Chipman, Bertram J. Retired
Chipman, Michael H.Student
Chipman, Laura J.Student
Morton photographed the entry, evaluating the information. The most likely scenario was that his father had gone to the house because of Michael Chipman. In his final letter to Margaret in December 1976, Jack had written that he was staying with a friend who was ‘lending him everything.’ Morton guessed that Laura was Michael’s sister and Bertram was their father.
‘School friends?’ Morton questioned to himself, leaping up and grabbing the 1973 high school yearbook again. Flipping just a few pages inside, he found Michael Chipman. And Laura. Twins.
As he looked at their headshots, Morton was certain that they held the key to locating his father. His next steps would be to try and track them down.
Opening his laptop, he ran an online search in the White Pages. Three hundred and eighty-nine Chipmans currently living in Massachusetts. He narrowed the search for Michael. One result. But it was the wrong middle initial and wrong age bracket. Searches for Laura and Bertram also proved to be unsuccessful.
Returning to the voters’ lists, Morton found the family had continued to reside in Ocean Avenue until 1982, when another family had moved in.
Switching between various genealogy websites, Morton ran a series of searches into the Chipmans. His naïve hope that perhaps one of them still lived in the area abruptly disappeared. There was no sign of Laura in official records. The Social Security Index at Ancestry informed him that Bertram Chipman had died in 1982 and Michael had died in 2007.
Morton closed his laptop and packed up to leave the library.
He was fast running out of options.
Chapter Seven
4th August 1950, Cow Hollow, San Francisco, California, USA
It was lunchtime and, despite the chill in the air, the clear skies and high sun had lured people to the open green expanses and panoramic views of the city and sea that were offered by the Fort Mason recreation area. Picnic blankets and park benches were adorned with a motley collection of workers on late lunches, mothers with young children, students, lovers and vagrants.
Velda Henderson ambled along a path that wound its way steeply up from the Aquatic Park Pier. She took a cursory glance to her right to the Golden Gate Bridge. The iconic structure that pulled thousands of visitors to the city each year held over her a constant dark allure. Her mother had succumbed to it and Velda had, on two separate occasions, almost yielded to it, too.
She shuddered, loathing the power that a simple steel structure seemed to hold over her life.
The path finally levelled out and Velda paused to catch her breath. She wanted to sit down—find a bench and eat her sandwich. The first benches at the top of the path were taken, so she continued walking.
She stopped again, this time not to regain her breath, but to avoid being seen. She leapt to the side and ducked down, much to the bemusement of the three occupants—businessmen—sitting on the bench nearest her.
She slowly stood up to check if what she had seen had been correct. It was—Audrey canoodling with another man. So, the rumours that she had been fornicating with someone from her office had been true. And not just any other man, but Dwight Kalinski—the CEO, who was supposedly a devout Catholic, married with four children.
Velda watched incredulously. Audrey had her skirt hitched up higher than was decent and Dwight was running his hand along the length of her thigh. It was just typical of Audrey Fuller—Velda couldn’t bring herself to use her married surname—she craved the unobtainable. The trouble was, her confidence matched her looks in equal measure and most times she got what she wanted. And when she got it, she lost all interest and moved onto something or someone else. It had always been the same—at school, with jobs, with men; if she couldn’t have it, she wanted it all the more.
Poor Joseph. She would have to tell him. Perhaps this time he might listen. Especially since her last warning had proven to be correct; Audrey hadn’t been pregnant at all.
But could she tell him now, really? He was out—God only knows where, somewhere in Korea—fighting for his country. Was it really acceptable to burden him with such devastating news, just months after their wedding day? Yes, she quickly decided, it was her duty. She had heard from Joseph’s brother that the early months of the marriage had been turbulent and that on several occasions their fighting had led to Joseph returning to his old bedroom in his parents’ house.
Velda took one last look, just to be certain, just to rule out any doubt that they were just being friendly. She slowly extended herself onto tiptoes and looked over at the bench. She needn’t have been so cautious—Audrey and Dwight were in the throes of a lengthy and passionate kiss—she could have been sitting beside them and they would have been none the wiser.
