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‘It was a mistake, I swear. The lights went out,’ she repeated.
‘The night of the Great Storm.’
‘Yes, yes.’
Abigail was getting frustrated. The conversation was going round in circles. ‘What happened, Joyce? Tell me – what did you do!’
Suddenly Joyce got hysterical, shouting and cursing.
Abigail stood up as a care assistant rushed over, carrying some medication, encouraging Joyce to take her tablets.
As Abigail stood there staring at Joyce, thinking she’d better go, she heard her mobile phone. There was a text. Abigail stood by the bay window and looked at her phone. It was from Joss. She took a deep breath and read it.Sorry, Abigail, but the test was negative. I’m not related to Toby. My uncle was telling the truth. Toby isn’t his son.
Abigail stared at the text. Her immediate thought was,could Toby still be Daphne’s son with her husband?But she knew that wasn’t the case; they never had children. If they had, then Daphne wouldn’t have kept him a secret from her husband. So, if Toby wasn’t Daphne’s son, why did she want him to have the cottage? She was back to square one, and no nearer finding out the truth about Toby’s parentage, unless …
Abigail turned from the window, her gaze settling on Joyce, who was now sitting subdued, sipping water. The pills had obviously had an effect. She looked at the care assistant. ‘May I talk to her again?’
The young lady smiled. ‘Yes, but I would make it brief. The medication makes her drowsy.’
Abigail could see Joyce’s eyelids growing heavy. She walked over and took a seat once more in front of her. She changed tack, deciding not to mention babies. ‘Joyce, you’re one of the trustees of Daphne’s cottage.’ Like Albert, this was only a guess, but Abigail knew she must be.
‘Daphne.’
‘That’s right, Daphne, the lady who owned The Hideaway.’ Abigail could see a flicker of recognition, so she pressed on. ‘Joyce, why did Daphne put the cottage in trust for Toby?’
‘To right a wrong, Abigail,’ Joyce replied, staring at her.
Abigail looked at her in surprise. The old Joyce was back.
Abigail quickly asked, ‘What do you mean, to right a wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘It was the least Daphne could do after—’ Joyce’s eyes darted around the room as if she was afraid she’d been overheard.
‘After …?’ Abigail prompted.
Joyce turned back to look at Abigail and frowned. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Abigail. You were talking about Daphne and Toby.’
‘I don’t know who you are! What are you doing in my house?’
‘Your … house?’
The care assistant overheard the conversation. She sidled up to Abigail and whispered, ‘I’m afraid this happens. They don’t realise where they are. Sometimes, I think it’s for the best.’
When Abigail turned back to look at Joyce, her eyes were closed. She was gone. Abigail sighed and rose from her seat.
‘Why don’t you come back tomorrow?’ offered the care assistant.
Abigail doubted she would get anything more from Joyce. She realised she’d been lucky to get one coherent response from Joyce, and even that had been cut short. Abigail knew she wouldn’t be back. Her hand moved to her stomach. That wasn’t true. She’d be back to tell Joyce she was having Toby’s baby, and to show her grandson to her, if – god willing – she was still around. Although she knew Joyce wasn’t Toby’s biological mother, she had raised Toby. She was the only mother Toby had ever known. And Toby’s step-parents might be the only paternal grandparents her child would ever know.
Abigail smiled at the care assistant. ‘I’ll be back,’ she said before finding her own way out. Abigail stopped beside Penelope and stood there looking at the view, the sea glittering in the afternoon sunshine. She spied a large container ship on the horizon making its way along the coast to Felixstowe port. Her eyes drifted to the promenade below, which was full of people out for a stroll in the glorious October sunshine.
Despite the beautiful weather, and the long journey there, she didn’t feel inclined to stop for a walk along the promenade. It would mean retracing the route she and Toby had taken through the gardens to the seafront promenade that led to the pier and the amusement arcades. She knew she’d do it one day, though; she imagined taking her child there and walking him or her to the pier for ice-cream or hot donuts. Today she didn’t feel in the mood for a walk down memory lane.
Abigail frowned as she got in her car. The text from Joss was not what she’d expected and, to top it all, she had walked away from her visit with Joyce with more questions than answers. The only thing she’d gleaned was that on the night of the Great Storm, the night Toby was born, Joyce had made a mistake. What that mistake was, and why it would have got her struck off from practising nursing, was troubling. She started the engine and paused to look up at the care home.
‘What happened the night of the Great Storm?’
