Inheritance. Part 16

Francesca makes a small sound. Her eyes move wildly. Ann thinks her daughter might faint.

'You are still married to me.'

'No, Stuart. You might like to think so, but no.'

He points the gun at Francesca and Ann cries out. 'For pity's sake, Stuart, leave her! She has nothing to do with you. Nothing!'

Stuart grins. Holds up the stump of his hand. 'Not true. Tell her. Tell her who you are. How I got this! Go on tell her.' His voice full of an insane excitement.

He's not in any way rational. There's no way he would want anyone to know how or why his hand was severed. Ann wonders what story he tells himself; what justification he has made up for himself.

'Tell her,' says Stuart, quieter now, triumphant it would seem, 'and then we'll have dinner together.'

'Francesca,' says Ann, looking steadily at her daughter, shrugging slightly as if to say I am humouring him; you don't have to believe it, 'I was married to this man for four years, before you were born. My name then was Ann Jeanie Roper.'

Stuart nods, approving. 'Go on, go on.'

'For almost two of those years we lived in Samoa with my father, John O'Dowd, who died there.'

'Leave out O'Dowd,' says Stuart. There's a strange wild excitement now in his voice. Jeanie is fearful of it. 'O'Dowd's not important.'

Jeanie feels sobs rising. This is all wrong. She must be in control. She must say the words right. Francesca is watching her, every muscle rigid with fear. Fear of the gun, or of what she might hear?

'My father is important to me, and part of the story,' she chokes out.

Stuart stands. The gun wavers in his one good hand. Francesca screams. Awkwardly, Stuart drags the stump of his wrist over the light switch, flooding the room with light from the big overhead lamp. 'A bright light for the truth,' he says almost jauntily. In the harsh light, the room, the people in it, now appear drained, cardboard people in an amateurish play. This big light is never switched on at night. The room looks alien, heartless. Ann hates it; wants irrationally to rush over and turn off the switch.

Stuart takes a step towards her, lashes out with a shoe and grunts with satisfaction to hear the crack on her s.h.i.+n, Jeanie's painful, indrawn breath. 'Just tell about me. About her father.' He sits again, the gun held level and still.

She could have jumped him then. They both could have, but didn't. Jeanie begins to fear that they won't survive. But she simply can not speak what Stuart wants to hear.

Jeanie tries to keep the shaking out of her voice. Tries to speak only to Francesca. 'A man called Teo Levamanaia a Samoan attacked Stuart one night. This man she nods quickly towards Stuart saw me with Teo. We had a sort of affair and Stuart caught us. He started a fight and was hurt by Teo.'

Stuart nods; he seems to accept this shortened version. He waves his wrist stump at his deformed and rosy ear. 'That's what the man did.'

Does he expect pity from Francesca? Has he wiped all knowledge of his own rape? Jeanie hopes desperately that he has.

'When I discovered that I was pregnant with Teo's child,' she says, telling it simply as if to a child. 'I ran away. I didn't want to live with Stuart. Or Teo. I was angry with them both, Francesca, I wanted nothing to do with Samoa or my husband. And so I hid my ident.i.ty. And yours. I hid the truth from you.'

Francesca looks at her in some anguish. Jeanie can see she doesn't know how to react; doesn't really believe this story.

'You are part Samoan, Fran,' she says, intently, willing that part of the truth to be accepted by Francesca, 'not Italian. I'm sorry now, that I told you another story.'

Francesca looks at Jeanie warily. 'Not Italian? You made that up?'

'At the time I needed desperately to escape this man. He would not understand that I no longer loved him.'

'Mum!' Francesca suddenly believes it; is outraged. 'I'm not Italian at all?'

Ann swallows. 'Yes, my dear daughter. Elena recognised it immediately. Your Samoan blood. She's your aunt.'

They have both forgotten the man with the gun. Stuart clears his throat. They jump at the sound. Turn to look at him.

