FATE DECIDES.
In my head I heard Vera Lynn’s voice as I finally managed to prise open the trunk’s rusty lock, “Some letters tied with blue/A photograph or two . . . .”
Why that song, now? From what depths of my memory was it dredged up? The brain sometimes makes funny connections between objects and memory. An uncanny feeling ran through me as I eased open the lid. I stared at the contents, not grasping the reality of what lay before my eyes. The sole contents of the trunk was, “some letters tied with blue,” words that had just run through my brain a moment ago.
I stared at the bundle for what seemed like an eternity, my mind posing questions: Who were they to, or from? When were they written? Were they love letters? Why were they kept?
The trunk must have been pretty airtight as there was no dust or mildew that I could see on the letters.
It was with some trepidation that I lifted up the bundle, I felt guilty about prying into something, perhaps very personal, or very sad. But the natural voyeuristic curiosity of most of us ultimately overcomes those misgivings.
As I examined the bundle from all angles, trying to delay the moment of untying the blue ribbon, my mind went back to the unusual circumstances that led me to take possession of the trunk.
An aunt of my mother, the last surviving member of my family had died, and a friend of hers had managed to contact me, entirely by chance. She told me that, as my aunt lay dying in hospital, she expressed the regret that she had not destroyed the trunk in her attic, as my mother had requested. She remembered my aunt speaking of me and once she had died she had the feeling that perhaps I, as the last remaining family member, should destroy the trunk. And so it was that I travelled deep into the Karoo to meet with my aunt’s friend and retrieve the trunk.
Although we chatted at length there was not much information she could impart, my aunt was a closed book re her background and her family. I managed to fill in a few blanks for her about the facts that I knew, but they were sparse.
I put the bundle on the dining room table and went to pour a stiff whiskey. While doing so I felt a chill run down my back as remembered that when I was young and the family was close knit, “Among My Souvenirs” was my mother’s favourite song - she played or sang it more often than not.
There was something strange and haunting about this whole experience.
I sat in the chair, sipping from my glass. Perhaps I should let curiosity be. Perhaps I should get up, pick up the bundle and toss it into the fire.
After a second whiskey I summoned up enough courage and untied the ribbon. I decided to read from the top of the bundle down.
On the back of the first envelope was: From Randolph Jenkins with a London address. The handwriting and the name were unknown to me. The first letter told of an impending assignment for this Randolph:
My Company has just amalgamated with Symington under their name and they are sending me off to the jungles of Indonesia on a prospecting mission. Next April I’ll be able to tell you all about the Indonesians as we’ll be working with them.
There followed a succession of letters each one dated in April of the following year. This seemed rather odd to me but my question, “why”, would be answered after this one:
Sigh. I have no choice. I gather it’s either that or I never hear from you again. I accept, but don’t understand why you don’t you believe in love.
I was puzzled by this but the answer came in the next letter in which he had enclosed one from my mother and in which he’d underlined the following with some notes in the margin:
| Firstly, your question is out of line, Understood? | Yes |
| You are my only other sexual encounter – ever. That interlude was merely an out of character bump on the highway of life. | I’m flattered |
| I want to make a deal with you so that we can keep in touch. Write me a letter every April and I will reply. Only one letter per year. Deal?” | I have no choice, have I? |
The shock. My mother had had an affair. I suppose offspring never consider their parents as sexual beings. I was dumbfounded for a while. Then her words on marriage sunk in. Here I was pushing thirty-three and single. How different from her was I? I don’t relate to children and I’m far more drawn to older women without children and with settled careers.
Then came the biggest bombshell and the answer to why she had written, Firstly, your question is out of line, Understood?
His letter contained this line:
That’s wonderful news, CONGRATULATIONS. I have to ask, whose child is it, mine or Dan’s
I could now understand her touchy response.
Later, when I went back to this letter I noted that it had been written in January 1963 – the month in which I was born. I was dumbfounded but read on to the last letter which contained:
Darling, that week with you was sheer bliss. I miss you. I wish you were mine. Never have enjoyed a week so much and never has one passed so quickly. I’m madly in love with you.
My mind whirled as I put down that letter. My parents were both dead. As was my aunt. I had no other known relatives but, so what, I’m sure they could not answer the unformed questions in my head.
The last letter was dated 1972. Did the company still exist? Should I try and find out. If I could trace Jenkins he may be able to fill in some of the spaces that were forming in my mind. I thought of reasons why I should try and reasons why I should not. Then I remembered that the next day I’d be meeting Bob for lunch, I’d sound him out.
