March 2014

Leicester, Leicestershire

 

Quinn boarded the London-bound train and settled in a window seat, plopping her handbag in the adjacent seat to prevent some socially-minded stranger from sitting next to her and talking her ear off for an hour-and-a-half. She was in no mood to make small talk. In fact, she was in no mood to do anything more than stare out the window. When she’d arrived in Leicester several hours ago, the day had been sunny and dry, but at the moment, a steady rain fell from the lowering sky, and despite the early hour, it looked like night was fast approaching.

The train began to glide out of the station, the houses alongside the track sliding past as Quinn stared miserably out the window. She reached into her bag and pulled out a roll of mints. She suddenly felt lightheaded and nauseated and hoped the mints would help combat the rising bile. Thankfully, the feeling passed quickly, and she leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes, shutting out the rain-drenched scenery. She just wanted to go home, change into comfortable clothes, make a cup of tea, and curl up on the sofa, preferably alone. She’d tell Gabe what happened, but first she needed a little quiet time to process what she’d learned. They had a mighty row about today’s outing, but in the end, he reluctantly gave her his blessing. He wanted to come along, but Quinn resolutely refused the offer, explaining to him once again that she needed to do this alone. One thing she had promised him — willingly — was that there were going to be no games of deception. She would be honest and see where it took her.

Quinn arrived in Leicester just before noon and walked to the High Street. It had taken nearly a half hour, but Quinn didn’t mind. She used the time to prepare herself for the meeting that was about to take place. She’d been determined to do this, but now that she was there, all she wanted was to turn around and go back home. It wasn’t too late to change her mind, but she knew that she’d find herself right back in Leicester, maybe not tomorrow, but next week or next month. For better or worse, she had to find out the truth.

The Queen’s Arms Pub looked like countless other pubs all over England. The façade was old-fashioned and quaint, the interior dim and somewhat oppressive. The blackened beams dissected the white plaster walls like veins, and the brown carpet on the floor had seen better days and much spilled beer. There was a fireplace directly across from the bar, where a merry fire crackled in the grate. Several patrons occupied the tables closest to the fire, enjoying the warmth and the comfortable atmosphere. An attractive middle-aged woman, her blonde hair silvered with gray, came out of the kitchen with a tray loaded with food, and Quinn suddenly felt hungry. The fish and chips smelled divine, and so did the steak and kidney pie. For the past two weeks, she’d been alternating between nausea and all-consuming hunger, but lunch would have to wait, and if she still had an appetite, she’d treat herself to something nice.

Quinn approached the bar, which was manned by a man of late middle-age. He wore a dun-colored sweater vest with matching corduroy trousers and a pair of rimless specs, which gave him a professorial air. His sandy hair was thinning, and there were deep grooves running alongside his mouth. He was in the process of drawing pints of Guinness, but looked up as Quinn approached and gave her a friendly grin.

“Good day to you, love. What can I get you?” he asked. Quinn would dearly have loved a glass of wine to steady her nerves, but alcohol didn’t seem to agree with her these days.

“Orange juice, please,” Quinn said. She knew she sounded nervous, and the man had realized it as well.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he set the glass of juice in front of her. Quinn nodded, took a sip to wet her mouth, since it’d suddenly gone completely dry, and plunged in.

“Are you the Steven Kane who used to reside in Dunston?” she asked softly. She didn’t want to sound like she was interrogating the man, but she had to make sure he was the right Steven Kane before stating her business. She was fairly sure that he was.

“Yes. Who’s asking?” he asked, suddenly wary of her.

“My name is Quinn Allenby. I would like a moment of your time, Mr. Kane.”

“What’s this about? It’s nearly lunchtime and we’re busy. Are you selling life insurance or some such nonsense?” he asked, squinting at her and pursing his lips.

“I’m not selling anything, Mr. Kane. I would like to speak to you regarding a personal matter,” Quinn explained. He shook his head in irritation and swept the payment for the juice off the counter with a practiced motion.

