Transgression

Acknowlegements

I cannot thank enough the members of the Laois Writers' Group for their encouragement under the leadership of Margaret Cotter. My character Roger Jones first revealed himself to me during a workshop with John MacKenna organised by the group in 2013. I must also pay tribute to my editor, Eamon O'Cleirigh, for his suggestions which enabled me to improve this book way beyond what I imagined was possible.

I

Roger

One

TOPFORD

November 2014.

Excuse me, Mr. Jones?

Roger turned away from the table where he was watching Connie count a small bundle of notes. He adjusted his grip on the pile of books held to his chest. How can I help?

The woman was, he guessed, in her mid-to-late thirties, blond hair pinned back in a neat roll, blue eyes, prominent cheek bones – or was that a trick of the light or clever make-up? Too close to take in her attire, but close enough to detect expensive perfume.

I was wondering if we could talk in private. I have something I need to ask you.

He looked around the room. The fifty or so people who had filled the red and gold hotel chairs had left. So had Madge's parents, escorted by his friend, Douglas. He deposited the books on the table, gestured toward Connie. This is Conrad Bickerstaffe, my partner. Ask away. Connie and I have no secrets from each other.

Sally Goodwin, she said, reaching across the table to shake Connie's hand. She turned to Roger, her grip firm as she grasped his hand. Her eyes held his. His stomach churned with the shock of recognition. Impossible. Madge had been dead for more than a year and he'd been so involved with her memory ever since. His mind must be playing tricks.

The woman, Sally, seemed uncertain how to phrase her question: Is it about Madge? he prompted.

Yes. That's why I came tonight. I'm trying to find out as much as I can about her.

I see you bought the book. You'll find quite a lot more in there than anywhere else. You heard me say that it was going to be her autobiography? I was helping her to write it. It only became a biography after the accident.

You said you knew her before she became famous.

He nodded. I followed her career with interest. It was part of my job as a reporter on the local paper. You must be a fan.

Not really. I never watched Red Hart Inn. Soaps generally.

He responded with a puzzled look.

My interest is personal.

From the corner of his eye he could see that Connie had finished counting. Excuse me a second. He turned to Connie: Would you mind loading the car? I'll catch up with you in a few minutes.

Connie began gathering piles of books, placing them in a cardboard box. Roger pointed to the first row of chairs. Why don't we sit down?

He ushered her towards the seats, supposing she must be an acquaintance of Madge's. The name, Sally Goodwin, didn't ring any bells though, even as he thought about all the people he had met and interviewed; all her closest friends and former colleagues. And yet he could not get over that first shock. It was as though he was looking at Madge the way she'd been in her prime. People have doubles. Perhaps that was it. Sally had discovered her resemblance to the soap star and was looking for a way to make money from the fact. He would need to be carefull.

She'd seated herself in the second-last chair in the row. He lifted half-turned the end chair so that he could sit facing her, conscious of her legs clad in black tights as she crossed them beneath the red skirt.

Did you know Madge?

No. I wish I had, before she died. She hesitated again. Roger wondered should he offer another prompt. Situations like this had been bread and butter to him during his career as a journalist. Sometimes it was best to let an interviewee take his or her time. Sally seemed reluctant to come to the point. He counted seconds in his head, ready to prompt on five.

At four, she said, I had just about plucked up the courage to approach her when I heard about the accident. So I still don't know for certain if the woman everyone knew as 'Madge Morris' was the Marjory Mitchell who gave birth to me in 1974.

Roger's heart skipped. So that was it. He did a quick mental calculation. It was possible. But her presence here, in Topford, was a complication he didn't need. Nobody knew about Marjory Mitchell's teenage transgression except himself and his elderly aunt. And Douglas. He was thankful that Sally had waited until Madge's mother and father had left before dropping her bombshell. Derek and Shelagh would be devastated if they found out. Of course, she could be mistaken. Except for the similarity in her appearance. Was she aware of that? He needed to play for time.

I really can't answer that. Why do you think she might be?

She turned to place the book on the chair beside her, then opened the clasp of the black patent leather bag she carried. From it she withdrew a buff-coloured envelope. It's a long story. That's why I was hoping you could spare me some time alone.

