THE SON OF BOMALLY

 

                                                             Chapter Two

                                                       An eye for an eye

 

As the years went by and the business grew, from time to time the Bomally’s considered a new house.  Gone was the time when cost was the problem, but something always held them back.  That something was Gerald’s promise to Megan that one day they would love the old house, and they could never bring themselves to leave it. Besides, it was considerably larger now following the building of a new wing, and almost constant renovation.  Included in these changes was a small suite on the second floor which had become Mrs Simpson’s home.

          The old house was a family home in every sense, a haven, a mix of activity and tranquillity.  It had seen many comings and goings in its time, and this was to be a time of plenty in its chequered existence. 

          Considerable entertaining was done and important visitors were 'encouraged' to stay.  They were always offered the choice between a good hotel in Oxford, or the benefits of Mrs Simpson's home cooking.  Few of them chose the hotel.  For Mrs Simpson, special guests were always a joy; her years in the wilderness were long behind her. Here in the old house, and especially in the kitchen she was in her own element, far from the ugliness she had known through all her early years. Normally of course she would work on her own, but at these special times she was able to take on the extra help she needed. It was her domain and she ruled the kitchen with a firm but kindly hand.

          The years with the Bomally's had transformed her from the rather awkward woman she had been, lacking any sense of self esteem, into a much more confidant person,  with a feeling that she 'belonged'.  Now she had a role in life and was respected.  She was a happy woman at last, and seldom thought of the difficult times behind her. When she did, it was without stress or tears she had known in the past.

          But life has a way of catching people out, for her as for anyone else; and, when it is least expected. She was not prepared therefore when one evening Megan tapped on the door of her flat. Mrs Simpson was sitting quietly watching the television, and was surprised to hear the sound of a visitor; even more when she saw who it was.

          "Come in." she said at once "This is a surprise, please sit down Megan."

          "I hope it will be a pleasant one, but I am not sure if it will be."

          "Oh' not bad news I hope?" asked Mrs Simpson,  immediately  thinking of Megan's health.

          "No it's nothing to do with me, its about you ... I've got a letter you see."

          Her voice was still musical though not quite so youthful, but this time it carried a note of concern.  She was worried and yet she did not know quite why.

          "What kind of a letter?"  asked Mrs Simpson. Living as she did in the protection of the Bomally's, she had no household correspondence, and none from family or friends, so a letter was a very rare thing. "I wonder who it can be from?" she said as Megan passed it to her.

          "It was addressed to me you see; so of course I opened it."  she said almost apologetically.

          Mrs Simpson’s education had been rather basic, modest at best, but over the years her enthusiasm for reading had made up for much that she had missed in her school-days, and broadened her awareness.  So reading the letter was not a problem, except for the small writing.  All she needed now were her glasses, which she picked up from a little table between the two easy chairs.

          “Thank goodness for these.” she said to the smiling Megan, as she slid them over her ears, and then reached to take the letter that was being offered.

          She read slowly at first then she looked up at Megan, before she read it again.

          It was quite a short letter, but one which was difficult to take in at first, let alone comprehend.

                  

                   Dear Mrs bomally            

                   It has come to my knowledge

                   that you have a Mrs Simpson

                   in service with you.

                   I have been trying to trace

                   a Mrs Simpson for a number

                   of years and I think that ‘your’

                   Mrs Simpson may be the lady

                   I am looking for.

                   Would you allow me to visit

                   you, and perhaps you will

                   mention my enquiry to Mrs

                   Simpson, and that she will

                   allow me to speak with her.

                   Yours sincerely,

                   Mrs Jennifer Tyler

 

A long pause followed and finally Megan spoke up. "Is everything alright Mrs Simpson, you look a little pale?"

          Mrs Simpson looked up. "I don't know, I feel a little uneasy.  I don't know what to make of it.  I don't know anyone called Tyler, or Jennifer for that matter."

          "What do you want me to do then; do you want me to answer it?”

