by Alan Agnew
‘Hello, Donald.’ I stand smiling, but my greeting is returned with an eye roll and a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Did you not hear the bell the first time?’ I cheekily ask.
‘I have just seen off Dorothy and all the fussing that comes with her, you can come in for five minutes.’ Donald walks ahead and into the living room taking a seat at the dining table, which I accept as a good sign, inviting me to also sit down rather than kneeling at his feet as before.
‘Donald, I need to apologise.’
His arms fold with purpose, bracing himself. ‘Bloody hell Philip, now what have you done?’
I make a point of looking him straight in the eye. ‘This time, I need to apologise on behalf of my dad. I know you had your differences, but what he did was inexcusable’. I reach into my pocket and pull out the thin, tattered envelope, setting it down on the table in front of him.
Donald reaches for his glasses and bends over the table, inspecting the envelope, before pulling out the medal. ‘Well, well, this is very interesting, you have Pip,’ he holds the medal between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over and brushing his thumb over it, releasing a smirk of satisfaction and a knowing nod. ‘And what would you like me to do with this?’ His eyes strain above his reading glasses to meet mine, throwing me off-guard.
‘I am returning it to you. I found it in an old box of my dad’s possessions hidden in the garage, I assumed it was yours, but who is Pip?’
Donald gave the medal a second look, turning it over in his fingers.
‘Pip is the campaigning medal from WW1. The 1914 Star was always awarded with Squeak and Wilfred, more formally known as the British War medal and the Victory medal. But this is not mine you understand, and this is an original. You see here, the recipient’s number, rank, and regiment stamped on the back in block capitals.’ I lean in closer to look again at what I have already read.
‘So my dad did not steal it from you?’ I hear the respite in my voice. ‘It is just I noticed the empty mount in your draw, and I assumed you were missing a medal, and then I put two and two together.’
‘Jumping to conclusions again Philip? He did not steal it from anyone. This was his father’s. He was proud of your Grandad, but at the same time, he felt resentment about being left so young without a father himself and his mum without a husband. He never really liked to talk about the war, which is why he got upset with me for encouraging Jimmy.’
My eyes find the framed medals on Donald’s wall next to paintings of tanks and RAF planes. Reading my thoughts, he interjects. ‘I have only ever been a keen reader, observing from a distance. Neither I nor any of my family has ever even held a gun let alone gone into battle.’ His look is one of resignation. ‘My father ran a newsagents in Guildford.’
‘But I thought…’
‘You and Jimmy both did, your father too, and others no doubt. I never lied to anybody, people just assumed, and the persona fitted rather well with my career as a History teacher. My passion and interest in the Great Wars are genuine, sadly the memorabilia on my wall is not.’
The silence stretches out in the space between us, our eyes both fixed on the table.
‘You are right. It was our mistake.’ I need to say something, anything. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, anything at all?’
Donald returns a rare smile. ‘You can do the one thing Dorothy refuses.’
I raise my eyebrows with apprehension.
‘You can fix me a bloody drink.’
My confidence returning, I pour Donald a whiskey with lemonade and ice, and myself a cup of tea.
Donald offers me the invitation I was hoping for while rotating his whiskey glass. ‘Did you investigate the name I gave you in Bournemouth?’
I take a second not to seem too eager. ‘I met him this morning actually, and he was a little confused, dementia most probably. I did ascertain some information, although I may need some help from someone with connections in the police force.’
‘Well spit it out chap, was it a tattoo, a criminal record, what was it?’
‘A car license plate from the visitor log, no name, but initials that fit one of the twins and an admission from Derek that Robbie visits regularly. However, he was very confident for someone so confused, too confident maybe. I just need to trace the owner of the registration plate, and I have found him.’
‘Twins, wow I never knew it was twins.’ Donald sits back in his chair with a wry smile, no doubt thinking of my dad and the predicament he was in. ‘Well, good luck son, you deserve to know.’ I sit quietly and wait for more, for him to take my bait.