“What possible personal business can you have with me?” he asked. His steely gaze bored into her, daring her to tell him what she wanted, so that he could dismiss her and send her on her way. The façade of the friendly pub-owner had been replaced with the countenance of a man who’d have no problem with evicting her from the premises if she persisted in harassing him.

“My mother is Sylvia Wyatt, but you would have known her as Sylvia Moore,” Quinn replied, hoping that Sylvia’s name would pique his curiosity enough to at least hear her out.

Steven Kane paused in the act of filling a glass and stared at her, his expression almost comical. Hearing Sylvia’s name seemed to have that effect on people, but his attitude thawed somewhat as he studied Quinn with a newfound interest. He finished his task, pushed the glass across the bar toward a customer and scanned the dining room, clearly looking for someone.

“Rhoda, would you mind the bar for a spell?” he called out to the blonde woman. “I just need to have a word with this young lady.”

Rhoda gave Steven Kane the gimlet eye before placing several dirty glasses on a round tray and coming back toward the bar. She looked at Quinn with undisguised interest, her head tilted to the side as if she were trying to decide if Quinn was friend or foe. She seemed to judge her harmless and finally smiled and gave a wave of the hand.

“Go on, then,” she said, her attention already on the next customer to approach the bar with an order.

Steven Kane gestured for Quinn to follow him and led her to an office tucked away between the bar and the entrance to the toilets. The room was square and small, with a window that looked out into the alleyway behind the pub. A scarred wooden desk dominated the office, leaving just enough space for two chairs. There were bits of paper everywhere: invoices, receipts, post-it notes, and cuttings from newspapers. Steven Kane invited Quinn to sit in the guest chair and took a seat behind his messy desk.

“So, what is it you’re after?” he asked, his voice as flinty as his gaze.

“Mr. Kane, I was adopted as an infant and only met my birth mother a few months ago. In some respects, our reunion was a dream-come-true, but in others, it turned out to be something of a nightmare. It seems that I might have as many as four possible fathers, and I am here to ask you for a paternity test. You have every right to refuse, of course, but I would very much appreciate a swab. It would put my mind to rest.”

“And what about my mind?” Kane asked, leaning back in his chair and observing her. There was a hint of amusement in the depth of his eyes. When Quinn didn’t reply, he permitted himself a ghost of a smile, making her feel a little less awkward.

“Ms. Allenby, I will give you your swab, or whatever it is you need from me. You seem like a nice lady, and I feel for you; I really do. However, having said that, I will also tell you that the paternity test will not be a match.”

“Do you deny having a relationship with Sylvia?” Quinn asked. She knew from doing online research that Rhoda was Stephen’s wife of nearly thirty-five years. She inherited the pub when her father died nearly twenty years ago, and her husband went from doing odd jobs to becoming the owner of a successful business. Suddenly discovering a thirty-year-old daughter would do no favors to his marriage or his business prospects since his wife could divorce him and keep the pub that had been in her family since 1912.

“No, I don’t deny it. Nearly ruined my marriage, it did,” Steven Kane said, his eyes glazed with memories. “Your mother was a beauty. You have the look of her, actually, only she was more… What is the word I’m searching for? Aware.”

“Aware of what?” Quinn asked, unsure of his meaning.

“Aware of herself; her sex appeal. She knew what she was about, even at sixteen.”

“Are you saying that you didn’t seduce her? You were quite a bit older than she was, were you not?” Quinn asked. She had no wish to sound judgmental, but it seemed likely that Steven Kane had made the first move and not Sylvia.

“I’m saying that it was mutual. No one seduced anyone. We both went into it with eyes wide open, only I was married, so of course, I was the cad in that scenario. It wasn’t my finest moment; I’ll tell you that.”

“So, why are you so sure that the test will not be a match?” Quinn asked carefully. Truth be told, she hoped he was right. She couldn’t imagine Stephen Kane being her biological father. Of the three contenders she’d met so far, Rhys Morgan was the only one with whom she’d felt a connection, until she found out the truth, that is. She’d felt comfortable with him, and they shared common interests and a passion for telling people’s stories. Robert Chatham repelled her with his aggression and over-inflated ego, but something about Stephen Kane smacked of disappointment and failure.

