Chapter 48: Interlude Part 2: Behind Blue Eyes
Friday Afternoon (and 26 Years and Nine Months Earlier)
Ever since Uncle Dick had died and left Havenhurst Farm to his nephew and his favourite niece, it was rare for Christopher to bother making the trip from London all the way out to Portwenn. He had always shrugged off his half-interest in the farm as too minor for a successful surgeon like himself to bother with, except as a place to farm out his son for summers and school holidays. That is, until he decided Joan was a bad influence on the boy.
Then one day he phoned, saying he expected to be in the vicinity for a medical conference, and asking to have a look at the portrait of their great-great-grandfather Richard Martin Trevillian, fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, which had graced the front room of the farmhouse for years.
When Phil had first been diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease, Joan had taken down the painting and stashed it in the barn with other family items, finding her maternal ancestor's stern expression too depressing to have staring down at her all the time. She was willing to let Christopher take it in the interest of encouraging some family harmony, since he did technically still own half her farm, and she hoped to use it as a bargaining chip to allow Martin to visit once again.
"Old Great-Great-Granddad was an accomplished surgeon in his day," Christopher said. "He worked with Charles Bell, who first described the symptoms of what we now know as MND."
"I know," she replied. "Martin informed me when he was 11. He's really quite a brilliant child, very precocious."
"Ironic isn't it, that your Phil now has MND. Funny how these things turn out."
Joan made a face, unseen over the phone, and refrained from snapping back that she found nothing funny about it. She ignored her brother's remark just as he had ignored hers about Martin's brilliance. She still hoped she could soften Christopher's stand on keeping his now 15-year-old son away from her.
"You know, I've always thought that old painting might be the work of John Partridge," Christopher continued. "I'd like to have an appraiser look at it, strictly for insurance purposes."
Joan suspected Margaret had seen a similar painting appraised for a high sum on the Antiques Roadshow and had urged Christopher to claim the family heirloom for the prestige value, but she consoled herself with the thought that Martin would inherit the portrait one day, if Christopher or Margaret didn't decide to sell it at auction first.
"So what time can I expect you at the train station Saturday?" she asked.
"I'll be driving. I should be there around 11 a.m."
"That early? I have to take Phil into Truro in the morning to see a specialist. He's been having some difficulty walking. We probably won't be back until at least 1 o'clock."
"I want to get an early start out of London, avoid the traffic. Got a new Jag convertible, can't wait to really open her up on the motorway and Margaret won't be along to keep nagging me to slow down."
Joan was silently grateful for that at least. "Fine, you know where the key is, just let yourself in. I'll leave some shepherd's pie and some beer in the fridge if you're hungry, and we'll be along as soon as we can."
Saturday also happened to be the day when Mary opened a letter from the bank and found out Bert had missed two mortgage payments. It was their worst row yet, and she stormed out of their cottage on Fore Street at noon to drive out to Havenhurst Farm to find a sympathetic ear.
And so it was that the only person at the farm to greet a very vulnerable Mary Large was Christopher Ellingham.
ooOOOOOOOoo
When Joan and Phil came home from Truro, they were surprised to see both a red Jaguar convertible and the Large plumber's van at the farm. She carefully supported him as they slowly made their way in the front door to find to find her brother and her friend in disarray on the sofa.
Mary was all embarrassed apologies, putting her dress to rights, but unable to look a shocked Joan in the eye. She rushed out the door and drove off in the van.
Christopher offered no explanations and no apologies to his furious sister. "Found the painting in the barn, Joanie, and your friend just happened to show up. Sorry to hear you're under the weather, Phil. They're making great strides in MND research lately. Looks like dark clouds coming in off the coast, I'd best be off and try to beat the rain."
He sped away with their sternly disapproving great-great-grandfather's life-sized portrait in its ornate gilt frame occupying the tiny back seat of the Jaguar convertible, smugly satisfied that he had managed to snag a valuable artwork and shag one of the locals in the process. And Joan felt her hopes for him rescinding the ban on Martin's visits speed off with him.
Joan felt estranged from her friend for quite a while after the incident. They managed to avoid each other, not an easy feat in a tiny village, but after six weeks there came a knock at the farmhouse door. Joan opened it and there was Mary.
"Please don't shut the door, Joanie!" she pleaded. "I need to face up to what happened."
