Fate continues with her wrench throwing

Part 24 of 25 — A YEAR LATER

March 2006

It doesn’t seem possible that we’d lived at Wroxall Gardens for a year; it feels like only yesterday that we moved in.

One morning, I went to the kitchen to make the tea and heard a faint meowing sound. Looking through the glass in the kitchen door, I saw the most beautiful tortoiseshell cat.

I opened the door and she rushed in. She demanded some refreshment and I placed a saucer of milk in front of her. While she was eagerly lapping at the milk I carefully examined her.

Jane joined me and noticed the cat. “Another mouth to feed?” She asked, playfully, while hugging me.

“She isn’t wearing a collar and has no other obvious identification. Can we keep her?”

“We ought to advertise locally; someone may be missing a pet. Perhaps she just used us as a refreshment stop on her journey and guess who took pity on her.”

I smiled; Jane was right, of course, but I lived in hope. As it happened, nobody laid claim to the cat and she adopted us. We called her Shelly — “‘cos she’s a tortoiseshell cat.” She is affectionate, demanding and inquisitive. She still chases her tail from time to time and it’s like a ballerina swirling in mid air. She quickly decided that only the finest cat food ‘would do’ and occasionally looks at you with a face that’s insulted if you are eating and she hasn't got any of it. Her most disconcerting habit is to sit on your lap and out-stare you; it’s virtually impossible not to look away first. While you’re sitting there wondering what she’s thinking, she’s getting ready to unerringly pounce on another human cushion and do the same thing. Interspersed with that, of course, is the inevitable, and almost constant, grooming.

I’d returned to work at the end of May 2005, and celebrated my ‘official’ first birthday at the Greek Taverna on 1st June 2005 with Jane and the gangs from work; Celia, Jill, Maddie, Janet, Greg, and Debbie from my office; from Jane’s office there was Colin, Ruth, Teresa, Suzanne, Vicky and Dan (whose real name was David but everyone called him Dan because he looked somewhat like Desperate Dan from the children’s comic ‘The Dandy’ — he was the largest police officer I’d ever seen — well over six and a half feet tall and very broad). Then there were all the spouses and partners. It certainly was a full house as we took over most of the restaurant.

The family also congregated at the Harley Court Hotel where they helped to celebrate my real birthday in September 2005 and Jane’s 30th birthday in December 2005. The Harley Court was rapidly becoming ‘our’ hotel, giving me the opportunity, of course, to carry out Auntie Duties.

I was very pleasantly surprised at the size of my performance bonus; it went towards the cost of Jane’s birthday bash at the Harley Court Hotel in December 2005. I took great delight in reminding her that she’d achieved the big ‘Three Oh’ — her 30th.

Now that I had the body I desired (well, most of it) I was again able to join her in the Jacuzzi (much more interesting!) and now in the Sauna (very interesting indeed!). Given that a gay couple ran the Harley Court Hotel, and what our American friends would call PDA’s were acceptable, Jane made sure that everyone knew that I was her girl. I quickly accepted and welcomed Public Displays of Affection when I saw that they weren’t frowned upon.

We again went to the chá¢teau for Christmas 2005 and New Year 2005/6 and we all agreed that it should become an annual event. Relations seemed to be warming a little between Jane and her mother, who accompanied us on the plane on both the outward and return journeys. She had, as we expected, had to relinquish her big house at Runnymede and had moved to Chelsea, purchasing an apartment.

Finally, on 1st March 2006, we were able to celebrate two years since the day we met and a year since we moved into Wroxall Gardens.

April 2006

On Friday, 7th April, I answered the telephone.

~Hello, may I please speak with Jane Dyson?~

“How did you get this number?”

~I had a friend who was an absolute whiz on the Internet and I’ve since done some research of my own~

“Who shall I say is calling?”

~My name is Melanie Hewitt~

“Jane isn’t available at the moment. Can I tell her you called?”

~ “When will she be available?” ~

“I’m expecting her soon.”

~ “I’ll call back later” ~

When Jane came home I said, “I had a strange telephone call; she said that her name is Melanie Hewitt. Does the name mean anything to you? You’ve not mentioned her before. She sounded very young, maybe even a teenager.”

Jane looked puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a Melanie Hewitt; did she say that the call was about work?”

“No; she just gave her name and asked for you.”

An hour later, the telephone rang and Jane answered. I assumed that it was Melanie Hewitt.

