The words all came out in a hurry and the young woman blushed as if she had said too much. She asked Ronnie and Tilly to wait in the library while she informed Mrs Winton and, before Ronnie could say any more, she rushed off.
Ronnie and Tilly waited quite some while before the door opened and the maid helped an elderly woman into the room and settled her in a comfortable chair. She was elegantly dressed in a navy-blue dress with white-collar edging. Her grey hair was swept up and she wore a single row of pearls around her neck. Although she walked with a stick, she stood remarkably straight and tall for her age. She had a worried frown on her face and when she spoke it was with a shaky, hesitant voice.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Locock, Miss . . . I’m sorry, Mary didn’t take your name. I’m always telling her to ask any visitors’ names. I might not wish to see them, you see. I don’t receive manyvisitors these days. She obviously remembered one name, but didn’t ask yours, Miss?’
‘Truscott. Tilly Truscott,’ Tilly replied.
‘I know that name,’ Mrs Winton said. ‘Truscott. Yes, that’s familiar. Bring some tea, Mary.’
Mary scuttled off with an embarrassed look on her face.
‘Thank you for receiving us, Mrs Winton. We’re sorry to arrive unannounced, but we don’t have much time before we must return to our duties. Please forgive us,’ Ronnie explained.
‘Now, Mr Locock, how can I help you? Or perhaps you can help me. Do you have news of Simon? Are you in his squadron?’
‘No, I’m sorry, Mrs Winton, but I’m not here about Simon. I’m here to ask you about your other son, Philip,’ Ronnie said.
‘There must be some mistake,’ Mrs Winton said. ‘Philip is dead. He died in the last war. I’ve lost one son and I don’t want to lose another. Simon’s plane went down over France and he’s reported missing in action. If this is some mistake, then it’s a very inconsiderate one, Mr Locock.’
Ronnie suddenly felt sorry that he had arrived to add to Mrs Winton’s troubles. He didn’t have any idea how she would take the news that she had a grandson or even if she would believe him. What right did he have to disturb her family life? Mrs Winton was a widow. He would be leaving her to cope with the news alone. But he hadn’t come all this way to simply get up and leave.
‘No, this is no mistake, Mrs Winton. This will come as some surprise to you or, perhaps even, a shock. I am Philip’s son. That makes you my grandmother.’
‘Then you have made a mistake,’ Mrs Winton replied. ‘Philip wasn’t married. He died too young. Now, I don’t want to waste your time, Mr Locock, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wish you good afternoon.’
At that moment, Mary arrived with the tea. Mrs Winton got to her feet. ‘Ah! We won’t need the extra cups after all, Mary, these young people are just leaving,’ she said. ‘If you show them out, I shall take tea here, thank you. Sorry I can’t help you. I hope you find the person you are looking for. Now, if you’ll excuse me—’
‘You don’t understand, Mrs Winton,’ Ronnie interrupted. ‘Philip is my father. My mother is Kate, Kate Truscott as she was then, when she worked for you.’
Mrs Winton froze. Her face turned the colour of bleached cotton.
‘Leave the tray, Mary, thank you. That’s all,’ she said, collapsing back into her chair.
For a while she remained silent, taking in the information. Then she spoke to Tilly. ‘If you would be so good as to pour the tea, my dear,’ she said. ‘I feel in need of some hot, sweet tea. I have indeed had a bit of a shock.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry to spring this upon you,’ Ronnie said. ‘I decided to come and find you because I may not survive the next flight I take. That is why I wanted to meet you. I wanted you to know about me. I may suffer the same fate as your son, Simon. At least you can hang on to the fact that he has been declared missing. He may be alive, somewhere, lost in France. I was shot down and I made it home to England. Tilly was abandoned in Dunkirk. Unlike many others, she wasn’t rescued. She made it home too. There is hope for Simon yet. Take heart from that.’
‘Thank you for the advice, young man, but I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. Are you saying that you are related to me because you have come to claim your birthright? Do you want money? Are you threatening to expose this family as trying to cover up their son’s indiscretions? Are you trying to sully our good name? Be honest with me, Mr Locock. What is it you want?’
‘None of those things,’ Ronnie replied. ‘I simply wanted to meet you. I wanted you to know me. To acknowledge that I exist. Your son made love to my mother and she conceived a child. She gave birth to me at the workhouse, not far from here. When she learned that Philip died at the Battle of the Somme, she couldn’t bring herself to show you the child, your grandson, me. She returned to Micklewell, her family home, and her parents helped raise me. She met Albert and married him. From the age of five, Albert has been a father to me but when I learned that my true, natural father was Philip, I wanted to meet his family. I wanted to know something about him. Can you understand that? Do you remember Kate?’
Mrs Winton looked at Ronnie, analysing his facial features one by one. Tilly handed Mrs Winton and Ronnie their tea and a quiet contemplation settled over the threesome. Mrs Winton sipped her tea and the colour came back to her cheeks. Finally, she spoke.
‘Kate Truscott, you say? And Kate is your mother. Of course, I remember her. She was the best nursemaid we have ever had. The children loved her. I was so sorry to let her go, but she placed us in an impossible situation. How could we explain to the children?’
Mrs Winton stood and moved to a shelf that held family photographs. She returned with a photograph of a young man in an army uniform.
‘He looked so smart in his uniform. None of us knew what would become of our young men when we sent them off to war. We were so naive. Thinking that they were all doing their duty for their country, but they paid the ultimate price. They gave their lives.’
She held the photograph up. ‘You do look like him, I must admit,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t she come to me? Tell me that Philip was the father of her child. I would have helped her.’
She handed the photograph to Ronnie. ‘Ronnie Locock, meet your father, Philip Winton. In another life you might have found one another.’
‘He was a good-looking man, my father,’ Ronnie said.
‘And so is his son,’ Mrs Winton said, smiling.
‘Forgive me for asking, Mrs Winton, but am I to understand that you are a widow?’ Ronnie asked.
