposed to be our garage. He has been known to buy a bag of rusty bits for £5 and fifteen years later there is a gleaming, apparently brand new, Douglas motorcycle – every detail authentically reproduced.’

  The overture was starting. There was no escape now. The curtain lifted revealing white walls against a dazzling blue background, invoking a Greek atmosphere of warmth and happiness. As the story unfolded the music swelled, filling the auditorium. The catchy rhythms captivated the audience, setting feet tapping and hands clapping, until finally people were standing, waving their arms, and dancing in uninhibited abandon.

  Claudia, embarrassed initially, found her foot beginning to move, despite her best endeavours to keep it stationary. Fran did not stand, but clapped enthusiastically, swaying from side to side in her seat. Suddenly Claudia found tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. How ridiculous! Whatever was happening to her?

  Nearly two and a half hours later Claudia, bewildered by the sensations that had flooded through her, followed Fran out of the theatre.

  ‘I thought we’d go for a bite of supper – I know a good place only five minutes away.’

  ‘I suppose you booked that too.’

  ‘Actually, no – I didn’t think it would be too full at this time.’

  A hand under Claudia’s elbow guided her at what seemed almost a running speed, and soon she found herself sitting opposite Fran in a pleasant Italian restaurant.

  ‘Won’t Nigel be expecting you back?’

  ‘No – I told him to look after himself – he’ll probably make an enormous cheese and pickle sandwich and eat it in the workshop. No doubt the bread and his hands will absorb black oil in the same proportions.’

  While musing over the menu Claudia remarked, ‘What an idiotic plot that was.’

  Fran smiled. ‘I saw your foot tapping, so don’t pretend to be an old grump.’

  ‘I can see this was all part of your plan. The significance of the title scarcely escapes my notice.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would – you’re too much of a cute cookie.’

  Claudia grimaced. ‘What’s wrong with using the Queen’s English?’

  ‘Nothing at all. The Queen’s
welcome to it – but if you’re going to associate with me you might have to get used to something a little less formal.’

  ‘I can’t think why you’ve been so persistent – first I’m a “grump”, then I’m too correct for you. Let’s face facts – we have very little in common.’

  ‘I think we have something so big in common I can’t ignore it. Anyway …’ Fran’s face softened, and her voice was gentle, ‘I knew when I set out to look for you that I wasn’t going to find “the perfect mother” at the end of the trail. Which is just as well, because I’m hardly the perfect daughter. I knew I’d probably find someone who bore the scars of past sorrows. Well, in my own way, I’ve had a struggle over the years too, coming to terms with not knowing who I am. And now I’ve found you, I want to get to know you, and I’m not going to let you get away easily.’

  Claudia lowered her head. She fought to allow herself to speak from the heart. It was so hard, after all these years of suppressing her emotions.

  ‘You’ll have to give me time – I think I’m probably a terrible disappointment. And I know if we go on seeing each other you’re going to want me to answer the other question.’

  ‘Which is …?’

  ‘You know very well what it is – the same question Sophie, in that stupid musical, was asking.’

  Fran nodded.

  ‘I realise going back over the past will be painful, but the question isn’t going to go away. Of course I want to know who my father was, and what happened to him. I’m not looking for a relationship with him – it is enough that I have found you, but I am looking for information. I’m not asking you now, but, Claudia, I need to know. I really do need to know.’

  Chapter 30

  They were driving through the Sussex countryside. It was a crisp, autumn morning and as they crossed the open heath of Ashdown Forest, with its waving bracken, the view was beautiful – marred only by an incongruous ice cream van parked in the lay by.

  ‘Fancy an ice cream?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘That’s just as well as we will shortly be arriving at our coffee stop.’

  ‘As usual you’ve got this all mapped out, haven’t you!’

  ‘Some forethought is necessary when taking out a retired head teacher – who, as it happens, is my mother.’

  They drew up outside a pretty tea room.

  ‘Where’s this?’ Claudia looked round, admiring the setting, and enjoying the homely atmosphere inside.

  ‘The Duddleswell Tea Rooms. Would you like coffee? I don’t know enough about your tastes yet.’

  ‘A cup of coffee would be most acceptable, thank you.’

  ‘I have just spotted the most beautiful apple pie,’ remarked Fran, ‘which is a pity because we can’t have any. It would spoil our lunch.’

  ‘Needless to say, that’s all arranged.’

  ‘Certainly, and it’s not a secret. We are lunching at the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne.’

  ‘Oh Fran, you are spoiling me. I’m not used to anyone taking me out to lovely places.’

  ‘Then you’d better start getting used to it. I’m enjoying spoiling you, as you put it.’

  An hour or so after the coffee stop they were driving along by the seafront in Eastbourne. Fran guided the car into the car park in front of the imposing white building of the Grand Hotel. As they approached the door, a uniformed doorman in top hat greeted them deferentially and wished them a very pleasant afternoon.

  Claudia, impressed by the opulent entry hall, allowed Fran to guide her towards the restaurant. The lunch was ridiculously expensive – Claudia caught sight of the bill at the end – but she found she was experiencing a thrill sitting at the table covered with a white, starched tablecloth and gleaming silver, being served efficiently by polite waiting staff quietly going about their task of bringing beautifully presented dishes to the diners. And opposite her was this bright young woman – a companion anyone would feel proud to be with. She began to pat at her hair, suddenly feeling distinctly dowdy.

