Brotherly Love

By Sue Hassett... The hotel lounge is very chic, with lots of squishy velvet sofas in vivid jewel colours. There’s a guy sitting in the far corner, looking expectantly at me...

There’s a letter behind the door. A real letter in an expensive looking envelope. Does anyone write letters these days?

Picking it up, I see on the back that it’s from the BBC. Why on earth would the BBC write to me? My novel. That must be it. They want to turn it into a high profile TV drama. But no.

Don’t be daft. I’ve been writing the darn thing for five years and I still haven’t finished chapter three. Can’t be that then.

Carrying the envelope into the kitchen, I make coffee. The only thing to do to solve the mystery is to open it, I suppose. I pull out a sheet of good quality paper, like the envelope.

Well, it’s good to know the license fee is being well spent.

I can’t believe what I read though. It’s from that awful reality TV show where they reunite long lost relatives, with all that hugging and blubbing – give me a break, and it informs me that I have a brother, a Mark Watson, who would really love to meet me.

A brother! What rubbish. I’m an only child, always have been. Would I be prepared to meet my ‘brother’ for the first time on air, they want to know. I think I’m going to be sick.

Absolutely no chance. In the first place I don’t believe for one moment this Mark person is any relation of mine, and secondly, I’d rather extract my own teeth than take part in one of those horrible, sentimental reunion scenes.

According to their research, the letter goes on to tell me, my dad, Harry Evans, had a brief relationship with a certain Marjory Watson, a year or two before he married my mother. The relationship produced a son, but the couple split apparently and Marjory, plus child, went off to live in Cornwall.

Well really! What a lot of utter tosh. And my poor dad, being no longer with us, is in no position to defend himself. I push the letter into the kitchen drawer. It’s obviously a mistake and I really don’t want to know.

Nevertheless, my curiosity is just a tad piqued. What if it’s true? Supposing I do have a long, lost brother?

A couple of weeks later, here I am in the Parkside Hotel, five star no less, in Chester. I’m here to meet this Mark Watson person, not on air you understand. Absolutely not. But I have agreed to talk with him to find out more.

I’m all spruced up for the occasion. Even got my roots done. Well, who knows where all this could lead?

The hotel lounge is very chic, with lots of squishy velvet sofas in vivid jewel colours. There’s a guy sitting in the far corner, looking expectantly at me. And guess what, he’s absolutely gorgeous. Surely this vision of male beauty can’t be my blood relation? Could fate really be that cruel?

“You must be Naomi?” He stands up, holding out an elegant hand for me to shake. It’s a pianist’s hand with long slender fingers and clean nails. He’s not a plumber then.

“And you must be Mark?” Flustered by all this unexpected glamour, I perch on the sofa

opposite. “Whatever makes you think we are related?” I blurt out, a bit rudely if I’m honest.

Mark though, seems perfectly at ease and flashes me a smile that makes my toes tingle. His blue eyes twinkle, sparkly as the jewel coloured sofas.

“How about we have some tea?” he suggests. “The full champagne job I think, don’t you? It’s on the BBC. Then, I’ll explain.”

I glance at the price of the champagne afternoon tea on the menu card, and try not to gasp.

“Sounds good to me.”

We order the tea and he leans back into the sofa, crossing his long legs. Nice shoes.

“Thanks for meeting me like this, Naomi. I really appreciate it.” His smile could easily melt a six foot snow drift and I’m glad I came.

“You see, I’ve always wanted to know about my dad, but mum would never talk about him.

Not until just before she died and then she told me his name. Before that, she always insisted it was just her and me and that was enough.”

“But why not do your own research?” I can’t resist asking. “Why contact some nauseating TV programme?”

At this point the tea arrives. Oh my! A bottle of chilled champagne, a pot of earl grey and enough sandwiches and cakes to feed the third world. Hope they run to doggy bags.

I pour the tea and Mark does the honours with the champagne. “Cheers. Here’s to new relations.” He raises his glass and I do the same, though I’m not at all sure I want us to be related.

“To answer your question,” Mark continues, “I did try to investigate myself, but have you any idea how many Harry Evans there are in England and Wales?” He has a point.

“I agree the show is a heap of trash, but it seemed like my best shot to find my dad. I know now it’s too late, but when they told me I had a half-sister, I just had to meet you.”

I’m still wondering how they can be so sure that my dad is the same Harry Evans. “What did your mum tell you about him?” I ask.

“Only that they had a brief fling and that later, when she found she was pregnant, she decided to go it alone.”

“So my dad never knew about you?”

Mark nods. “Didn’t have a clue, apparently.”

“I’m not convinced. To be honest, my dad never seemed the kind to have a ‘fling’.”

“They need a DNA sample from us both to confirm it, but they do seem pretty sure.”

After this we move on to other things. It seems we both love jazz, Italian food and detective novels. Could this be down to shared genes or is he just my perfect partner? This is a big improvement on internet dating. Could be a match made in heaven.

I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed that the programme researcher messed up. Who needs a brother anyway?

When my phone rings a few days later, and I see that the caller is Mark, I hold my breath.

“Hey,” he says. “Guess what, our DNA doesn’t match. We are no relation whatsoever!

Wrong Harry Evans, it seems.”

“Oh, that’s such a shame,” I lie. I hear Mark laugh.

“I hope you don’t really mean that.”

“You bet I don’t. I couldn’t be more thrilled not to have a brother.”

“Phew! That’s what I hoped you’d say. So how about dinner next week?”

“Sounds like a great idea.” When I end the call, I’m dancing round the kitchen floor. My guardian angel is right on the ball, it seems. Game, set and match!

🩷🩷🩷

For many years Sue worked as a teacher of English to students from around the world.

Some years ago she began writing short stories. Since then she’s written stories, poems and articles and her work has appeared in various publications including The Lady, Fictionette Magazine, Crystal, All Your Poems, All Your Stories, Scribble and The People’s Friend.

She currently lives in Suffolk with her husband, Roger.