          "Will you be here if she calls?", a sudden feeling of uncertainty overcoming the older lady.

          "Yes, if you want me to be."

          So it was agreed she would answer the letter, and in due course there was a reply, which Mrs Bomally brought to the kitchen as soon as it arrived.

          "She's coming tomorrow,” Megan announced, “it's quite exciting isn't it?"

          "Who's coming tomorrow?"

          "Why, Mrs Tyler of course, have you forgotten?"

          Mrs Simpson hadn't forgotten, but she had pushed it to the back of her mind, hoping that perhaps her mystery correspondent had.  She didn't like mysteries, especially ones that came up unexpectedly.  Secretly, she had hoped that this Mrs Tyler would change her mind and not bother her.

          "You said that you would be here; you will be here won't you?"

          "Of course I will; don't worry" Megan answered, surprised at the look of apprehension, even fear on the face of her helper and friend.

          Megan left the kitchen, and Mrs Simpson immediately got out the flour and the scales and prepared to make some bread.

          In due course ‘tomorrow’ arrived and Mrs Simpson hadn't slept at all. She would loved to have laid on a little longer with her head under the covers like an Ostrich.  But it was not her way.  She had duties to perform, not least the Bomally's breakfasts, and only illness ‑ and pretty serious it would have to be ‑ would keep her from doing her duty.  Just the same, given half a chance she would been down the road, and left them too it.

          "Good morning Mrs Simpson, the Bomally's greeted her, almost together, almost in harmony.

          "Mornin' Megan;  mornin' Gerald"

          "Are you excited?" asked Megan, smiling.

          "To tell you the truth I'm worried to death.”

          "But why Mrs Simpson, its only a visitor?"

          "Yes but who?" she paused  “what if it's one of the tax people, come to ask a lot of questions, or rakin stuff up from the past?"

          "Well she won't be here until two o’clock, so you will have plenty of time to get yourself settled, and don't forget, I'll be with you."

          Mrs Simpson thought that all the clocks in the house had stopped, for none of them seemed to be moving.  She busied herself around the house doing whatever she could; a bit of dust off here; or a polish there, much of the time doings things that didn't need doing at all.  In spite of that, the morning seemed to take all day, and by lunch time she was a bag of nerves.  Lunch was usually a quiet affair, and quite often Megan would take a little snack in the kitchen, sometimes joined by Megan and the two ladies would enjoy a little private chat.  Over the years the difference in their station had come to mean nothing, and each regarded the other as a friend.  Megan was of course curious as to the nature of Mrs Simpson expected visitor, but she was equally concerned at the way it was upsetting her, so she kept the conversation as light and as varied as possible, trying to keep her mind off it.

          At ten minutes to two Megan looked at the clock.

          "I think I'll just nip upstairs, make myself comfortable before ‑ you know.  Might be a good idea if you do the same."

          At precisely two o'clock the bell rang, as though the caller had been standing outside the front door, counting off the seconds.  It was not one of Mrs Simpson's duties to open the door to visitors, though she sometimes did.  This time however Megan made sure she was nearest, and opened it herself.

          There stood a smartly dressed lady, with a plain, but not unattractive face, and a pleasant expression.  A lady in her late thirties perhaps.  No, not beautiful in the classical sense, but with a quality in her features, that gave her a certain elegance. 

          Megan was a little puzzled for there was something familiar in the face,  almost as though they had met. "Mrs Tyler is it?" she asked in that musical voice that was hers alone.

          "Yes, I'm Mrs Tyler; you must be Mrs Bomally?”

          A smile and a little nod told her that it was indeed so.

          "It's so good of you to see me out of the blue; is Mrs Simpson expecting me?"

          "Yes she is; she is waiting for you in the lounge.”

          "Oh' I'm so pleased, may I see her?"

          "Just before you do ... " Megan spoke quietly  "Mrs Simpson has been very agitated about your visit, not knowing who you are or why you want to see her.  She has asked me to join you both to start with, but as soon as she wishes I will of course leave you to talk in private.  Is that alright with you?"

