12. THE PROOF OF PATERNITY

Is Judy Braxton's daughter?

“I’ll show you,” said Braxton, his voice trembling, either with emotion or fear of the knife being waved around under his nose, “I really will. I’ll show you, and I don’t understand why your mother didn’t see the point of my note.”

As for Chantelle, it was time for her to be heading back home. Her mum would be getting anxious if she was late back. She was always saying that there were strange people about and her daughter should be careful, especially dressed like she was.

“I’m perfectly safe where I like to go,” Chantelle always told her, but now she was beginning to see her mother’s point when it came to strange people. The old man was certainly strange, but in a safe way, which was far more than could be said of the knife-wielding Judy.

“I must go,” she said, simply, “mum will be getting worried.”

Judy turned on her, her eyes bulging with anger. “You stay where you are!” she ordered harshly, “nobody’s going anywhere till I’ve got this sorted!”

“It’s nothing to do with her!” put in Braxton. “Your argument seems to be with me, and Chantelle’s no part of it.”

Judy frowned, then “she can go when you show me all that money you were talking about,” she said, and then, more slyly, “I don’t believe a word of it. Why would mum, who was always scraping around for her next penny, not know what the key was for if she knew where that bank was?”

“I’d meet her under its big clock,” sighed Braxton. “She was young then, and beautiful.”

And she had been. That clock, with its huge face and Roman numerals marking the hours was the most ornate thing on Brumpton High Street. It had been back then and it still was. And he could see, in his mind’s eye, the figure of a young and vibrant Colette waiting for him as they had agreed, her face shining with youth and hope. One day it had been raining and she wore a gaberdine mac and a waterproof hat. The outfit was far from becoming, but even so she took his heart away. Even with the rain running off her she was beautiful, and he told her so.

“You’re the most beautiful young woman in the world,” he said, “let’s go for a coffee or tea before we go back to my place.”

“That’d be nice,” she said, smiling despite the weather.

And that’s what it was like, being with her: nice. There had been other women over the years but none that had set his heart afire like Colette. It was the sixties when he met her under that clock, the sixties with its burgeoning acceptance of freedom, and when they got back to his place, this same bungalow that he’d lived in all his life, she exhibited many of the more exciting features of that freedom.

For years he’d been plagued by the need to have a son to inherit his huge wealth, not even he knew the extent of all that bullion hidden away in scores of banks all over the world, even in America. The accumulated wealth was dazzling, and he wanted a son to take it over when his own time was up.

No man likes to think of his own death, but the weight of his gold made him focus his mind on the reality of mortality.

“I want a son soon,” he told her, not realising what an odd thing it must have sounded when he said it. “I have some money,” he added carefully, “more than I’m likely to spend however long I live, and I need a son to inherit it.”

“What about a daughter?” she had asked, and he shook his head.

“If I have a daughter she’ll be a pretty little thing with ringlets and the sweetest of smiles, but money doesn’t go to girls,” he told her. “Money, gold and stuff like that, is part of a man’s world. Men own the things and you pretty women spend it. You can have what you want, and I’d love to give it to you, but money, wealth, the treasures that empires are made of, they’re man’s things.” And back then it had seemed that was the order of things. All the important things in life belonged to men.

“That’s stupid,” had been her comment, and rather than carry the argument on she had distracted him with her sexuality and that had been that. He’d allowed himself to be very, very distracted. Maybe it was then, he thought, when this Judy was conceived.

“She knew all about that clock and the bank it was hanging from,” he said, sharply, “because everyone did. You can’t miss it. My note must surely have made sense to her.”

Judy scowled at him. “She thought you were accusing her of having an affair with a man called Howard,” she said.

“Then let me take you,” said Braxton. “I’ll call my chauffeur and he can drive us there. But you must put that knife away. If you get seen carrying a knife like that you’ll be arrested, and what good would that do?”

“Then don’t either of you try any funny tricks!” snarled Judy. He noted the yellow of her teeth and contrasted them with the white he remembered of Colette’s beautiful set. This woman was a world away from what he imagined his daughter would be.

“Chantelle can get out when we pass her street,” added Braxton.

“I want her to stay!”

“If you want any money you’ll play by my rules!” smiled Braxton. “Now excuse me while I call my chauffeur.”

He made his slow and unsteady way into the bungalow and they heard the rumble of his voice as he made a telephone call.

“He could be calling the cops!” said Judy suddenly, “I’ll bet he’s doing that!” and within a moment she had her knife back in her hand, this time threatening Chantelle.

“You’ll have to trust him I’m afraid,” Chantelle told her, “and if you don’t I can only see one loser, and that’s you!”

“No, it’ll be him!” snapped the woman, “you see, I came along earlier. I knocked all decent like, but there was no answer, so I broke in, and I spotted that wooden chest. He really should have had a better lock on it. I soon jemmied it open, but there was nowt but old keys in there. Loads and loads of old keys, and I’ve hidden them so as he’ll never find ‘em, never in a million years!”

“You foolish woman,” said Braxton’s voice from the door. Judy looked round and saw that the old man had armed himself.

He was holding a pistol in one shaking hand.

And his eyes were glinting.

“You’re no daughter of mine,” he said quietly, “and I’ve got the proof.”

© Peter Rogerson 11.12.19