Chapter 9

Thursday 30th August 1984

There was no phone call to say she’d arrived, in fact no phone call at all over the weekend. It is evidence that I felt so confident about Helen that I was not unduly worried. She may have accompanied her parents on some mercy mission and would phone when she could.

However, on Sunday night I phoned Metcalfe’s but there was no answer. Perhaps a relative had died, or was seriously ill and they were away. Perhaps the relative had no phone, but there were phone boxes.

I went to work on Monday but was only half aware. I tried phoning from work, then again from home, but the phone went unanswered. I was now very worried indeed. I had had that feeling of impending doom, and now it had been realised.

I felt it was pointless to phone, but did so anyway. Still no answer.

I came home on Thursday at evening meal time, to find nearly everyone in the kitchen and looking at me, shocked. At first I wondered if there was something wrong with me, but I seemed to be all in one piece.

“David, what’s happened with you and Helen?” asked an agitated Nuala.

“Happened?” I was more than well aware that we’d not been in touch, and just as aware that I was worried stiff. We had grown even closer during the holiday, until her parents called her home. Since then, nothing. What could my housemates know?

“Her room, Davey, your bedroom, it’s empty of all her things and the door was left open. Her keys are on the bedside table in the room.”

“What?“ I turned on my heel and raced up the stairs and into our bedroom. I stopped short. The wardrobe was open and all her clothes were gone. There were her keys. I looked round the room – no note, no evidence that she’d ever been there.

I went to our living room and found that all her things had gone – all her bits and pieces. Then I saw it in the middle of the table. Her engagement ring.

I felt that aching void in me. She had really gone.

I slowly retraced my steps downstairs, and then had an idea: I went to the post room.

In my cubby-hole was a business envelope. I ripped it open. It was a letter from Helen but it was typed and formal in the extreme.

The letter bore no address to which a reply might be sent, but her parents’ address was appended. It was not necessary: I knew it well enough.

Imogen joined me and Kim was close behind. I handed the letter to Imogen, who shared the reading of it with Kim.

“Well, bugger me!” exclaimed Imogen.

I hope that was not an invitation, I thought, and grinned inadvertently, which I think the girls thought was a grimace. It was a reflex action: the situation was anything but amusing. I sagged against the table, lost for words and feeling desperate.

This was all wrong! How could anyone be so loving, and in the space of a day or two cut herself off completely, irrevocably, without a word of explanation. The style of the letter was insulting to say the least; it was as if she didn’t know me.

“So sorry, Davey!” Kim whispered, standing beside me and hugging my arm to her. “Such a shock! And what a horrible letter! You had no idea of this?”

“Everything was perfect. The holiday was superb as long as you didn’t mind getting wet: it is the West of Scotland after all. We were settling in ready for two years of her training, She gets a call to go to her parents’ place and then – nothing!”

“It must be the parents who’ve done this. You need to phone them and find out what’s happened,” Imogen suggested.

“I phoned over the last few days a number of times, but no one answered. I’m wondering if they’ve abducted her!”

“D’you think they would?” asked Kim, always a little naïve.

“No,” I smiled at her. “They do love her, and they’re gentle folk, if a little snobbish.”

“This doesn’t feel gentle, Davey,” said Imogen. “So perhaps you’ll get an explanation when they do answer the phone? But if they’ve not answered the phone, I think you should go to York. See them.”

Needless to say I got little sleep that night. The letter was so cold and impersonal almost as if someone else had written it for her. Perhaps they had. Perhaps her father had convinced her to reject me and had come himself to empty her room. I dismissed that as fantasy: this was the 1980s.

So why had she severed all communication? It was not as if I’d had any opportunity to be unfaithful, and come to think of it neither had she. So what else could it be? Had some elaborate lie been told about me?

On Friday I was a zombie at work, and I blessed the fact that I had no clients to meet, and could make some attempt to deal with paperwork. I was not very successful, and at lunchtime some kind soul went to the boss and asked him to send me home, which he did. As it happened he was going early himself, it being Friday.

One thing I did was to sort out the cheque for Helen’s refund. I would take a chance and take it in person all the way to York. I got one of our clerks to ring the Metcalfes and he managed to find Mrs Metcalfe at home.

He told her he was working on behalf of the housing trust and had the refund for Miss Metcalfe’s room. He said he wanted to make sure someone was at home the next day to receive it as it would go by courier. He got that assurance.

I was half comatose when I arrived home, so I went straight to bed for an hour, and, needless to say, felt dreadful when I awoke and needed to stay awake until bedtime. Everyone was puzzled at Helen’s behaviour, but were relieved that I was going to York, though there were differing expectations of my trip having any success.

