THE SON OF BOMALLY

 

                                                             Chapter Four   

                                                            Of other times

 

Mrs Simpson could often be heard talking to herself, even if sometimes it was little more than a barely audible mutter.  Sometimes, as now, it was just possible to hear that she was counting; not consciously perhaps, it was just something she did.

          "That'll be five." she said,  telling herself as she lifted a tray of bread cakes out of the oven.  She reached up to pull a cooling tray from the high shelf, then carefully transferred the steaming cakes onto it.

          "Six."

          Each task was divided into different actions, and each had a number.  She lived her life by numbers, though  not overtly. It was something she kept to herself, and most of the time she wasn't aware that she was doing it. It was a device that she had allowed to grow, it helped her to stay on top of things, especially at the busy times, or if things got a bit stressful.

          Things were a bit stressful now, but she tried to put it out of her mind.

          Numbers were just one aspect of her way of doing things.  One of the rules. 

          'There must be rules', she would tell herself, 'or otherwise where would we be'? Self imposed they mostly were, but she stuck to them, and got things done.   And if ever she found herself in a new situation where the rules had not yet been set, she would simply make the best of it, and establish the rule for the next time. 

          It was a very orderly way of life and she was fairly content with her ways.  She always knew where she was, and seldom was she caught out by something unexpected.         This morning task was bread; a favourite task, and one that she always turned to when things got a bit fraught.

           Even as a child she had liked making bread.  She used to watch her mother, and then try it herself.  She loved the feel of the dough, thick and stretchy, sticky and warm.  And the smell. She could  think of nothing she liked better than the smell of newly baked bread just out of the oven.  Mrs Simpson had always enjoyed a special feeling about bread, a therapeutic feeling.  No it was not just bread itself, if asked she would tell you, it was about the making of bread: something akin to new life, birth and hope for tomorrow. That was why she always made bread if she was upset.

          Today she was upset; more than usual these days.  In fact she had been very unhappy at the way things were going for months, but what could she do about it?

          'Nothing!' she heard herself answering her own thoughts 'Nothing at all!'

          The bread done and in the oven, she was now at the big fridge and had pulled out a joint of beef,  banged it down on the work top, and was preparing it to go into the oven in readiness for dinner later that night.

          "One." she breathed as she reached for the big basting dish.

          "Two." as it went in, followed by a liberal lump of best beef dripping from the local butcher.

          "That bitch."  The words, formed in her mind and finally finding expression, allowing the reason for her discontent to come to the fore. "Hardly out of her nappy and talking to me like that."

          "Three." the meat was in the oven, and the heavy door closed with a bang.  "And he never said a word to her."

          She leaned heavily against the big table, covered as it was with bowls and bottles, and all manner of kitchen paraphernalia, but the solid table hardly quivered. "What's it coming too?"

          But the question remained unanswered as memories invaded her.  A few happy ones, but because she was upset, it was the unhappy ones that came into her mind.

          It had bad enough five years back when Gerald had told her that Megan was ill.  She thought that she would never have to live through a worse time than that. 

          "Megan has been diagnosed with cancer, and will have to have a spell in hospital." Gerald had told her. "The sooner they start the treatment the more effective it will be." he added, before leaving the kitchen.

          He had usually stayed a while chatting about this and that, but this time he didn't stay, but he stopped at the door. "It's going to be pretty tough for her." then he was gone.

          She remembered that day as if it were yesterday.  That had been a difficult time for everyone, as well as Megan.  And the following eighteen months of treatment, of suffering and sickness.  And the tears. 

          But in the end recovery and hope.

          Then last year when Megan told her it was back.  It was without doubt the worst time since she had come to the old house, to watch helplessly as her dear friend died before her eyes.  Six weeks, that was all she got.  Six weeks between that quiet confidential chat when Megan had revealed her dreadful secret.  Six weeks to that cold cold day when she was laid to rest.

          Times like these made her think back.  Nearly twenty six years she had been with the Bomally's.  'Can it really be? Twenty six years? Still,  most of them had been happy, and in that time they had become more than friends.  Indefinable somehow.  Gerald would often tell her she was one of the family, and it usually seemed like it, and she had come to realise, that even though she was never quite 'one of them', it was never-the-less a comfortable relationship.

          In time a homely closeness had developed between Mrs Simpson and Megan, and she would often visit her in the kitchen and they would chat about this and that.