Stuart is breathing quickly shallow panting sounds coming from his mouth. Sweat drips off his chin. The excitement has faded from his eyes. The long sad mooing sound he makes could have reached them from the farm outside. His hand trembles. 'That's not right. That's not it, Jeanie.' There is desperation in his rus.h.i.+ng words. 'That fellow in Samoa ... Giles Something ... he told me you were pregnant when you ran away. You didn't want to share her with me, did you? All these years I've known I had a child somewhere. I knew it. In my bones I could feel her there, waiting for me. She's my daughter isn't she? Ours?'

Jeanie hopes the relief in hearing that one word - ours doesn't show. He doesn't suspect. Perhaps he doesn't even remember that night.

'Look at her, Stuart; look closely. Her dark skin; the wide dark eyes. They are not yours.'

Stuart shakes his head back and forth, back and forth as if an insect is bothering him. 'No ...' he grates out. 'Not ...' He rises then, slowly, unwillingly it seems, to peer intently at Francesca. She moans a little but submits to the scrutiny, holding herself rigid but leaning back as far as she may from the madness of that peering face.

'You can see it Stuart, can't you,' says Jeanie gently. 'Look at my fair skin; I've always been pale. You are even fairer, your hair was reddish, your eyes blue. She's not yours. Please believe this.'

His high excitement is sinking. Jeanie can almost see the energy drain from him. He has gone very pale. Will he be more dangerous or less if he believes her?

'Jeanie,' he says, 'Jeanie.' He might be about to cry.

'I'm sorry,' she says quietly, speaking as if he were a child. 'You have made a mistake, Stuart. You are not the father. And we are no longer married. All that was long, long ago. Are you hungry? Shall we have dinner now?' If he eats, he must put the gun down.

His eyes are suddenly crafty. 'But we are married,' he cries. 'Don't you see? You never signed any divorce. You have lived with a different name. That will surely make a difference. We can live together again! I can be a good father to her!'

He watches her carefully.

Oh G.o.d will this never end? 'Let's have dinner,' she says again. 'You must be hungry.'

Suddenly he sinks back into the chair, the gun resting on his knee. 'You're humouring me. I'm not a child.' His voice is tired, his eyes blank. 'I've come all this way. I've made a big effort, Jeanie, can't you see that? And now you say you don't want me after all. That's hardly polite.' He sighs. 'Yes, let's have dinner.' He waves the gun at Francesca, who dashes for the kitchen. Pots clatter. Jeanie thinks Francesca will try to ring Michael and speaks to drown any sound.

'What have you been doing all these years, Stuart?'

'Oh, this and that. Nothing important. I've been searching for you.' He looks away. 'She's not my daughter after all. I see that now. I thought she might make things right between us, do you see?' Then stands slowly, sluggishly. 'Where is that man? With the dogs?'

'Outside.'

'You tried to fool me. He's not your husband. I checked up.'

Jeanie watches every movement. Something different is happening. The gun keeps drifting towards the floor. It seems that even the small movement of holding it level is too much effort. His eyelids droop until only a slit of pale blue iris shows.

'You shouldn't have left like that, Jeanie,' he says, his words dragging, slurring. He could almost be falling asleep on his feet. 'It wasn't fair. You never gave me a chance.'

Can he be drunk? Jeanie tenses, ready to grab at the gun, but he raises it slowly again as if it is a great weight.

'Jeanie,' he says again, 'Jeanie.' He turns the gun gently, puts it in his mouth and, looking sleepily, sadly at her, pulls the trigger.

The concussion sends him backwards into the wall and then sliding to the floor. Francesca screams, rushes into the room. Jeanie is already on her knees beside him, holding the mangled head, trying to find some words of comfort. She moans out loud at what she sees. Even in this final demonstration Stuart has failed to act cleanly. The bullet has pa.s.sed through the mouth and neck, but missed the brain. Blood spurts out onto the carpet, but he is still conscious.

'Jesus, Stuart!' Jeanie cannot feel sorry for him feels the old horror just touching the clammy skin. Is she going to have to save him? Surely, after all this, she can leave him to bleed? Francesca stands in the doorway, watching. Is she thinking the same?