          "Yes that's fine; I am sorry to hear that my visit has upset her, I will try to reassure her."

          Mrs Simpson usually went about her day to day routine dressed fairly soberly, even to the extent of an apron when in the kitchen, but somehow today, she had felt the need to put on her Sunday best.  She smiled nervously when Megan came into the room, followed by this fair haired young lady. 

          "Mrs Tyler to see you Mrs Simpson." and Mrs Tyler put out her hand.

          "So good of you to see me Mrs Simpson at such short notice, and I'm sorry if you have been concerned about my visit."

          Mrs Simpson looked at Megan, wondering what else she might have said, and in return got a brief smile and a silent but quite clear "It's alright. Please sit down Mrs Tyler."

          The three ladies were all seated, quietly waiting for something to happen, nervously waiting to see who would be the first to speak.  Whether it was nerves or by accident who knows, but it was Mrs Simpson who broke the ice.

          "How can I help you Mrs Tyler?"

          "Now it was Mrs Tyler's turn to be tongue‑tied.

          "I've rehearsed this so many times," she said at last, with a half suppressed laugh, “but now I can't say it."

          "Is it bad news?"  asked Megan, not wishing to interfere, but trying to get things started.

          Mrs Tyler looked directly at Mrs Simpson and took a deep breath.

          "I think you might be my mother." No sooner had she said the words than she burst into tears.

          Mrs Simpson sat motionless, unable to speak, unable almost to think. How long ago?.  How old is she? she couldn't think straight, and didn't know what to say. Here is a perfect stranger saying that she is my daughter. 

          "Why would you want to say that?" she spoke at last, the words barely audible, more to herself than to her visitor.

          Mrs Tyler had recovered her composure a little, and was dabbing her eyes.

          "I'm sorry, I didn't expect to do that." she said, still looking at Mrs Simpson  "I've had so many disappointments over the years, that I've nearly got immune to it, but when I looked at your face; into your eyes I knew... "  and once again the tears started to flow.

          Megan knew too.  She had seen it when she opened the door, but hadn't realised what it was that she saw, but now she knew.  In spite of her comparatively slim elegance, in Mrs Tyler she could see quite clearly the Mrs Simpson she had first known, over twenty years earlier. 

          Mrs Tyler could see it, but could Mrs Simpson?. apart from that softly worded question a few moments ago, she had not spoken.

          Megan, anxious that the moment would not be lost, spoke up again.

          "How did you find us here?"

          Mrs Tyler closed her eyes, and waited a while before she started.  Then she spoke of countless searches; cold trails and dead ends. Hopes raised and then dashed.

          "In the end It was a huge piece of luck that lead me here."

          Returning to her tale she told of going with her daughter Gwen to secure a place at one of the colleges at the university in Oxford, and by chance had talked to an administrator who mistakenly thought he knew her because of her appearance. She was, he had said, the double of Molly Brown, a cleaner many years back.  On hearing this she asked the man for more details, for one of the few things she had managed to discover, was that she had been born to a young girl called Molly Brown.  But the administrator told her that 'out of the blue' Molly Brown  had upped and married a chap called Simpson, and then she disappeared. 

          Mrs Tyler asked where she came from but the administrator said he wasn't allowed to look at the records and give that information. but he did say he remembered the name of a village.

           “Crompton I think, somewhere near Oxford.” he had recalled. “I'd never heard of it, but it was something to go on.”  Mrs Tyler smiled nervously; first at Mrs Simpson, then briefly at Megan. 

          “When I asked this man how he remembered her so well, he said that there had been something about Molly Brown that everyone remembered.  He had never seen a person change so much.  In a short time she changed from a dowdy frumpy stumbling backward girl, into a slimmer, better dressed, and altogether entertaining young woman”.

          Mrs Tyler kept her gaze Mrs Simpson.  “That’s just what he said.” She murmured,  a little embarrassed at being so blunt, but then her face lightened again.  “and quite pretty too.” he told me. 

