Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  I’m glad, really, because for the first time in a decade, I feel I have a purpose.

  Last Thursday I travelled down to Surrey to lunch with Gabrielle and Mr Davies, or Ken as he now insists I call him. Much to my surprise, his initial suggestion — that we don’t tell Gabrielle who I really am — fell by the wayside. As we sat around the table after dessert, the subject was broached and Gabrielle delicately informed I was her brother.

  If Ken had devised a plausible explanation for my absence all these years, I will never know, as my new sibling was too excited to care where I’d been all her life. In fact, her primary concern was the thirty years of birthday presents I apparently owe her. We debated the issue and for once, I was happy to concede defeat and agree an extra special present on her next birthday.

  I spent the whole afternoon at Brooke Cottage — I could have spent the whole week. I’m pretty sure Gabrielle was joking about her missing birthday presents, but even thirty years of gifts would pale against the single gift I received that afternoon. Perhaps it sounds ridiculous, in that I barely know Gabrielle, but I felt a connection unlike any I’ve ever felt. Ken might be her father, but there is no hiding our shared genes.

  I also received a crash course on Gabrielle’s disability, which began with a stern telling off for calling Down’s Syndrome a disability. It is, as Gabrielle rightly corrected, a condition, and not one which defines her. As she so succinctly put it: first and foremost she is an independent woman, who just happens to have Down’s Syndrome. As she discussed her life in more detail, I couldn’t help but notice the pride in Ken’s eyes. After just a few short hours, I realised the tiny, frightened woman held at knife point was not a true reflection of my sister. The fact she put it so quickly behind her is a credit to her resilience and positive attitude.

  I now see why Ken is so keen to ensure her wellbeing is maintained when he’s not around. It’s not about looking after her, but looking out for her. I gave him my word I would do that for as long as I’m on this earth.

  My change in career also means a change in living accommodation. I’ve already had most of my possessions moved from the flat in Blackfriars down to Marshburton, and the estate agents have assured me a tenant will be in place within the next few weeks. Hansworth Hall has been re-let to the same company currently in situ and they’ll remain there for the next five years at least.

  One thing that's clear is I can’t stay at the cottage in Marshburton for a while. The press continue to hound me, and the local residents are already sick of the intrusion into village life. That makes my decision to get away all the more sensible and I’m leaving for the Isle of Wight in a few days' time. Despite my initial reservations, I’ve decided to stay at the Sandown Bay Hotel; not because I’m a fan of the decor or the gloomy rooms, but because I feel sorry for Emma and her struggle to keep the place afloat. I doubt my patronage for a few weeks will make much difference, but it’ll help. And besides, Emma was pleasant company on my last visit and I don’t wish to completely cut myself off from civilisation.

  One person who is unlikely to be going on holiday anytime soon, is Rosa. I’ll give her credit for keeping her word, and handing herself in to the police as promised. I was tempted to tell her Amy planned to keep their ill-gotten gains for herself, but decided against it. It would be cruel, and she has enough problems now.

  My solicitor thinks Rosa will probably get a suspended sentence, seeing as Amy was the driving force behind the blackmail plot, and I wouldn’t argue with such a punishment. She might escape prison, but with a criminal record she’ll have the added punishment of severely limited employment options. I think, at heart, she’s not a bad person and I wouldn’t derive any satisfaction from seeing her suffer.

  As for her mother, I’ve kept my word and made arrangements for Miss Douglas to be transferred to a private care home next week. However, alongside the substantial financial settlement deal I’ve agreed with the libellous newspaper, they have also agreed to publish an article I’m in the process of writing.

  It’s probably just as well I’m leaving today because that article will pull no punches regarding our party’s policies and spending on social care. For too long, and we’re not the only guilty party, we’ve wasted billions on weaponry and wars when the real battle was being lost under our noses. I’m fairly sure the residents of Orchard House don’t wake up in the morning and, while waiting for the overstretched staff to help them out of bed, thank their lucky stars we have a nuclear deterrent keeping them safe. While good people like Anna work tirelessly to help those in need, we cannot continue to undermine their efforts through a lack of funding.

  Hopefully, my article will bring sufficient shame to those holding the purse strings.

  On the subject of financial matters, Clement steadfastly refused to accept the payment I promised him. After we returned from Surrey, we had a couple of drinks at Fitzgerald’s but there was little in the way of celebration. We dealt with Amy, but not in the way either of us hoped, and I think her death really affected Clement. After barely an hour he sloped off and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Fortunately, tonight is my farewell to Frank and Jeanie, and I’ve been assured Clement will be at Fitzgerald’s later. I get the impression he isn’t big on friendships so I don’t think he’s likely to stay in touch, but at least I’ll have the chance to properly thank him.

  But, as they say: all things, good and bad, come to an end. I won’t miss some of Clement’s bad traits, but there’s far more good than I ever expected to find, and I will miss him, for sure.

  I take a final look around my office and switch off the lights.

