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Family secrets

John Farquhar Young

    Three days after his father’s funeral, Drew, his only child, single, unattached and in his mid-twenties, sits in the kitchen of the family home with his mother Gill, taking a break from the task of ordering his father’s papers and packing up the clothes and books to be donated to selected charity shops. Until now her response to his father’s passing has demonstrated her inner resolve, her ‘let’s-just-get-on-with-it’ approach to life which he has often tried to copy when facing the problems and setbacks of adolescence and early adulthood.
    But for nearly an hour he has been attempting to understand the sudden shift in his mother’s demeanour, the nervousness, her intense, forced application to filling the black bags being assembled in the hall. But there is something else. He struggles initially to find a word, a label, a way of getting a handle on his thoughts. She’s really anxious about something, he finally decides.
    “What’s the matter?” he asks, breaking the heavy silence that has descended between them.
    Without answering she abruptly stands and walks briskly to the living room returning a moment later. “I found this in some of your father’s papers,” she says, handing over a fragile newspaper clipping. The heading reads: “Murder Inquiry, Child death investigation, no progress.”
    “It was over twenty years ago,” she murmurs, nervously pointing at the yellowing, frayed piece of paper. “The murder. You were very young. The police interviewed your father two or three times. He refused to say what that was about. That was very unusual. He was always so open about things. We had no secrets.”
    “So, what’s on your mind? What’s troubling you?”
    “Just before he died, he kept asking for your forgiveness. We were both mystified. He was a very good father, very gentle. We quickly decided that he was hallucinating. They pumped him full of morphine...” She pauses and draws a deep breath. “...to help him along.”
    Drew’s immediate impulse is to dismiss her suspicion. The past is past, he thinks. A long time ago, leave well alone, let sleeping dogs lie, what’s to be gained? But an unpleasant uncertainty is now hovering above them, a doubt which he senses will linger and overshadow happy memories. Another thought quickly emerges. But being fond of someone – it can’t be based on illusion, can it? You’re entitled to know the whole truth about them, aren’t you? Then another doubt: The whole truth? Not even sure that I know the whole truth about myself.
    His mother breaks the silence. “So?”
    Now grasped by the need to appear practical Drew responds crisply. “The options are clear: face our suspicions head on and deal with them; or live with them and learn not to speculate. But neither of us likes self-deception. We’re not afraid to look into unpleasant places, are we? You taught me that so...” he pauses. “...and so did my father. So do we grasp the nettle, or at least try to?”
    In the morning he finds himself standing in front of the city’s main police office, a glass and steel cube fronted by a large, grey slabbed square centred by a mosaic depicting the blue, white and gold police crest. After a moment’s hesitation he walks resolutely towards the main entrance, his bearing suggesting a degree of self-confidence much greater than he actually feels.
    Ten days later he returns by appointment to see a senior officer and is ushered into a brightly lit, white-painted interview room. A detective chief inspector, a genial looking man, perhaps in his fifties, bald, and slightly overweight rises from behind a desk to greet him. Drew notes a thick file lying open on the desk.

    “You were worried that your father was responsible for the child’s death?” The detective glances at the newspaper cutting then scrutinises Drew sympathetically. “Understandable - and of course your sense of public duty in bringing your suspicions to our attention is laudable.” He turns his attention to the file. “While I cannot go into all the details, I can say that your father blamed himself in a roundabout way for the death of the child. He had suspicions about a family member - your mother’s brother. As a lawyer associated with several community organisations it came to his attention that your uncle who was a youth leader sometimes behaved in an inappropriate manner towards children. He kept his worries to himself - in part to protect your mother, I suppose. She was, it seems, very fond of her younger brother. But after the murder your father informed us of his suspicions. He was very helpful. We interviewed your uncle several times and came to regard him as a significant suspect. But he had an alibi of sorts, the forensics were not conclusive, and we were struggling to put together a case strong enough to go to court.” The officer pauses again and casts a meaningful glance towards Drew. “But I guess your uncle did not know that when he committed suicide. An admission of guilt perhaps?”
    Later: “So there’s no question that your father ...” His mother’s voice trails off mid-sentence relief evident in her face, “Through his work he developed strong suspicions about someone he knew,” she continues, as she mentally packages her understanding of Drew’s account. “He became convinced that if he had acted earlier ...” Again she pauses. “And that explains the lingering guilt which surfaced at the end.”
    “Exactly,” Drew says hurriedly.
    After a moment his mother sighs and nods. “But we had to get to the bottom of it, didn’t we? Family secrets can be so poisonous, can’t they?”
    “Yes, they often are,” Drew responds softly, hoping that his ever-alert mother will not sense that he is holding something back. But, he finds himself thinking, some family secrets are best left buried.

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