Kate hated unexpected visitors.  They upset her routine.  One of the advantages of moving so far from London in retirement was that she did not get so many these days.  So when she had seen the strange car pulling onto the grass verge in front of her cottage that morning, her first instinct was to pretend she was out.
Unfortunately, the driver of the car had seen her twitching the curtains to get a better view, so she had to abandon that idea.  At least the smart young man she saw striding up her garden path did not have a briefcase or a bible so he was unlikely to be trying to sell her a new gas account or a religion.
‘Good morning, are you Mrs McRae?’  His broad smile seemed to advance right into her hallway as she opened the door.  A blue suit complemented the matching tie and his hair was fashionably cut and well groomed.  She could not help noticing though, as she studied him that he there was a hint of Afro-Caribbean about his complexion and facial features.  Not that that made any difference, she told herself.
‘My name’s Beamish – Charles Beamish.’  He went on when she did not reply.
 ‘What is this?’  She replied at last.  ‘Are you police?’
‘I’m off duty, actually.  This is just informal.  Nothing to worry about.’  He smiled.
‘I’m not letting you in.’
‘Okay, I can understand that.  We can just talk here on the doorstep if you prefer.  Nice cottage you have here, by the way.  I must say I did not expect to find someone Scottish living here, in a remote part of North Wales-’
‘I’m not.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Scottish.  I’m not Scottish, Mr Beamish.  I’m as English as –’
‘I am?’  He smiled, displaying a perfect set of white teeth.  ‘It’s about your husband, actually.  Donald McRae?’
‘My husband was English too, born in London.’
‘Can I ask how long you’ve lived here?’
‘No you can’t.  And you still haven’t shown me a warrant card.  When you said you were “off duty”, how long “off duty” exactly?’
‘Actually, I’m not with the force right now.  I am a private investigator.  You don’t have to answer any questions, of course.  But..’  The perfect set of teeth appeared again.
‘I see.  Well, I retired here six years ago, just after my husband died.’
‘Do you know if your husband had any connections with Worcester?’
‘Where?’  She shrugged.  ‘Not as far as I can recall.  We might have passed through it...’
‘No, I mean, stayed there, maybe for a few days or over night at least?’
‘What is this about?’
‘I just wanted to make sure we are talking about the same Donald McRae.  I could be mistaken.’
‘Well, he might have.’ she sighed.  ‘My husband was a consultant engineer.  He travelled around as part of his work.  He might have stayed in Worcester at some time.’
‘Would you have any way of confirming it?  It is quite important.  There is no legal problem I assure you, but my client would be very grateful if you could confirm when your husband might have been there.’
‘I haven’t got time, I’m afraid, I’m too busy.’  She was beginning to feel uncomfortable about these questions.  She tightened her grip on the door and began closing it.
‘Look, If there is any information you feel you can provide, my client would be very grateful.  Here.’  He pushed a business card to her, which she took without looking.  Realising he could get no further, Charles Beamish gave her a last flash of that immaculate smile before reluctantly retreating to his car.
As she was closing the door, Kate caught sight of her neighbour, Mr Jenkins, hacking away at his hedge.  Did the infernal man never do anything else?  She was quite sure the man invented excuses to do work in his garden just so he could eavesdrop.
‘Nice day Mrs McRae,’ he smiled.  ‘Couldn’t help noticing your visitor.  Nice young chap.  Not local eh?  Not from round y’ere?’
‘No.’ she replied just before the click of the latch.  She continued to lean on the door for several minutes after she had listened to the sounds of the car moving away.  That visit had upset her more than she would admit, even to herself.  True, the man had said it was not a legal problem and anyway, if it was a something like a parking violation, or speeding, then six years was a bit long to leave it before trying to trace Donald.  Yet the man had upset her.  
She went back to the kitchen, but found she could not concentrate on what she was doing, so she put on her walking boots and waterproof.  She needed a few things from the village; maybe the walk would clear her head.   
