A letter arrived today addressed to Mr John Brodie. For some reason my hand started to tremble when I read that. Everyone who knew John would be aware that he passed away over two years ago, so who was this person who knew his name but did not know that? The postmark was Brisbane, and I held the envelope in my hands for several minutes before slowly opening it. It contained a single sheet of paper and the contents were quite brief. It read as follows:

Dear Mr Brodie,
You don't know me but my name is John Evans and I have a personal matter that I would like to discuss with you. I would prefer it to be person to person rather than by letter or the telephone. I an wondering if you come to Brisbane very often and if we could meet up for a chat?
Yours sincerely,
John Evans.

The letter also contained his address and telephone number in Brisbane.

I have spent several hours thinking about it. Who is this man and what could possibly be so personal that he wants to discuss it face to face? I knew everything about John, at least I thought I did. Was this some scandal from the past come back to haunt him? Well they were too late in that regard. When letters like this arrive it usually means that someone wants money, either as an act of charity or to keep quiet. Right now I have nothing to go on in deciding which of these it is. Finally I decided that I would reply and I've written as follows:

Dear Mr Evans,
I regret to inform you that my husband John Brodie passed away two years ago. I happen to be coming to Brisbane in a month's time, and if you wish to discuss the matter with me, then we can arrange to meet at a place and time which is mutually agreeable. I will write again when I have the dates when I will be there.
Yours sincerely,
Lesley Brodie
 
I've read it over to myself a few times. It doesn't strike me as unfriendly, but it is non-committal. Maybe I won't hear from him again.

Most people would laugh if I said that being fairly well off has its down-side. In fact they'd probably say they would gladly swap places with me, but it is true that people especially think that a woman is an easy touch and will often devise ingenious ways to part her from her money. John and I were always as generous to charities as we could be, but I object to attempts to con me out of money. If this John Evans thinks he has something scandalous which could be revealed about my late husband, and wants to have his silence bought, then he might find he is dealing with someone tougher than he expects.

It's a month later and I'm in Brisbane. I flew down two days ago, and took care of business to do with the property yesterday. I also phoned John Evans and agreed to meet him in the hotel bar for a drink at 6pm this evening. It has suddenly occurred to me what the personal matter might be, but I will hold off until I hear what he has to say.

I went down to the hotel bar at five to six, bought myself a glass of white wine and sat in a chair which gave me a view of the door so that I could scan people as they entered. When I phoned John and arranged to meet in the bar, he asked how he might recognise me, so I gave him a brief description and told him I would be wearing a long yellow dress.
I scanned each man as he entered and just after six o'clock, a man in his late forties or early fifties came in and immediately scanned the room. On seeing me he walked over and gave me a smile.

"Mrs Brodie? I'm John Evans."

I held out my hand. "I'm pleased to meet you Mr Evans. Why don't you get yourself a drink and then come and sit down?"

I watched him as he walked to the bar, and as he returned bearing a schooner of beer. He sat down opposite me, raided his glass and said "Cheers." I responded in kind.

"Did you have a good trip down?" he inquired politely.

"Very pleasant, thank you," I replied. I wasn't going to tell him I flew my own plane down, it was too early for this information.

"I was sorry to be the giver of bad tidings," I said, "John died of a heart attack about two years ago, or I'm sure he would have been interested to meet you himself. So, would you like to tell me what this is all about?"

John Evans looked a little embarrassed.

"Please accept my condolences on your loss,” he began. “It all started about six months ago when my mother died. I should tell you Mrs Brodie that I never knew who my father was. When I was young, my mother gave me several excuses as to why he wasn't around, like he was 'away in the Army', and later that he was 'working in the country'. Eventually I gave up asking, and got used to the fact that I would never see him. When she died, as her only child I had to sort through all her belongings, including her papers, and it was then that I came across my birth certificate."

He reached into his pocket and produced a rather crumpled envelope from which he extracted a paper which he passed across the table to me. I looked down at the birth certificate. It gave John's mother's name as Mary Evans and his father as John Brodie. Even though the possibility that this was the 'personal matter' referred to in his letter had occured to me, I hadn't really believed it, but here it was in black and white. I had always felt that John and I had no secrets from each other and to suddenly find myself facing a man claiming to be his son was a startling revelation.

John could see the effect his words were having on me as he carried on "I'm sorry if this has come as rather a shock to you."

"Well, yes it has," I managed to say in return. Then a thought occured to me.

"Did you ever actually met your father?" I asked.

"No, I never did."

"So it's possible that he never knew you existed?"

"Well yes, that is a possibility. Anyway, I looked through all the Queensland telephone directories. As you can imagine, Brodie is not a common name, and after I excluded the few other possible people, I found your late husband and that's how I came to write the letter."