He looked at his watch. It would take more time than he had available just now to deal with her. He'd promised several people that he would talk to them over a drink in the bar after the launch. The implications of her claim also needed to be digested.

I really need to be somewhere else, he said. Are you staying in Topford?

Yes. Here, at the Green Dragon. Could we meet tomorrow morning? Over a coffee, say?

I have an appointment tomorrow morning. He'd promised the photographer covering the launch for the Gazette that he would meet her. Another good excuse for putting off the fateful moment whilst he considered the possible ramifications of the imminent discovery by people close to Madge that she had a dark secret. His meeting with the photographer would be over before eleven.

Could he delay a bit longer? I could do lunch, if you like? My treat.

Lunch would be good. It would give me more time to read your book.

They exchanged phone numbers, walking together to the bar entrance from which he watched her continue on through the reception area and begin ascending the stairs.

A SUCCESSFUL EVENING, Connie said. He had his back to Roger, opening the car's boot. Roger pushed the cottage door open. Warm air met him, accompanied by Suzie, their Siamese.

Leave those until morning, Roger said. Come in out of this rain. A heavy drizzle greased the road surface and cast halos around the street lights. Roger heard the clunk of the boot closing. Suzy rubbed her flanks against his trouser leg. He squatted to stroke her and winced at the pain from his hip as he stood.

A good start. Friday's London launch will be manic by comparison.

He and Connie had spent the past two hours in conversation with one after another of Topford's artistic community. There were a number of distant cousins to Madge present as well. All people who had contributed anecdotes about the actress, not all of which had found their way into the book. They all wanted to congratulate him on his work. Wait until you read it, had been his response, repeated countless times. One or two local politicians of various hues had been there too. He had left them to Douglas. Most had only a superficial interest in the life story of the town's most famous daughter, but were glad of the opportunity to lobby the town's MP about deficiencies in funding for local government.

As soon as the first guests had dispersed he made his own excuses and, accompanied by his partner, joined the exodus. He needed space to think about Sally Goodwin and her belief – and his own growing certainty – that she was Madge's daughter. The part he'd played in concealing the pregnancy was, like the pregnancy itself, something he had never discussed with anyone, not even Connie. Before Sally revealed her parentage to the rest of the world he would need to tell his partner.

Then there were Derek and Shelagh. The whole point of concealing the pregnancy had been to protect them, or, at least, Madge's reputation in their eyes. Douglas's reputation, too, he reminded himself. How soon would it be before Sally started asking questions about her biological father? If the MP got the promotion he was hoping for in the weekend's reshuffle, the last thing he would want was a scandal.

Derek and Shelagh, both elderly, both proud of their daughter's success, had suffered enough hurt as a consequence of the star's untimely death. They didn't deserve the added burden of discovering the dark secret from her past.

Someone – Alan Plater or Harold Pinter – he always got the playwright and the poet mixed up – had famously said that sex began in 1963. It was a reference to the fact that before the 1960s sex wasn't talked about in polite society. To indulge in sexual activities, without the benefit of marriage, was to bring shame on oneself and one's family. A girl who became pregnant whilst still single would have to marry the boy who'd made her that way. And if the father of her child was himself already married to someone else, she was in real trouble.

1963 was an arbitrary milestone. The change didn't happen at a single point in time, not even during the course of a single year. A decade, maybe, especially in the case of provincial towns like Topford. Its spread outwards from London was slow. Back then communications were still primitive by today's standards: no internet or social media, and newspapers and television were slow to adopt the standards of what would become known as The Permissive Society. Conservative middle-class folk posessed an inherent resistance to change of all kinds. Conservatives and catholics. And if you were all three: conservative, with or without the capital C, middle-class and catholic, the word repressive was, even ten years after 1963, a far more accurate description of the values by which you lived your life.