          Gradually she had been able to tell Megan something about the hard times she had endured as a girl, but not about the baby and that she had been married.  That was so deep in her sub-conscious,  and would have remained so if the child had not miraculously came back into her life in the shape of Jennifer Tyler.  She had of course been quiet  about her time at the university, how she had smartened herself up a bit, and became Mrs Simpson.  It was not like keeping a secret, for in truth both episodes had been pushed so far to the back of her mind she had literally forgotten about them. They were simply other unhappy episodes to add to the list of things in her unhappy young life which she preferred to keep to herself.  For Mr Simpson had left her.  He was a widow; much older than herself, and he had told her that he didn't expect to experience love again.   She remembered that he reminded her of her lost father, and for him she tried to became as desirable as a woman; just as her father had found her desirable, when she was a child. 

          Mr Simpson, no doubt flattered by such attention was swept away, and soon they were married.  But not long  after Mr Simpson had told her it could not last. 'Told me I was a simple empty dreamer, unaware of the realities of life, and unable to face its harshness'.

          Soon he was gone and Mrs Simpson remembered the feeling of emptiness when she returned to her mother, and to the anonymity of small village life .  But she remained Mrs Simpson; as far as she was concerned, Molly Brown had gone forever.

          The Bomally's had been good to her and she was grateful. She had often wondered, just as now,  what would have happened to her if they hadn't come along when they did.  She had withdrawn into her own little world, feeling unloved and unwanted. All her friends had deserted her, and her mother didn't seem to love her.  Perhaps her mother blamed Molly for what had happened.- blamed her for the loss of her husband.

          'At least my father loved me' she thought, but as always, she was puzzled at the way he had shown his love, and even more, why he left home and never come back to see her.

          'I'd 'ave been fourteen or so then'  a little smile appeared briefly, thinking of the day her baby was born. 'My how the years do go by; forty years; can you believe it? 

          Her smile changed to something else, as it always did when she thought about that time.  The baby; the shame; then her father leaving home suddenly; and then the worst of all when the baby was taken away.

          Even now she could feel the anger, the trauma, and the unfairness. To have suffered all that abuse and shame, the jeers and sly remarks from neighbours ‑ even from those who said they were friends ‑ and then at the end of it all to be left with nothing.

          Then she remembered that day when Mr Buist the builder called in to her mothers house.

          "Hi Fanny," he had said to her mother  "Is your lass about; might have something for her."

          Indeed he had, for he had recommended her for a job, "just helping out you know," for the new people at the old house.

          Just helping out was all she could do nowadays; she had been so long doing nothing that she seemed to have forgotten how.

          Her mother had insisted that she went because Mr Buist had said she would be all right there, and she trusted him.  Molly was less certain however; she couldn't remember the last time she had felt 'all right'.  Now she found it hard to trust anyone; even old Mr Buist who had always been kind to her.  He been a friend of her parents for years, and when her husband suddenly went away, he had remained a friend to Fanny and to her sad and melancholy daughter.

          As the hazy picture in her mind faded a little, Mrs Simpson was still leaning against the kitchen table.  The day dreaming had made her a little dizzy, and she felt the need to sit and pulled a chair to her.

          But still she was dwelling on the past, and she brightened up a little when she thought of her first meeting with the Bomally's.

           Mr Buist was there waiting with them when she arrived to be interviewed, and to introduce her.

          "I hope you don't mind Mrs Simpson," he said,  "but I thought my being here might help you, knowing you're a bit on the quiet side."

          She was surprised because he had never called her Mrs Simpson before, always Molly. Apart from her mother he was the only other person to do so. But she was glad.  She had been uncertain what to call herself, so now the decision had been made for her. 

          But the truth was that she had made the decision herself those years ago,  when she came back from Oxford and announced that she was now Mrs Simpson.  She never tried to explain to her mother how it had come about, and in truth her mother didn’t seem to be interested.  Never once did she ask what had happened to Mr Simpson, but it was accepted, and, apart from her mother and old Mr Buist, she had been Mrs Simpson to everyone ever since.

          A clock struck somewhere, and suddenly the vision was gone, and she was back in the kitchen, and back to today.  Her little daydream had changed nothing, and that little bitch in the drawing room still had to be dealt with.

          In a trice her feeling of repose turned once again to anger.

