The Truth About Aunts And Uncles (Short Story)

I had one of my headaches that afternoon and came home from the office early. It was quiet in our building, all the other tenants being out at work, and it was a relief to be away from people and their incessant noise. I raided the bathroom cabinet, took two of Sam’s Tramadol which I’d found to be so much more effective than the painkillers our GP had given me, then got comfy on the couch in the cool dim quietness, determined to relax. I just needed a couple of hours and I was confident the pain would lift.
    Not quite asleep, I was drifting pleasantly when the phone rang. I heard it distantly, almost incredulously, because no one ever rang us in the middle of the day. Mostly, our friends and colleagues used email or texting. It was probably a marketing call I reasoned, so I let it ring. But it kept ringing, and rather than let its jarring revive my partly-soothed headache, I grabbed the receiver and prepared to be short with whoever was calling.
    “Hello — is it possible to speak to Gina Hawkins, please?” A woman’s voice, warm and polite, encouraged me to respond in a reasonable tone.
    “Who is this?”
    “My name’s Margaret Williams. I’m a social worker at St Mark’s Hospital and I’m calling on behalf of a patient — Reg Blackwell. I’ve got a message for his daughter. He gave me this number.”
    My hesitation must have made it obvious she’d hit home. She pressed on, gently but growing subtly persuasive. “He wants to see you as soon as you can make it. He needs to talk to you, he says, and he hasn’t much time ... Can I at least tell him that you’re on your way?”
    My head was reeling now, with a whole mass of conflicting emotions making coherent speech difficult. “But why does he want to see me after all this time?” I eventually managed. Then “And how does he know where I am ? — It’s been twelve years — no, nearer fifteen — since we last had any contact. What’s changed?”
    She sighed a long indulgent sigh that told me she’d been through a similar scenario many times before. “He’s dying. He knows he’s dying and he’s scared. And he’s sad about whatever’s happened. He needs to see you — make his peace before he goes.” Her words sank like hot stones inside me. They drew up tears and a little resentful anger.
    “Okay...okay...I’ll get there as soon as I can. You can tell him I’m on my way.”
    “Oh that’s good. Thank you. Goodbye.” She sounded genuinely glad, and I felt like she’d given me a mental pat on the back for making the right decision.
    I wrote a quick message to Sam on a post-it note and stuck it on the kettle. The details would keep, so I kept it short: HAVE TO GO OUT — NOT SURE HOW LONG I’LL BE — WILL PHONE YOU LATER XXX



St. Mark’s was just that bit too far to walk, especially on such a hot day, so I plumped for the bus, which would drop me right outside the main entrance. There were two people already waiting at the stop, and this seemed to be a fair indication that a bus might arrive fairly soon. I wanted to get there and get whatever it was over with as soon as decently possible. I could have refused, of course, and something in me was baffled as to why I hadn’t done just that. Why had I even answered the phone, when I could have simply switched off the ringer? Irritated with myself — the ease with which other people seemed to manipulate me — and aware of a nerve above my right eye twitching, I searched in my bag for sunglasses to cut out some of the glare. The bus rolled up and I got on, found a seat at the back and brooded the entire journey.
    I kept trying to remember what he looked like the last time I saw him, and found that image frustratingly hazy. More distinct, was how he’d been as a young man — how I’d seen him when I was a small child. There were more photographs of that time, which helped fix the image. He’d been slim, strong — almost athletic with shirtsleeves rolled up, brown-armed— and always outside in the garden doing something. Gardening, DIY — fixing things and making stuff. He’d had a very capable and practical mind when approaching any task. And I’d liked to help him, when I could — when he’d let me, that is. But what did he look like now? I tried to picture him really old and frail to prepare myself for the inevitable shock of it. Even the thought unnerved me. The idea was hateful — somehow alien — he had seemed to me almost invincible.
    The bus pulled into High Towers road and joined the crawling line of home-going traffic. A very young child two seats away set up a wailing that grated in my still-throbbing head. Its mother shushed it without success and I caught her eye. She looked desperately worried and it occurred to me that the child was ill and she might be taking it to the A & E. Half a dozen or so people got up as we approached St. Mark’s and a man helped carry the mother’s bags, retrieving a pushchair from the luggage area and setting it down on the pavement for her. The smell of sick wafted down the aisle from where it had puddled on a seat. I felt nauseous and shaky as I got off and looked up at a large blue board for directions.