But of course she can't leave him bleeding. 'Call the ambulance, Fran,' she shouts angrily, 'then call Michael!' Jeanie is furious. Angry that he is still alive; angry that she must try to save his life someone who she has so often willed dead. But she must. Savagely, she applies pressure to the wound. Stuffs the table cloth hard against the pumping blood. Surely, please G.o.d, he will die, anyway, now, quickly, before the ambulance arrives. Die here on my carpet, the poor silly wretch.

'Michael's on his way.' Francesca is already dialling the ambulance. And the police.

'Jeanie?' whispers Stuart, dribbling blood. He seems to be smiling. Some of the old triumph back in the faint words. 'There you are.'

Jeanie nods. 'Yes.' She clenches her teeth to hold back the curses she would rather spit out. She presses hard, angrily, against the flow of blood. Against the ebbing life.

Stuart's eyes are rolling. He will be unconscious shortly. 'You can't leave me now,' he whispers. 'You're stuck with me.'

Jeanie says nothing. Keeps up the pressure. After a minute or two she sees that he will not survive. Relief brings some gentleness to her voice.

'Poor Stuart,' she whispers. 'Poor, sad man. You can rest now.'

Does he smile, or has he gone already?

Jeanie lets him lie where he has died on her carpet and goes to her daughter, who has been standing in the doorway all this time. They look at each other wordlessly. Jeanie cannot touch her will not allow his blood to touch Francesca. She goes into the kitchen and lets the cold water rinse it from her hands, her arms. She watches the rosy bloom of it mingle with burnt cabbage, overflow the pot and run away. Then she is free to hold her trembling daughter; to lead her to the table and seat her quietly.

Michael and the baying dogs arrive to find the two women sitting exhausted and silent at the table, waiting for life to begin again.

Next day, after the police and the questions are over, Jeanie and her daughter sit side by side in the sun on the wooden bench by the front door. Jeanie takes a deep breath. This is going to be the hard part. Far more difficult than answering police questions. But before she can say a word, Francesca suddenly sweeps her hand sideways, knocking her mug of coffee to the ground. It shatters on the bricks, but neither woman bends to pick up the pieces.

'How could you?' shouts Francesca. 'My own mother! How could you lie like that?' She jumps to her feet, her face blotched, fury in every movement. 'All these years all my whole life you were really someone else! You aren't Ann Hope at all!'

Jeanie shows her daughter her two hands, palm up. 'I am Ann Hope, Fran. I was Jeanie Roper. What do names matter? The hands that held you as a baby, fed you and raised you, were Ann Hope's hands. Your mother's hands.'

'Oh!' Francesca isn't going to give in so easily. 'How will I ever know whether you're lying or telling the truth? How can I ever trust your words again?'

She flings her arms up in the air one of her Italian gestures and flounces down the path to the donkey paddock. Jeanie watches her go, smiling hopefully to herself at the dramatics. Fran is enjoying her anger; surely that's a good sign?

But as she sits watching the treacherously peaceful scene the lazy hills, the slow-moving cloud shadows patterning the paddocks below doubt and guilt spread through her body like a cancer. Has she been wrong all along to hide the truth? What of this new 'truth' which Francesca now believes but which is also a lie? Jeanie feels the weight of these stories these many layers as something physical, pressing her downwards until she might suffocate beneath them.

She straightens her shoulders; watches her daughter. Her daughter. Francesca was never Stuart's. Yet she hears again Stuart's desperate voice claiming fatherhood, and wonders if the truth might have changed him. Rescued him?

Jeanie scratches at a patch of moss, growing where the wood of the seat has split in the sun. She works at the tiny growth until the wood is clean and the pieces of brilliant green lie in the palm of her hand. She brings them to her face to breathe in the dark earthy smell. I have rescued Francesca, she thinks, I must hold on to that good thought. Francesca is the one I must always consider. Not Stuart. Never again Stuart. She sighs. But it is all suddenly so complicated. She squints into the sun, watching her daughter's pacing.

An hour later Fran is still there, down with the donkeys, one arm over a patient grey back, scratching ears, no doubt berating her mother to the understanding beasts. Every now and then Fran glances up the hill to see if Jeanie is still there.