Velda ran back the way that she had come—faster than she could remember ever running before in her life—all the way home.
She didn’t want to waste a single second in writing a letter to Joseph. Her Joseph.
Chapter Eight
15th March 1976, Lothrop Hill Cemetery, Barnstable, Massachusetts, USA
Jack was out of breath. He slumped down with his back to the gnarled trunk of an eastern white pine and drank the last mouthful of water from his bottle. His work was done for the day. All around him were great ugly pyres of giant hogweed roots and a host of other pernicious weeds which had consumed the cemetery. From the cleared scrubland had emerged gravestones with hand-chiselled names which had not seen the light of day for several years. Hinkley. Sturgis. Chipman. Lothrop. The early settlers who had helped create and shape the town and county.
Jack was pleased with his achievements. He and he alone had now cleared three quarters of the cemetery. Mr Chipman would pop by every so often and praise his efforts, usually delighting in some freshly uncovered headstone, but it had been he who had been responsible for returning some semblance of life to the place.
He watched as a cardinal glided down from the tree above him, landing on a nearby headstone. Jack watched the bright red bird, embracing the peace and satisfaction which he had craved whilst working at Rory’s Store. There really was no comparison between the two jobs.
The cardinal flew away with a chipping cry.
‘What’s this—slacking on the job?’
Jack laughed, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun that loomed directly behind Mr Chipman’s head.
‘You’ve done well, Jack,’ he praised. ‘Good job. Now time to pack up for the weekend.’
‘Thanks, I’m done in—ready for a nice hot bath,’ Jack replied, standing and stretching. He began to gather up his tools.
‘I’ll get these piles burnt tomorrow then there’s not much more to do before you start phase two.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Jack said. Phase two was to clean and transcribe each and every headstone. Phase three, which he was looking forward to most of all, was to trawl the town and state archives, searching out information on these founding settlers.
‘Here you go,’ Mr Chipman said, fishing in his trouser pockets. ‘Your wages for the week.’ He handed Jack a bunch of notes.
‘Thank you,’ Jack said, removing a twenty-dollar bill and passing it back over to Mr Chipman. ‘For the box.’
It took a second for Mr Chipman to register and reach out for the money. ‘Oh, yeah, the box.’
When Jack had lamented to Mr Chipman that his dad had sold a box of old family memorabilia, he had driven Jack directly to the antique store and purchased them back again for three hundred dollars. The box was now in storage in Mr Chipman’s garage and Jack was paying him back weekly.
‘Jack,’ Mr Chipman began, fiddling with the tip of his beard.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve had an initial report back, you know, into what I said I would find out for you. I’m afraid there’s no record anywhere of your family in Boston.’
Jack nodded, his expectations confirmed.
‘Your parents o
nly appear on voter lists for Cape Cod from 1953 onwards.’
‘Really?’ Jack questioned. ‘You’re sure?’
Mr Chipman nodded. ‘And another thing: your dad’s two brothers. One of them—John—was killed in the war but the other one—David—was not.’
‘I don’t understand…’
‘My acquaintances are still looking into it for you…but these things take time—it’s not easy.’
‘I know—and I really do appreciate your helping me. So one of my uncles is still alive?’
‘Well, I didn’t say that. I said that he didn’t die in the Second World War—there’s a difference.’
‘But he might be alive.’
‘Maybe.’ Mr Chipman reached out and touched Jack’s arm. ‘Jack, may I ask you a question?’
‘Sure—go ahead.’
‘How is it that your parents live where they do? I mean, they’re neighbors with the Kennedys and yet your father runs a car lot.’
The question—so obvious, yet one that he had never considered in depth before—threw him. His parents had certainly never been ones to splash money around and yet, yes, they did live in one of the nicest areas on Cape Cod. ‘I don’t know.’ Jack looked blankly to Mr Chipman. Clearly he had some idea.
