Different Genes Read online

  Different Genes

  Claire Baldry

  Copyright © 2017 Claire Baldry

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  www.clairebaldry.co.uk

  ISBN 9781788031035

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Claire Baldry retired from her career as a Headteacher in 2008. She is now an established writer, blogger, comedy poet and public speaker in her home county of East Sussex. She lives in Bexhill-on-Sea with husband, Chris.

  Claire has published four booklets of amusing poetry and an autobiographical novella, called South Something.

  Different Genes is Claire’s first full-length novel.

  Claire says, “Sixty is the new forty. I feel very privileged to be able to focus on my writing, now I am retired. I enjoy creating ‘older’ romantic heroines and placing them at the centre of poems and stories.”

  Also by Claire Baldry

  Poetry Booklets

  Simply Bexhill

  Simply Christmas

  The De La Warr Date

  Seaside and Sailaway

  Autobiographical Novella

  South Something

  For Chris

  With grateful thanks to all my friends and family for their encouragement with my writing. Special thanks to Danielle Steele and Hilary Cisneros Mccorry for their meticulous proof-reading of the text.

  This novel is set in towns and villages in Sussex, Hertfordshire and Kent. Whilst the author’s detailed knowledge of the locality has been used to provide a realistic background to the storyline, road names, businesses and buildings are often invented. All characters in this novel are fictitious.

  Joan’s fading body lay resting on a bed in the local hospice. Her mind was numbed with a cocktail of pain-relieving drugs. Her shoulders were propped up by an uneven mound of plastic-coated pillows. Her face was obscured by an oxygen mask. The chaplain walked towards the open door of her room and peered in. She lifted an arm to signal that she wished the clergyman to approach. Father Martin drew up a chair and sat beside her.

  “Do you need something, Joan?”

  She pulled the mask from her face.

  “Paper.”

  Father Martin produced a clipboard with paper from his leather case. He placed it on her chest and put a pencil in her hand. He steadied the paper, as Joan began to write.

  Dear Louise

  The script was barely legible.

  I think you should know….

  The letter was never completed. The pencil fell from her hand, and her body gradually slumped into emptiness. Father Martin removed the clipboard and pencil from the bed and returned them to his case. He pressed the emergency button and spoke the words of a silent prayer.

  Contents

  1.A Celebration of Joan

  2.Freshers’ Week

  3.Meeting Charlie

  4.Marriage, Divorce and Relocation

  5.After Joan

  6.Visiting Gillian

  7. Senior’s Dating

  8.Contact

  9.The Estate Agent

  10.Talking to Simon

  11.The Garden Centre

  12.Meeting Sophie

  13.Lovers

  14.From Companion to Couple

  15.An Intruder in Fairlight

  16.Different Genes

  17.Patricia Makepiece (1940–1955)

  18.Nana

  19.Losing Louise

  20.Adoption

  21.Meeting Grandma

  22.Bob

  23.Meeting Karen

  24.Confession

  25.From Guestling to Battle

  26.Meeting Oliver

  27.The Return of Bob

  28.Journey to Chatham

  29.Simon Disappears

  30.Simon Reappears

  31.Making Plans

  32.Martha

  33.Finding Ruby

  34.Moving On

  35.A Wedding in Brighton

  The Final Chapter

  One

  A Celebration of Joan

  Simon took the coast road back from Rye. He had finished wandering around the market earlier than expected, so decided to stop for a short walk in Fairlight Country Park. It had been a clear autumnal day, but, by the time he reached the park, a dense cloud had engulfed the cliff top. The air was filled with damp droplets, and the sea was barely visible. He parked by the Fairlight Tea Rooms and decided to sit inside with a pot of tea for company. When the tea was no longer warm, he wandered through the plant-filled conservatory and sheltered outside under the awning. He could just catch a glimpse of Fairlight Church and the blurred horizon beyond. He found himself observing a distant group of mourners who were drifting away from the graveyard. Simon wondered where the family would gather later for the customary tea and finger food. The grey sky and murky rain added a sombre atmosphere to their steps. He glanced down at the discarded cigarette ends surrounding his feet. He was so pleased he had finally given up.

  ‘People had adjusted easily to the smoking ban,’ he reflected. ‘Nine years ago, the mourners would have been allowed inside the tea shop to smoke away their grief. Now they were banished outside in the mist.’

  As if reading his thoughts, an older man in a black overcoat slipped away from the group of mourners and lit up a cigarette beside him.

  “Did you know her?” asked the man.

  “No,” replied Simon, “I was just leaving the café and I found myself watching. You?”

  “Auntie Joan was my wife’s cousin. I thought I’d leave the girls to chat, while I sneaked a cigarette. They don’t get to meet up very often. It takes a funeral to bring a family together. You can tell they’re related, can’t you? They all have the same stubby body shape. Auntie Joan looked like that too.”

