Page 42 of The Fete of Summer

Dearest Nathan,

We met in person eight years ago. My son, Grant, and I visited your shop in Crumbington. Not that you would remember. But my son had a long chat with your father. Funnily enough, he placed our accents precisely. My father, Jeremy Brooks, had passed the same year, which is what prompted our visit. During his final days, he told me the truth about my birth family.

According to my Australian birth certificate, my birthplace is Melbourne, where I’ve lived my whole life. However, on the official certificate my father gave me before he died, one he kept hidden all these years, I was born in England to John and Mary Fresher.

I am not sure how familiar you are with history, but at the outbreak of World War II, the British government evacuated children—Operation Pied Piper—from urban areas of London to countryside or seaside towns. Some children, particularly those with relatives in the colonies, were shipped to Canada, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, and the United States. According to my grandfather, I was brought to Australia by my birth mother’s sister, Emily. She and her husband, Jeremy Brooks, were not able to have children of their own, and with uncertainty in Europe, they were happy to adopt me.

Nathan, I’ve lived a long and wonderful life, loved and nurtured by my mother and father, married a wonderful woman and had a son, Grant, late in life. He’s been a source of endless joy. And I know I could go quietly to my grave now and keep this hidden. Believe me when I say I have been conflicted about what to do. But I feel people deserve to know the truth, especially you and my son. As Thomas Jefferson once said, half a truth is often a great lie. And I will not die being a party to a half-truth. I didn’t get to know my real father and mother or my brother. I half suspect my real father, your great-grandfather, had some influence on the choosing of your name, which is similar to my own.

My son is learning about this at the same time. He is not that much older than you, and I hope the two of you have a chance to meet again one day. Although I’m leaving my business and most of my wealth to him, I’ve left you something as a way of apologising for not saying hello to you when I had the chance because, at the time, I lacked courage.

Have a beautiful life, Nathan.

Yours warmly,

Great Uncle Nathaniel

When Nathan finished, he sat back, stunned. A warm hand landed on his shoulder and rubbed gently.

“Are you okay, buddy?” asked Jaymes.

Nathan peered across at Ms Cawthorn.

“Have you read this?” said Nathan, holding the letter up.

“I have,” said Ms Cawthorn. “Nathaniel Brooks provided copies of all letters for the solicitors, Flynn & Fox. They’re paying all our fees.”

“Then you know I have a cousin?”

“Grant Stanhope Brooks. He’s your first cousin once removed. Son of Nathaniel Stanhope Brooks, your great uncle. Grant would be around thirty-seven now.”

“I have family,” Nathan said to Jaymes, still stunned.

Whether because of her professional vocation or just her general bearing, Ms Cawthorn hadn’t once smiled despite Nathan being over a hundred thousand pounds better off. Eventually, after Nathan had signed the necessary papers and given bank details, Ms Cawthorn sat back and softened a little.

“Look, before you head off, Mr Fresher, I believe it’s my duty to warn you. This windfall, this familial development, comes with a potential complication. Which is why I asked you to bring along those particular documents.”

“How do you mean?”

“According to the copy of your father’s will and a clause insisted upon by both your forefathers, it states that upon their respective deaths, the bakery and everything associated with it, including the premises, should be bequeathed to the oldest surviving male heir of the Fresher family.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then I have a duty to inform you, Mr Fresher, that technically that’s no longer you.”

Chapter Twelve

Photoshoot

A short walk from the solicitor’s office, Nathan bought them lunch in a sea-facing cafe. Naturally, talk centred on the implications of the will. Jaymes did his best to ease Nathan’s concerns, reasoning that if a relative had left Nathan a substantial amount of money, his next of kin would have inherited a hell of a lot more, making him a very wealthy man. Why would he care about running a village bakery on the other side of the world? Moreover, according to the letter, the son had inherited the family business in Melbourne, whatever that may be. Together, they came up with a plan to put Nathan’s mind at rest. He would write to the cousin and offer his condolences, using the address provided in the letter.

After they had finished eating, they drove straight to Polly’s. Apart from updating her, they wanted to break the news about Nathan’s offer of a room and start to move Jaymes’ belongings in. Jaymes had stoked Nathan’s passion by promising him an unhurried session of gratitude in the bedroom when they got home. Nathan barely kept to the speed limit on the drive back.

Polly became pensive when he explained that Jaymes would be renting his spare room. Whether she suspected anything between them, he couldn’t tell—he never could with her. Even when Nathan cited the good sense of the plan about them keeping very different working hours, she gave him a quizzical frown as they watched Jaymes stack his few things into the van. On his way past, Jaymes deftly changed the subject, enquiring about Polly’s dinner date with her girlfriends. A brilliant ploy because Polly soon went on the defensive.

“Girlfriends?” repeated Nathan, his arms folding. “You told me you had a dinner date with somebody, and you definitely didn’t mention girls. You had a date with Benny Cheung, didn’t you?”

“What? No!” said Polly, clearly aghast. “Whyever would you think that?”

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