‘I don’t know either, it’s just something that has always puzzled me, but it’s been none of my business to ask. I always assumed there was some inherited wealth involved, which is why I do feel it’s appropriate to ask now. Maybe there’s a connection to your father’s past life?’
‘Maybe,’ Jack said absentmindedly. The way that Mr Chipman had said ‘past life’ sent a chill through Jack’s bones. The implication was clear: his father had not simply relocated from one part of the country to another; he had existed as a different person in a different place. Jack saw it now as a kind of reincarnation of sorts. And the evidence was growing.
Jack entered the house, kicked off his boots and hung up his coat. ‘Hello?’ he yelled, although he knew from the absence of their cars on the front drive that his parents were not yet home. ‘Hello? Mom? Dad?’ he called, moving slowly along the hallway.
The house replied with silence.
The hallway clock told him that they were due back at any moment.
The place was empty, yet still he trod lightly, as though he were creeping over a frozen lake. He reached his dad’s study—tucked away at the end of the hallway beside the laundry room. The door was always kept shut and visitors were not readily admitted.
Jack opened the door and stepped inside. A couple of years ago, he and Alice had speculated at the secretive nature of the room. Their joking about their dad being a Russian spy, serial killer or Mafioso boss resulted, one day, when they were alone together in the house, in them goading each other into entering the room. Their childish opening of cupboards, looking for bodies, guns or a stash of money had of course resulted in nothing remotely interesting. All they had found were books and files containing home and business finances. They had left the room giggling that their dad was definitely a Russian serial-killing Mafia warlord.
If Jack remembered correctly, he had seen files containing bank statements behind his dad’s grand mahogany desk. He hurried over to the shelf and scanned along the handwritten labels until he found ‘Personal Banking June 30, 1974 - July 1, 1975’ on the edge of a box file. He took it down and began to rummage inside. As he had expected, the filing was meticulous. Jack removed the most recent bank statement in the box and ran his finger down the outgoings column. He didn’t have time to scrutinise each and every transaction, but there were no figures that struck him as abnormal. Switching his focus to the income column, he spotted it immediately. Two amounts came in that month: $400 and $5000. Jack traced his finger along the page to the source of the money—both were from two separate numbered accounts.
He guessed that the lower amount was for his dad’s wages. From where, then, did the higher—significantly higher—amount come?
Flicking through to the previous month, he found exactly the same two figures coming in. The same for the month before that.
Jack placed the file back on the shelf and pulled down the next one. He opened the box, then froze. He thought that he heard the sound of a car door slamming. He quickly returned the box to the shelf, hurried towards the door and peered out. Through the two narrow panes of glass in the door, Jack could see his dad, reaching up to place his key in the lock. There was no way he could get clear of this end of the hallway.
Jack rushed out of the study, pushed the door closed behind him and darted into the adjacent laundry room, tossed his t-shirt into the wash basket and then walked slowly out into the hallway.
‘Oh, hi,’ Jack greeted his dad.
His dad nodded, a note of suspicion in his cocked eyebrow. He stood as motionless as a mannequin, his hand frozen to his fedora hat, as he regarded Jack. ‘Hi.’
‘Just putting my shirt in the laundry,’ Jack said by way of explanation, as he took the stairs two at a time, grimacing as he went, hoping that he hadn’t aroused his dad’s suspicions.
He closed his bedroom door and threw himself onto the bed, knitting his fingers together behind his head. God, he hoped that he had put the files back correctly. His dad would certainly spot it if they were even half an inch out of place. Fiercely guarding his past life. Jack had absolutely no clue what was going on. Was it really such a big deal that he had been married before? Not to Jack, no. Divorce was just a normal part of life, nowadays. Maybe it wasn’t so common back then, he thought. Maybe embarrassment or shame had bred secrets which had perpetuated, lingered and slowly morphed into lies which had grown larger with each passing year. Was that it? But then why pretend that all your family is dead? He wished he had someone with whom to talk it over. He had Mr Chipman, of course, but he wasn’t really someone in whom Jack felt he could confide. If only Laura and Michael were still around. Or Alice. Yes, she would be good to discuss it with. Perhaps he could take a trip down to Boston sometime and see her.