Carefully locking the door behind her, she deliberately ignored Mr Jenkins who was now dragging a mountain of hedge clippings into a pile.  She crossed the lane in front of her cottage then swung over the stile in the hedge opposite.  
She was now on a track which took her between steep hills, passing an old shepherd’s shelter, standing roofless and abandoned like a set of rotting teeth.  Above her, on the slopes, sheep were perched precariously on rocky outcrops, chewing thoughtfully as they watched her striding below them.
She loved everything about this brooding, mysterious area, especially this time of year - early March - with grey heavy sky, and the biting cold breeze.  It seemed to suit her mood.  It was still a novelty to her that she could do her shopping by walking through such country.  It certainly beat jostling amongst crowds in Wood Green Shopping City on a Saturday afternoon.
Most of all she loved the silence.  There were no sounds, save the flat echoing ‘caark’ of the crows and the rush and gurgle of water that came cascading down in a thin stream from cairns high up.  You could never get silence like this in London, even in the middle of Hampstead Heath.
It was true that the shops charged higher prices than the big supermarkets, but that was a price you paid.  Anyway, now she had broadband installed, she could get almost anything she wanted delivered to her front door.
In the village, she bought a couple of magazines and some items of food from the shop, then made her way back up the hill to her cottage.  By the time she reached the stile in the hedge again, she had quite forgotten about that Charles Beamish and his ominous visit.  
She was not quite expecting, therefore, to see his car parked outside her cottage again.  Mr Jenkins was still there too, still tidying up his hedge clippings.  What was worse was there was no way of avoiding speaking to him this time, because he had seen her, and seen that she had seen him too.  
Then she had a sudden flash of inspiration.  As she approached her house she called out ‘Mr Beamish, how nice of you to call.  You must come in for a cup of tea,’ then swept the bemused and confused Charles Beamish into her cottage.  Once inside she shut the door behind them.
‘That was for my neighbour, not you.’ she said, going straight through to the kitchen with her shopping.  ‘I can’t think why you should want to return.’
‘I wasn’t entirely honest with you earlier, Mrs McRae.’
She returned from the kitchen and faced him, her arms crossed, angrily.  ‘I know.  You lied to me about being a police officer for a start.’
‘Actually, I didn’t lie exactly.’  He smiled.  ‘You said “are you police”, I just said that I wasn't on duty at the moment.’
‘I take it you have never even been in the police?’  
‘I did think of joining once.  Look, I’d better be straight with you, Mrs McRae.  The reason for finding about your husband’s movements is rather delicate.  When he visited Worcester, he might have, er, met someone.’
‘A woman?’
Charles Beamish nodded.
‘My husband was not a saint, Mr Beamish.  I suspected something like that.  But it must have occurred twenty five, thirty years ago.  It is all in the past surely, unless...’
‘I am afraid, Mrs McRae that the person your husband met in Worcester later found she was pregnant.  Your husband has a child in Worcester.’
Kate involuntarily collapsed into an armchair.  Charles Beamish sat down in a seat facing her.  
‘Surely,’ she began, ‘I mean, Donald never said anything..’
‘He probably didn’t know.  The mother went on to get married and have other children....’
‘I am sure if Donald had known…’
Beamish smiled.  ‘We shall never know, unfortunately, shall we?’
Kate suddenly pulled herself together.  ‘Look, this is really not my concern, now.  Unless it is a question of money?’
‘No, money does not enter into it.’
‘What then?  What does your client want, now, after all this time?’
‘Acknowledgement.’ he said.  ‘That’s all.’
‘But what?  Birthday cards?  Holidays?  Mr Beamish, I think you are still not being straight with me.  Presumably, your client was willing to pay for you to come all this way looking for me.  How can I be sure he or she is not going to start pestering me for money?’
‘I can be quite sure of that, because, you see, it is me.’
‘You?!  Oh, no.’