He paused and then suddenly said "Please don't misunderstand Mrs Brodie, I'm not after money from you, I would just like to know who my father is....or rather was."

"Yes, I understand," I replied, and in order to give myself some time to think, I said "Are you married Mr Evans?"

"Please, call me John," he replied, and then he looked embarrassed and said "I'm sorry, that was tactless of me. I didn't mean to cause you distress."

"It's alright," I replied "I can't go through life avoiding people called John can I?"

He smiled "I suppose not; and in reply to your question, I'm not married but I do have a partner." He hesitated for a moment and then said "His name's Mark."

He was watching me closely to see my reaction to this revelation and looked quite relieved when I replied "And how long have you been together?"

"Eight years," was his reply.

"That's longer than some marriages," I said, and he smiled.

"We'd love to get married of course, but that's not possible. Maybe one day."

John wasn't to know my background of course and will never know, but I would be the last person to be critical of his domestic situation.

He seemed to be making up his mind and finally said "I'd love to know more about my father, and Mark would like to know too. Could I possibly ask you to come to our place for dinner, maybe tomorrow night if you haven't already booked to return home?"

"That is very kind of you," I replied, "I'd be happy to accept. I can fly home in two days."

John looked a little surprised, so I decided to tell him about my mode of transport.

"We have a Cessna at the property, so I'll be flying back."

"What about the pilot?" asked John.

"You're looking at her," I replied.

John blushed. "I'm sorry, it was rather tactless of me to assume that someone else would fly the plane."

"Not at all," I replied "There are not that many women pilots from up my way. I should know, I've taught most of them."

"You've taught?" gasped John and then continued, "Oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply...."

I laughed. "There's an old saying John 'when you're in a hole, stop digging!' "

We were both laughing then, and I had the feeling that we could become good friends. Before John left we arranged that he would pick me up in the hotel foyer tomorrow at 6pm.

Whenever I travel, in the words of the the Boy Scouts’ motto, I like to 'be prepared'. I had had no expectations of where my meeting with John might lead, but nevertheless I had packed a lime green silk gown which has the advantage of taking up little space in my suitcase and not creasing. I also packed some stockings and heels to complete my outfit. I spent a few hours bathing and getting ready this afternoon, and I was sitting in the hotel foyer just before six o'clock when John arived promptly to pick me up. I was pleased to see that he was wearing a suit and tie, which meant I didn't feel over-dressed.

"Good evening Mrs Brodie," he said, "My, you look very nice."

I hope that I didn't blush, something I've always tended to do, as I thanked him for his compliment. "And I think you can call me Lesley now," I said.

We walked out to his car which was in a five-minute zone outside the hotel, and I was so pleased when he opened the front passenger door for me, before getting into the driver's seat.

"We;re only about ten minutes out of the city," he said, "Mark apologizes for not coming to the hotel, but he's the cook this evening and he wants to make sure everything is perfect. I'm a bit of a 'boil an egg' person myself, but Mark loves cooking."

"I'm really looking forward to this evening," I replied.

After ten minutes we turned into a driveway beside a small block of flats and pulled in under a carport. I waited while John got out and opened the door for me again. It felt very special being treated like a lady! It's something my husband John used to do when we went out, but I'm not going there or I might find myself getting teary again. We walked to one of the ground floor flats and John opened the door and ushered me in, calling out "We're home!"

Mark appeared out of the kitchen hurriedly wiping his hands of a tea towel. I judged him to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He came up to me and kissed me on the cheek, saying "Welcome to the chaos, Lesley," in a light tenor voice.

He is shorter than John, and has soft, rather feminine features and long blond hair which was tied back in a pony tail. He excused himself  saying he was right in the middle of cooking.

"Oh don't apologise," I replied "John's already told me what a great cook you are and I'm really looking forward to this evening."

Mark blushed slightly at the compliment. Looking at him I couldn't help thinking that wearing a dress and with his hair brushed and make-up on, he would make a very pretty woman. In fact he rather reminded me of myself all those years ago.

John ushered me into the lounge room. Glancing around I could see it was beautifully furnished with understated elegance, and it was quite obvious that it hadn't been 'tidied up' in anticipation of my arrival. In fact I was sure that it looked that way all the time. There was even a vase of flowers on the sideboard! John then asked what I would like to drink. I had actually brought along a bottle of rather good wine and also some mineral water.

"I'd love to drink wine," I said, "but I have a strict rule not to drink alcohol within forty-eight hours of flying, so I'm afraid it's going to be mineral water or a soft drink for me; but please don't let that stop you having the wine."

John had looked at the label and I saw his eyebrows raise slightly. It was a very good wine, and I said "Well it is a special occasion."

"It just seems a pity you can't share in it," he said, "perhaps I'll save it for another time when we might all be able to enjoy it."

I smiled my acceptance of his decision.

