rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter Thirty-Nine
In Conversation with Kitty Neale
The argument had raged for two days, but the man couldn’t give in – wouldn’t give in. His wife had to agree, and once again he urged, ‘We’ve got to do something. All right, I know they were distant relatives, but it was still a shock to hear they died.’
‘You’ve never mentioned them before.’
He sighed – he’d been through this, told her all this, but nevertheless he tried to remain calm. ‘I told you, I haven’t seen them since my childhood; lost touch with them when my parents died, but nevertheless we’re the only family she has left now.’
‘You’re her only family,’ his wife snapped.
‘Like it or not, by marrying me they became your relatives. If this was someone in your family, I wouldn’t think twice.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, but something like this wouldn’t have happened in my family.’
‘There’s no need for the high and mighty attitude. We’ve no idea what happened to her – how she came to be in such a dreadful place, and I for one am not going to judge her.’
‘I don’t care. I can’t do it. I’ve been unwell and you’re asking too much of me.’
‘And if you expect me to just walk away, you’re asking too much of me. I’d never be able to forgive myself – or you.’
‘Now you’re using emotional blackmail.’
‘If you had an ounce of compassion I wouldn’t need to.’
‘That isn’t fair. I do feel sorry for what happened to her, really I do, but…but…’
The man saw the strain on his wife’s face, but couldn’t stop now. He had to convince her. His voice softened, trying honey this time. ‘I’m sorry, darling, that was cruel of me. Of course you’re compassionate, in fact it’s one of the things I love about you. I think that’s why I’ve been taken aback by your attitude. I somehow thought that, like me, you wouldn’t be able to just walk away.’
‘Please, please, we’ve been arguing about this for so long and my head is splitting. Let me think. I need time to think.’
He could tell she was weakening and felt a surge of triumph – sure that at last, one final push would do it. He stood up, bent to kiss her and before leaving the room said, ‘All right, darling, I’ll leave you to think. You’re a wonderful woman, a kind, caring woman, and I feel sure you’ll come to the right decision.’
It was another two hours before he got his answer. His wife had agreed, but only in part. She’d been adamant, and he’d been unable to bend her any further.
There was only one thing he could do now, but he dreaded it.
Wimbledon, South London, June 1971
It was home, a redbrick facade draped with wisteria, bay windows and an oak front door that appeared welcoming; yet as Jennifer Lavender pulled out her key, she knew there’d be no welcome inside. If her father was at home things would be different, but he was away again, his job often involving long periods of absence.
With a fixed smile on her face, Jenny walked into the drawing room. She had learned to be careful of her mother’s moods, and said quietly, ‘Hello, I’m home.’
‘I can see that,’ Delia Lavender said dismissively before turning her attention back to her son. She was a tall woman, slim, with immaculately groomed auburn hair and hazel eyes that were now showing concern as she asked him, ‘Do you think you can manage to eat something, darling? I could make a shepherd’s pie.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Robin said.
Her brother didn’t look ill to Jenny, but as usual Robin avoided meeting her eyes. At seventeen years old he had the same colouring as their mother. He had come home from college the previous day complaining of a sore throat and headache and as always he was being mollycoddled. At that moment, her mother spoke and Jenny snapped to attention.
‘Don’t just stand there. Get changed and then peel the potatoes.’
Jenny ran upstairs, anxious as ever to please her mother. From an early age she’d been taught to do housework, but it had to be up to her mother’s high standards or she would be made to do it again. Yet no matter how hard she tried, Jenny was aware of the gulf between them, a gulf that widened even further if she showed the least disobedience. It wasn’t that her mother was physically cruel. Her punishments tended to be more mental than physical and worse when there were just the two of them at home. On those occasions, depending on her mother’s mood, Jenny would either be made to scrub the kitchen floor over and over again, or be sent to her room and told to stay there.
At times Jenny felt her mother actually hated her, and for a moment she looked at her reflection