Jeanie waits, aching for her. Wants to hold her tight, but respects Francesca's need to come to terms quietly with all this new and startling information. She s.h.i.+fts the pieces of mug into a pile with the toe of her shoe, but will not go inside to find a pan. She waits.

At last Francesca stamps her way up the hill again and flops onto the bench. She seems calmer. Jeanie smiles, pats her daughter's arm.

'I think you should read this,' she says, handing her Teo's letter.

'What? Not more revelations? Give me a break.'

'It's from your father.'

Francesca looks quickly at her mother, then down at the paper. 'Have you read it?'

'Yes,' says Jeanie. 'It came with a letter to me, which you can see too if you like.'

Fran takes it and turns away to read. After a quick skim she reads it out aloud.

Dear Daughter, It is up to your mother whether she shows you this letter. I do not deserve to play any part in your life, and yet I would like to, now that my sister has discovered you. I did not know where you were.

The night when you were conceived, your mother and I were very close. It was a special and beautiful night in Samoa, the night of tapalolo. I was young and rather foolish in those days but your mother was very attractive and perhaps a little foolish too. Her husband discovered us and in retaliation raped the woman whom I was about to marry and who has been my wife since that time. In my anger I attacked him, hurting him severely.

'G.o.d!' says Francesca. 'Is this true?' Jeanie nods and Francesca continues.

Fa'asamoa is very strict about these matters. If the truth came out my wife would have been greatly shamed and Stuart and I both punished by law. We covered up the incident. Even now it would be serious for me and for Stuart if the incident were revealed. And my wife would be very distressed.

By the time your mother knew of the pregnancy, I was married and she had broken with her husband. She disappeared suddenly, angry perhaps with both me and her husband who pestered her shamelessly. I chose not to search for her or for you. I am sorry for this.

My wife is dying. She still remembers the night of the palolo rising as one of horror and shame. I do not want to disturb her last months with uncomfortable memories. Will you please respect her and me for this sad time in our lives?

I too remember that night with horror, but also with a sweetness which is to do with your mother. Elena tells me you have grown up good and beautiful, and that you are unmistakably of our family. She seems to know these things.

I acknowledge that you carry the ancient blood of our family. You have three half-sisters and two half-brothers living in Samoa who would, I believe, be happy to meet you in due time, and to introduce you to our ways.

If you and your mother would like to meet me in New Zealand before we leave, it could be arranged privately. Elena would manage it as she manages everything else!

Soifua Teo Levamanaia Francesca stumbles over the Samoan words, then tries again. She looks at her mother severely. 'You told me a whole bunch of lies!'

'I did I'm so sorry dear. It seemed the right thing, and then somehow I got into the habit of it.'

'All that stuff about the handsome Italian!'

Jeanie smiles sheepishly. 'That happened to Elena sort of.'

'You're kidding?'

'She saw your exhibition by chance, and recognised the old mill you painted. Then the attendant gossiped about your Italian father and she knew who I must be. That's how she found me. Elena told me that Italian story, back in Samoa.'

'Mum, you are outrageous!'

Jeanie is relieved to see her daughter's rather admiring smile.

'How could you send me to Italy on that wild goose chase?'

Jeanie feels a little of her old spirit rising. She's had enough of apologising.' You were very keen to go,' she points out. 'I think it's good to have a mission when you're travelling.' She risks a grin. 'You enjoyed it didn't you?'

'That's not the point!' But Francesca can't keep up the severity. She giggles. 'My G.o.d, Mum, what a story! It's like out of a book. So you had an affair?'

Jeanie looks sideways at her daughter. 'He was very nice. A rather wild young man. Very handsome and a terrible flirt. Elena says he's settled down now and has become quite pompous.'

Francesca frowns. 'Pompous? He is not. I think he sounds lovely. Look at the way he's invited me to meet my brothers and sisters.'

Jeanie is amazed at her daughter's readiness to move on. Already she's defending him has accepted him and his family. Francesca is happily planning to meet a new family, while Jeanie is still shaking from last night's terrors.

'Anyway,' says Francesca, squinting into the sun, 'I was sick of all that Italian stuff. Look at how my work has changed this year. I expect I felt instinctively that I had Samoan blood. Do you reckon?'