  ‘You should have warned me we were coming to such a high class establishment. I would have tried to dress up rather more. Not that I’ve got much in the way of smart clothes – I’ve never needed them.’

  ‘You look fine – but I’ll tell what we’ll do another time. We’ll go to town and frequent some good department stores, and find you something to wear that’s a bit different from your current range.’

  ‘That’s a polite way of saying I need some clothes that don’t make me look like a retired head teacher.’

  ‘Perhaps. Anyway, it’s a good excuse to go shopping – it will be fun if you’ll let me help you choose.’

  ‘I’d like that – I’ve rarely looked beyond grey or black suits. Well, I have had the occasional beige one.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a relief!’

  Fran smiled, and Claudia found she was actually enjoying the teasing.

  ‘Now we need to walk that down. I know it’s a bit blowy, but are you game for a turn along the promenade?’

  Fran took Claudia’s arm to guide her across the wide road between the hotel and the seafront. When they reached the promenade she didn’t release it. They walked in companionable silence. Then Claudia spoke.

  ‘Your father was Italian.’

  Why on earth did she say that? The remark seemed to come from nowhere. Perhaps she felt she owed Fran something for generously providing this enjoyable day.

  The younger woman did not turn or register surprise.

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  There was no escape. Now she must embark on the story. The waves were rolling in towards the shore and noisily breaking into white foam particles as the two women continued towards Beachy Head, with Claudia desperately trying to marshal her thoughts into some sort of order. How could she give a coherent account of what had happened some forty years previously – in such a way that her daughter would understand? It suddenly seemed the most important thing in the world that Fran did not think she had been casually abandoned to her fate.

  ‘It was my father who brought him into our home. It seemed that Stefano was to be working in England and was looking for some English lessons. My father thought it would be a bit of pocket money for me, and useful teaching experience. I was in my last year at university, and about to embark on a teaching career, you see.’

  Claudia went on to describe Stefano’s charming manners and good looks, to which she had steadfastly remained immune during the lessons, concentrating only on the task in hand.

  ‘But my sister thought he was amazing – she couldn’t take her eyes off him when she saw him. She–’

  ‘You have a sister?’ Fran could not help interrupting. This piece of information was news to her.

  ‘Yes, a younger sister, called Maria. She was everything I was not – pretty, flighty, interested only in boys and having fun with her friends. She considered further education to be a pure waste of time and energy. I did get rather annoyed at the interest she took in him – after all he was mine in the sense that I had the responsibility of helping him. She should have kept out of the way, and not distracted him.’

  When she recounted the events of the summer ball Claudia’s eyes glowed as she described the excitement of dressing up in a ball gown, Stefano’s breathtaking appearance in his evening clothes, the way he had been the envy of the other students, attracting all eyes as they danced together, and how marvellous that had made her feel.

  Then her mood changed and her voice became sombre. The final walk in the moonlight had to be faced, and put into words.

  ‘What happened was all right because he proposed to me that night, and I accepted. Even all these years later I can remember it as if it were yesterday. I was so happy, I could hardly contain myself. I hugged the knowledge of it to myself and felt it bubbling up inside during the next few days – and then his letter arrived, thanking me for inviting him to the ball. It wasn’t at all what I expected from
my fiancé – it was stiff and formal and I cried over it. Then I persuaded myself that perhaps he couldn’t manage to express himself in writing, so I wrote back – a loving, heartfelt reply, but there was no response! Little did I know he had already married Maria and left for Italy. And then, worst of all, I found I was pregnant!’

  Claudia heard Fran draw a sharp breath. Determinedly, she went on to describe her decision to delay her teaching career, and go away by herself so that no one would ever know about the baby. She had made all the arrangements for adoption, and then waited for her time to come.

  ‘You were born in a small maternity hospital in Gloucestershire. My beautiful baby daughter whom I held in my arms for four days. Then I had to leave the hospital – I had signed all the papers. They said I should leave my baby there, and when I had gone the adoption society would come and collect her. So I packed my few things, and then I left. I walked out of that place without a backward glance. I knew if I looked back I would be lost, so I just walked out. And I left my baby – my beautiful little girl – I left her behind. I never saw her again!’

  Claudia’s shoulders were now heaving, the tears running down her face.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Fran. I’m so terribly sorry. Please say you don’t blame me. I didn’t know what else to do!’

  Fran said nothing, but her arm was round her mother’s shoulders, grasping her firmly.

  ‘The torture of giving up your baby – oh, Fran, there’s nothing in this life worse than that! There are no words for how much it hurt. I went back to the tiny room that had been my home, threw myself on the bed and howled like a wounded animal. For several days I howled – the pain was so excruciating I couldn’t stop. I don’t know how long it was – I couldn’t eat, or think, or sleep. At last I knew I couldn’t go on like that. So the resolve came to put everything in the past behind me and start a new life. I worked out how I would manage it – I would never, ever, let anyone get close to me again – I would keep everyone at arm’s length. I had let myself love, and the result had been an anguish so unbearable it could not be endured. And the people I loved had betrayed me, and left me. So I would draw a firm line between me and my sister, and in fact all members of society – I would function as a teacher and become a good one – I would reach the higher levels of my profession and run a first class educational establishment – and no one, no one at all, would ever be able to get near enough to hurt me again.’