Matthew had been thinking a lot about his mother and father. Recently his memories of them in their younger years, resurfaced in dreams, his father's face, obscured, as he walked with his father the familiar route to his surgery just down the road. Sometimes in the dreams he was varying ages, six, eight, twelve, fourteen. The dreams that stuck with him the most was when he was six, a bit of a timid child walking hand in hand with the faceless man, yet he knew it was his father, and when he was twelve, when he'd let him go into the surgery with him, to observe him waiting on patients. His father didn't speak verbally in those dreams but he knew what he was saying by hearing a toneless voice in his head, as if he was projecting his thoughts to him.
He awoke, faced with the glaring reality that he had forgotten his father's voice and what he had looked like. He started displaying his father's picture again. He looked about to be in his early fifties, the same age he was now, his blondish-brown hair lighter and greying, his blue-grey eyes staring back at him. Matthew had always thought he looked more like his mother, which his mother whole-heartedly disagreed.
"When you were born, I said you looked nothing like me, but your father was the one to point out that 'he does have your chin'
It had sent Mary into a reel of laughter, that he had to smile, nearly chocking on his drink.
"He does have your eyes." Mary added.
"But he takes more after his father. Just as George does."
"We knew how to pick our men, with such handsome genes." Matthew stared down at his cup, embarrassed that his wife and mother would speak so openly of such things.
"Speaking of handsome..."
Matthew turned his head in his mother's direction, to see Clarkson entering. It was also still strange and foreign to him to hear her speak of Clarkson in such a way she had with his father.
His relationship with this stepfather had had a rocky start. It had nothing to do about Clarkson being so blunt with his first diagnosis. After Sybil's death, he had overheard Violet trying to persuade Clarkson to lie about it not being his fault that Sybil had died, that she would have either way if Matthew was able to get help sooner or if that hadn't been alone in the house with her that night, in order to fix Robert and Matthew's relationship. Matthew hadn't stuck around long enough to hear Clarkson say, that it wouldn't be a lie. If she had been able to get to hospital and have a caesarian carried out successfully, a procedure that could be traumatic to both mother and baby, she still would have died.
He had confronted Clarkson about it. "Just say it. It was my fault then.
Clarkson was losing his patients. "You have the need to find yourself guilty of everything! Including situations that could not possibly be your fault."
Matthew had admitted it. It was how he could live with himself.
"If you continue to do this, you will not live a productive, healthy, happy life. Don't you owe that to them, your mother, your wife, your son?"
He had stared at the doctor, bewildered for a moment, almost foaming at the mouth, before deciding he was right, as he thought of his family.
Before he could answer they were interrupted.
Several years later, when Clarkson announced to him that he asked his mother to marry him, it was then they had come to the agreement that they both wanted what was best for his mother.
"I don't want you to think that I'm replacing your father."
"No. Of course I don't think that. You're good for my mother. That's good enough for me."
He felt bad of course, for not having made the effort to be closer to Clarkson as a true father and son. He wondered if that's what Mary thought about Rachel. She was still a dominate force in the children's lives, but step-daughter and step-mother's lives were separate. His mother had loved Clarkson so much. Now that he was gone, he was growing increasingly worried about her.
Though tonight, he dreamed of his father again.
Often his father would take him on visits to his surgery and let him watch him examine people and afterwards he would explain to him the treatments he recommended and suggested remedies. His father was pleased that his son was taking interest in his work and at such a young age, at the age of eight. So pleased in fact, he would often say 'pleased as punch' Matthew hadn't understood the meaning of the phrase and thought he had meant the beverage, until one day he had seen a Punch and Judy show. His mother would be embarrassed whenever his father used the expression. She thought the sketches crude and barbaric. Maybe that's why she didn't like it. But Matthew had found them hilarious.
"By the time he was twelve, he found that he no longer enjoyed it, accompany his father to the surgery when he was home from boarding school. He had only gone to make his father proud, but he felt that it wasn't right. He didn't know how he would tell his father that he didn't want to be a doctor, most of all how to tell his mother.
"What would he do? He had no idea, but he did know what he wouldn't. He didn't want to cut people open and spend his life around sick people. He admired his father so much and hoped to be like him. But perhaps he wasn't.