‘I am your husband’s son.’  He said simply.  ‘Twenty five years ago, in April, your husband and my Mum spent the night together; maybe several nights together.’
‘Mr Beamish, if that is really your name, I have had enough of this.  I think it’s time you left.’
‘Mrs McRae, Kate...’
‘Don’t call me Kate!’
‘But can’t you see, I’m the nearest you have to a son!’
‘How dare you!  Get out.’
‘What’s wrong?  A moment ago, you said you knew your husband was not a saint...’
‘What is it you want Mr Beamish?  Is this a scam?  Do you prey on elderly widows?  I only have to bang on the wall and my neighbour...’
‘Tom Jenkins?  Yes I was talking to him earlier.  Look, Kate, er Mrs McRae, I realise this is hard for you, but I can provide proof.  I have my birth certificate.’
‘That proves nothing.‘
‘I’ll do a DNA test, then, if you like.  I was as shocked as you by this, at first.  Look, I know your husband didn’t love my mother.  I have learned to accept that he chose you, not my Mum – how do you think I feel?  It wasn’t even a proper affair from what I gather.  Maybe he just fancied a bit of black one night, I dunno..’
‘Donald would never..!’
‘Oh, is that it?  You don’t like to think your husband had a thing for black women?  Would it somehow have been more acceptable if it was a white girl?’
‘Just get out before I fetch the police.  The real ones!’
‘Okay, I’ll go.  But where does that leave me?’
‘I don’t care.’
Charles Beamish stood for a moment, unsure whether to say anything else, unsure whether there was anything he could say.  Eventually he did as she had asked and left.
After the door shut, Kate sat still for several minutes without moving; her head reeling.  This was too much to take in, but there was one thing that she could do to check whether this Charles Beamish was telling the truth. She had not kept much of Donald’s things, considering she had spent the best part of thirty years with him, but amongst the things she had kept were his business diaries.
She found them in the spare room upstairs in a box she had still not got round to sorting out.  Charles Beamish had indicated that it had happened twenty five years ago, so that narrowed it down a little.  She found the diary for that year and as she picked it up, her eyes fell on an old packet of cigarettes and some matches.  She had almost forgotten she once smoked, and had not felt the need of a cigarette till now.
She took the diary and the cigarettes out to the little seat in her garden.  She noticed her hands were shaking as she lit the cigarette.  The first drag after all these years nearly took her breath away.
The pages of the diary were now yellowing at the edge, but Donald’s bold slanting writing brought back strange memories even now, and not especially good memories, either.  She had to force herself to read on, and ignore all the emotions that were stirred up.   
After a while, her eyes were sore, whether from smoke fumes or tears, she was not sure.
‘Are you okay Mrs McRae?’  Mr Jenkins was peering over the fence.  ‘Only you have been there for a long time and it’s getting chilly.  It’s only March, you know.’
‘I’m okay, Mr Jenkins’ she said, then as an after thought, added, ‘Actually no, I am not okay.  I have had rather a shock.’
‘Would you like to come round?  I’ve got a bottle of whisky.’
‘Yes, thanks, I will.’
As she made her way round she noticed an estate agent’s sign in his garden.
‘Leaving, Mr Jenkins?’ she said as he handed her a tumbler of malt.
‘Well, yes, I am.  To be honest I don’t fit in round here.  The locals all think I’m a foreigner.’  
‘But you are Welsh.’
‘But to them, see, I’m a southern boyo.  Worse, I’m from Cardiff, so I’m a city boyo, too.  They can’t put up with that.  Of course, it’s different for you, being a woman, like.  You’ve fitted in nicely here - very nicely - but my being a man, you see, they see me as a threat.  So I’m moving back down to Porthcawl, near my sister.  I can get a train in to Cardiff from there, to see my old mates.’  
She nodded.
‘But what’s bothering you?’
She told him, explaining how the young man he had seen earlier was in fact her husband’s son.
