Chapter 8

After Sally’s visit two more weeks went by. Once again there was no communication from her. I would have expected her to reply, apologising for her attitude when we met together, but there was nothing. I sent her a note to Bryn’s address expressing sorrow that we parted so acrimoniously and hoping she’d cleared up the business of the letters, also reminding her of my email address. But there was no response, and I wondered if that note had been intercepted as well.

Another week, and it was Easter. The week before Easter, Gordon told me that Sally had sent in the Acknowledgement of Service and it seemed things were now going smoothly – except that her solicitor wanted a fifty-fifty split on the house and all other assets.

Gordon knew that Sally had been insistent that I live on in the house without having to buy her out, but the other solicitor had said that she had changed her mind. I signed the affidavit asserting that all the divorce details were correct and that Sally had signed it.

“Changed her mind my foot,” growled Gordon as he was signing, “That shark is one of those ‘I’ll get you everything you deserve from the cheating bastard’ women. I’ll ask for a face-to-face meeting, and then we’ll see.”

However, Easter intervened and nothing could be arranged until the week following.

It was good to have Lizzy home for the Easter break, though she was not with us for long, returning early to prepare for her end of year exams. Nicky and I were now established without embarrassment in my bedroom, and she also stayed for the whole holiday.

Martin emailed his greetings and we all sent him replies, which, it seemed, quite touched him. He wrote that he expected to be back in England at the end of August and was looking forward to being home. I had asked if he had heard from his mother, but he didn’t answer that question. I did not pursue it, though I wondered if Sally had been in touch with her son and that he did not know how to deal with what she had said.

Once back at work, Gordon contacted Sally’s solicitor. I was reading a conveyance when he came in and sat down at my desk opposite me.

“Caleb,” he was solemn and I thought, annoyed. “I’ve talked with Elizabeth Davis, Sally’s solicitor.”

I raised my eyebrows. I could tell I would not like what he would say next. “It seems that Sally’s talked with her, and with this Judith Connor–”

“And Bryn Price?” I interjected.

“She didn’t mention him. Anyway, Betty listed a number of reasons why Sally’s changed her mind about the settlement. She cited your adultery with Nicky–”

“What!” I exclaimed. “The nerve of the woman! She fucks the priest and then accuses me of adultery?”

“Go easy, Caleb. Sally’s under the impression you had a long-term affaire with Nicky long before the priest. Secondly she cites the, and here I quote, ‘cold, unforgiving and dismissive letters you sent.”

Now I was totally confused. There was nothing cold about my entreaties that she contact me.

Gordon was continuing.

“Finally she said your cold, angry and distant attitude to her along with your lies when you both met showed you had no remorse for your own actions, and did not want to try to save the marriage.”

I was dumbstruck, which meant that I said nothing. I couldn’t process the things she was saying; they seemed to have no relation to what had happened. I shrugged my shoulders. Eventually I spoke; Gordon had waited patiently.

“Well, I think she’s being manipulated by that Connor woman. Still, I offered half the house so I can offer that again, but she told me she didn’t need part of my pension, so I think we should stick on that one. I’ll investigate getting a mortgage on the other half of the house, but I want it on record that I repudiate her accusations completely. Not that the matter of who has slept with whom makes a scrap of difference to the divorce. I’ll write to her directly as well; she’s being totally unreasonable again in not answering my letters.”

He nodded and left the room. I got out some headed notepaper and wrote a quick hand written letter. It would go to Price’s address; this time Connor would not intercept it.

I put it in an envelope and hand-wrote the address before putting in the post pile. Then it was back to work – and there was plenty of it. Two days later, Nicky and I were sitting down to dinner when the phone rang.

It was Lizzy. “Dad, Mum rang me at last. She rang me on my mobile today.”

“Oh?” I managed.

“She sounded so dull and sad, Dad. We didn’t talk much – I’m going to see her tomorrow.”

“Hold on there, Lizzy!” I said. “What about university work? You’ve got exams coming up, and how are you going to get there?”