“Mind if I smoke?” Kane asked as he extracted a pack of cigarettes from his desk and felt in his pocket for a lighter.

“I do, actually,” Quinn replied.

“I’ll open the window.”

Stephen Kane took a drag of his cigarette, then held his hand out toward the window, allowing the smoke to curl outward and dissipate into the frosty air. Thankfully, the smoke didn’t blow back into the office. Kane stared out the window at the brick wall opposite the pub, his gaze misty with reminiscence.

“I have no wish to talk about this, but I suppose you have a right to know, and I might as well tell you the whole truth,” he began. “I had a younger brother, Jack. Jack was everything that I wasn’t, or so I was frequently told by our mother. He always knew exactly what he wanted and went for it. There was never any hesitation or regret. He met Rhoda when he was just eighteen and proposed to her within weeks. “She is the one,” he said, “and there’ll never be anyone else.” They married and had two girls in quick succession. They weren’t well off, but they were all right. Jack worked on a construction site as a welder, and Rhoda stayed at home with the children. They were happy,” Stephen added, blowing out another puff of smoke.

“What happened?” Quinn asked softly.

“Jack couldn’t afford a car, so he rode a scooter to work. One day, on the way home, he was hit by a lorry. The driver had been drinking and crashed into a tree after he sideswiped Jack. Jack might have survived had someone gotten to him sooner, but by the time the ambulance arrived, he was gone. Rhoda was left on her own, with two small children and no source of income. She might have been entitled to damages had the driver survived, but he died, so she had no claim, and Jack never bothered to get insurance.”

Stephen took a deep drag on his cigarette and stared at the curling smoke before continuing.

“Rhoda had to give up the flat and move back in with her parents. They helped as much as they could, but they were elderly, and minding two toddlers all day while Rhoda worked was too much for them. Rhoda was struggling, so I stepped into the breach. I always fancied her, and I knew that Jack would want me to look after his family.”

“So, you married her,” Quinn said, wondering what this had to do with the paternity test.

“I did. She didn’t love me. Not in that way. I was a poor substitute for Jack, but Rhoda was desperate, and marrying me seemed like the best way out of a bad situation. I knew it, but I had an agenda of my own. I am sterile, you see. I was married before Rhoda, and when my wife and I failed to conceive, she sent me for a test. I found out then. Jack’s kids were the closest I’d ever come to having my own children, and I’ve been a good father to them. They love me, my girls,” Stephen said, a trifle defensively.

“I’m sure they do,” Quinn agreed, eager for Stephen Kane to get to the end of his story.

“We didn’t get on, Rhoda and I. Sex is the glue that holds a marriage together, but Rhoda just wasn’t interested. We stayed together for the children, and for financial reasons. Rhoda poured her love into the children, but I strayed from time to time. I needed to feel wanted and desired, and I wasn’t about to get that at home. That’s where Sylvia came in. We had a good time, she and I, but when she got pregnant, I knew it couldn’t be mine,” Stephen Kane said as he stubbed out his cigarette.

“Actually, my affair with Sylvia brought things to a head with Rhoda. She was angry and bitter when she found out, so I told her that she should either be a proper wife to me or agree to a divorce. We’re still together, as you can see, so it’s not all sour grapes.”

“Is that why you turned Sylvia away when she came to you for help?”

“What else was I supposed to do? If I helped her, I’d be as good as admitting to the whole village that I shagged a minor and that her child was mine. I told her to ask the real father for help. It wasn’t my problem.”

“Right.”

“Let’s get this over with then, if you’ve no objection. I have a pub to run.”

Quinn took the package out of her handbag and extracted the cotton swab. She handed it to Steven Kane and asked him to scrape the inside of his cheek, which he did. Quinn sealed the swab in a tube and replaced it in the package. She was more than ready to leave.

“Thank you, Mr. Kane. I appreciate your candor and your willingness to help me.”

“I’m sorry, lass. It’s not a pleasant thing, traipsing all over the country, asking strange men if they are your father, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

In fact, it’s quite demoralizing. There are days when I wish that I could go back to not knowing anything about my true parentage. I think I was actually happier then, Quinn thought bitterly.