  It’s funny, but the routine of everyday life takes on a new perspective when you know the routine won’t be repeated tomorrow, or ever again. As I wander through the chilly London streets, I take my time in order to appreciate the architecture and the people passing by. The faces of the pretty young things are still young and still pretty, but now I see them differently. Look beneath the surface and they’ll carry the same insecurities, the same fears, and the same scars as anyone else. I no longer envy their youth or their beauty because, as I’ve learnt, it’s not who they are or what defines their time on earth.

  Sixty-five million people live in this great country of ours, and every one of us is capable of bringing beauty to the world. And, unfortunately, a degree of ugliness. In the last fortnight I’ve witnessed both.

  After a slow walk, I arrive at Fitzgerald’s just after five thirty. It’s busier than usual as Frank appears to have corralled all the regulars. My arrival is met with a cheer and a few dozen smiling faces. Even barfly Stephen is on his feet for a change.

  It’s a heart-warming reception and a stark contrast to the handful of emails and half-hearted handshakes I received from my Westminster colleagues.

  I make my way to the bar and receive numerous pats on the back as I go. I’ve chatted with each and every person here at some point over the last decade, but I can’t say I know them that well. Perhaps my own fault. Nevertheless, it’s good to see them all for one final goodbye. My call for a round of drinks is met with another cheer and I ask Frank to set up a tab. No doubt my credit card will receive a hammering tonight, but I couldn’t care less.

  With the juke box turned up and the drinks flowing, I scour the room looking for the one person I really hoped would be here.

  Unsuccessful in my search, I turn to Frank behind the bar. “Have you seen Clement?”

  “Sorry, mate. I was gonna call and tell you, but I’ve been a bit busy this afternoon. He’s decided to move on.”

  “What? When did he decide that?”

  “He came in at lunchtime to say goodbye.”

  “Where’s he gone?”

  “He wasn’t exactly clear on that. Said something about needing to be somewhere closer to home.”

  “Closer to home? I thought he was born and bred in London?”

  “Yeah, so did I, but you know what he’s like — a man of mystery is our Clement.”<
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  “Oh, that’s…disappointing.”

  “He did leave something for you, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I think he gave it to Jeanie. Give me a sec and I’ll go grab it.”

  On reflection, disappointing doesn’t sufficiently cover how I feel about Clement’s absence. It was at this very bar I first met him, and more than anything I wanted to close the circle. Perhaps a reflection of my life rather than him, but I can now count Clement as one of the few people in my life I’ve ever been able to truly count on. And if it wasn’t for his pragmatism and dogged determination, I’d probably be drinking in very different circumstances this evening.

  But clearly the feeling wasn’t mutual and that smarts.

  “Here you go,” Frank says, handing me a flat package about eight inches square, and wrapped in brown paper.

  I take the package and place it on the bar.

  “Was there any message, Frank?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  I turn the package over and peel away the single line of tape. Pulling away the paper flaps reveals the back of what looks like a picture frame. Curious, I turn it over to find a black and white photo, carefully mounted in a wooden frame.

  I pick it up and study the photo of six men in suits, stood shoulder to shoulder and holding glasses aloft. It takes a few seconds to determine why Clement went to the trouble of having the photo framed. The man stood in the centre has a striking resemblance to my father, albeit a forty-something version. It’s not just seeing my father that stuns, but also the backdrop for the photo.

  “Frank,” I call across the bar. “Come here a second.”

  He shuffles over and I show him the photo.

  “Never seen that one before,” he says.

  “But it was definitely taken in here?”

  He looks a little closer. “Yeah, you can just make out the juke box in the background.”

  I point to the man in the centre. “I think that’s my father.”

  “Really?”

  “The more I look at it, the surer I am. I’d guess he’s somewhere in his mid-forties so this must have been taken in the early seventies.”

  Frank re-examines the photo. “Sounds about right. Your old man was a politician wasn’t he?”

  “For forty years. I had no idea he’d ever stepped foot in Fitzgerald’s, though.”

  “It was members-only back then, and I’m told it was popular with politicians who wanted to misbehave out of the public eye. Who’d have thought your old man was a regular though?”

  “Incredible. Ten years I’ve been coming here and I didn’t have a clue.”

  I can’t even guess how Clement found the photo, and I’m genuinely humbled he went to so much trouble. But as considerate as his gift is, it only adds to my lament — there will be no opportunity to thank him or offer a proper goodbye.

  I ask Frank to keep the photo safe behind the bar.

  It won’t be until tomorrow I spot the reflection of the man who captured the photo; just about visible in the plate glass window next to the juke box — a big man decked in double denim, sporting a horseshoe moustache.

  SIX MONTHS LATER...

  38.

  I don’t get on with duvet covers. The fact we have twenty-four beds to make is a version of hell I’d rather avoid.

  “I think I’ll go and see if they’ve arrived.”

  “No, you won’t” Emma replies. “They’re not due for another fifteen minutes, and besides, we’ve only got four beds left to do.”

  I shoot her a frown while attempting to stuff another pillow into its case.

  “Don’t sulk,” she adds. “You’ve only done three beds, anyway.”

  “I know, but its painstaking,” I whine with mock indignation.

  I finish making up my fourth bed and saunter over to the window. The view from the third floor is like a picture postcard that changes on a daily basis, and today we’ve been blessed with bright blue skies and wall-to-wall sunshine.