The dining table was covered in a lace table cloth and I suspect set out with the best cutlery and china. Just then Mark appeared bearing plates with salmon and small pieces of toast which was the entree. He was obviously squeezing in time for himself to eat before attending to the main course, so we immediately sat down to eat. It was quite delicious and I told him so, resulting in him colouring up slightly again, although he also beamed with pleasure. Then he was back to the kitchen again to bring out the main course, John helping him by bringing in the vegetables in china bowls. Then in walked Mark, proudly bearing the meat.

"Beef Wellington! My favourite!" I exclaimed.

Mark smiled and then his face seemed to crumple.

"What was I thinking?" he almost wailed, "John says you live on a cattle station. You must have beef all the time, and far better than I can serve up!"

I felt I had to do something to avert this crisis. He was standing close to me, so I touched his arm gently and said "Mark, beef is my favourite meat, and cooked with love, care and skill as this so obviously has been, I know that I will never have tasted better."

That seemed to mollify him, and even John looked less concerned. After that, Mark carved and served me some of the beef and I helped myself to the potatoes, peas and pumpkin. I wasn't wrong - it all tasted delicious and I told them so. Mark beamed. I had an idea, and I said "When I'm next in Brisbane, perhaps you'll allow me to bring you down some prime cuts from home. Just tell me what you like and I'll make sure to bring it."

This suggestion went down very well, especially with Mark who was obviously the chief cook.

Our meal concluded with home-made Tiramisu and the men had a small glass of port, while I contented myself with coffee.

"I have something to show you," I said, so we moved over to the comfortable sofa next to the coffee table, John and Mark sitting on either side of me. I reached into my bag and brought out an envelope.

"Here are some pictures I thought you'd like to see," I said.

The first one was of my husband John.

"This is my favourite picture of John," I said, "It was taken about ten years ago, and I made him stand with his favourite horse Ned."

Just looking at John standing there in his work clothes and broad-brimmed hat, his arm around the horse's neck and looking so handsome nearly brought tears to my eyes. I recall perfectly the day I took the photo and how John had said he should get cleaned up first, but I told him I wanted to record him just as I remembered him.
Both men noticed how looking at the picture affected me and John said softly "He was a very handsome man."

"Yes he was," I replied. Neither of them commented on the fact that my husband looked nothing like John Evans.

I composed myself and brought out other pictures of John, some of them taken with me by his side, and also some of the homestead and the men rounding up the cattle.

“These are copies I had made," I said, "I thought you might like to keep them. Of course you'd both be very welcome if you want to come out to the Station one day to see it for yourselves."

"That is so kind of you," said John, "I shall treasure these, especially the one of your husband with his horse."

I noticed he didn't say 'my father'. Perhaps it was too soon to think of him that way.

I took a taxi back to the hotel after a most enjoyable evening, and now, sitting in my room and writing up my journal I have time to think. Did I do the right thing by John Evans? I think I did although others might say not. The thing is that I know that my John was not, indeed could not have been his father.

I learned this some years back. I think it was after we had been invited to give out prizes at the local school sports day. In the car on the way back John had said to me "Did you ever wonder why Mary and I never had children?"

Of course it had crossed my mind, but it is a delicate subject, so I answered indirectly "There are many reasons why couples don't have children. If you wish to tell me, that's fine, but I wouldn't wish to pry."

John had smiled at me as he replied "Well we certainly tried - goodness knows we did, but after two years when nothing had happened we went to a specialist. He organised a number of tests, and it turned out that the problem was with me. You see I had mumps quite badly when I was fifteen, and it seems that a side effect in some cases is to make a boy sterile. I was one of the unlucky ones."

"I'm so sorry," I replied.

John squeezed my hand "It was one of those things. We considered adoption but in the end decided against it."

Knowing what I know, should I have told John Evans? If I had, then it would have meant two things; first that his mother was sleeping with two men at about the same time, and secondly that it would have been almost impossible to track down who his real father was.

Why had Mary Evans put down John Brodie as John's father? Was it because he was the man she hoped was the father? Then again, why had she made no attempt to tell John of her pregnancy? So many questions, and no answers.
What I do know is that John Evans really wants my John to have been his father, and I believe that my John would have liked it to be true. John's lifestyle is another reason why I don't feel obliged to tell him the truth. It is almost certain that he will never have children, so it is not likely that he will ever need to know my John's medical history.

Finally I've been thinking about Mark and how feminine he appeared in his mannerisms. I can't help wondering that if I had seen inside his wardrobe there would be one section devoted to clothes much prettier than those he was wearing this evening. I wonder if he will feel the need to develop his feminine side further and if so what effect that will have on his relationship with John?

All this thought has made me very tired and I have to fly in the morning, so it's time for bed.

To be continued

Image credit: Australian cattle station by Harris Walker reproduced under Creative Commons licence with attribution.