Elisabeth Jones - Gold Beach

My mother looked at me in silence for a moment in which her lips trembled slightly. Finally she answered, lowering her head.

‘No. Your grandmother Barbara died shortly after my birth and your grandfather Robert died in Dunkirk. Being left an orphan, my aunt Jennifer took me in but some years later I decided to go and live far away from there. I'll explain why to you some other day. One morning I set off to Moffat with your father's brother, your uncle Michael, who lived near my friend Brenda. When I arrived here, your father offered me a job I couldn't turn down at that time.’

‘He fell in love with you the moment he saw you, didn't he?’ I asked her with a smile, trying to comfort her as I saw the sadness in her eyes.

‘It was very easy to love your father. We fell in love soon after we met.’

‘Why don't you have photographs of your wedding day?’

‘Those were different times, Philip. We got married at the church one afternoon accompanied by Michael and Geena, our witnesses. We didn't have a party or celebration, we simply got married, full stop.’

‘So every time you said you were going to visit the family and left me with Dad or Geena, it was to see your aunt Jennifer?’

‘Well, yes. I used to go to Birmingham, visit her, spend the night there and come back home the day after.’

That answer comforted me. For a moment I had thought those trips had been to see Elwyn, but soon I ruled out that stupid theory since that man, according to my mother's diary, had died years ago.

‘Why don't you visit her any more?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Because I don't want to leave you alone,’ she lied. ‘Now I phone her once a month to check on her and that saves me the journey. She understands.’

‘And does she live alone?’

‘Philip, I don't want to talk about her any more,’ she said with a steady voice.

Her reaction didn't surprise me as I recalled what I had read about Aunt Jennifer in her diary. I had made a mistake asking about her. The conversation was over. My mother lowered her head to her plate with her face burdened with sadness. I didn't dare to ask what day she got married to my father because I was certain that she would lie. Dates spoke for themselves. My mother must have arrived in Moffat pregnant.

‘Next Saturday, when we go walking by the river with Betty, you'll tell me some more things about my grandparents, alright?’ I said with a smile to loosen the tension I had created with my unfortunate enquiries.

My mother looked at me with moist eyes and a trembling smile. She stood up leaving her breakfast unfinished and started to wash up in silence. I finished my porridge reluctantly, left my bowl in the sink, cleaned up the table and asked her if she would mind me going out to walk Betty for a while. Without even looking at me she replied I could take as long as I wanted. I’m sure she didn't kiss me goodbye as usual because she didn't want me to see her crying.

I ran out of the house as if I could escape from the past that had lived with me hidden in the attic for all those years. My loyal guard followed my steps, paying attention to whatever I might need. She didn't even ask me to play with her as I did every Saturday. All she did was simply stand by my side and keep me company. We started to walk along the path in the opposite direction to the town. Even though I was walking slowly then, my heart kept beating as if the race were still going on. When I reached the clearing in the woods that I liked so much, I sat to catch my breath and put my thoughts in order. Two things were haunting me. The first, realising how much my mother must have suffered for the thought of taking her own life to have crossed her mind. The second, thinking of my father and what it must have meant to him raising another man's son. As I recalled his last words to me I understood that he loved her madly without caring about her past. Promise me you'll take care of your mother and you'll do what it takes to make her happy, no matter what . What did he mean by no matter what ? Was he trying to tell me that whatever I may find out I should try and make sure she was happy? Did he really know my mother's history? Could it be that he had read her diary? What must he have felt knowing that she loved another man? All that caused me distress but made me love the man I considered to be my father a thousand times more. The pillars on which my life had stood until then had collapsed. I was left with no option but to investigate to find out the truth and start building my new reality. Would I be able to read all of my mother’s secrets and keep them inside of me as if I had never discovered them? If that man had truly died in the war, the only thing left to do was to face the truth about who my father really was. I didn't know where to begin or where it would lead me, but the key was in that diary. I made my father's deathbed words to me my life’s mission. My mother deserved to be happy. I stood up decisively as if I was telling myself go ahead . Betty glanced at me and wagged her tail energetically as if saying count on me . I stroked her head and scratched behind her ears, I smiled and we set off on our way back.

As I arrived home, I saw that Geena had just parked at the gate. I ran to them to help Isobel out of the car. As soon as she saw me she adjusted her cardigan to cover her neck wounds. I opened the door and held out my hand to help her. She took my hand softly but then quickly squeezed as if she wanted to express her pain without words. I had never noticed the beauty of her eyes until then. My mother welcomed them into the house like they were family. I moved awkwardly along the corridors as if I was absent and disoriented. Half an hour later, Geena left for work at the pub. Saturday was just the day on which she worked full time. She kissed her daughter again and again as if she could ease her pain this way and left very reluctantly. After she had cleaned and dressed her wounds, my mother asked me to stay with Isobel and keep her company while she went shopping in town. The usual sadness of that day had come back to her, maybe caused by my unfortunate questioning this time. I complied without protest. My first intention was to make her some tea, turn the TV on and once she was comfortable, go up to the attic to read everything I could before my mother returned, but in the end I didn’t. Isobel's company gave me peace on that awful day. I settled her in the sofa and covered her up with a thin blanket my mother always kept handy to warm her legs. I settled down on the other end where my father used to sit to read. I switched on the table lamp, even though it was 10am, as the daylight scarcely came in through the window. The sky was completely overcast. Betty lay down on the carpet in front of us to keep us company.

‘You can guess what they'll call me on Monday at school when they hear what happened to me, right?’ she asked, shaking her head disapprovingly.

I looked at her, not knowing what to say. I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘I really don't know,’ I told her as I made myself comfortable on the sofa.

‘Gowdie. They'll call me Isobel Gowdie,’ she said as she twisted her lips.

‘And who's that?’ I asked confused.

Isobel gave me a surprise look. ‘And you were born in Scotland? Good heavens! Everybody knows the story of Isobel Gowdie!’ she said as she took off her shoes and put her legs up on the sofa. ‘No more than four years ago rumour had it that a British soldier had seen Isobel's ghost when he was camping in Auldearn. Don't you remember having heard it?’

‘Well, not really, no. How did she die?’

‘Burned at the stake,’ she whispered as if she didn't want to be heard.

‘Was she a witch?’ I asked curiously.

‘Oh, I'm not quite sure about that, but as the story goes it seems that she was a housewife accused of witchcraft. She was born in Auldearn, in the Highlands, where that soldier said he saw her ghost. She seemed to be an ordinary woman until she got accused, but then again, what can you do with a woman who says she has the ability to turn into any animal she chooses? According to what I've read, her confession made everyone's hair stand on end. And as she told everything so exactly and in detail, even though she didn't look or act as if she really was a witch, she ended up being sentenced to die at the stake. Nobody would have let her live after what she had told them. Now historians say that possibly she was mentally ill and she made up her confession to avoid the flames, but you know, madness kills you in the end one way or another.’