It was strange because after Laura, Michael and Alice, the next person with whom Jack felt he wanted to talk was Margaret. He’d only known her for a week and here he was wanting to spill all of his family secrets to her. He guessed that meant that they’d had a connection.
Reaching into his bedside table, Jack took out some paper and a pen. Dear Margaret, I really hope you’re doing well. I know you won’t reply to my letters—maybe you’re not even getting them—but, in a way, that helps. You’re my silent friend! Life here is getting real strained. Since the vacation to England I’ve found out some stuff about my dad—not good stuff! I don’t really want to write it down, just in case… Let’s just say it’s from his past and that it isn’t great—even Mom doesn’t know about it.
‘Jack!’ his dad shouted from downstairs. ‘Jack!’
Jack quickly tucked the unfinished letter into his bedside table and opened his bedroom door. ‘Yeah?’ he called down, hoping that the wavering of guilt in that single word was indiscernible to his dad.
‘I’m running down to the store—do you want to come? Or do you need anything?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks. I’m just going to take a bath.’
‘Okay, I’ll be right back.’
Jack stood rigid, clutching the door, breathing lightly until he heard the roar of his dad’s car outside. Seconds later, the sound faded to nothing. Jack darted from his room, down the stairs and back along to his dad’s study, where his trembling fingers fumbled back through the paperwork that he had just seen.
Picking up the phone, Jack dialled a number.
The delay before the call was answered was short yet interminable.
‘Hello, Cape Cod Five Cents Savings Bank, this is Susie, how may I help you today?’
‘Good afternoon, this is Mr Jacklin,’ Jack said, before relaying his dad’s account number.
‘What can I do for you today, Mr Jacklin?’
‘Could I give you the details of an account that credits
me every month, please?’
‘Sure, go ahead.’
Jack told her the details then asked, ‘Is it possible to have the date that the credit transaction occurs changed at all?’
‘Well, that’s not something we can do this end, I’m afraid. You’d need to contact the Union Bank in San Francisco and request that they change the date for you—it shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Okay, that’s great—thank you so much.’
‘Will that be everything, Mr Jacklin?’
‘Yes, thank you. Goodbye.’
Jack ended the call, returned the file to the shelf and quietly slipped towards the door. He pulled it open and gasped.
‘Hello, Jack,’ his mom said.
Chapter Nine
18th August 2016, off the coast of Provincetown, Massachusetts, USA
God only knew how his mobile had found a signal. It was patchy enough around his hometown in Rye, and yet here, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with not an inch of land to be seen in any direction, his mobile had found sufficient signal to push through his emails. One email to be precise, from Keith Grant of Grant Funeral Home.
‘Oh wow! Did you see that one?’ Juliette extolled, her voice unified with dozens of others aboard The Dolphin IX, all out for a three-hour whale-watching experience.
They were pressed to a white railing on the side of the boat. Morton looked up from his mobile to see a shattered disc of water tumbling back into the sea, presumably in the wake of a humpback.
‘You didn’t see it, did you?’ Juliette asked accusingly.
‘Yes, I saw it. It was a whale,’ Morton said flatly.
‘What are you doing?’ she quizzed.
‘Reading an email from Grant Funeral Home.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Dear Morton, Thank you for your email. I can confirm that we handled your grandfather’s funeral. It took place on 8th January 1977. He was buried in a two-person plot in Old Neck Cemetery, Hyannis. Our records show that he was born April 3rd, 1928 in Boston, MA and died December 24th, 1976 in Hyannis Port, MA. No further interments have taken place in this plot and the grave is registered to the deceased’s widow, Velda Jacklin. Her address has changed several times over the years, the most recent we have dates to 2012 and is for White Oaks Care Home, Hyannis. I hope this information has been of use to you. Yours, K. Grant.’
The Missing Man Page 6