That had been the source of Marjory's problem. Pregnant at seventeen and the father an older, married man, she had been afraid of what would happen if her parents were to find out. Roger had played a small part in helping her to conceal her condition. He wouldn't have admitted it before tonight, but he now found himself asking if his interest in her later life and success was more than simple pride in the fact of a fellow Topfordian achieving stardom. No, it was much more. Part of it was to do with the need to satisfy him that his action had truly helped her, and not been the cause of the problems she had encountered along the way.

The same was true with regard to Douglas. Roger had protected him from scandal, thereby enabling him to enjoy a political career that would otherwise have been denied to him if his secret had been exposed. As for himself and Connie, he could not bear to think about the effect on their relationship, when his partner of over 25 years discovered that something that loomed so large in Roger's life had been hidden from him.

However he looked at it, there was no escaping the fact that Sally's arrival in their lives had the potential to damage a lot of people.

What about a night cap? Connie asked. They were in the kitchen, Connie opening cupboards.

Nothing alcoholic. And coffee will keep me awake. He paused. Actually, I could do with staying awake. There's something I need to tell you.

Roger sat at the island unit where they partook of most of their meals. He rested his arms on the work surface. Connie came and sat opposite him. Suzy had emptied her dish, confident, now that her people were home, that it would be replenished. She sat on her beanbag washing herself, her loud purrs signifying a contentment that Roger did not share at that moment.

I'm all ears, Connie said.

Roger looked at his partner. He'd told Sally that he and Connie had no secrets. That wasn’t true. When he came to think about it there was probably a lot from both men's pasts that neither had shared with the other. Most weren't important, but now something from his own past had acquired a new significance.

That woman. Sally Goodwin. Came to talk to me as we were packing up?

Connie nodded. Blond, quite good looking. Business-like? I remember. What about her?

Thinks she's Madge's daughter.

The sound of the kettle coming to the boil had reached a climax during the exchange. It gave a click and the noise subsided. Connie left his seat and filled the cafetiere which he carried across to the island. Could she be?

It's possible. I'm meeting her for lunch tomorrow. Find out more. But something about the look of her – something about the eyes – makes me think she probably is.

Two

TOPFORD

August 1973

There’s another! Douglas gripped Roger’s arm and nodded towards a group of three young women approaching arm in arm from the opposite direction on the other side of the road. The two men were walking between the Eagle and the Dragon, having begun the night at the Nag’s Head with the intention of taking a drink in as many of the town’s bars as possible. The celebration was in recognition of the birth of Douglas’s first child, a son destined, Roger supposed, to follow Douglas into the Law. Douglas was being annoying, counting the number of women he saw who, he asserted, were braless. Roger, too, had noticed the middle one of the group. The way her breasts moved beneath her cotton blouse made it obvious they were unrestrained. Douglas was excited by the sight. Roger wasn’t interested. So far as he was concerned, if women wanted to assert their femininity by discarding a garment he imagined would be confining, it was no concern of his.

On this occasion he was thankful for the distraction. Thinking about such matters might dispel the strains of 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon' from his head. The song seemed to have been a constant throughout this summer and had been in the background noise of both the pubs they’d visited so far. He looked forward to the prospect of something different as the sound track to their drinks in the Green Dragon's cocktail bar. Meanwhile, in his head, the opening line I'm coming home I've done my time morphed into I'm going out without my bra, which only added to his annoyance.

Sorry, Rodge, I know all these bouncing tits don’t do it for you, but for us normal men it’s a real turn on. You know, I get an itching sensation in the centre of my palms when I see a pair of nipples pressing against the fabric of a thin blouse.

Roger was used to Douglas teasing him about his sexual preferences but still found it embarrassing. As they shuffled through the hotel's revolving door, he hoped most of the occupants of the bar would be middle-aged and sexually uninteresting. On the other hand, as he surveyed the room, he feared there might be too many people who knew him and wanted to bend his ear, telling him about the latest developments in their business: the ones they wanted to promote, not the ones they wanted keeping out of public notice. Since the Gazette had introduced its business section and put Roger in charge, he'd discovered a new side to members of the business community. They either wanted to give the impression that their particular business was doing well, despite the general state of the economy with the impending fuel shortage, or that they were on the brink of bankruptcy unless the government did something soon to end the crisis.