Jane spoke for a few minutes and then ended the call. She turned to me; her face looked ashen. “She’ll call on us this evening.”

Melanie arrived later and I was struck by her appearance. She didn’t dress like a teenager; more like a young businesswoman. She spoke with no discernable accent and looked older than the eighteen years that she claimed. Strangely enough, I immediately felt at ease with her and, after introductions, and when we were all seated with cups of tea, she began her story.

“It was when I was passing through puberty that I first felt that all was not right. I’d expected to inherit some characteristics of at least one of my parents — but I didn’t. The subject of my origins kept gnawing at me for all much of my teenage life until I plucked up the courage to ask outright when I was fifteen. Imagine my surprise when, without any prevarication, I was told the truth; I had been adopted as a baby. My parents — the couple who I had always regarded as my parents — were wonderful and I couldn’t have asked for better. They’d kept the secret of my birth all those years and never treated me other than as one of their own. There is no possibility that I would want to lose touch with them. I’d heard stories of other children who had been adopted and considered that I had been very fortunate.

“While at College, learning Office Administration, I made a few friends, one of whom was Jamie Forrest. He was, I suppose, what some people might call an effeminate geek though, to my knowledge, he showed no interest in having a relationship with a man. He had only a few friends, me included. I was, I suppose, his closest friend; the others were people he helped with their computer issues. He could play a computer like a virtuoso and there seemed to be no national or local government, court or other database that was closed to him. During our time there, he helped me to trace my origins. I already knew that I was born on January 19th 1986, but Jamie found out that it was in a private hospital in Middlesex.”

Jane gasped.

Melanie continued. “Jamie discovered that my mother was Jacqueline Manning, who’d given birth to me when she was a young teenager. After that, it was just a matter of tracking you down. Despite your change of name and your tortuous journey via your university, and your job, to this town, it wasn’t beyond Jamie’s skill to compose an almost complete picture of events in my past. Jamie laid the groundwork before I lost track of him; so more research on my part led me to your door this evening.”

She looked intently at Jane and said, cautiously, “I believe that you may be my mother. Could it be true? Did you abandon me when I was born? What happened?”

Jane sat with a stunned look. I’d never seen her in this state before; she always seemed so self-assured. After a minute she said, quietly, “On the face of it, you are my child. I didn’t willingly give you up; I had no choice. You were taken away from me within hours of your birth. I was attacked and raped. I suppose that I was still in shock over the death of Rosalie, my sister, and was distracted. I blamed my stepfather for the whole thing; I wouldn’t have put it past him to have arranged it all. You see, I knew from a young child that I preferred girls and wasn’t interested in boys at all. My biggest mistake may well have been telling my parents, who kept lining me up with eligible boys and, eventually, young men in the hope that I would eventually succumb and ‘be normal’. I was never interested in a romantic liaison with them and was fearful that my parents would try to arrange a marriage. I never had a lasting relationship until I’d cut all ties with my parents and finally met Jenny. ”

Melanie was the one this time to sit with her mouth open. Eventually she said, “That must have been dreadful for you; I can’t imagine feeling like that and having that kind of experience.”

Jane said that the Internet was notorious for retaining information that enabled anyone to make apparent connections between events and the truth, but grilled Melanie with a series of questions that, she hoped, would ferret out the exact circumstances of her birth and adoption.

Melanie patiently answered Jane’s enquiries.

Finally more or less convinced, Jane was given contact information for Melanie’s adoptive parents, her bed-sit and her workplace — she worked in the Asset Department at GSD (Global Synthetic Developments) in the very town that they were living.

Jane said, tearfully, “I’ve often thought of that baby I brought into the world; but I thought that I would never see you again. Would you be prepared to undertake a DNA test to prove your identity beyond doubt? I will have one as well. I’m sorry to have to ask this but I feel that your appearance here this evening is quite a coincidence, especially living in the same town and working nearby.”

“Of course I’d be prepared to do so,” Melanie said. “I wondered if it might be a huge task tracking down my birth mother, but it seemed no obstacle to Jamie. It just took time, which we had plenty of. It’s unfortunate that I lost track of him at the beginning of the last year of college. He had no apparent hobbies except computing. He was a good friend but just disappeared; I never did find out what happened to him.”

Melanie and Jane did take a DNA test and proved beyond doubt that they were indeed mother and daughter. This presented Jane with two main problems. Firstly, she was known to be gay; therefore there was incredulity when she announced that she had a teenage daughter. Secondly, she had to remind her mother that she was a grandmother.