          In all these years Mrs Simpson's duties had never been regularised, never defined. She simply did what was needed, or what she was asked.  Neither, as far as she could remember had she been told what to call the Bomally's, but somehow over time a 'rule' had emerged.  Fairy informal it was, but everyone was happy with it.  When they were on their own it would be Gerald or Megan, but if there was 'cumpny', she would address them by their surname.

          She in turn, and by her own choice was Mrs Simpson.  Never Molly.

          Earlier that day she had gone into the lounge where she had found Gerald working on some plans at a table by the window.

          "I see you have finished your coffee Gerald,"  she had said as she reached forward to pick up the empty cup  "would you like a refill?"

          "Sir Gerald if you don't mind,"  a shrill voice from behind made her jump  "and if that's too much trouble for you, Mr Bomally might do."

          Mrs Simpson spun round to find herself facing Gerald's new girl friend, the latest in a string of blonde beauties.  She was shocked, and very cross.

          "I beg your pardon Miss, I didn't realise you were there, I..."

          But she was unable to continue because the young lady prolonged her attack.

          "It's the Honourable if you please when you speak to me."  her voice a little more excited now, the plum slightly more pronounced.  "Really Gerald, why do you let your help speak to you as though she owns the place?"

          This time Mrs Simpson turned to face Gerald, expecting him to come to her aid.  But if he felt uncomfortable about the outburst it didn't show, and his support, such as it was, did little to help.

          "Not just now thank you Mrs Simpson." and then very quietly, face to face "I'll have a little word with her."

          She turned to leave, but as she left the room she heard The Honourable start again.  "Really Gerald, why do you let her get away with it?"  Mrs Simpson paused for a moment to listen to his reply, but heard nothing from him before her next outburst. "She'll have to go you know."

          By the time she got back to the kitchen she was shaking.  She had never been treated so rudely before;  never like a servant.  It had always been the Bomally's proud boast that Mrs Simpson was like 'one of the family', and for most of the time that is how she had felt.

          She tried to make herself a cup of tea but her hands were shaking, so she just sat down. 'It was better when Megan was alive.'  she was thinking, still angry, but too cross to cry.  Not that she was the crying kind;  she'd seen it all and suffered too much in the past for all that. 

          "Bet she wouldn't have stood for it." She'd said the words out loud before she realised how daft they sounded. "Cos if she were here; then madam," ‑ pushing her nose up with her forefinger ‑ "wouldn't be."

          It cheered her a little, but she couldn't help the thought  'One of the family ? ‑ not any more'.

          With a determined look on her face she got up, and took out the large mixing bowl from the cupboard, and soon she was busy with the bread, and as usual it wove its therapeutic spell on her, her anger slowly evaporating.

          Mrs Simpson was feeling better now, and once again she was thinking of those days seemed so long ago when she first came to the old house. 

          It had been established in those early years that she would help as much as possible with the children.  “Yes!  it was better when Megan was with us, when the children were little.” her thoughts softly spoken  “Poor lass, she was never quite herself after the birth of David”  and she remembered how Megan had become more and more dependent on her. 

          Then there was the day when Gerald had asked her if she would consider moving in to the old house, to use one of the guest rooms as her home.  She pondered for a while knowing that it meant that her mother would be on her own, for despite her isolation she still felt a sense of duty toward her, but finally took the plunge.  They hardly ever spoke anyway, and there seemed to be nothing to keep her from leaving.  So she said yes and had been there ever since, as one of the family !!

          "How things have changed,"  she whispered ruefully  "I wonder what my Ma' would think?"

          Only at extreme times did she think of her mother, and never with particular affection, so she was a little surprised to be thinking of her now.  Not once since she left home that day all those years ago had she felt the need, or the desire, to visit her old home or her mother, nor had her mother ever visited her here, at the old house. 

          But the tears she had not allowed over 'madam',  were not to be completely denied.  Though she tried, she could never think of her mother without remembering the hurt and anguish she had felt at the loss of her little daughter so long ago, and even now she felt the cruelty of it.  She new of course that fate had been kind in the end, for after such a long time they had been reunited, but at the time when they took her child away no one ever realised the extent of her loss, for not only had she lost her baby, she had lost her mother and father as well.

          "So who is there to visit?" she asked herself as the first drop fell.