          I asked him why, and he said, “All for love. She met this chap who also worked at the university, an electrician or something.  He seems to have swept her off her feet, and somehow she had transformed herself for him; they had a whirlwind romance, and got married.”  He thought a moment. "Bill Simpson!" he had said, "Yes, that was his name, but suddenly they were gone and I never saw or heard of either of them again."

          Mrs Tyler stopped as if to catch her thoughts. When Megan heard this story she started to doubt that it could be true. 'Not my Mrs Simpson' she told herself, 'it must be someone else; it must have been another Mrs Simpson'.  She could hardly believe that her Mrs Simpson could be that lively young woman caught up in a whirlwind, and presumably passionate, romance.  So different from the woman sitting in front of her.

          But when Mrs Simpson heard what her visitor was saying, a little smile broke through her worried expression.  For she was remembering that time long ago when, for a year or two, she had indeed been'that other' Mrs Simpson, and in that time Mr Simpson had been her prince charming.  Then her smile disappeared when she recalled how quickly she had left her. No sooner had he come into her life, than he was gone.

          Mrs Tyler had resumed her story.  "Since that day I've been chasing all the Simpson's I could find, and when I discovered Crompton; your village, and found that a Mrs Brown had lived here with her daughter Molly I felt sure my search was over; and...  well... here I am." 

          They sat and listened as Mrs Tyler continued her story.

          “I was about ten when I discovered that I had been adopted as a baby. My parents ‑ at least the people I thought had been my parents ‑ said they thought I should know; thought it was only fair, but I think it was the worst thing they ever did.  I know they thought it was for the best, and they probably thought about it for ages before they told me, but I wish they hadn't.  I have never been the same since, and nothing seemed important any more except finding my true parents." 

          Megan lifted her head as though to speak, but Mrs Tyler didn't seem to notice almost as though she was in a dream. "It's was a shame too for my adoptive parents. They had brought me up well and did their best for me."

          She stopped again and the two older ladies could see that her eyes were wet. "I'm sure they loved me, but by telling me about ‘Molly’ they lost me, and in all these years since then I've been a kind of no man's land.  I had lost the people who I had loved, who I had grown up with, but there was no one to take their place.“

          Still looking directly at Mrs Simpson she said,        “In all those years all I could think of was you; but I didn't know who you were, or where you were.”

          Mrs Tyler seemed to be out of breath, such was her emotion, but she managed to continue.  “The worst thing was that though I knew my name, I didn't know who I was.  I started writing and phoning all the adoption societies and agency's, and the Salvation Army and anyone I heard of who I thought might help.  Here and there I picked up little snippets and gradually I became aware that my mother was only fourteen, and that she was called Brown.  But I was never able to find anything about my father.  I guessed he might have been a schoolboy whose name was never known, or never disclosed, and after a while I gave up thinking about him. But I never stopped thinking about my mother.”

          She stopped again, and took a deep breath. “Then after years of disappointments I had that breakthrough. I had been married twenty years by then with a daughter coming on eighteen.  If she hadn't tried for that particular college, and if the man I met had not been on duty; and if he had recognised me...  I can't bear to think."

          She laughed softly as she remembered. "He said he thought he'd seen a ghost, because I was so alike that girl he once knew."

          All the time she had been talking she never took her eyes of Mrs Simpson. "That was you," she said simply,  "you were that Molly Brown, and I am you daughter."

          She smiled at Mrs Simpson with a smile of hope. "Whatever you say now, even if you feel you can’t accept me, I know that my search is over; that I have found you.. “

          She seemed to have finished, but she had one last thing to say. “Don't you feel that you would like to find your daughter?"

          As she asked that question she reached out her hand, certain that the moment she had dreamed of for so long was here. But she knew that whatever her response her search was over. If this lady could not share her joy and take her hand, she would look no further.