    The girl on reception was brusque until I mentioned that Margaret Williams had phoned me. Her manner changed immediately. “If you’d like to wait over there,” she gestured to a half circle of mis-matched chairs around a low table scattered with magazines, “then I’ll get a nurse to show you where your father is.” She punched a couple of numbers and waited for a reply.
    “If you’ll just tell me which ward...” I began.
    “He’s not in a main ward. He’s in a small side ward — all to himself. Someone’ll be along in a minute.” Then, turning to whoever had answered her internal call, “Val? Yes, I’ve got a visitor in reception for Mr Blackwell. Can you spare a minute? Thanks.” She put the phone down and nodded at me. “One of his nurses is on the way.”
    “Right. Thank you.” I’d barely sat down when Val — the nurse — arrived. Plump-ish and bustly, rather like a character from a Carry On film.
    “Hello, dear. You’re Mr Blackwell’s daughter, yes?” She beamed good-naturedly. I nodded and we set off down a long colourless corridor, her sensible shoes squeaking like hysterical mice on the beige tiles. We passed innumerable closed doors with names on, but saw no one. It was so empty it seemed kind of spooky.
    She updated me as we went. Warned me about all the equipment he was hooked up to, and not to feel too alarmed at his appearance. He wasn’t in any pain. That was the main thing. However, and her tone lowered at this point, I did have to be prepared for the worst, and quite soon. I should try to be brave. Suddenly I felt about ten years old.
    “Here we are.” We’d stopped outside a door with a small square window and the number 4B. The nurse opened it and ushered me inside. The air hit me. It had a strange quality — a thickness to it. Not stale exactly, but mixed with something I couldn’t identify. Apprehension, maybe. And I wasn’t at all prepared for what I saw propped up against that hill of pillows — the remains of a man still clinging to this world.
    I stood stock still and felt his eyes slowly focus on me. “Gina?” A long laboured breath, then “Gina — I’m glad you’ve come.”
    I was staring at him, trying not to look as horrified as I felt, barely able to take it in. I looked around for a chair. “Hello — how’re you feeling?” The inanity fell out while I struggled for something — anything — that seemed appropriate. But what was there I could say that possibly fitted such a moment?
    “Not good.” He admitted. The corner of his mouth twitched very slightly, like he was attempting a smile.
    “Me neither,” I said “must be the weather.”
    This time the smile was more obvious, but they’d taken out his dentures, which rather ruined the effect. His head lolled now, shrunk down to a skull with the skin stretched tightly over it, almost hairless, jaw and brow bones impossibly sharp and angular, perched on a thin neck disappearing under crisp sheets which mercifully hid the rest of his wasted body from view. Tubes came out of his nose and looped round behind the bed to a bank of machines whose function I could only guess at. Pads and wires connected him to monitoring equipment. Another tube was attached to the back of one exposed hand and drip-feeding him whatever medication kept him free of pain. Only his eyes still seemed alive, sunken but burning with their old determination. I knew, whatever else it was he wanted, he didn’t want my pity. So I hid it the best I could and waited for him to get to the point.
    “It’s been a long while,” he began, then trailed off, wincing slightly.
    “Shall I call the nurse?”
    Almost imperceptibly he shook his head, swallowed as though it hurt him, and gave a short cough before continuing. “No point — there’s not much they can do... There’s things I need to tell you. Stuff that should be put right. No one else’ll do it. Your mother won’t, that’s certain. She never wanted you to know...”
    “Know what?” Already my patience was starting to wear. He’d always been one for walking all around a subject and never quite coming out with exactly what he meant. Such conversations had littered the past with misunderstandings. Questions never got straight answers. I anticipated that aspect wouldn’t have changed much, if at all.
    “She didn’t think it made any difference, you see. She said you didn’t need to know. She made me promise to keep my mouth shut. You know how she is...”
    “Oh, I know precisely how she is.” I resisted the urge to amplify because I knew that if I went on the attack he would feel obliged to defend her and then it was unlikely I’d ever find out what he was trying to tell me.
    “She doesn’t see things the same way. It’s not her fault she has no real sense of family. She didn’t have much to do with her own mother. All that fostering and being passed around as a kid... She was very unhappy.”
    “Okay, I accept that she didn’t have much of a role model.”
    “Good. I’m glad you’re not bitter — you don’t hate her, do you?”
    “I don’t hate anyone. To be truthful, I just don’t think about her that often.” I didn’t say ‘either of you’, because that wasn’t strictly true. Over the years, I’d wondered far more about him than her.
