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‘Oh dear.’ Morag demolished half a pink wafer in one bite.
‘Do you know who my father is, my biological father?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’
‘Does his name begin with J?’
‘I truly don’t know, Rosie. Your mother never told me and I didn’t pry. It was her business.’
‘And now it’s my business.’
Morag sighed. ‘Your mother had her reasons for not telling you. She wanted you to have a good relationship with the man you thought of as your dad and, as he said nothing to you about it, he was presumably keen that you should never know. That no one knew, in fact.’
‘But why didn’t she tell me the truth after Dad left, or when I grew up? I don’t understand.’
‘Sometimes secrets can take on a life of their own until there’s no way out.’ Morag gazed into the distance, far away in her thoughts. Then she gave her head the slightest of shakes. ‘I’m sure your mother would have told you one day, but she passed away far sooner than she expected.’
That would have been quite a chat over her mum’s favourite caramel lattes at Driftwood House.You know the man you’ve called Dad for almost thirty years, Rosie? The man who left us, the man whose death you mourned? As it happens, he wasn’t your real dad at all.
Rosie brought her attention back to the stifling room. ‘Did you and Mum stay friends, Morag?’
‘For a while but our lives moved on, and I moved away. I was surprised your mother didn’t keep in touch, but perhaps I knew too much to have around. I’m sure I was soon forgotten.’
‘I don’t think so. She kept your photo hidden away for almost thirty years with the love letter.’
Morag smiled. ‘That’s very touching. Perhaps it was meant as a back-up if she wasn’t around to tell you the truth when the time was right. She meant for you to find it and to come and find me.’
‘Perhaps. Is there anything else at all you can remember from back then?’
‘Nothing, except that Rose was your mother’s choice of name. She was most insistent about it, which I’ve always remembered because it’s my sister’s name.’ Morag settled back in her chair and picked up a chocolate digestive. ‘But that’s enough talk of the past. Why don’t you tell me more about you, Rosie, and about your life abroad? It’s been a while since I’ve travelled and I’m not averse to living vicariously through your adventures.’
An hour later, Rosie left Morag’s cosy home and walked to the outskirts of the town which edged Dartmoor. A vast landscape, black under the shadow of dark clouds, stretched out before her. It rose to the peaks of rocky tors and dipped into shallow valleys all the way to the horizon.
This morning had been intense, but rather than feeling shocked or upset following Morag’s bombshell, Rosie felt eerily calm. It was as if pieces of a puzzle had slotted into place, and things made more sense now – why her mum never wanted to talk about her birth; why her dad sometimes looked at her as though he didn’t know her at all.
She and her dad had clashed frequently. They were different in so many ways: colouring, temperament and interests. But he was a good man to take on another man’s child and raise her as his own. Even if it had become too much for him eventually.
It was almost a decade since he’d died, but Rosie sat at the edge of the moors and cried for her dad all over again.