Kim was the most optimistic. She was sure Helen was there and when we met again everything would be once more on track. Ibrahim was the most pessimistic. She would not be there and the parents would not tell me anything. It would however, he said, bring closure and let me move on.

Strangely, both extremes were in a way comforting, and the interest and hopefulness of the rest of the residents helped me on my way. That night, I slept well, which was a good thing since I would be driving to York.

I arrived at the house on at eleven, having endured the M62 with its heavy traffic, though thankfully, since it was Saturday, there were fewer trucks. By contrast the roads between Leeds and York were relatively quiet, the emphasis being on ‘relatively’.

I rang the bell and after a short pause, the door opened and there stood Mr Metcalfe. I offered him the envelope which he took, then stood back to allow me entrance.

“We weren’t expecting the deposit to be delivered in person,” he said, “but since I know Helen hasn’t contacted you, you will be wondering what’s going on.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I said heavily. “The last few days have been pretty miserable.”

“I understand that,” he said and there was a tone of resignation in his voice, I assumed because it fell to him to appease me. “I know you think we don’t like you, which actually isn’t true, but this gives me no satisfaction at all.”

He paused, but I saw no reason to fill the void of silence. I was used to waiting for clients to be unnerved by my silence and give themselves away. Then he continued, looking most uncomfortable.

“Helen isn’t here. She’s deeply upset by this and hasn’t even told us where she’s gone, beyond that she’s with a friend.”

“But you know why,” I stated grimly. “You’ve told her something to put her off our relationship, and you’ve succeeded in so doing.”

“David, I can understand that you think that way, and feel bitter, but we wouldn’t have interfered with Helen’s life unless there was something seriously wrong with her choices.”

“You’re saying there is something wrong here? Exactly what’s wrong with me?”

“There’s noting wrong with you. But yes, there is something wrong, and it’s nobody’s fault, David. Let me put it this way. When Helen said she’d found someone who was completely on her wavelength we were delighted. She was obviously very quickly deeply in love and said you were both amazingly compatible. David, we were delighted!”

He stopped as if making sure I understood that he was being totally honest with me, and I couldn’t help believing him. He continued.

“When we met you at the graduation ceremony, we were taken aback. It was a real shock, and we were immediately concerned. This was reinforced when you came to stay, since then we noticed your mannerisms as well. What surprised us was that neither you, nor Helen, nor anyone else could see it.”

“I’m sorry?” I said, now perplexed. “Mannerisms? See what?”

“You still can’t see it, can you? It accounted for Helen’s assertion that you were so completely in tune with each other. If I were to say that your face was ‘familiar’?”

I saw what he meant immediately. After all I work with words all day long, and in any case, Mum had said we even seemed to look alike.

“Familiar as in family?” I queried, now having the sinking feeling this was not going to end well.

“Yes,” he went on hurriedly, “We could see such a resemblance that we thought you must be related in some way, but we didn’t want to say anything.

“You could still marry even if you were distantly related. You know she was adopted, but what you probably don’t know, and Helen didn’t until last week, is that Helen’s birth surname is also Evans. You understand?”

“That’s why you were so reserved with me,” I said. The feeling of foreboding grew stronger.

“Yes. David, we never disliked you. In fact, you were much the most eligible of the boys she brought home, not that she brought many, and you were making Helen very happy! For goodness’, sake, David, a lawyer working for Jordan and Abrahams? Couldn’t get much much better than that!”

“You know the firm?” I asked, intrigued.

“Oh, yes, my company came up against them in a patent suit. Our people lost badly. I checked on you and got a glowing report.”

Again a pause. “When you told us you’d been fostered, which meant that Evans would not be your adopted name but your birth name, the same as Helen’s, we started to worry.”

“But having the same surname doesn’t mean anything. Evans is a very common name, there must be millions of people called Evans.”

“That’s why we didn’t say anything then, but we had to try to find out. We hoped you’d be cousins – you really do have a family resemblance. Well, it was next to impossible to find out if you were related, let alone how. We’ve been searching all this time, and we finally got the proof last week.”

“And?” Now I thought they’d found we were first cousins, and felt my life was being torn apart and destroyed. I was wrong: it was worse.

“I think you’ve guessed. It couldn’t be worse. David, you are brother and sister!”

Hearing the words spoken out loud made it catastrophically clear and horrifying. We had been making love for over a year! No wonder we were so in tune.

I must have sat there dazed for a quarter of an hour trying to take in the enormity of what had happened, while Metcalfe went and made some tea for us.