‘Thanks Donald, and I know I do not deserve your help after everything I have done. Still, I was hoping you could maybe call upon some old buddies from the force or maybe some old brothers that have connections to the force. I have no-one else to ask.’
Donald folds his arms again and leans back in his chair, shutting one eye. ‘My connections and brothers are the same people, the problem being they either make Derek look like a spring chicken or are six feet under already. I mean you met Peter Mayne, they pump him full of drugs and let him out for two hours a week to join our social meet up.’
He had a point, from my brief liaison with the Lodge, most looked like their best years were undoubtedly behind them.
‘Leave it with me Philip, and I will see what I can do, no promises though.’
I write down the registration number on his pad. ‘Thanks Donald, now why don’t you grab the newspaper and your drink, and I will run around the house with the Hoover and duster to keep Dorothy happy.’
I put right all the chaos I remember setting off in the house, returning pictures, cleaning cereal out of drawers, replacing lightbulbs. I quickly lose track of time and shout a goodbye as I leave through the door and go straight to my car.
It suddenly dawns on me what I am doing and where I am going. Meeting Vicky on the moors was casual, and the drinks after church and lunch were very much spur of the moment. Dinner tonight is our first real date. My mind inexplicitly wanders back to the image of Caroline packing up her boxes, and I realise I’m no longer paralysed with the fear of having to date again. I allow myself a smirk in the mirror, testament to Vicky more than my personal growth, that I only feel excited and not gut-wrenching nerves. She has a very natural disposition and puts me at ease, and I remind myself there and then not to take advantage of this in the future. Showering and clean clothes being a basic requirement next time.
I jog through the High Street, quickly realising how unfit I have become. ‘Sorry I am a few minutes late Vicky,’ I say holding up the palms of my hands. ‘You won’t believe me, but I was cleaning Donald’s house.’
‘Well if you are trying to impress me it is working.’
We talk for hours, about Vicky’s career plans, her faith, her love of amateur theatre and of course a little of my day with Derek and Donald. We are the last ones to leave the restaurant, and I had not even noticed the tables around us emptying. Without pause or too much thought, we kiss goodnight, her mouth fitting perfectly against mine.
As I settle on the sofa to watch the late edition of the news on television, I receive a text message from Vicky. ‘I had a lovely time tonight Phil x’ I smile and immediately reply ‘me too x’ before turning off the grim reality of wars and famines and go to bed. Today has been a good day.
Chapter Thirty – 17 days after
I wake to the song of the nightingale from my garden and open my eyes to an orange glow around my curtains, signalling the early morning sun. I open the curtains, the dew in the garden glistens, blurring the dark green of the grass beneath. I slip on my dad’s brown walking boots and his bright red waterproof jacket, grab a cereal bar from the kitchen and head out of the house, turning right at the end of the driveway and walk the ten metres to the sty, signalling the start of the Baysworth woods.
The woods are never silent, the crunch of the brown stiffened leaves and twigs underfoot, birds crying out in song, and always an animal scurry
ing somewhere leaving a domino effect of rustling bushes. Above me, the leaves flutter and dance to their own tune, a moving ceiling.
The first memory that comes flooding back is how much cooler the woods always were under the shade of the feathery leaves, mum never letting us leave without our big coat. My dad was no rambler, but when he walked through these same woods, his head would be fixed upwards, hypnotised by the beautiful swaying branches and on the lookout for woodpeckers. Jimmy and I would be racing ahead trying to catch sight of a rabbit or fox, prodding our sticks in each burrow.
I clamber up the hill, affording myself a rest at its peak to drink in the views and devour my cereal bar. I am taken aback by the expanding landscape of greenery. I compare it to the grey tower blocks that would consume the same viewpoint in any city with factory smoke billowing out, and of course the familiar traffic hum, which you can never really escape. I feel grateful to have this on my doorstop..
My descent is a leisurely one, and I feel invigorated as I return to the house, stamping my feet on the driveway to rid the excess mud.
‘You are up with the birds this morning,’ a now-familiar voice shouts from behind me. I turn to see Donald striding towards me, holding up a post-it note as it if were the Olympic torch.