 

Who could have known that this might be the calm before the storm, and might Gerald have been justified in wondering what was around the corner.  Certainly all was calm in the old house, and there  was a feeling of contentment the like of which he had almost forgotten.  Even the feeling of guilt which would engulf him from time to time had largely gone.  Perhaps Megan had heard his call for forgiveness of his infidelity, when, in the dead of night he had sought her understanding.  Perhaps in some mysterious way that he had yet to discover, she had reached him and soothed the pangs.

          The Honourable one was long gone, after it was discovered that she had sacked the gardener without telling, let alone asking, anyone.  He had apparently had the temerity to compliment her (perhaps too graphically) on her appearance.  Also Gerald had gone out of his way to heal the rift between himself and Mrs Simpson, apologising profusely for not standing to 'her' sooner, and assuring her of his great affection, and his belief that she truly was 'one of the family'.

          Since Jane there had been half a dozen young ladies, all meeting Gerald’s criteria.  One of them had been ‘The Honourable’, but she had been replaced by another long legged and busty beauty, who had in turn seen her ambitions of 'ladyship' come to nothing. The present incumbent, Lydia Sykes-Thompson, was a tall slim model of a girl, short haired for a change, but still blonde.  Lydia Sykes-Thompson; though her name might not suggest it, was a down to earth easy going friendly girl, and by half a dozen years the oldest of Richards earlier ‘introductions’.

          But Lydia was different in another way, for she was not one of Richards girls.

          Gerald had, for the first time plucked up courage to approach a girl of his own choice, and a few dates had led to a strengthening relationship.  She was the daughter of a senior boardroom colleague who he had known since she was a little girl. While Megan was alive she had remained a little girl, but they had met by chance at a charity do, and suddenly, seeing his strange new world through newly opened eyes, he was surprised to see that she was far from being a little girl any more.

          By now Gerald had reached a point where he was sated with glamour and thrusting loveliness.  He needed someone a little less fragile, a little less dynamic, and yes - reluctantly he recognised it - a little more like Megan.  Lydia was that someone, and Gerald began to feel something for her that he had not felt for the others.  He was falling in love.

          Richard had continued his regular visits, and was now greeted by all, even Mrs Simpson, as a welcome and important member of the family.  Mrs Simpson's conversion had taken some time to come to fruition.  It had been hard for her to hide her dislike of the Bomally’s first born, a dislike that she had felt almost from the beginning.  But recently, such was his unfailingly impeccable good behaviour, that even she had succumbed.  She never really knew what it was about him that bothered her so, or why she never felt at ease with him. It had always been more than simply bad behaviour, but she was at a loss to define it.  Nevertheless she had to admit that at the moment he was a perfect son and brother.

          But it became a critical time for Richard.  He could see which way things were going, and the last thing he wanted was a sudden wedding.  He must be seen to support his father, if only to slow him down; to stop him doing something rash that would spoil his plans.

          David too seemed to be content, happy that his father seemed to have overcome his grief over the loss of  his wife, and had started to break out; to live a little.  Even though the extent to which he had 'broken out', had somewhat surprised him.  Never-the-less he was glad to see signs that he might be settling down.

          He put it down to over reaction.  But his father's ‘coming to terms’ had helped him as well, for he too had felt free to look beyond the family, and had himself found a regular girl friend, of whom he was very fond;  the kind of girl he had long been looking for.

          She was Maxine, an effervescent young lady, lively and bright, tall and slim, with long dark hair and wide dark eyes.  She was from the office of a law firm who looked after some of his fathers legal business, who he had met once or twice when she had called on him on some matter of importance.  Then they met at a retirement party, when they drifted together in a way that sometimes happens at parties, but such was their attraction to each other, that neither of them drifted away.  

          Soon Maxine was a regular visitor, and as she only a few years younger than Lydia, and in no way rivals, they soon became friends.

          Richard had by now become a weekend fixture, so Maxine got to know him as well, but not quite to like him.  Her feelings about him were mixed, recognising his talent for she had heard about his eminence in the theatre, and aware of his strong personality.  But his strange physical appearance, his unflattering features and his red hair made him seem almost surreal at times.  For all that he could be charming, and when it suited him, fun to be with, and Maxine, to please David had tried hard to like him.

          A few more weeks had passed, and they were now used to each other, when Richard chanced upon Maxine sitting on her own in the lounge, casually reading a magazine.