    “She didn’t mean to get pregnant, you see. It was an accident.” He let this sink in before continuing. “It was a shock for all of us.”
    “All? What d’you mean — all?”
    He swallowed hard again and looked very uncomfortable. “Your uncles — Jack and Derrick — they both knew. Gladys, too, because she found them — Derrick and your mother — in the woodshed. So we weren’t quite sure who was responsible. Your mother wouldn’t say much about it. But I knew it couldn’t have been me. Because we hadn’t — not at that stage. Jack admitted he had, just once I think, so there was a chance it was him. And your mother liked him a lot. Better than me, I thought at the time, even though she’d chosen to marry me, of course...”
    It was a good job I was sitting down. The room swayed a little, and I had this terrible urge to laugh. It sounded so much like a French farce. I took a few deep breaths and found my voice. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
    “I can’t tell you who your real father was — it was either Derrick or Jack — most probably Derrick. I can only say for sure that I’m definitely not your dad. But I am your uncle. And I’m so sorry that no one told you before. Your mother wouldn’t let them. She absolutely forbade it.”
    “So, did everyone in the family know? ” I was thinking of those many occasions in my childhood when the whole family had gathered to celebrate weddings, christenings or attend funerals. All keeping the truth from me because they were told they must.
    “Well, your uncles and aunts all knew. Gladys made sure of that. She just couldn’t keep it to herself. She always was a gossip. Anyway, she and your mother fell out over it. But it stayed in the family. No outsiders ever got to hear about it.”
    I sat thinking this over for a minute or two. Right from early on — as soon as I was old enough to think more or less objectively about my family — I had suspected something was not quite right. Small things over the years — little details that didn’t quite add up had given me cause to wonder. Plus instinct had played a part, too. But this explanation was more bizarre than anything I’d ever imagined. “Right. I need to go and make a quick phone call. I left him a note but Sam might be worrying. I’ll be back very soon. Okay?”
    My father/uncle nodded. “Don’t be too long.” The words were laced with warning. Yet I also thought I detected something else: need, perhaps.
    I hurried back down the still-empty corridor to the reception area and the public phones. I let the phone ring twenty times, but it seemed Sam wasn’t in. So I rushed back to room 4B and found two nurses — Val and a senior colleague — wrestling to keep a supposedly dying man from getting out of bed. A monitor was beeping forlornly, its cable disconnected and snaking across the floor.
    “Dad! — What d’you think you’re doing?” I took one arm and eased him back against the pillows while the nurses straightened and tucked in the bedclothes. Once they’d got him settled and reconnected, the nurses left the room.
    I noticed that his face was wet, like he’d been crying. I’d only rarely seen him cry. Once when I was teenage, and he’d come back from the vets without our old dog. We’d all grieved together that night. Another time when one of his best friends died. He’d been talking about the chap and in the middle of a sentence he suddenly choked up, the tears pouring out spontaneously and unstoppable. In contrast, any weeping my mother did was almost token — always controlled and never in public.
    This time I sat on the edge of his bed, the closeness like a last ditch attempt to encourage intimacy. “What’s the matter?”
    He shook his head, eyes closed, the bedclothes heaving lightly, his sobs barely audible. I took his hand and squeezed his fingers gently, fighting back my own tears. There was an answering pressure and we sat in silence for some while until he regained his composure. But for those intervening moments at least, it seemed that all the awkwardness between us had fallen away.
    “How’s Sam?” His question was unexpected. Neither he nor my mother had approved of my choice of husband.
    “Oh, he’s fine. Working hard on his next film script. He’s been doing a bit of directing, too — for a small production company that makes mainly shorts and documentaries. Not exactly Hollywood, but he’s keeping busy, you know.”
    “Good. Good... Your mother was always so critical — never gave him a chance — said he’d be no good for you and that it wouldn’t last — your marriage. For years she’s been expecting to hear that you’d left him for someone else — almost like she’s been willing it to happen so she’s proved right.”
    “She’s likely in for a long wait, then. Sam and I are fine. We get on better than most couples I know. It’s a pity she can’t just accept she’s wrong, for once. She seems to resent anyone else being happy. Maybe her problem is just plain old fashioned jealousy.”
    “Yes,” he sighed, “she’s always been a very jealous woman, which has made her hard to live with. Very controlling, too. I admit I’ve considered leaving her more than once...”