He was already starting to feel the pressures of being an only child as he was starting to approach adulthood, only a few short years away before he'd be eighteen. He had started acting out as a way of defying his parents and their expectations.
When he had gotten into trouble for the umpteenth time, this time for fighting, his father looked as though he would box his ears but knew he wouldn't as his father was a non-violent man who opposed violence. A natural characteristic of one that heals people for a living.
"It's your fault that you told me to question everything. You don't know what things are like there. You have to go after the biggest one, father. They'll leave you alone."
His father had thought about pulling him out of school, but his education was important, and he couldn't afford to get expelled, his further education and future at steak. Somehow he had pulled some strings and Matthew was able to finish the rest of the term.
"I hope you understand what I had to do for you, for that horrid man and that school. He agreed to have you under the circumstances..."
"Maybe I don't want to go back."
"You have no choice. We can't afford for you to mess this up again. Or it's over. It's done for you. You understand?" Everything your mother and I worked so hard for, to provide the best for you. And this is how you repay us! Not another fight you hear me? Not another toe or finger out of line..."
"But I hate it there!"
"You need to learn to grow up! Build some...build some character."
"That was the only time his father had ever raised his voice. He could still hear it as he woke, shaking off the remnants of sleep. He recalled that his father had apologized to him, but still could not recall his voice. He had caught him crying, an embarrassing moment for no doubt both of them. He remembered his father telling him he didn't need to be ashamed and how proud he was of him. But he had messed up. Matthew had protested.
"That's what parents do. They love their children regardless of their mistakes. But don't think you can use that as an excuse. I want you to put in an effort, keep standing up for yourself if you must. But no fights. You'll be fine."
"But was he proud of him in the end? Would he still be proud of him now?
Isobel Crawley was dreaming. She was a young woman of twenty-nine, expecting her next child. She was remembering how happy she felt as she ironed, hanging the clothes up to dry. She felt his familiar kicks and stopped to rub her stomach now and then. Suddenly it seemed to stop, followed by a short pain in her ribs that traveled down to her pelvis.
"No. It's not time yet."
Out of nowhere a sudden panic and dread washed over her like a cold sweat.
"Isobel, darling, what are you doing? I hired a maid for that. You're to strictly be in bed...
"I can't do this Reggie...I can't. What if I lose him, like I lost the others." Six children she's lost. She sank to the floor on her knees. Reggie rushed over to her but she tried to keep him away.
"You're not going to. I'll call the midwife..."
"No...it is...isn't time. It's too soon..."
"Isobel can you tell me how far apart they?"
"T...ten." She shivered with the increasing pain. "but it isn't time." She had a few weeks yet.
"It is time. I don't think we'll have time to call on another doctor. I will deliver our child myself if I have to."
"No. Reggie, please. Please. I can't do it again. I can't survive it again. I just can't." Tears fall down her face in rivers. "What sort of wife am I if I can't give you children? What if I'm not meant to be a mother? You deserve a better wife.
"Don't say that. Of course you're meant to."
"I can't. I just can't. Oh GOD!" She screamed out against the unbearable pain. "Don't make me..." Lose another.
"Look, at me. Iz...look at me." He had to take her face in her hands. "I know that we'll survive, you'll survive. This child...its meant to be..."
"How...do you know?"
"Trust me."
"How can I survive this?"
"Because you're my storm braver."
And when he was born, smiling down at him while she held him in her arms, strong and healthy, there was no other greater joy she had felt in a long time.
"What do you think we should name him?"
"Him?" Reggie came down to sit beside her. "I have a son." A red and wrinkly face peered out at him. "He is very not happy at all."
"He does have a good set of lungs on him. That's what the doctor said after he gave him a good slap."
"The other mother's could hear him several halls over. That was really him?"
"That's our boy! We're going to have more than our hands full."
"How did you know it was going to be a boy?"
"Well, you know." She shrugged. "I just had a feeling." They sat close to each other as they both held their new-born.
"Matthew."
""What?" Reggie's eyebrows knitted together.
"His name is Matthew. I've been thinking about it for a while. I didn't want to say it if it wasn't meant to happen. I want to name him Matthew."