          This was one of his good days, or perhaps one of those days when he was contemplating another dark act.  With Richard one could not tell, for often they meant the same thing.

          “Hi Maxine,” he said, as he sat on the arm of the settee, “where is everyone?”

          “Hello yourself.” she responded smiling.  Richard was surrounded by beautiful girls all the time, but he had to concede that Maxine really was very attractive, and he couldn’t resist the thought of a little added twist to his plot.  “If only father could be persuaded to steel the girlfriends from both of his son’s.”  He smiled at the idea but decided to put the mischievous thought away for now.  ‘Another time maybe’ he mused, and his attention returned to Maxine.

          She was smiling at him.  “Lydia has a bit of a headache and she went to lie down.  I don’t know where your father is - I thought he was with you! - and David had to go to his study. A few letters to write, he told me.”

          “Then he’s a fool.” Richard answered, looking directly into Maxine’s eyes, “If I had someone waiting for me; someone as pretty as you, I wouldn’t be upstairs writing letters.  Who knows, someone might steel her away.”

          “Maybe someone might not mind too much.” she replied cheekily, her face once more breaking out into the most dazzling smile.

          He bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips, and as he did so he felt her hand rest on his leg just above his knee.  The kiss, at first of a brotherly nature lingered and deepened, as did the touch of her hand, firmer now, and slightly higher.

          He withdrew slightly so he could see her face again.  She was still smiling.  He bent down once more until their lips met again, and allowed himself to slide from the arm of the settee until he was by her side.  Then he put his hand on the back of her head, his fingers through her hair as he pulled her to him and the kiss, flirtatious at its birth but now  one of instant passion.  With only the minimum of delay his other hand had found her breast which it was gently squeezing.  His slide from the arm had caused Maxine’s hand to move up Richard’s thigh, and with the now urgent message of his tongue on hers.  Richards hand had found its way under her blouse and bra as his exploration continued on her soft skin which sent an electric shock through them both.

          His lips were glued to hers, and his hand gently massaging, their tongues and fingers probing, and in a matter of minutes a flirtatious kiss had transformed itself to a passionate and lustful embrace.

          Suddenly Richard pulled away, his hair awry, and he breathing heavy.  Maxine looked at him; a mixture of surprise and disappointment on her face. Surprise because she couldn't believe that she would ever have allowed herself to get into such a situation so easily and so willingly, almost as if she had no control.  And disappointment, because once she had responded to Richard's sexual advance, and committed herself to its consequences, she didn't want it to stop.

          Richard leaned forward once more, until his red hair and her dark brown curls were side by side, and his soft red beard was muzzling her cheek.

          "I am going to my room." he whispered quietly.

          The he stood up again and walked away.  He went to his room via the main staircase, at the end of the wonderful entrance hall with its panelled walls and its carved plaster ceilings.  A treasured feature in the hall, inherited with the house, and taking pride of place  on a small side table,  was a four foot statue of the goddess Aphrodite, naked and unashamed, proudly displaying her beauty as only a Greek goddess can.  Richard smiled as he blew her a kiss, then slapped her bare bottom playfully as he passed.

          Maxine was excited but confused. She could not understand why she had responded so readily. In five minutes Richard had done what it took his brother five weeks to do.  But she didn't love him.  Didn't even like him very much, so why had she allowed him to take such liberties, and why - she hardly dare ask herself the question - had she wanted him to?.

          But worse was the knowledge that he was waiting for her in his bedroom, and worse still was that she knew that she would go to him.

          As usual Richard was sure of himself. He had worked his magic on Maxine, just as he had done with so many women in the past, and he had no doubt about the outcome.  He had long since given up trying to fathom out how it worked, content and grateful that it did, as he waited patiently for the knock which would surely come.

          Two minutes was all he had to wait, until he heard the soft rat tat on the door.

          When he opened it Maxine was standing there, her expression blank,  her mouth moving as if trying to speak but saying nothing.  But in her eyes he saw it all, and it was in her eyes that Richard knew he had his answer.

          They said simply 'take me'

          Richard gathered up the unresisting Maxine in his arms and carried her to his bed.  In a matter of moments they had reached the point where they had broken off just a short time before downstairs, but this time there would be no interruptions, no reason to bring this meeting of minds and bodies to a close until their union was complete. 

