“More or less,” she replies airily.
“What’s more or less mean?”
She hesitates and my stomach sinks. Please, please, don’t let it be that she carried on seeing him right under Dad’s nose.
“Mum? What is it?”
“He sent money.”
It takes a long few seconds to absorb this. “Money?”
“Yeah. He organised something. I don’t know how because his grant didn’t leave much to spare after paying for his uni, and he was never going to give that up. He made it clear, he didn’t want to get involved. There would just be a money transfer to my account once a month.”
“How much?”
“Oh, I can’t remember. It changed. Not much to start. It increased later. Stephen was very difficult about it.” She huffs. “He really was the most unreasonable man. All big talk saying we didn’t need his money. But he was only a driving instructor, and every little helped. So, in the end, he agreed but then got very stubborn and refused to spend the money on house repairs or a holiday. He made me transfer it to a separate account to spend it on you. Once I used some of it for a haircut and he went apeshit.”
I remember this. The shouting in the bedroom about not enough money for Vidal Sasoon. Later, when we were alone, I told Dad I could contribute my pocket money, and he ruffled my hair. “No sweetheart. That’s yours.”
He’d just started a new business and was struggling. Yet, there seemed to be cash for a tutor to help with my GCSEs. So that was the money from Will Jones. Money Dad ring-fenced for me. My darling, darling dad.
“How long did this go on?”
“Will’s payments?” she checks. “Until you were eighteen. He was Professor Jones by then, because that’s the name on the letter from the solicitor. He sent a lump sum for your higher education. How else do you think you could pay for acting school?”
My mouth drops open. The Guildhall School of Music and Drama isn’t cheap, not even ten years ago. So, my biological father paid twenty-seven thousand pounds, possibly more.
The shock of this stays with me.
Long after midnight, lying awake, I keep turning my pillow around every hour for the cooler side.
William Jones. A man who didn’t want to be involved.
It doesn’t fit with the nineteen-year-old student who must have scraped together what money he could to pay for his child.
The suspicion takes shape and grows. My mother’s relationship with the truth is hit and miss. Reading between the lines, my guess is he would have done the right thing. If he didn’t marry her, it would have been because she’d already lost interest. Because he didn’t offer the fun-filled life she wanted, the exciting nightlife.
Horrible Howard sneered thatHe dumped her. But I’m starting to wonder if it was she who did the dumping.
Poor nineteen-year-old student, so out of his depth. At least he tried his best.
Which raises the question, why didn’t he try to see me or write to me?
Did she ask him to stay away? Was he worried about causing more harm to her marriage?
The next day, after a sleepless night, I call her again and ask her to send me that last letter from Professor William Jones’ solicitor.
Then I start packing.
Let Emma give up the flat and move to St Andrews as soon as she wants. I’m taking a trip.
Professor William Jones is going to meet his daughter.
chapter Four
Saturday, 10th Nov. 9am. Prince of Wales Bridge
If you’ve never been to Wales, then the first surprise that hits you is the unreadable road signs. Of course, I knew there was such a thing as Welsh language, but I never expected to have to read it while driving. Trying to make outPont Tywysog Cymruat 60miles an hour is way harder than playing Shakespeare, let me tell you.