"Matthew" The infant yawned and wiggled his fingers as if in agreement. "It suits him."
"It means gift. I don't think he very much looks like me." She looked down to examine him again. She wanted to take him in again, to make sure this was all real.
"No." Reggie chuckled as a thought occurred to him, "But he does have your chin."
"He does, doesn't he?" Isobel nudged him and laughed as well. No wails of an infant disturbing the mothers but the laughter of two people in love, who had lost so much. Their love and laughter would echo throughout their life together. She had been able to find that laughter again with Richard, while not quite the same.
Matthew dreaded going to tea at his mother's that afternoon, because he knows what he must ask her. He couldn't put it off much longer. Mary was right, though he hated to admit it, that his mother didn't have much time left.
"It feels like she's hiding something from me. In all the years, we've been growing close again, I still feel there are things I don't know, that she isn't telling me. I'm going to ask, starting with that picture."
"Are you sure? That was years ago. I doubt she'd remember."
"You've noticed too. That she's becoming forgetful."
Mary nodded. "At the church. She talked about cutting her hair. I asked her about it afterwards and referred her to my hair stylist. She acted as if she had no idea, we had spoken about it, saying it was a preposterous idea."
"That is why I need to go see her."
"I can go with you." Mary said, sensing the tension. "For moral support."
He had no choice to refuse. He was hoping that maybe he could use it as an excuse to confront his mother later. As they stepped into the foyer of Crawley House, they could hear a distinguished voice coming from the drawing room.
"I'm fine, Isobel. Is the tea ready?"
"Oh yes. The tray's been set."
"Lovely. You can have it brought straight in."
"And your medicine?"
"Just the tea, thank you."
"But you didn't take it yesterday, either."
"Now, don't fuss, Isobel."
"That's nurse to you."
"The maid showed them in. The two old women were in the middle of a game of cards.
"Mary, dear!" Violet lit up as soon as she saw her granddaughter and then her husband behind her. "Matthew." She then turned back to Mary. "Are you planning on joining us?"
"No. Thanks though. I thought I could speak with you about something in private. Maybe we could go upstairs to talk?"
"That would be rather wise. I think I know what this is about. Give these two a chance to get caught up." The two left the room.
"I wonder what that could have been about." Isobel shrugged.
"I think she's planning on talking Violet into having a birthday party. It's not every day one turns ninety-seven."
"I don't think she should have a very big one, with her health. I know patients families want what is best for their family member and cheer them up but sometimes it's not worth the risk." She looked at him directly now. "Why is it that you've come by?"
"We've talked about it on the ph... doesn't matter. I came here to have a word with you. There is something I need to ask you."
"I knew this would come. That you would like to know more about my family."
"I do. Grandfather, more specifically. His first wife." For a moment his mother stood frozen. Was it fear or embarrassment he saw on her face?
"Wait, here. I have just the thing." His mother got up and started looking around the room for something. "I know it's around here somewhere. Where did I put it?"
She was becoming quite forgetful lately. It had started out, before Clarkson died, with her simply misplacing things. It seemed to be getting a bit worse after he had died. Doc Abernathy, the young doctor in the village, (well, young to him at thirty-seven) said that it was senility, which was common among old age, or it could be the heart trouble.
A few days ago, Matthew had noticed that the tips of his mother's fingers looked blue. She had told him that they were just cold, but he knew better. He had been the one to suggest it to Abernathy that it might a sign of heart failure. Abernathy had said "unfortunately, yes. She can take come pills to keep it managed.
Violet, who had moved in with her old friend, always made sure that she took them. But even she wouldn't be around forever.
He had told Abernathy that her forgetfulness had been going on for some time now. "Then it's most likely the former, which could lead to further cognitive decline." Abernathy had said. It had seemed cold to Matthew, for himself to hope that he and his family wouldn't get a chance to suffer through the worst of it, that she didn't have much longer, if that was the case.
She finally stopped over to the desk, opening all the drawers.
"Ah, here it is! I contacted the family that live in our old house in Manchester. They found this in the attic." She was lifting something heavy from one of the drawers of her desk, setting it down on top. It was a very large leather-bound book. "Though you have to be careful. The binding is very fragile."