          Later that day, while passing Aphrodite again, he gave her another gentle pat on her rear, and laughed.  A soft, sniggering guttural laugh, which displayed no humour or fun, or even the pleasure of his recent encounter.  It was the sound which came from a place of evil.

          “It’s too easy,” he smiled at her “like taking candy from a baby.”

          Aphrodite, Greek goddess of love, and able to look into the soul of any mortal man, stared back impassively as Richard went on his way still laughing to himself.  She will have found no love in Richard’s heart, or in his mind! 

          “One down, one to go. Now for Lydia.” he almost laughed out loud at his thoughts. 

          In her room Lydia, recovered now from her headache was also laughing.  A comical line in the book she was reading, had caught her funny bone, and she was blissfully unaware that she was to be the next victim in Richards dark scheme.  Unsuspecting that her time was up, or that she had served her purpose, she read on.  Soon it would be time for her to go.

          Richard’s plan was taking shape.  He could see the way ahead and was happy at the way things were coming together, but there were another thing on his mind as well.  Something that had surprised him; something unexpected.       A recent visit by Uncle Fred, his father's brother.  It had come totally out of the blue. He had all but forgotten that his father had a brother, so little of him had he seen, and then one day he just ‘walked in’ after a show.

          The play was by a new modern writer, hoping that this might be the one to lift him above the others.  His play had gone well,  and he, along with Richard and the leading man were in the star’s dressing room chatting.  He was young, and in his first starring role, and he too was looking for his big break, and so there was an excited atmosphere in the  room as each sought to bask in each others glory. A few men, all young, and on the verge of fame, sharing a magic moment, and enjoying the feeling of success.

          There was knock on the door and another young face appeared.

          "Chap here to see you Richard - says he's your uncle. Do you want to see him?"

          "Right John, I'll come out." he answered, but he was  wearing a puzzled expression.

          Richard only had one uncle that he knew off, and even then only just.  His father’s brother Frederick, but he could hardly recall the last time he had seen him.  ‘back when I was about six or seven maybe, he concluded, as he walked back stage to meet him.

          He knew at once that it was he, for standing there was an older version of himself.  Not exactly as a twin, but with the same tough features and reddy colourings, a strong enough likeness for anyone to see that the two of them were ‘family’.  Oddly he saw little resemblance between Frederick and his father, Fredericks brother.

          "Well well well,” he said as he got near and offered his hand  “Uncle Frederick;  what a surprise."

          "Fred, if you don't mind, nice to see you too.  Hope you don’t mind me popping in."

          "Not at all; it's great; how did you find me?"

          "Oh, that was easy. Been reading a bit about you in the theatre magazines.  Seems like your doing allright for yourself.”

          They chatted for half an hour, when Fred announced that he must go.  As suddenly, and as unexpectedly as he arrived, he was ready to leave.

          It had, to say the least, been an unexpected encounter, but one which they both seemed to have enjoyed, and as he was leaving Richard asked if he had far to go.

          "No, about twenty minutes on the tube."

          "Please call in again and give yourself a bit more time and we can catch up a little bit over a pint or two."

          He was gone, and Richard was left wondering and still puzzled. The physical resemblance between them was clear, but there was something else.  For he had detected in his uncle mannerisms and attitudes close to his own.  The same way of engaging his quarry; the same hypnotic ability to dissolve resistance, and for the first time in years Richard had felt that he had not been in control.  Did his uncle too posses that power of mind and purpose over others that he had always believed was unique to himself?  He hoped that he would call again, because he wanted to find out more about him.

          Two weeks later his wish was granted, and as Richard had suggested they went to the bar go for a drink, and by the end of the evening they were  on very friendly terms.  But Richard had reservations about his uncle. The more they talked the more he realised that he was more like his uncle than his father, and that there was some kind of a link.  He felt that in some way uncle Fred was the source of his strange powers. He had dropped very broad hints that they did have 'abilities' not found elsewhere, that they were in the blood, and that it went back a long way.

          So his special powers were not unique, and it seemed they had been passed on in the genes.  Richard pondered on this for a long time after his uncle had gone, and was left with more questions than answers.

          Why then Frederick and not Gerald?

          Why me, and not David?

          Why is  one child so gifted, and not the other.

          Is it always a son?

          And how far does it go back?

          He tried to remember his grandfather but could not.  Did he perhaps have a brother?