Joan hesitated a moment, then slowly opened the door wider. "Phil's upstairs sleeping. Come in and I'll put the kettle on."
They sat at the kitchen table and Mary tearfully explained that Bert had spent all their savings on a stock tip that hadn't panned out. When she found out she had driven off in the van in a blind fury, with no plan except the intention of never going back.
"I was at my wit's end Joanie, I really felt it was the end of my marriage. I came here because I needed someone to talk to… and you're my best friend. I was so surprised when this stranger answered the door. He explained that he was your brother and… well, he was just so charming. We sat at the table and he offered me a beer… and then…"
"I can just imagine," Joan said. "You were a damsel in distress and my suave, sophisticated brother was only too happy to lend a shoulder and so much more. Well, I reckon I can't exactly cast the first stone."
Mary nodded and looked down, ashamed. "I know it was wrong. When I drove out of here, I just pulled over in a field and cried and cried. I really felt I had nowhere to go… so in the end I went back home and confessed everything to Bert. We apologized to each other and I told him I would sell the silver tea set I inherited from my Gran to pay the bills if he would promise to stick with the plumbing business from now on."
She looked up and smiled a little for the first time since she had arrived. "You know what they say about couples making up after a big fight. We had a fabulous night together and things have never been better. And I've got some news…" Her smile grew bigger. "I'm expecting!"
Joan was even more shocked than she had been on discovering Mary with Christopher in flagrante on the sofa. "How can you be certain who the father is? Especially since you and Bert have been unsuccessful so far."
"Well, your brother… he pulled out before he… well, you know. I'm not naïve about these things, Joanie, I know that's no guarantee. Bert doesn't know it was your brother but I've been completely honest with him. We've agreed to put it all behind us. He couldn't be more excited… Ironic isn't it. It's like my chance encounter with your brother actually saved my marriage. Funny how these things turn out."
ooOOOOOOOoo
When Alan Mark Large was born Joan tried her best to be happy for the proud parents, grimly consoling herself with the thought that being childless meant she didn't have to worry about a son or daughter inheriting Phil's Motor Neurone Disease.
However, as young Al grew Joan couldn't help but wonder about his origin. Certainly physically and temperamentally he was as different from Bert as night and day, but then, Joan reflected, the same might be said about him and Christopher.
She had once asked Martin about this, without going into why she wanted to know. "Was it possible for two brown-eyed parents to have a blue-eyed child?"
His answer had involved simple Mendelian traits versus dominant and modifier genes controlling additive pigments, but it boiled down to the fact that a wide variety of genes are involved in the formation of the eye that dictate iris colour, especially in a varied genetic population such as that of contemporary Britain. Joan had not given any thought to such things since being in school but as a farmer she had some understanding of how certain traits were passed down in sheep or chickens.
"So, short answer is 'yes,'" she said.
"Er, it's uncommon, but yes… it is possible," he replied.
ooOOOOOOOoo
Now today, in her farmhouse kitchen, looking out the window at Martin and Al conversing, she thought of another recent conversation she had had with Al.
"What if I've been callin' a stranger Dad for 25 years?" Al asked her.
"He's Bert. He's your father," she said, as she threw the chickens their feed.
"Well that's the point then, innit. What if he's not?"
"Fine, Al," she said, patiently. "Let's just suppose that he's not. What are you going to do?"
"How d'you mean?"
"Well, are you going to walk away from him? Or are you going to ignore him? Or you might want to think about how he's been feeling all these years, not knowing. And the fact that he's kept loving you."
"Hm," was his only reply.
Alone in her kitchen, Joan smiled to herself, as she watched her two favourite men in the world. She knew they were both having their romantic travails, Martin with Louisa and Al with Pauline. She wanted to give them the benefit of her life experience, to tell them life has its ups and downs and you shouldn't take love for granted, but her life experience had also taught her that everyone has to find their own way in the world and make their own mistakes.
So instead she just watched as they concluded their conversation, shook hands, and drove off, one in a Lexus and one in a plumber's van.
We now return to our regularly scheduled story… And please remember, any reviews and positive feedback are greatly appreciated!
Note: John Partridge (1789-1872) was a British artist. Named "portrait painter-extraordinary" to Queen Victoria, his paintings depicted many of the notable figures of his time.