  “Perfect,” I whisper to myself.

  An arm curls around my waist as Emma sidles up to me. “In every way,” she coos before planting a kiss on my cheek.

  I turn and pull her to me.

  “Thank you...for this…for everything.”

  “It’s me who should be thanking you,” she replies. “I can’t believe we’ve actually done it.”

  In truth, there is much about the last six months to defy belief.

  My original plan to stay in Sandown for two weeks fell by the wayside. Those two weeks became three, then four, and after a series of life changing decisions, seamlessly became indefinite. They say you should never mix business with pleasure, but I think in my case, they’ve become one and the same thing.

  It started with an idea, seeded one dark December evening as we sat in front of a log fire in the lounge and watched Oliver together. For some reason my thoughts turned to that young woman I met on the estate in Hounslow. I thought about her son, and the hundreds of thousands of children on similar estates across London. If the parents are forced to rely upon food banks, what hope is there for the children to ever go on holiday? Virtually none I concluded.

  That thought coincided with Emma’s grim forecast for the hotel’s future. With dwindling demand and major refurbishment needed, there was going to come a point where the Sandown Bay Hotel simply couldn’t afford to open its doors.

  And there was I with a big chunk of cash in the bank, courtesy of one libellous newspaper. For the first time in my life, I believe the Gods were trying to point me in the right direction.

  I put the idea to Emma and she jumped at it.

  With Emma on board there was no holding me back, and I promptly bought a fifty percent share in the hotel from her mother, Dora. That money allowed Dora to escape the damp in her bedroom, and purchase a warden-assisted retirement flat a few streets away — a win-win situation for us all.

  The next step involved setting up a charity and planning an extensive refurbishment program for the old place — not as a hotel for paying guests, but to accommodate disadvantaged children from inner London. After a number of meetings and weeks' of research, it became clear we could help hundreds of children every year — children who, in many cases, had never seen the sea, let alone enjoyed a holiday.

  Perhaps selfishly, the thought of making a direct and positive impact on so many young lives was irresistible.

  By mid-January everything was in place and the refurbishment contractors were booked to start in February. Emma and I went out for dinner that night to celebrate. It also happened to be the night we shared our first kiss. Three days after our first kiss, we spent our first night in the same bed; a bed we’ve shared ever since.

  It would be fair to say Emma has changed my life beyond recognition, and that fateful trip to the Isle of Wight back in October now feels like the greatest blessing. Who would have thought something so wonderful could come from a situation so bleak.

  “What are you thinking about?” Emma asks.

  “Oh, nothing really. I just can’t quite believe we’re only minutes away from greeting our first guests.”

  “We’d better get a wiggle on then,” she chuckles. Apparently there’s still time for a lingering kiss, though.

  A voice from the doorway interrupts us mid-kiss.

  “Ewww!”

  Our lips part and we turn to the door.

  “Will you two please stop with the PDA,” Gabrielle orders.

  “What on earth is PDA?” I ask.

  “Public display of affection,” she replies. “It’s gross and should be banned.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  I step across the room and pose a question. “Does that mean I can’t give my little sister a hug any more then?”

  Gabrielle ponders this for a moment before throwing her arms around me. “No, they’re allowed,” she beams.

  With the two most incredible women by my side, I make my way down to the reception area.

 
While Gabrielle and Emma head off to prepare drinks for our first batch of guests, I take a moment to stand behind the new reception desk and ready myself. My gaze drifts around the lobby before falling to the two framed pictures on the desk: one of six men in suits, and one of Gabrielle and I; taken by Ken a few weeks after that fateful day at the stables.

  Both pictures summon mixed emotions.

  Ken passed away ten weeks ago after his health took a turn for the worse over the Christmas period. Fortunately, Gabrielle and I had already forged a strong bond by that stage, and I do wonder if Ken was only holding on long enough to ensure his daughter would be cared for. I like to think he met his maker knowing she would be.

  Two weeks after Ken’s funeral, and with Emma by my side, I asked Gabrielle if she wanted to move to Sandown to live with us. I’m not sure what I’d have done if she’d said no, but the lure of living by the seaside proved too much. Her only condition was that Archie had to come too, and he now lives in new stables a few miles away. In some way, I think Gabrielle was relieved she’d never have to visit the scene of Amy’s siege ever again.

  And so, here we are — my cobbled-together family. We might have been thrown together by the most adverse of circumstances but that only strengthens our appreciation of what we now have. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

  “They’re here,” Gabrielle yells across the lobby.

  I look up to see a minibus draw up by the front door.

  “Right. Here we go.”

  We head outside where twenty-four hyper excited children are already exiting the minibus. With them are Debbie and Chloe; two volunteers from a London-based charity who organise that end of our venture. We all shake hands before corralling the children into the lobby.

  It takes a few minutes of hushing before I can finally deliver my welcome speech.

  “Good morning children. I’m Will.”

  Twenty-four fidgety children look back at me. With broad smiles and excited faces, they reply in unison. “Good morning, Will.”

  “I know you’re all keen to get down to the beach, so, what we’ll do is show you to your rooms and then we can head straight down there. Is that a good idea?”