When all the tests were complete, we offered for Melanie to stay at Coleridge House. She was at first reluctant, but I said that I’d rather have someone living there, even paying a small rent or rent-free, than leave the property vacant. So she agreed and moved in a month later, relinquishing her bed-sit. She insisted upon paying rent so I agreed that she could pay me a monthly sum to cover the essential outgoings, like ground rent, taxes and so on.

(Melanie’s story continues in ‘Another Secret’, a GSD story).

June 2006

On Thursday June 1st 2006, I was officially two years old and able, at last, to apply for my corrected Birth Certificate, which arrived shortly afterwards. I then took great delight in advising all and sundry that I was now officially Jennifer Ellen Smith, born female and legally so. When the Birth Certificate arrived, Jane again proposed and I gladly accepted. Our Civil Partnership ceremony was to take place at the Harley Court Hotel in Leamington Spa in early August. This was to be followed by a meal in their large dining room.

July was to be spent preparing for our big event in August. We’d planned to hire the entire hotel, or as much of it as was available.

On Tuesday 13th June I was working as usual at my desk. I was talking to Debbie Lunt on our Computer Helpdesk. I was having problems. You try a TPR (Three Pin Reset) — unplug it from the mains, count twenty, plug it back in and turn it back on. If that doesn’t work you call for help.

Suddenly something like dark-coloured ink started filling my right eye. As a child, I’d lost the sight in my left eye; therefore, within a minute or so, I could see nothing at all. I finished my call with Debbie — rather abruptly — and got up from my desk.

But I couldn’t see where I was going.

I blundered across the office and fell over a chair. I collapsed. My body had done what bodies often do when confronted by a crisis: shut down all non-essential services. My legs didn’t work; my hearing didn’t work; I was just a lump on the floor.

I called out, “Celia, I can’t see!”

Celia rushed over and helped me to a chair. Funnily enough, I wasn’t frightened; it was almost like it was happening to someone else. Celia rushed away and I heard the door of Greg’s office open. Soon he was standing over me. “I’ll try to contact Jane and I’ll call for an ambulance,” he said, taking my mobile ‘phone and walking rapidly away from me. I presumed that he’d returned to his office. Jane’s mobile phone number was on speed-dial on my phone so contacting her was easy.

Time just seemed to stand still as I sat in the chair. I’d known all my life that I could lose my sight at any time. Congenital cataracts leave you susceptible to detached retinas. Having already lost the sight in the left eye, I had hoped that I’d get away with it and that lightning wouldn’t strike twice. No such luck. I suppose that this just proved the old adage; “EVERY SILVER LINING HAS A CLOUD.”

I felt like I must have been sitting in the chair for ages, drinking water and talking to Celia — anything to try to take my mind off my predicament — when Jane came rushing in.

“I was at home and received a call from Greg. I’ll take you to hospital; we’re not waiting for an ambulance.” She spoke quickly to Greg and supported me as we made our way to the toilet, the lift and then to the car. She strapped me in, shut the door and headed for the nearest eye hospital.

Eventually, I was seen by a Doctor Tollemache, who examined me and said, “You have the use of only one eye. This is beyond the skill of anyone at this hospital; I’m sending you to London.”

I’ll always remember that man; by admitting his limitations, he probably saved my sight, although it was quite disconcerting to be driven at high speed to London whilst not being able to see where I was going.

When we arrived at the London hospital and I had been checked in, Jane said, “I’ve just seen Diane Bailey; I went to school with her and I knew that she wanted to be an eye surgeon.”

Diane was walking across a corridor. “Hello, Diane.”

“Jane? I almost didn’t recognise you. What are you doing here?”

Jane had her arm around my shoulder. “My fiancée has a problem with her sight; can you please look after her?”

“Your f… oh, I understand. Leave her with me.”

“She is to receive the best of care; money is no object. If you have any questions, call me. I’ll visit when I can.” To me, she said, “Darling, Diane will look after you. Don’t worry; I am on the end of a telephone twenty four hours a day.” Jane gave Diane a card with all her contact details, kissed me and left.

I was soon tucked up in bed in a private room. I was wheeled to surgery within a couple of days and Mr Philip Hungerford, the top retina specialist in the country, operated on me. I found out later that the instrument he used was no bigger than a large needle, yet consisted of a light, a scalpel and a laser. Modern technology is wonderful; it was such a pity that it wasn’t available when I was a child and lost the sight in my left eye.