Eventually a small corner of my mind that belongs to the lawyer David Evans, cleared its throat. ‘Evidence. I want evidence,’ it said.

“You are absolutely sure about this?” I said on his return. “You say you have proof, I mean I never knew I even had a sister. Wouldn’t I know that?”

“OK. This is what we did. We went to the Adoption Agency to ask them, but they are bound by strict confidentiality, and could not tell us anything. However, when we explained your situation, that there was a possibility that you were engaged to Helen, they told us Helen does have an older brother.

“Technically that breached confidentiality but they recognised the dangers inherent in a brother and a sister marrying and having children.

“However, they could not give us his name. They recommended an organisation that works to bring relatives together, who are experts in tracing them, so we employed them. All we wanted to know was whether you two were related. We needed to know what the brother was called.

“Of course we knew the maternity unit where Helen was born, and her name before she was adopted, and they worked with that. Last week they came back to us. They had discovered her brother was David Evans born early in May 1960 of the same mother, so that was conclusive: you were brother and sister, both born in Shrewsbury.”

That did it. I had my Birth Certificate, the short form, but sure enough I was indeed born in Shrewsbury, May 1960. I nodded.

“My Birth Certificate shows I was born there in 1960.” I said morosely.

“They were able to discover that you were both born in the same hospital maternity unit. The mother gave both children up for adoption, but they could not find out whether you were adopted or not. Not surprising really since you weren’t.

“So there you have it. I’m so sorry David. You see why Helen felt she had to disappear. She was heart-broken you know, so depressed; she couldn’t face you.”

“Not the only one,” I replied feeling a great weight of sadness and frustration. I knew what I had to do.

“Mr Metcalfe–”

“Maurice, please.” Now he invites use of his given name!

“Maurice, I understand why Helen has disappeared, but I have to say I can’t agree with her action. I’m sure it would have been very painful for us to meet but we should have faced this together and parted properly. After the way she’s done this to me, I won’t be trying to find her, don’t worry.”

“Perhaps, one day... ?”

“I don’t think so, what she’s done is cold and cruel. Selfish.”

I stood and he understood my need to get away. He held out a hand and I took it.

“Good bye, Maurice, Give my love to Mrs Metcalfe.”

“I’ll do that, David.”

I got in the car and drove, my mind a blank. Fortunately, while driving occupied all my attention, traffic was easy to negotiate and after a stop on the way, I arrived home mid-afternoon.

The House was quiet, and after making myself a pot of tea, I betook myself to my room, or rather, rooms. I drank my tea, and came to the conclusion that I didn’t want to meet the others and stand their pity, however well intentioned. I booked a room in a good hotel near work in the city, packed for a week and left without meeting anyone. I left a note on the whiteboard that I would be away for the week.

I checked in, unpacked, then walked the city streets amid the crowds who were enjoying the weekend by shopping, Britain’s new religion. I did not shop, but simply wandered rather aimlessly about.

When someone close dies suddenly there is a period, sometimes days or weeks, of numbness. There is the gaping chasm their absence has left, but the desolate, hopeless, angry pain has not struck. One lives in a daze, as if feelings are being kept at bay as some sort of self-preservation.

That’s how I felt. It was as if Helen had died, and now I was more alone than I ever remembered being before. So I simply walked alone as if on an island, amid the jostling crowds.

I stopped for a coffee, then walked some more, until the crowds changed from families shopping to folk arriving for evening entertainment in the theatres, clubs and pubs.

How short the girls’ dresses were! How low cut! And they looked so young! I was sure that some were even as young as fifteen, and was surer that I felt ten years older than my twenty-five or so years.

It reminded me I had booked dinner for eight o’clock, and so made my way back to the hotel to dress appropriately for the meal. The food was well cooked and presented, and the service attentive. I would enjoy eating there each evening.

I drank half a bottle of Merlot, and was impressed when the waiter asked if I would like the bottle sent to my room, or kept for the next day. I opted for the latter: there was no way I was going to take refuge in drink.

The heavy beat of the band playing in the basement night club made me wonder if I would sleep that night, but on entering my room, found whatever sound-proofing they used was highly effective, for I could hear nothing of the thumping din. I had not ventured into the club, which I was entitled to do as a resident.

I stripped off and after making my ablutions, climbed into a very comfortable bed. I watched something on the TV, listening to the chatter of girls as they made their way along the corridor outside my room, no doubt on their way to the night club below. I felt cut off, immune to the life they were leading. Only days ago Helen and I were making our way to evening entertainment just like them.