  Simon smiled at the way the man had described the women in his family.

  “I see your point. They do look similar. All except that lady on the right. She is much taller and leaner.”

  “That’s Louise. She’s adopted… different genes.”

  Simon suddenly felt uncomfortable. He sensed he was intruding. He pulled the car keys from his pocket, apologised to the man, and made excuses to leave. As he climbed back into his Mercedes, he began to reprimand himself. He knew he was lonely, but choosing to pass the time by watching a bereaved family was, he decided, really desperate. He must take himself in hand and do something.

  The family group gradually dispersed towards their own vehicles. As Simon had predicted, they headed to a private room in a nearby hotel. The tables were laid with crisp wh
ite cloths topped by sandwiches and cakes. The hotel staff were serving tea from large metal teapots.

  The sign on the door read, ‘Friday 30th September 2016: A Celebration of the Life of Joan Watson’.

  “I’m so sorry about your mum,” said a family friend to Louise.

  “Thanks, Bob. She had a good long life, and I wouldn’t have wanted her to suffer any longer. Her death was a relief really. Mind you, I’m not looking forward to clearing the bungalow.”

  “Of course, you’re an only child. There are no brothers or sisters to share the task. Will the cousins help?”

  “You know, I think I’d rather get on with it on my own. When I split up with Charlie, we had to discuss every single item of furniture and decide who would have what. It was very wearing. Mum’s will left everything to me. At least this time I can make all the decisions on my own.”

  “You’re probably right. Just give me a call though, when you need anything. I’ll happily drive my van from Hastings to the tip for you, if it helps.”

  “Thanks, Bob. I just might take you up on that offer,” Louise lied. She had no intention of allowing Bob to intrude upon her grief by touching her mother’s belongings.

  The gathering broke up shortly before 4 pm. Kisses and hugs were exchanged, and they began to return to their cars.

  “Are you sure you will be okay on your own?” asked Louise’s cousin, Karen.

  “I’ll be fine. I stayed in the bungalow for two weeks before Mum died. My bed is still made up, and it will give me time to get my head back together. I need to be alone for a while.”

  “Well, as long as you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  It was a long drive back from Fairlight to Sawbridgeworth. By the time Michael and Karen reached the Dartford Crossing, the traffic was crawling in congested rush-hour lines towards the tunnel.

  “I never understood why Joan decided to move to Sussex,” remarked Karen. “You can’t get anywhere without negotiating the M25.”

  “Well she seemed happy enough living there,” responded Michael. “Perhaps she was enticed by the sea. Fairlight is such a beautiful village, even if it does attract the mist.”

  “Living in a cloud sums it up,” Karen spoke her thoughts out loud, “I still can’t believe that Louise has never suspected. Actually, I wish I didn’t know. It feels wrong that Louise was never told.”

  Michael felt an uncomfortable sense of guilt that he had shared Joan’s secret with a complete stranger. He decided not to tell Karen about his indiscretion.

  “We must be the only ones left who know. When we die, the secret will die with us.”

  Karen and Michael’s car finally escaped into the faster moving traffic of the M11. Michael pressed his foot on the accelerator and began to focus on his driving. His craving for a cigarette increased the speed of the car.

  Joan’s bungalow was only a mile from the hotel. Louise stopped at a mini supermarket and bought herself a bottle of wine and some supper. She was soon turning the key in the front door.

  “I’m home, Mum.”

  Louise knew her mother wasn’t there, but she found the words comforting. She put the supermarket bag down on the hallway floor and switched on the lights in every room. Suddenly, the familiar furniture looked very dated. No one would want the floral curtains and patterned carpets. Oriental coffee tables brought back from Singapore in the fifties were clumsily combined with a mixture of furnishing taste from the 1970s onwards. Louise shook her head at her mother’s lack of creativity. She would box up the paperwork and a few precious items, then call in the house-clearance people. It would be for the best. She would aim to complete the task by the end of the weekend. Tiredness then began to overwhelm her. Louise turned on the TV, microwaved her supper, poured herself a glass of wine and sank into the sofa. By 9 pm she was in bed.

  The hallway light cast moving shadows across Louise’s body while she slept. Her eyes flickered, as an elderly lady moved towards her in the night.

  “Mum?”

  “It’s Nana. I have paper and crayons. We will draw rainbows together.”

  Nana took Louise’s hand and helped her to create vast coloured arcs.

  “We will find a pot of gold, Lou Lou.”

  “Don’t leave me, Nana.”

  “I will never leave you. I will always be at your side. I will hug and protect you.”