          Mrs Simpson had been listening with a mixture of  shock and disbelief. All her life she had believed that she would never seen her daughter again.  Never at any time had she ever been given the slightest hope that she might, so she had put the thought beyond reach.  It was the only way she could live with it, so as the memory of her little baby faded away, any thought of what her daughter might become had faded with it. 

          But the memory had never quite died.  And now her little girl; her baby; had been brought back to life.  She didn't know how to cope. She didn't even know if she dared to believe that such a thing could happen.  She did not know whether she dare open up her heart to this woman;  a stranger. who said she was her daughter.  Could she love her?

          She caught Megan's eyes; saw the tears on her face, and something in her moved. She reached forward and took the hand that had been patiently waiting.  In a moment they were both on their feet and in each others arms, both crying uncontrollably.

          Megan, herself in tears silently left the room.  She had known, and witnessed raw emotions that touched the very heart of life.  Birth and death. All those years of repressed grieving for a lost baby had been released; and she left mother and child reunited in their tears.  It was as though the darkness of death had been vanquished by the bright light of birth.

          Megan was not immune from the power of these emotions, and of course she hoped that for Mrs Simpson and her daughter it would be the start of a new life for them both, and not just the end of the search. 

          But she had another reason for feeling so drained by the experience. During the last week or so she had become aware of a certain discomfort, and feared it was the return of her cancer.

          She could not but feel a sense of cruelty at natures way.  That somehow a balance must be maintained, that for every dawn there must be a sunset, for every new life, one must go. A price to pay.

          “Must I pay the price for Mrs Simpson's joy?” she asked herself.

          Megan pushed the thought aside, determined not to let anything spoil the moment, and to reflect on her own good fortune, for she knew that there was much to be grateful for, and one of those things was the fast approaching Silver anniversary of her wedding.

          “It’s got to be something special.”  Gerald had said, “Everyone will be expecting a big do, you know. And another thing,”  he said without pausing, as they worked through the provisional invitation list.

          Megan looked up enquiringly, her face, while not quite as pretty as it once was, and showing some signs of ageing and worry about her health, was just as bright, as was her smile.

          “Another thing?” she enquired, inviting Gerald to complete whatever ‘another thing’ was.         

          He took her hand.  “Will you marry me ... again?”  he asked, but cautiously, perhaps fearing rejection, the same caution he remembered when he had asked that question the first time.  “What better time to re-affirm our vows but on our silver wedding.”

          “What a lovely idea,” she answered in acceptance,  “and what I would love is a quiet intimate service at our old church.”

          After much discussion a compromise was agreed.  A big do in Oxford for the formal side of things, but for family and friends, the chapel at Dalimar.

          Their last visit to the chapel had been when Richard was baptised, not long after they were married, so a visit was long overdue.  Megan’s Parents were both gone now, and after Gerald’s father died, his mother had moved to Liverpool, so there was no longer any family left to visit, and as plans to return for a holiday had never materialised,   they had become estranged from their former home. This was going to be a very special occasion.

          When it came, the service, and all the other jubilee celebrations were all that they had hoped for, but most of the organising had fallen on Megan’s shoulders, and the strain was showing.

          Only two months after the big day Megan went to see her doctor, who sent her for some tests.  A week after that he called her to see him, and gave her the news she already knew. Her cancer had returned.

          “But you beat it last time, so there is no reason why you can’t do it again.”  the doctor said brightly, reassuring; his eternal optimism shining through.

          Megan smiled and thanked him, but did not share his confidence.

          She died too young to enjoy the twilight years with her husband, a prize which she had truly earned.  Too young to see the fulfilment of her dreams; that her sons should be happily settled with their families.  Too young to see her grandchildren; and to share the celebrity and honour which her husband had brought to them all.  To soon for her to tell her husband as many times as she would have wished, how much she loved him.

          It took only six weeks from that visit to her doctor to the funeral.  Her life was over, as was the bright light in Gerald's eyes, which, he had always known, was nothing more than a reflection of his wife's glow, now forever extinguished.