          Then came a thought that caused him to smile.  It had occurred to him before, but not with any real force, but this time his smile was more thoughtful.

          “Uncle Fred’s more like my father than my uncle.”

          He thought of his mother and father together. Had she, his mother, angelic Megan, been his father's only real love? Had she strayed?  Every image of them that he could conjure up told him no, it could never be, and he dismissed the notion. Even he, with no moral priorities at all, could bring himself to believe that.

          Not only that but Richard remembered that Fred would only have been about twenty when he was born, so he can't be my da ... Another thought stopped him from completing the sentence, “So what.” he said out loud  “By the time I was twenty, I’d lost count of the women I’d been with.” 

          Knowing full well how resistance to his advances always seemed to evaporate, then as now, he guessed that uncle Fred probably enjoyed the same mastery over the ladies. So the question remained unanswered, and that possibility, that most unlikely,  most improbable, almost  impossible thought was absurd. But it didn’t quite go away.

          It had been a weird encounter, and Richard was strangely uneasy, fearing that he might have met his match. Only then did he remember that once again uncle Fred, just at their last meeting, had failed to ask about his brother.

          Yes, Richards plans were going well, but he was still looking for that perfect partner for his father.  Then he really would see some reaction from him, especially if he finds out that his little brother is sniffing around her as well.  That could be the first strand of the rope to snap.  That invisible bond which held his father and brother together needed to be severed, one strand at a time until there was nothing left to hold on to.  Then his father would know which of his sons came first.  Himself, or that upstart of a brother.  

          But not quite yet, some elements in Richard’s twisted scheme were not yet in place, and some patience was needed. His years working in the theatre, among actors whose ego’s and ingenuity were often remarkable, had been the perfect training for the part he was now playing, for in this role he was the producer, director and star.  His plan remained the same, and his apparent return to the family, was just that.  ‘Apparent’.

          He could not help but be aware that his younger David was steadily gaining ground in his father's eyes, since he had taken his place in his fathers business empire, and was doing well.  He also sensed, even though his father recognised David's qualities and abilities, he still regretted  that the position was not occupied by his eldest son. Despite David’s showing that he was up to the demands of his important position,  his eldest son was really the one he had wanted by his side. That his eldest son did not seem to be interested in his business was a disappointment, but now that he had ‘come back’ into the family he was happy. That happiness could, and would, be turned to Richards advantage.

          Just the same, Gerald was grateful that he had another son who was interested, and lost no opportunity it furthering David’s career, and his position in the company, further alienating Richard

          Maxine was having a difficult time. Must she tell David what had happened.  Could she ever hope to explain to him what she could not understand herself. How she allowed herself, willingly but in some kind of hypnotic trance, to be taken by Richard and used like a common whore.  Ever since that day he missed no opportunity to flirt with her in front of David, making her blush and uncomfortable.  David of course took this as a sign of his brotherly approval; his acceptance of his young brothers choice of a possible bride.

          She just could not tell him, even though she was certain it would not happen again.  She could not know that Richard’s interest in her was not really to do with sex.  Sex was just a means to an end, and the end was domination.

          She loved David, and wanted to be with him, and lost no time in persuading him to move out of the old house.  David for his part was overjoyed at the prospect of setting up home with Maxine, and soon they had found a nice flat on the edge of Crompton, overlooking the Thames valley.

          For the first time since he lost Megan, Gerald was truly content, as he looked out of an upstairs window of the old house, admiring the spectacle of his well kept garden.  He had found a woman that he felt he could live the rest of his life with.  He had found at last the peace of mind that had so far eluded him.  He was sure that Megan had understood his rather uncharacteristic behaviour of late, and had forgiven him.  More important was the feeling that she would approve of Lydia.  “I think they would have liked each other.” he told himself contentedly.

          Also his sons, who had always seemed to be strangers to each other, now seemed to be friends.  They were both doing well in their careers, and, he suspected, his youngest seemed to be close to getting married.

          In spite of his happiness he couldn’t help wishing that Megan was there to see it for herself.  “Ah, enough of that,” he said out loud, a trace the song of Wales and the music of Ireland still in his voice, “she’ll be after telling me not to be such an old softy.”

          He laughed.  An affectionate laugh, full of the memories of happy times.  He knew that he was a lucky man to be able to enjoy that kind of happiness again.