  Louise woke in a sweat. Streaks of autumn sunlight were shooting through the gaps in the curtains.

  “It must be morning.” She grabbed the little travel clock from the bedside cabinet.

  “Half past six, I slept all night.”

  She climbed out of bed and wrapped herself in a dressing gown.

  ‘Tea and activity… no… strong coffee. I will need the energy.’

  Louise wandered from room to room trying to organise her thoughts.

  ‘Good thing Charlie isn’t with me. He would want to sell everything.’

  Coffee in hand, she sat down in front of her mother’s desk. The papers were neatly organised into four, labelled, pocket files. ‘Finance’, ‘House’, ‘Medical’ and ‘Louise’. Sorting out her affairs had been a top priority for Joan once the cancer had been diagnosed. Louise stroked the folders in gratitude. She slipped the ‘House’ and ‘Finance’ folders into a canvas shopping bag. The other two folders were placed in the bottom of a box. They could wait until later.

  She began to remove her paintings from the walls and lean them against the sofa. She would need more boxes… and bubble wrap.

  “You didn’t think of that, did you, Mum?”

  By 10 am Louise had dressed, climbed into her car, and purchased boxes and bubble wrap from an out-of-town warehouse. On her return journey, she stopped at the small tea shop next to the Country Park for another coffee and a bacon roll. She could see the distant churchyard where they had gathered the day before. Tears began to rise in the backs of her eyes.

  Her mobile phone rang.

  “Gillian, how lovely to hear from you. No, I’m staying at Mum’s, trying to clear up her things. I’ll be back at the studio tomorrow evening.”

  Louise blinked away her watery eyes and spoke quietly, so as not to disturb the other coffee drinkers.

  “It’s not too bad really. She left things pretty well organised. I’m going to get the clearance people in next week. There’s not much demand for floral curtains these days. Maybe I can phone you when I get back home?”

  “Please do,” replied Gillian. “You are welcome to come to Brighton for a few days.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They ended the call, and Louise took the last bite of her bacon roll. She headed back to the bungalow.

  A blast of cold air struck Louise in the face when she unlocked the front door. A brightness from the kitchen had invaded the inner hallway. Louise discarded her shopping and went to investigate. The back door of the bungalow was wide open and swinging in the coastal breeze. Louise froze. She was sure she had left the rear door closed. What to do? Should she walk through the bungalow and risk an encounter with the intruder? The front doorbell rang.

  Louise crept out through the back door and tiptoed round to the front. Bob was pressing the bell.

  “Bob?”

  He turned and looked at her.

  “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Perhaps I have. I’ve been out and I think someone may have broken in while I was away.”

  “How do you know? Is anything missing?”

  “I came home and found the back door wide open. I’m sure I left it locked.”

  Bob gave her a sceptical look.

  “Have you checked if anything has been taken?”

  “I was frightened. I didn’t want to go back in.”

  “Come on. I’ll
look with you.”

  Bob limped to the back of the house and entered the kitchen.

  “Hello? Burglar? Are you here?”

  Louise began to feel foolish. She followed Bob, as he moved from room to room and checked the windows. There was no sign of damage. They ended their examination in the lounge. Louise noticed the front of the desk was open.

  “I’m sure I left that closed.”

  Bob hobbled back into the kitchen and filled the kettle. Louise felt the return of old resentment at the way Bob made himself at home in her mother’s house. He made two mugs of tea.

  “Look, Lou, you’ve been under a lot of stress. You probably just left the back door open.”

  “But the desk was open.”

  “Has anything been taken from the desk?”

  “No. I emptied it yesterday.”

  “That was quick work. What did you do with the papers?”

  “In bags and boxes, ready to take back to the studio.”

  They sipped their tea.

  “Lou, why don’t you let me help you? This is a big task for one person alone.”

  Louise took back control.

  “That’s very kind of you, Bob, but I much prefer to work alone. Is that why you came… to offer help?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She picked up his empty mug, took it into the kitchen, then deliberately opened the front door and waited. He took the hint and walked slowly through the hallway. His legs didn’t work as well as they used to, but he could still negotiate his way around reasonably flat areas. As he left the bungalow, he pecked her on the cheek.

  “You take care,” he said.

  Louise shut the front door behind him, rubbed her cheek clean and watched Bob’s car leave from the lounge window.

  By lunchtime the following day, she had climbed into, and emptied, the loft and examined the contents of every drawer and cupboard. Precious items had been wrapped and boxed ready to load into her car. Two loads of the ‘better’ clothes and bric-a-brac had been taken to a local charity shop. She had even arranged to leave a spare key with a neighbour, turned the heating to low, and made a note of the energy meter readings. She went out to her car and pulled down the back seat. There would be plenty of room for the boxes and paintings.