Steven Kane got to his feet, signaling that the interview was over. “Would you like a spot of lunch? Rhoda just made the steak and ale pies, and they’re delicious. You look like you need a bit of time to just sit quietly and think.”

Quinn’s stomach growled at the mention of food, but she shook her head. She had no wish to spend any more time in Leicester. She felt disappointed and angry. She knew what happened with the other three men, but Sylvia had actually had a relationship with Stephen Kane. Quinn had hoped that the man cared for her somewhat, but he’d simply taken advantage of her, using her to satisfy needs that weren’t being taken care of at home. Sylvia might have been ‘aware’ as he put it, but she was still a girl, and he’d been a grown man; a man who refused to help her when she came to him. The baby might not have been his, but he still could have been a little less indifferent, a little less selfish.

Quinn walked out of the pub without sparing Rhoda, who was staring at her from behind the bar, a glance. She wished the two of them joy of each other. They might have remained married, but the downward turn of Rhoda’s mouth suggested that she wasn’t a happy woman, or a fulfilled one. Quinn was in no position to judge, but she simply wanted no part of these people. She wanted to go home and throw her arms about the man who loved and desired her. She knew she was lucky, but hearing about the Kanes’ loveless marriage made her that much more aware of her own good fortune.

Quinn sat up and looked out the window as the train approached London. It was nearly dark outside, the rain coming down in a torrent that made the houses along the tracks look like dark, fuzzy blobs. Now that she’d had a little time to think, she felt marginally better. The meeting with Stephen Kane hadn’t been a complete waste. She’d still give his sample to Colin Scott, just to make sure that Kane had been telling the truth. If he was, then there was only one man left on the list — Seth Besson, if Sylvia could be believed. She’d proven herself to be less than honest, and Quinn wondered if there were going to be any more surprises. Her rational side told her to let go of her hopes and terminate her relationship with Sylvia. The woman had done nothing but mislead her, but she was her birth mother, and as Gabe pointed out, we didn’t get to choose our parents.

Quinn grabbed her bag and made her way toward the door as the train eased into St. Pancras station. She’d forgotten to bring an umbrella, so she would get soaked by the time she got her turn at a taxi. Quinn stepped onto the platform and began to walk toward the nearest exit. Her mobile vibrated in her pocket, reminding her that she’d forgotten to call Gabe. He was probably worried sick. Quinn took out the phone and looked at the screen. There was a picture of Emma, wearing her yellow wellies and a matching raincoat. She was holding a Disney Princess umbrella over her head, which she appeared to be twirling happily. The caption said, “Your carriage awaits.” Quinn smiled, her melancholy forgotten. No day could be described as being bad if Gabe and Emma were waiting for her at the end of it.

She found the exit Gabe indicated in his text and spread her arms out to Emma, who catapulted into her, a huge smile on her face. Gabe kissed Quinn over Emma’s head, his eyes searching her face for a hint of how her day went.

“All right?” he asked, and she nodded, thankful that he hadn’t uttered a word of reproach about her not calling.

“You two wait here, and I’ll get the car,” Gabe said. “It’s really coming down.”

“Do you want my umbrella, Gabe?” Emma asked.

“No, I’m all right, sweetheart,” Gabe replied, smiling at the little girl. “You hold on to it.”

“Ok,” Emma said, clearly relieved not to have to give it up.

“Did you have a good day at school?” Quinn asked once they were in the car, and Emma was strapped into her seat.

“We had Show and Tell,” Emma replied.

“So, what did you show?”

“I brought Mr. Rabbit and told them that my mum bought it for me when I was a baby,” Emma replied sadly. “I didn’t tell them she died.”

“You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to,” Gabe said. “What did the other children bring?” he asked in an effort to distract Emma from her sadness. She went into a litany of items, describing each one in detail. Quinn’s mind began to drift as she rested her hands on her handbag. Stephen Kane’s DNA was inside it, but there was also a pregnancy test that she’d picked up at Boots before boarding the train. It was time to confirm her suspicions and share the news with Gabe if the test was positive. Maybe she’d even do it tonight.