Barbara Cleverly - Not My Blood

“Yes,” said Joe, “you did the right thing.”

While they’d been in the shelter the snow had begun to lie and wind-blown snow was sticking to the southerly face of the power station chimney stacks. Slated roofs were turning from grey-blue to white.

“That’s where we’re going,” said Joe, pointing, “that lighted up window there. That’s my flat. My sister-your Aunt Lydia, I suppose-is at home and still up, you see. People sometimes think it’s a funny place to live, but I like it.”

A reassuring figure in dressing gown and slippers, Lydia was standing in the hall as Joe unlocked the door.

“Hullo!’ she said. “And who’s this?”

“Jackie Drummond, Aunt Lydia. I’m sorry to be arriving so late.”

Though clearly puzzled, Lydia moved smoothly into action. “That’s quite all right, Jackie. I took the opportunity of making up a camp bed in the box room. You must be exhausted! What about a nice hot bath and then bed? Here, let me take your cape.”

Lydia put out a motherly hand to unbutton his cycling cape and the boy abruptly pulled away from her in alarm, clutching it tightly round his shoulders.

“What’s the matter, Jackie?” said Joe.

Jackie looked from one to the other and then, apparently coming to a decision, took off his cape and handed it to Lydia. Lydia gasped. Joe swallowed. The front of the boy’s uniform, white shirt, grey shorts and grey blazer were covered in rusty-red stains.

“It’s not my blood, sir,” whispered Jackie. “It’s Mr. Rapson’s.”

Joe and Lydia stared at each other and then at Jackie in silence for a moment until Joe collected himself.

“Well,” he said, “first things first. And the first thing is to get out of those clothes and into a bath. Have you got pyjamas in your exit bag? Good. Lydia, why don’t you take him? Put his clothes in a bag and keep them together. They just might be evidence. Of something or other.… Go with Aunt Lydia, Jackie.”

Lydia slipped an arm round Jackie. “Come on then,” she said, “let’s posh you up a bit. And we’ll see if we can find a plaster for that hand. You look as though you’ve gone five rounds with Jack Dempsey.” They left the room together.

When Lydia returned Joe was staring out of the window at the dark river and the fluttering snow. He turned, and brother and sister looked at each other in amazement.

“It’s all right,” said Lydia, breaking the awkward silence, “he’s enjoying his hot bath. I gave him your model battleship to play with. Tell me, Joe-what is all this? You look absolutely shattered! You’ve looked as though you’ve seen a ghost ever since you came back with that boy. Just what is going on? What has happened to him? Who’s Mr. Rapson? And, for heaven’s sake-who is he ?”

“Lydia,” said Joe, “you’re not going to believe this-I’m not sure I believe it myself but … oh, God, could I be wrong about this? I think … I’m almost certain … that boy is my son!”

“Joe! For goodness sake! You haven’t got a son!”

Lydia was silent for a moment and then went on more thoughtfully, “Sorry. I suppose I have to say-is it possible? I mean, could he be your son?”

“Not only possible,” said Joe slowly, “but I’d have to say probable.”

“But who? How? Did you know he was coming?”

“Know he was coming? I didn’t even know he existed! His mother gave him this address but more than that I really don’t know.”

“His mother! Who is his mother? And where is his mother? She’s not on the next train, is she?” Lydia looked about her in mock alarm. “This place is hardly big enough to accommodate a growing family. Any more to declare?”

“No, Lyd. I’m reasonably certain of that. And the lady’s name is Nancy Drummond. She’s in India.”

“Oh! India!” Her relief was clear. “Yes, come to think of it, that fits. Ten years ago you were in Bengal.” She smiled. “I always thought there must have been more to your Indian interlude than multiple murders and man-eating tigers. Rather glad to hear there were lighter moments.”

“Yes. Well, his mother is still apparently in Bengal. So is his father … well, you know what I mean. Andrew Drummond, her husband. The man the world-and the boy-thinks is his father. The Collector of Panikhat.”

“Oh. A husband? Tell me, Joe, was he-Andrew, the Collector-aware that …?”

Joe nodded silently, thoughts and memories suppressed for years flashing painfully to mind. “Oh, he was aware, all right,” he murmured.

“Did it come to fisticuffs, pistols at dawn, perhaps?” Lydia asked hesitantly, her intense curiosity pushing her to ask questions she sensed would be unwelcome.

“No!” Joe’s sudden grin punctured the tension between them. “I knew Andrew for just a short time, but I count him one of my dearest friends. And I know he liked me. Well, you’d have to have some pretty positive feelings for the chap you’ve chosen to father your wife’s child, wouldn’t you?”

“Chosen?” said Lydia faintly and she sank down onto the sofa. “Are you going to explain all this? And can you really be so certain that the boy’s yours? I mean.…” Her eyes strayed to the bathroom door, and they listened for a moment to sounds of contented splashing and the ‘whoop, whoop, whoop’ of a Dreadnought siren. “… I have to say this and perhaps you’ve already noticed-that child doesn’t look in the slightest bit like you .”

“That’s the irony!” Joe gave a bitter laugh. “I was selected to be the father of Nancy Drummond’s child quite deliberately, I believe, because physically Andrew and I are very similar. Tall, dark thick hair, a bit bony.…”

“Emphatic features?”

“Those too. The first thing that boy said to me was ‘You look like my father.’ He saw it straight away! The vital difference between us is that Andrew was badly injured in the war. The medical report-oh, yes, I did a bit of snooping, once I’d caught on to what was going on-mentioned, as well as a badly shot-up leg, something the military doctors delicately termed ‘intestinal chaos.’ Careful chaps, those medics-they went in for euphemism of the most ingenious kind to avoid blotting a chap’s record forever more. You can read what you like into ‘intestinal chaos,’ but I think, as well as a probably quite appalling stomach wound, it means Andrew had some essential equipment damaged and was rendered unable to have children. Her uncle hinted as much to me, but I wasn’t quick enough to catch his meaning. Nancy desperately wanted a child. And what Nancy wanted, Andrew was going to ensure that she had, whatever the practical difficulties. Or the heartache.”

“Not the easiest thing to supply to order, I’d guess-in India. A child. You don’t find offspring in the Gamages catalogue, colonial edition. Wide choice of colour and size,” Lydia said thoughtfully.

“No indeed! And you know what India’s like! Worse than Wimbledon! Tight community, and the memsahibs have eagle eyes, suspicious minds and tongues like razors. Now, if a dark-haired policeman passing through the province on duty were to get close to the Collector’s wife-and they were discreet about their closeness-it might just go unremarked if, nine months later, she has a dark-haired child-because her husband also has those same dark looks. Careful girl, Nancy. I have to say. She made apparently innocent but-I realised later-precisely targeted enquiries into my pedigree. A Lowland Scots gentleman with a law degree from Edinburgh and a chestful of medals seemed to be entirely satisfactory for her purposes. But I’ll tell you, Lyd, if I’d spent my war years behind a desk or-even worse-had curly red hair, I wouldn’t have stood a chance with Nancy Drummond!”