‘Oh, Dhu, there’s a shock for you.’ he said quietly.  ‘Are you sure he’s telling you the truth?’
‘I found the entry in my husband’s diary.  He was in Worcester for a week, 25 years ago.’
‘I see.’
‘I suppose you think I shouldn’t have thrown Charles Beamish out like that?’
‘Oh, I can’t answer that one.  But I dare say, he’s had a few more years to get used to the idea.  He was right though, in a way, he is the nearest you have to a son, isn’t he?  You have no other children?’
Kate shook her head.
‘I know it was a shock,’ he went on, ’but that was not the only reason you threw him out was it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you remember why you came here, six years ago?’
‘I told you, I fell in love with the place on a holiday years ago.’
‘That’s not the reason you left London though is it?  I recall the words “foreigner in my own country” ; “fed up with pretending that we can all live together in a multicultural society.”’
‘Yes, I did say something like that.’
‘But you are the foreigner now, aren’t you?  Here, in Wales?  God, even I feel like a bloody foreigner myself, and these are my own people.  It’s no use saying that we’re all E.U. citizens now, to them you’re an interloper, your sort are pushing the property prices up beyond the range of locals.’
She nodded.  She had heard this said before.
‘Now, be honest, did the fact that he was black have anything to do with it?’
‘That’s a terrible thing to suggest.  I’m no racist.’
‘No?’
‘No, I’m not a racist.  His being black is of no concern at all.’
Or was it?  She was not sure now.  If Charles Beamish had been white, would she have listened to him instead of telling him to get out?  Would she have been quite so shocked that he was her husband’s son?  She was too tired and confused to think about it any more.  It had been a strange day.  
Tom Jenkins had moved to the window and was staring thoughtfully at the view.  A weak March sun was throwing the hills into relief against a swirling grey sky.
‘I shall miss this.’  He murmured.  ‘Though maybe it’s time to get back to civilisation.  These days, I find myself wondering about all the things those hills have seen.  That view has probably not changed for thousands of years.  To them, all our lives are just a blip, an instant in time.  It’s strange to think that everything that we worry about today, like paying the gas bill or arguments with lovers, will all be forgotten in a few years when we’re dead.’
‘Yes, you do need a change of scenary, Mr Jenkins.’ she smiled.  ‘And I hope I haven’t caught what you’ve got.  Just now, I was going through my husband’s stuff and I caught myself thinking that it wasn’t much to show for a life: a a few photos and a pile of diaries, that’s all.’
‘And a son.’  He reminded her.
After leaving Tom Jenkins house, she decided to go for one last walk before it got too dark.  The lights were already on in the houses she could see dotted around, so she took a torch with her as she strode down to the village.  
It was in a little parking space close to the shops that she found the now familiar car.  The occupant was wrapped up in a duvet and was settled down to sleep.  As she approached, he saw her and wound the window down.
‘Mr Beamish.’ she said.
‘It seems that the local pub don’t do rooms for the night.’ he grinned ruefully.
‘Well in that case, we’d better go back to my place, hadn’t we?  You know the way?’
She climbed in the passenger side.  As he drove back up the hill he explained.  ‘Me and the missus, we had a falling out.  I decided it was best if I cleared out of the way for a while, cool down, you know?  I also decided to use the time to find out something about my Dad.  Stupid idea, it seems.’
‘You’re married?’
‘Yeah, and before you say anything else, you never asked me if I was.  I got a couple of kids too.’
‘Was it a serious “falling out”?’
‘Well, I thought it was, when I left home this morning.  But I went for a walk in the hills this afternoon.  It sort of put things into perspective.  It doesn’t seem such a big deal now.  I guess my missus and I’ll be able to sort things out.  I can see why you chose to live here: this place is timeless.’
‘You can phone your wife from my house, Charles, I expect she’ll want to know you’re all right.’
‘Thanks, Mrs McRae.’
‘Kate,’ she corrected him, ‘You had better start calling me Kate.’