“Dad,” and she adopted that tone that teenagers and twenties use to their stupid parents. “I’ve cleared it with my tutors on compassionate grounds and I’m getting there by train. Mum’s meeting me in Bangor.”

“Well,” I conceded, “Don’t stay there too long. You need your revision time.”

“Don’t worry Dad, I know what I’m doing. There’s plenty of time.”

Her confidence was worrying. How often do people come a cropper after uttering the clichéd words ‘I know what I’m doing’? Usually they don’t, I thought. I grunted, and she took that as a blessing.

“And Dad?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come home on the way back to university and fill you in, ok?”

“Ok, darling.” I agreed. What else could I do? Perhaps she would enlighten me further – after all I was always complaining to myself and to others that I didn’t know enough. She rang off.

Friday passed without a reply from Sally, or any further developments from her solicitor. On Saturday, Lizzy phoned. She was not happy.

“Dad, how could you? Those letters you wrote were awful. I’m not surprised Mum didn’t answer them.”

“Lizzy,” my reply was testy, “I refuse to be lectured by my daughter over the phone on how sensitive or otherwise is my letter writing. Let it wait till you come home.”

She sulked, but told me the train would arrive at Worcester Station at midday, and I promised to pick her up. Being Saturday, Nicky was at home with me and promised to have some lunch ready when we arrived home, but she was interested in our conversation.

“She’s spent two days with her mother.” I growled, “and she’s come away with some really strange ideas. Apparently I’ve sent upsetting letters to Sally which to quote her were ‘awful’, and this is why Sally hasn’t been back to me.”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“Did you?”

I looked at her. She had all the answer she needed. She smiled.

“Well,” she grinned, “Knowing you, you’ve saved them all, so you can discuss them at length!”

“Yes!” I exclaimed; I’d forgotten about saving them all. “Of course! She can show me exactly how awful I’ve been. I don’t remember writing anything too dreadful – beyond rebuking her for not contacting her children. That’s hardly awful.”

I met Lizzy off the train. She hugged me as always, but had a worried look. I preempted her.

“Lizzy, I don’t want to talk about your mother until we get home and until we’ve eaten. Please.”

“Ok,” she replied, rather sullenly, I thought. “Whatever!”

So the journey home was completed in silence. The radio provided noise with a humorous panel programme about the news of the week. We both laughed at some of the comments.

Nicky hugged Lizzy as she came through the door, and the two exchanged warm smiles. There was a ham salad on the table with my homemade bread, and Lizzy fell upon it with her customary enthusiasm. How she managed to put away so much food without putting on weight eluded me, but she took after her mother in that regard.

After we had cleared the table and Nicky had banished the pair of us while she did the washing up, I took Lizzy into the study. We sat side by side in front of the computer.

“Lizzy.” I said, rather sternly. “Did Mum get my last letter?”

“Er, yes.” she replied, uncertain as to where this was going, “But she didn’t understand it at all. She said there was no handwritten letter, only printed ones, and the printed ones are really cold and cruel. I saw them Dad, how could you?” And she began to tear up.

I put my arm round her, but she shrugged it off.

“Ok,” I said, my annoyance showing, “I don’t agree that my letters were cold and cruel. So I’ll get up the copies and you can show me.”

I hit the keys.

“The first one was handwritten, so it’s scanned, but readable.” I explained. I displayed it and she read it.

“Mum didn’t get this letter,” she said.

“I sent it.” My reply was a challenge. She said nothing.

“Ok,” I went on, “here are the rest. Now you tell me where I’ve been cruel and cold. Don’t hold back, I’ve clearly been very unfeeling.” The irony in my tone was not lost on her. She read in silence, and began to fidget.

At length she spoke, her voice full of puzzlement. “Dad, these are not the letters Mum got.”

“These are the ones I sent, Lizzy. I signed them, and I wish I could see the signatures she got. I would have emailed them but I don’t know Mum’s new email address. Am I a liar?”