***
“This is one of the better lunches this place has done for a while.”
“You’re right.”
“By the way George have you had a look at the content of your mother’s Trunk?”
“I’m glad you asked. I did.”
And what did it contain”
“A shock.”
“How come?”
“Bob, it’s series of letters written between nineteen sixty-two and nineteen seventy-two to my mother from a bloke called Jenkins. They apparently met in London in sixty-two during brief visit she made there. And they had a fling."
“What your mother? Sex? You’re joking.”
“I’m not and here’s the shock. This was in April sixty-two and guess who was born in January sixty-three?”
“You’re not suggesting . . .?”
“I don’t know Bob but I’m just beginning to wonder if the Dad I knew for twenty-seven years was my biological Dad.”
“Your old man was killed about three years ago?”
“No, it was five this month.”
“Shit, time flies.”
We were silent for a while before Bob replied, “Hell. That’s a bugger. What do you know about this bloke, Jenkins, is it?”
“Nothing except that he was working in London for a company called Symington Engineering. But that was in seventy-two.”
“How old was your mom when she died this year?”
“She was born in twenty-five and married my Dad in fifty-five.”
So she was about thirty-eight when you were born?”
“Yes.”
What if he were younger than her, he might still be alive,”
“I suppose so. But how would we go about finding out? It’s twenty-three years ago.
“Tell you what George, I’ve just downloaded that new AltaVista search thingy on my PC, I’ll do a search for a Symington.”
***
I did not hold out much hope but the next day Bob phoned me with a London address for Symington. That night I penned the following:
I am attempting to trace a Mr Randolph Jenkins. I came across his name amongst letters of my late mother. The last letter was dated 14 April 1972.
Any information that you can provide will be greatly appreciated.
***
After two weeks I was beginning to think they would ignore my letter when there was a letter in my post box with their company logo:
Mr Jenkins was in our employ until 1972. He was unfortunately killed in an aircraft accident in the Indian Ocean while on company business. No bodies were ever recovered.
There was a substantial insurance policy on his life which we have been unable to settle as we have not been able to trace a blood relative. If you can prove to be of his bloodline we may be able to close this matter.
I can’t remember what thoughts went through my mind as I read that letter. Somehow I had the crazy idea that the letters may be of use to them so I replied:
Thank you for your reply.
I am unable to answer your question. I do, however, enclose a bundle of letters from Mr Jenkins my late mother entrusted into the keeping of an aunt, who recently passed them on to me. That is the first time I had heard of Mr Jenkins.
I send them in the hope that they be of assistance to you, I have no further need of them. You may dispose of them as you wish.
With that I mentally closed the chapter after debating with myself whether it mattered who the hell my Dad was. I had had a wonderful life and my parents had left me more than comfortable. So, did I care who fathered me? Not a jot.
***
But fate was not finished with matter. Two months later another letter arrived from Symington in which they asked for myriad details of both my mother and father. They also directed me to provide a DNA sample to a doctor identified by the British Consulate. It took some scratching around before I found the required documents and sent them off to London.
***
The morning after had I mailed them I met Bob for our usual lunch date.
“Well George, what is happening with your Symington quest?”
“They have sent me on a wild goose chase to collect myriad documents relating to my parents. Fortunately I managed to collect them and mailed them this morning. What is interesting is that they want a DNA sample from me.”
“Ah ha, now that sounds encouraging, you may soon be heir to a substantial amount of money.”
***
A few weeks later I received an acknowledgment that they had received the letters and were about to begin enquiries.
***
Some months later a letter with the Symington logo arrived in my post box. I eagerly tore open the envelope:
We have completed our investigations.
With the aid of Mr Daniel Harris’s birth certificate we managed to contact a surviving relative of his in Newcastle. She is Miss Mathilda Agnes Harris, his Great Aunt. Her DNA matched the sample that was taken from you and we can therefore confirm that you are Mr Daniel Harris’s son . . . . .
***
The relief of knowing that I was my Dad’s son and not the result of some passing liaison my mother had was enormous and outweighed my fleeting disappointment at not receiving the insurance. I had not anticipated how that feeling of “am I, am I not” would affect me.
***
Some months later I received a letter from a London solicitor who asked me to contact their correspondent in Johannesburg. Apparently my Dad’s Great Aunt had died and her will left her entire estate to him. As he was now deceased, the law of intestate succession meant that her estate now devolved onto me . . . .