He came over to have a closer look. It was hard to move around today. Maybe he should have brought his chair.
"Matthew, you're limping! Did you hurt your leg?"
"It's nothing, mother. It's this damnable weather."
"You ought to have that looked at." His mother said. "I could if you'd want me."
"No need." He observed that the book was the ancient family bible, which had to at least be over a hundred years old, it's pages yellow and musty and thin.
"You'll find your grandfather and his first wife and yourself there." She said as he opened it and flipped through the first several pages.
He momentarily looked at the direction of the stairs. He didn't need to worry about them coming down at any time soon. Mary, no doubt would seek a distraction to give him enough time, which wouldn't be much trouble, since she could manage to get Violet to talk her ear off for hours, if need be.
""Thank you so much for agreeing to see me." Mary said, after getting her grandmother situated in a chair, after a long argument of not wanting the bed. "On your birthday too!"
Violet waved away the gratitude. "It's just another day."
"Ninety-seven is not just another day. You're fortunate that I was the only one who remembered. The children are busy with their own thing and husbands are terrible at remembering dates." He hadn't really but she wasn't going to tell Granny that. "I'm sure Isobel had her reasons. She has her own health."
Violet's eyes flittered to the door. "I'm getting rather worried about her. She's becoming quite forgetful at times, more so since this awful business with Clarkson."
"He died, Granny. He didn't go on Holiday.
"Yes, well. She's always been a very sweet and enduring companion and friend and I could not live here on my own without her, but I'd rather have the freedom to say whatever I want. When you get to be my age your physical frailties cause people to think you can't make your own decisions."
"I know that all too well Granny." And Matthew's not even old yet.
"Yes. Of course, you would. I don't want anything special."
"Granny, you and I both know that isn't true. We'll have you the grandest old party!"
"We? And who will be planning it?"
"Edith and I will be doing the planning."
"I'd like to see that go over well." Violet chuckled.
"We're both mature adults. We can be civil, you know. When we want to."
"How is our dear Edith?"
Mary was glad she asked. It would buy Matthew even more time, talking about Brancaster and how Edith and Bertie were doing. And she genuinely loved talking about her nephew Jay and his achievements just as she did her own children. Her third 'little prince.'
"You see, the dates do all line up."
He did see the dates of death that appeared that they would be accurate. He did find his brother Teddy and his sister Emma, who had been stillborn like his Beth. Scanning the other names, however, he came across some others before his, names of two children, that had died young, that he had never heard of before. Only one of them could correspond with the right age as the little girl in the photograph. But there were some things that he needed to know first.
"How do we know that grandfather didn't lie?"
"We don't."
Matthew sunk down into the seat further, wishing it could swallow him whole, as his mother continued on speaking.
"No one will know. No one will have proof."
"But it will be a lie. Have you always known?" He kept his voice neutral and devoid of emotion, though it tried to bubble to the service. He wouldn't get anywhere if he let his emotions and feelings get the best of him. She didn't give him a direct answer.
"Do you remember when Violet and I were in the Mediterranean..."
"And everyone was frantic trying to find out why you both ran off." He said, stating, not questioning.
"The truth is, I was running from something. We both were. It wasn't just to help a friend in need. I confided in her, about what happened with your grandfather. While she told me the truth about Montmirail."
"You knew about that then?"
"Let me finish. She gave me the same advice I gave her. She told me that I should tell you if I must, that you would do right by the information, to protect your family. Of course, she didn't need to tell me."
"Violet knows." He scoffed. Angry that she had the courage to tell her and not her own son and embarrassed for Violet having to keep such a secret.
"She was the only one I could trust...She thinks of you as the grandson she never had." She sat down next to him, putting her hand on his. "My father was unhappy in his first marriage. He fell in love with another woman. My Mother."
"It took everything in him not to flinch away from her. He had one more question to ask and prayed that she would answer him truthfully this time for he didn't think he could bear another lie from her.
"Did father know?"
"It didn't matter to him. He loved me and was happy to have you as a son."