She turned at looked at me. “No, Dad,” she murmured, “You were never a liar. And there was no signature, only your name at the bottom. She hated that as well.”

“Look at these, Lizzie, is my name printed there?”

“No.”

“So?”

“I don’t understand, Dad,” she went on. “Bits of the texts are the same, but most of them are completely different. These are begging her to contact you; they aren’t exactly warm, but there’s no cruelty. They even hold out hope of some reconciliation. There was none of that in the letters she’s got.”

“So, the text mysteriously changed while in the post?”

A nasty suspicion had formed in my mind. When Sally had met me she knew nothing of any letters. She went back to Connor and the letters appeared. It did not take a leap of imagination to work out what had happened. The woman was an IT teacher after all. I kept silent and waited.

Lizzy looked totally confused. So I prompted her.

“When Mum came to see me, she knew nothing of any of the letters I’d sent care of Judith Connor.”

Then I waited again. It was almost amusing to see the penny drop. Her mouth opened, her eyes were wide, but no sound emerged.

“Judith Connor is an IT teacher,” I let drop into the mix.

“Oh God!” blasphemed my religious daughter. “She’s doctored them!”

I didn’t need to reply but added, “The hand-written letter couldn’t be altered, but the others could.”

“The bitch!” she growled. I thought Lizzy was now firmly back on my side.

“You did know that when Mum had been with her about two months, Connor volunteered to bring me a letter from Mum? Mum said she returned to tell her that I was living with Nicky now and it looked as if we’d been together for a long time. She did not deliver the letter. You remember when Nicky came to work for me? You’d be about ten?”

Lizzy nodded.

“Mum was upset because Nicky was – is – so pretty,” I said. “She felt I had employed her because of her looks. We kept it from you two, but things were difficult for a while. I think Mum was always looking for evidence I was having an affaire.”

Lizzy’s eyes brightened, “So that’s why you were always home on time, as you said in your last letter to Mum. You were showing her you couldn’t be having an affaire.”

I nodded.

“But,” I continued, “After Connor returned, all her suspicions were rekindled. She must now think we did manage an affaire over the past eight years. So Mum said she wrote a different letter and again gave it to Connor to post. I never got that letter.

“So you see, I couldn’t reply. The lack of any reply confirmed my guilt to Mum. She still believes it. It was about then that Bryn Price – a friend of Connor – came on the scene. Are you making any connections?”

Lizzy was now weeping silently. Again I put my arm round her and this time she leant against me. After a while her tears stopped, and she spoke.

“It’s all gone terribly wrong, hasn’t it?” she said, a catch in her voice, “Dad, I thought at one time that once we found her there was a chance you’d both get together again. But now...”

“I think, as you say, it’s all gone a little too far,” I said gently, “She doesn’t trust me; she calls me a liar. I certainly can’t trust her any more. She’s slept with two men, Lizzy, two! How do I get over that – even without all the rest of the stupidity? She left us hanging for months – and it would have gone longer if we hadn’t found her. Doesn’t show a lot of care or concern for us, does it?”

I disentangled myself and stood up. “I’ll make some tea.” I said, and left the room, partly to shield Lizzy from my anger. As I made for the kitchen I heard her speak.

I thought she was talking to me. Like mother like daughter – they both had the habit of waiting until I was almost out of earshot before saying something else and bringing me traipsing back to find out what they said.

However, she wasn’t talking to me: I heard the conversation start and then I couldn’t help myself, I stayed and listened. Nicky came out of the kitchen and was about to ask what I was doing until she saw my face. She came and stood next to me, taking my hand.

“Mum?”

“ ... Yes, thanks. A bit crowded but I had a seat the whole way. Mum–”

“ ... Yes, he’s ok, and yes Nicky’s here too. Mum, listen. I’m sitting in the study in front of the computer.”

“ ... Mum will you give me a chance to tell you.”

“ ... Mum, what does Dad do whenever he writes a letter?”