    Stunned, I waited for him to continue. The notion that my father might ever have wanted to leave my mother was close to unthinkable. They’d been married sixty years. He’d been consistently dutiful. And if not outwardly adoring, it was always implied that his world revolved around her. “I wouldn’t have blamed you...” I said quietly, by way of encouragement.
    “I should have been braver and made the break,” he went on, “Rachel and I were close at one time...”
    “Aunt Rachel?” This family history session was fast becoming a soap opera in its complex relationships.
    “Yes — are you shocked?”
    “No... Just a bit surprised. I never would have imagined... She’s so different to my mother.” I was trying to picture him with my aunt — his brother’s rather pale insipid wife — the plain-faced motherly woman who tended to get overlooked in a crowd.
    “She’s the absolute opposite of Iris — always warm and kind and sympathetic. Granted, she’s no great beauty, but she made me feel things your mother never did. And I could relax with her — with your mother I’ve always been on edge, somehow. Rachel’s a very special woman who stayed with Len out of loyalty, even though he put her through all sorts of worry. He went right off the rails at one point. Started drinking heavily, then stole from his employer to pay off his debts. The family clubbed together to pay the money back and keep him out of court, and the family name out the papers — to avoid the public disgrace of it, you see. Your grandfather was still alive then, and he had some contacts — pulled some strings. Your mother and I were going through a sticky patch at that time — one of many — and I was helping Rachel with some practical things around their house. Len was in too much of a state to be any good to anyone. He was months drying out, went back on the booze, then tried sobering up again. She had the patience of a saint with him. We didn’t intend having an affair — it just kind of happened. We both felt so guilty, and yet it gave us both a small taste of happiness. But I guess we knew that it couldn’t last. Neither of us dared face the recriminations that would be thrown at us, and Rachel’s parents were strict church-goers and very opposed to divorce. We agreed to call a halt before anyone found out. I’ve always regretted being such a coward, and I miss her still, even after more than forty years...”
    “Does Aunt Rachel know you’re in here?”
    “I shouldn’t think so — there’s no reason — she’s not been in touch with any of us much since Len died.” His tone was unashamedly wistful now — all the emotional guards were down.
    “Is she still living with Paula? I’m pretty sure we had a Christmas card from her a year or two back — the usual robin.” I smiled at the recollection, nostalgia now colouring everything in its rosy glow. It might have been longer ago, but I’d still have the address somewhere.
    “Oh, it’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? — Too late to go back... Besides, she’s had enough grief in her life...no need to bother her with this.” He sank back further against the pillows and shut his eyes.
    “You should get some rest,” I said, then spontaneously offered “I can come back tomorrow and we can talk some more if you like.”
    “Yes, I’d like that. But I better warn you that your mother’s most likely on her way here. She gets one of her bridge cronies to drop her off. To be honest, I really wish she wouldn’t bother visiting. It’s no fun for either of us. Anyway, you probably don’t want to bump into her if you can avoid it.”
    “I’ll look out for her, I promise!” I leaned over and pecked his dry cheek. “Now, you hang in there and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    He grunted something like goodbye, his eyes still closed. I took a long look at him before turning and closing the door quietly behind me.
    Fortunately, I recognised my mother before she got close enough to see it was me at the other end of the long empty corridor. Apart from chancing a quick detour into what might be a conveniently unoccupied side room, there was no practical way to avoid coming face to face. I decided to brazen it out and see what happened. She did a double-take before speaking.
    “Well, well — fancy seeing you here. Thought you’d come and visit your old dad on his deathbed, eh?”
    “Hello Mother.” I glanced at her dispassionately. The years hadn’t been kind and I almost felt sorry for her. She was hunched and pinched-in looking, her face a ruin under what was obviously a silver-blonde wig.
    “You’re wasting your time if you imagine you’ll get anything when he goes. He cut you out of his will a long time ago. He’s left you nothing — nothing!” She spat the words, sure they would find their mark.
    “No,” I agreed, “not even his genes, apparently.”
    “What d’you mean?” she snapped.
    “Oh, you work it out.” I started to walk on. “And I wouldn’t disturb him — he’s very tired and doesn’t want to see you. Best go back to your bridge buddies.”
    She yelled some reply that, barely heard, I easily ignored. I wanted to get home and tell Sam the whole story before trying to get in touch with Rachel. I walked faster, these things seemed so urgent — time was running out for all of us.
    Outside the hospital, the evening had cooled with approaching dusk, the moon’s last quarter lay frail upon its back above the rooftops, and I noticed my headache had gone.