After a few days, the bandages were removed, leaving me seeing shapes through what looked like a black muslin curtain. I was told to lie on my front; a bubble of oil pressed against the retina and kept it in position while it healed. It was no joke lying on my boobs for eight hours a day but, as they said, it was that or blindness.

No contest.

I listened to a lot of music and Jane kept me well supplied. The music, the radio and occasional trips to the bathroom, were the only activities I was allowed; my only relief from this routine was Jane’s frequent visits.

After a couple of weeks, during which Jane must have put a lot of miles on the car, I was discharged home. Shelly pounced as soon as I got through the front door and, although I now effectively had tunnel vision, I was delighted to both see and feel her soft fur as she snuggled up to welcome me home. Very soon she had a playmate, someone else to boss about. I wasn’t allowed to return to work for a couple of months, during which time, I acquired a companion for Shelly — a two-year-old golden retriever guide dog called Bonnie. We spent a few days getting to know each other and a couple of weeks helping Bonnie to learn my most common routes. My colleagues at work were very good to me; not only did they allow me to return to work part-time but they involved the local Social Services, who provided me with a new computer and a large-screen monitor.

August 2006

Jane and I were due to go to Leamington Spa in a week or so but my eye problems precluded an early visit. I also hadn’t allowed for the fact that fate hadn’t finished juggling wrenches.

Paul Hopley lay patiently in the grass at the top of the motorway embankment and waited for the car to come into view. He was used to waiting; this was the second day. The car was quite late but that wasn’t unusual. He’d been in position for several hours; having picked a stretch of the motorway that was only two lanes wide and had no hard shoulder (emergency lane). The weather was fine, if somewhat chilly, but Paul was warmly dressed. Visibility was perfect and the Motorway was quite busy. It was an easy job; quickly in and quickly out.

His twin brother was ‘on holiday’ at HM Prison, Parkhurst, having been convicted following a lengthy investigation by Jane Dyson and her team. He’d wriggled and jiggled and employed all kinds of legal and illegal misrepresentation, but eventually earned himself twenty-five years for murder. Paul was angry - very angry — and sought retribution. Paul and his brother were almost unnaturally close; not surprising, really, as they were twins. It didn’t pay to
upset Paul Hopley. Few people upset him once; twice was unheard of.

Paul had no scruples. He could ill afford such things, and he didn’t make it to the top of what he called his profession by being squeamish. He was also very diligent about doing his homework before each job. One thing he could not be accused of was bad planning. He therefore knew the make, model and licence number of the car for which he was waiting. At motorway speeds, a simple tyre blowout could be fatal. Ideally, as a result of his efforts, the driver of the target vehicle would get into such difficulties as to crash the car. If that didn’t happen, he expected a following vehicle to help. The M3 motorway was always busy and Paul knew that a following driver would need several hundred feet in which to stop — once he or she had perceived the need to do so — and assuming that the road surface was dry and free from debris. If the road was wet, you could at least double the distance. By the time both vehicles had come to a stop, ten seconds or more would have elapsed; time enough for Paul to withdraw and be on his way. If the following vehicle was a truck or bus then the whole thing could be multiplied by any number that you cared to pluck from thin air. That’s assuming, of course, that the target vehicle hadn’t already crashed.

Through the scope, he saw the red Lexus approach over the little rise in the road and checked the model and registration number. He smiled to himself as he estimated the car’s speed to be approaching seventy miles an hour, and in the outer lane, having just overtaken a forty-foot truck, which was travelling too close.

He had the range sorted in his mind, and lined the cross hairs of his scope with the front nearside tyre. Putting a bullet anywhere else might, sooner rather than later, arouse suspicion that the subsequent accident wasn’t an accident at all. A shot into the tyre would be initially put down to a simple tyre blowout.

A second later, Paul gently caressed the trigger of his rifle. He briefly watched as the tyre deflated, the car lurched into the nearside lane and ran up the embankment, turning upside-down, landing on its roof and facing the direction from which it had come. After a short delay people ran to help and those with mobile phones called the emergency services. Some bright soul smashed the window with a wheel brace, leaned in, turned off the engine and removed the ignition key. The driver was motionless. By then, Paul was running to his car and preparing to speed away from the scene.

End of part 24