“ ... Right. Anally retentive. And if he handwrites a letter?”

“ ... Yes, but if he does?”

“ ... Exactly. And you know that each file has a properties tag showing when it was last modified?”

“ ... Well, I’ve got all his letters to you here, and they’ve not been modified. They’re dated the day they were sent. The first letter was handwritten, and true to form Dad scanned it in.”

“ ... Yes, the one you didn’t get. Mum, there’s something very wrong going on.”

“ ... Listen a minute, I don’t mean that. These other letters are not the same as the ones you’ve got. There is the odd phrase that’s the same, but the rest are totally different.”

“ ... Mum, the letters on this computer are the ones he sent, not the ones you’ve got. And Mum, they’re not at all cold and vindictive. You should see the first one – he’s begging you to talk to him. It shows a lot of love. The others are less loving but not angry and violent – they’re full of sorrow. They made me cry.”

“ ... Can’t you work it out? Only the printed letters have been altered. The handwritten one couldn’t be altered so it is missing – only it isn’t, because I’m looking at it now.”

“ ... Mum–”

“ ... Exactly. She teaches Information Technology and Computing.”

“ ... Well, it’s up to you, Mum. But personally I think it’s time you started to believe Dad, and time you stopped hurting him. What’s he ever done to deserve what you’ve put him through? I love you Mum, but–”

“ ... Well, I’ll ask him.” Here she bellowed as only she could, “DAD!”

I jumped and sprang forward.

“Yes, darling?” I croaked, my eyes wet, I admit it, having heard my darling daughter defending me. She looked at me quizzically.

“Dad, can I send these letters to Mum?”

“Yes, darling.” A catch in my voice. Another quizzical look.

She turned away, “OK Mum, I”ll send them as attachments. Give me your email address.”

“ ... No, Mum, you never gave it me or Dad.”

She wrote the address down. “Bye Mum.” Then she attached the letters and sent the email.

She turned round to see Nicky and me in the doorway.

“You heard?”

We nodded.

“You listened?”

We nodded again. She sighed and I could see she was toying with the idea of castigating us for eavesdropping, but on consideration she let it drop. Then she announced she was going to do some revision and disappeared to her room.

“Well,” said Nicky, “Sally now knows the whole story.”

“I wish I did,” I replied, and we went outside and did some gardening.

Over tea (the meal not the drink), Lizzy spoke about her visit. We listened without comment but with evident interest. She told us that Sally seemed ‘happy enough’ with Bryn Price, but not as happy as she had been at home with us. She had a wistfulness about her.

Judith Connor had sympathised with Lizzy at having a father ‘like me’, which puzzled her. She summed up Connor as someone who loved sorting out other people’s lives, though her own was a mess. Lizzy thought Connor was bitter about something or someone – not a happy woman, she said.

She regaled us with imitations of Connor’s voice, and made us laugh with Connor’s attempts to convince Lizzy that Bryn would make an excellent step-father. Nicky and I could see that Lizzy was not impressed at all.

“You should have seen those letters, Dad,” she finished. “Now I think about it, they had all the bitterness of the woman herself.”

Lizzy went out to visit friends in the evening, but returned early. She had to return to university early the next day, Sunday being not a good day to travel by train in Britain, since often one finds oneself on replacement bus services while they do line maintenance.

On Sunday morning I went with her to early Mass, and Nicky had a huge grilled breakfast ready when we returned – the ‘full English’ of bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, poached egg and fried bread, with toast and marmalade to follow. Lizzy polished it off with ease and without any of the concern I felt for my own arteries. Then she was off to the station. This time Nicky asked to take her, as she needed to call in at the flat. So after long and intense hugging and kissing, my darling daughter was off to do battle with her exams.

Nicky had stayed over on Sunday night. Her visit to her flat was to get her office clothes, as she had washed her other set on Friday night, though on Sunday she did iron what needed to be ironed. So we went into the office together in her car. I was beginning to miss my walks to work, though I had kept up my running most mornings.