Douglas! I hear congratulations are in order. Bitter? Andy Stephens, one of the partner’s in a rival law firm, greeted them, grasping Douglas’s upper arm with his left hand as he shook it with his right. Turning to Roger, he added, What’ll you have, Roger? The same?

Roger nodded and Andy pointed to a group of men seated in comfortable chairs around a couple of low tables. Come and join us. Sit yourselves down whilst I get the drinks in.

The faces were familiar. Roger found himself speculating about each one’s business as the conversation centred on Douglas’s new acquisition as though it was a piece of furniture or a car. In fact, thinking about it, the conversation was a precise echo of a similar occasion a few weeks ago when he'd taken delivery of the new Cortina that went with the promotion.

Some of us are going on to a private party later. You’re welcome to join us. Roger couldn't recall who'd said it. Probably Andy, since he was the only other member of the group from the hotel he could remember being at the party. A newcomer to the town, he was someone to whom Roger had taken an instant dislike. The man had an air of superiority, as though he regarded most of Topford's populace as beneath him. His father was a barrister with London Chambers and it was obvious his presence in Topford was a temporary stop on the way up the career ladder to the highest echelons of the law.

Roger wasn't keen on the idea but, as Douglas's 'chauffeur' for the night, felt obliged to go along. He fetched the Cortina from where he'd left it in the Town Square car-park. Andy joined Douglas in the back seat and  provided directions to a large house on the outskirts of town. Roger ignored the banter between the two men, who seemed to be relishing the prospect of a teen party with the parents away.  He was surprised by the absence of light in the windows as they’d approached the house. Then he detected a strange flickering, almost as though a fire had been lit inside the rooms. When he stepped out of the car, the throbbing of bass guitar and drums hit him. Once inside, the sound was all consuming, a constant thudding accompanied by the wailing of sustained blues notes on lead guitar, interspersed with indecipherable lyrics delivered in a voice straining to be heard above the cacophony.

The source of the flickering light was now revealed. A pair of strobe lights had been set up in a corner of the large room. Pulsing in time to the drumbeat, they illuminated the dancers in brief flashes of brilliance. Someone passed him a hand-rolled cigarette and he inhaled the sweet smoke before passing it to Douglas. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he saw that most of the people present were much younger than he and his companions; the oldest perhaps 20 or 22. Most of the men were draped across chairs and settees against the walls or sat on cushions on the floor. Some of the women were dancing, the flashing lights giving their movements the appearance of a series of strange jerks. They seemed oblivious to their surroundings. One, he observed with shock, had removed her top. Roger imagined Douglas’s palms itching at the sight. He wished he hadn't come, felt trapped by his role as chauffeur.

Lend us your car keys, Douglas had said.

At first Roger was puzzled, wondering where Douglas intended to go without him. Then realisation dawned.

For fuck’s sake, Douglas, your wife’s only just out of hospital with the baby! Someone opened a door. A shaft of light illuminated Douglas and his companion, enabling Roger to catch a glimpse of the young woman – just a girl, really – hanging onto Douglas's arm, nipples visible beneath a muslin blouse, long hair in braids curled around her head; precisely the hippy stereotype he knew Douglas dreamed of.

Come on, mate, you know I’d do the same for you.

Except the opportunity would never arise. He handed Douglas the keys.

That was August. On a gloomy day in November, they were watching Topford United being outplayed in an FA Cup second-round match when Douglas said, The bloody girl’s pregnant.

That’s a strange way of putting it. It might be a bit soon, but you must be pleased to have another on the way.

Pleased? Douglas paused a moment, then, Oh, I see. No, not Mary. That bloody hippy tart. Remember? At that party?

When you borrowed my car for a back-seat grope? Are you telling me you didn’t use a rubber?

I thought she was on the pill. Aren’t they all these days?

How do you know? You didn’t exchange phone numbers did you? What a fucking idiot! The last remark, though expressing Roger’s opinion of his friend’s behaviour, was, in fact, directed at the drama unfolding on the field in front of them. Accompanied by a collective groan from the crowd, it expressed the despair all felt as the visitors’ leading scorer was brought down by a foul tackle inside the box and