"No wonder grandmother hated us." His grandmother Eleanor, his father's mother had never gotten along with his own mother and had seen Matthew as indifferent. Now it all made sense. The way his mother had gone out of her way to help Ethel all those years ago, hadn't just been the sympathies of a modern thinking woman, but that of a woman of understanding. That hadn't been a horrible thing, what she had done for Ethel, who's life could have been left to ruin. He hoped she had lived a good life. "That's why she hated us." He glanced up at the ceiling, not knowing exactly what for." Grandmother." He snapped his head back towards his mother. "And you let me go on to believe that it was I that had done something wrong."
"Please, Matthew, let me explain." She went to touch him again. This time he did flinch away. The fact that she had the audacity to still lie, just mere seconds ago.
"I came here, thinking how much I didn't know about you. I was right. I don't know you. AT ALL." He slapped his gloves against the desk. "I never did. All those years we spent getting to know each other, as mother and son again...it was all for nothing."
"No...It wasn't..." It wasn't like that."
"I don't think I can forgive you." He got up, moving as fast as he could.
"Matthew? Matthew?" She calls after him.
Downstairs Mary hears a door slam.
When they arrived home, Mary sat silent, in thought, as he went off in a tangent. He was the son of his grandfather's by-blow, who had given up his previous life and abandoned his other children to live a life with his mistress, who in a twist of fate, had died when his mother had been two years old.
"You're angry, darling. You're not thinking straight."
"Damn right I'm angry. My father chose you as the heir. Therefore, you are the Earl, and so will George one day. No one can take that away from us. We'll just have to do what we did about Pamuk. What about when I thought my father wasn't the heir with that Montmirail business."
"This is different. This will be harder to prove."
"Even so, you said so yourself. That it will be difficult to prove."
"No secret stays hidden forever. Fired maids speak poorly of their former employers. Those left without a good reference like to reveal a good sandal to get revenge."
"Then we'll not fire any maids then. If we have to let some go, we'll make sure to pay handsomely and give them outstanding references."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." She took a moment to think. "Everyone has secrets. We're not the first to have them. There were probably a lot of Crawley's born on the wrong side of the sheets. I heard that the third Earl was quite the philanderer. Your great-great-grandfather could have been one of his secret love children." She spoke only in jest but it only seemed to aggravate him. Gritty sand in one's teeth.
"You're not helping."
Mary gave a sigh, putting down her earrings, as she looked at his reflection in the mirror. "I don't blame your grandfather. Or your mother. It's better to live with someone you love rather than a lifetime of misery."
"But how do I know that was the reason and he didn't just get bored one day and abandoned his other children out of spite?"
"Maybe he couldn't take care of them. And tried to make up for it with your mother and Uncle. Maybe she forbid him to see their children or they turned against him. It wouldn't be too far-fetched. He did leave them for a younger woman." She saw that he was pondering this. "You told me your grandfather was a changed man when you were born. That was when you only knew of his drinking, and he stopped to turn his life around." He had started drinking after retiring as a well renowned and established doctor. It had to have been hard on him, having to give up something you loved and no longer able to do, no doubt where Matthew had gotten his drive from. "Whatever your grandfather's reasons were, your mother is innocent in all this. It isn't her fault that the conforms of society thinks she doesn't belong, the very reason she was trying to protect you from the truth. You should forgive her."
"I know you're right. I'm just tired of all the lies.
She ruffled the back of his hair. "Never a dull moment with the Crawleys." He gave a slight laugh when she said that. "What were you always telling Tom about sticking together?"
"With the Crawley girls we've got to stick together."
"And we have three of them. Lord help us."
She really did know how to make him feel better, feel levelheaded again.
"I didn't ask her about the little girl in the picture. I didn't get a chance to. I'm not sure if I want to."
"You should. Or you may come to regret not knowing. It doesn't bid well to hold a grudge. You told me that once."
"You're right." He hesitated. "I should give her the benefit of the doubt. It did appear that she was trying to say something else. I just didn't give her the chance. Mother has her faults. We all do. Who am I to judge, with what I've done?" He shrugged and rubbed the faint stubble on his cheek. "I don't know."
"What have you done?" She had always wanted to know. It ran deeper than just having to kill in the war to survive. Maybe she would never know, as always, he didn't answer.
