9. FAMILY AFFAIRS

Braxton's life begins to unravel...

Braxton Spendthrift stared disbelievingly at the newcomer and opened his mouth, then closed it before opening it again.

“Hello,” said Chantelle, filling in the awkward silence with a greeting.

“Who are you?” demanded the woman, “what’s a pretty young thing like you doing with my old dad?”

“I didn’t know...” replied Chantelle, “he said he’d always wanted a son, but he never mentioned daughters. I’m Chantelle and I often walk this way, but today he met me at the gate ...”

Braxton looked at her then back at the woman who’d called him dad.

“! haven’t got … daughter” he managed in a strangled voice, but he knew, somewhere in the depths of his memory that he did have.

Colette had been everything to him. Pretty, witty, lively, and with an almost unbelievable sexual appetite.

The first night that they slept together … well, slept wasn’t quite the right word. They hadn’t done much sleeping. She’d been all over him, waking parts of him up like they’d never been woken before, and he’d let her. And the way she kissed, that had been something else too. Here whole mouth had kissed him. She’d even nibbled his lips until he was afraid they’d bleed but didn't want to stop her. And there had been other nights, loads of them, and neither of them had mentioned contraception. He’d vaguely assumed she’d been on that newfangled pill thing and she’d not been bothered, not with him being so wealthy.

Everyone had told her how lucky she was. Keep your hands on him, they’d say, he’s a millionaire, and more, they say a great deal more…

And her life, so far, had been that strange mixture of happiness and near poverty that so many had suffered from in the post-war decades. She’d even carefully cut down her existing best skirt in order to make a mini, and made a lovely summer dress from an oddment of material she’d bought from the market, and everyone had said how good she looked in modern fashions, how she looked one of the in-crowd.

But she wasn’t really one of those. She liked modern fashions, so she wore them. If something was comfortable then she liked it. That really summarised her.

And men. She’d had a couple of boyfriends but they’d been shallow and more interested in feeling her breasts than talking sense to her, and they hadn’t lasted long. She may have been at the f*g end of her teens, but she knew what she wanted and callow youth didn’t number among her list of how to live her life. She wanted security and stability, and there was no way the teenage lads who came her way would ever satisfy those requirements

Braxton did, though.

He was older, probably twice her age, and considerate. When he told her how he enjoyed looking at her it was to praise her choice of outfit rather than undress her with his eyes. And when she said she didn’t like that dreadful but expensive club he took her to, probably to parade in front of his sleazy fellow members, he immediately changed his plan and without complaining took her to an exclusive little pub where her long legs wouldn’t be so rudely noticed. He was the perfect gentleman.

So she liked him.

And then she loved him. No sooner had they hit the sheets than she obeyed an inaudible instruction from her hormones and devoured him, sexually.

They slept together as often as they could, though she had to give some thought to getting to work in the mornings and he lived a long way from where she laboured in a cotton mill. But when they did manage a night together her appetite was voracious. It never crossed her mind that it was odd for a man with Braxton’s background to even find a moment for her let alone night after lovely, wonderful night.

So it came as no surprise to her when her periods stopped. She knew what it was, all right, and she knew that he’d do the decent thing and marry her.

But he didn’t do anything of the sort. He promised that he’d take her down the aisle before the bump showed and then proceeded to absent himself by going abroad for weeks on end. She wasn’t to know it, but he was making arrangements for his son, when he was old enough to do it, to have access to the bottomless pit that was the wealth he’d inherited. He even converted some of the bullion into more easily disposed of jewellery. He’d learned, soon after his father had died, that cashing in gold bars was not as simple as it seemed when dealing with an honest broker, and he didn’t want his as yet unborn son to go without, even for a short time.

He was all consideration and no practicality.

So, having forgotten the lesson he’d learned from Mandy and her daughter, when he arrived back in Brumpton with a splendid gift for her she wasn’t best pleased by his long absence and already showing a considerable bump.

“I’ve been arranging for part of my fortune to be transferred to our son,” he told her, awkwardly.

She didn’t tell her there was a virtually even chance of the baby being a daughter and it didn't seem to ever cross his mind that might be the case.

She went to the maternity hospital when her waters broke and the baby duly came along.

“It’s a girl!” exclaimed the midwife. He was in the waiting room and didn’t hear, but news travels quickly and a drunken father-to-be clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him in a very loud voice.

“She’ll grow up to be a beauty,” he said, “it’s what wee lasses do!”

Colette was still waiting for him to come and see their offspring when, two days later, she returned home, to her parents’ home, and they weren’t best pleased at having to explain away the illegitimate horror that unexpectedly shared their home with them. It might have been the nineteen sixties, but not every corner of the land was suddenly converted to sexual freedom.

“It’s them short skirts as you wear,” her father complained.

And it probably was.

The years passed and Braxton proved himself to be both selfish and callous by failing to acknowledge his responsibility for Colette’s daughter, and he never managed to father a son. Or any other child either because with the turning of the years he became less and less of an attractive catch. It seemed that he shrivelled inside, probably weighed down by the weight of a chest full of keys.

His eyes were weak and watery as he stared at the middle-aged woman in front of him.

“Who..?” he asked.

“You’re my dad,” said the woman, “and before I kill you I want to tell you a few home truths!”

© Peter Rogerson 08.12.19