‘Just earning my breakfast, Donald,’ I reply before my attention turns to his offering held at my eye-level.
‘Don’t ask and don’t tell is our motto on passing information, please respect that, oh and enjoy your breakfast.’
I shake his hand warmly. ‘Thank you Donald. This means a lot to me.’
I stand anchored to the spot as I read Donald’s scribble, ‘Rachel Evans, last registered address. 24 Cannon Street, Poole, Dorset BH11 1TH’. It must be her. I spring my laptop open, tapping ferociously at the table as it takes an age to power up. I google ‘Rachel Evans, Poole’ returning only a handful of articles about a teenage gymnast who is representing GB at the next Olympics. I search using Facebook, and amongst the hundreds of Rachel Evans, two have their hometown listed as Poole.
One is an elderly lady, the other shows only a cat as the profile picture and little else once I click on the profile. I search the address and find images on Streetview of the house, a typical Victorian seaside town property, semi-detached, painted white stone wash. I zoom in closer to spot any clues from the windows of its inhabitants, but see only stickers on the small upstairs window, a children’s room perhaps?
I open another tab on the search engine, promising myself to return to search in more depth. This time I search ‘Robert Evans Poole.’ I read each entry carefully, clicking on the ambiguous ones but turning up no concrete leads. As I reach page eighteen of ninety-six, I shut it down with the dawning reality that the surname Evans could be exclusively for his sister taken after marriage and Robbie could be living anywhere in the world.
I phone Vicky. ‘Hey, quick poll, if you had a long lost brother who you had never met, maybe not even known about would you a) want him to phone or b) want to meet him face to face first?’ I follow up with the annoying sound of the countdown clock speeding her response.
‘Oh crikey, if I knew about him then face to face, if I didn’t know about him it would be by telephone, give me time to get my head around the fact I have a brother first, meet him second. Is that the right answer, do I get a prize?’
I laugh out loud. ‘Only time will tell Vicky, I have an address, and in response to your scenario, truth is I don’t know if dad ever mentioned me, and if he did, they never found me.’
‘Stop with the self-pity Jenkins, they never found your dad either, and he didn’t move to Scotland. Please remember to at least consider though, that there is a possibility that they knew, but chose not to act for whatever reason, as we talked about on the phone a couple of days ago.’
I pause for a second. ‘You are right of course, but of all the uncertainties and moving parts I have to deal with, I have selfishly put this scenario at the bottom of the pile, a problem for future Phil,’ I joke without response. The doorbell rings and I say my goodbyes to Vicky as I open the door to Roger.
He stands in front of me, hands-on-hips, pushing his belly out with his arched back, whitening hair firing in every direction, looking more and more like a retired farmer as each day passes.
‘Now then lad, I have come for my vintage champagne and fine wine. Where is that secret door to the cellar?’
‘So, you received a copy of the will.’
‘I did, the cheeky sod, I will be lucky to find a tin of stout left in the house. No mention of the twins I see.’
I move aside inviting Roger into the house, and he walks straight to the dining room table, picking up the photograph on the table of dad, Robbie and Rachel in their walking gear. ‘Is this them?’
‘Yes, at least I am ninety-nine per-cent sure it is. I have Rachel’s address and was just contemplating my next move, which depends on if they knew about me or not. You can see in the photo that they are old enough to ask questions about his past, and present. My dad and I were not close, but surely, he would not have dismissed my very existence. But then, I ask myself, why didn’t they come looking for me?’
Roger pulls out a chair and sits down, elbows on the table propping up his head between his hands. ‘The thing you have to remember is that the legal matter and its outcome broke your dad, as I said before. He slipped into a terrible depression and did not talk to anyone for years. He cut himself off from the world. Even if they did make contact, there is no guarantee he would have returned it, and you know more than anyone how it feels to be abandoned by your dad.’
He turns his head to me. ‘Also Phil, if it was more recently that they reached out then again there’s little chance they had a response, the cancer consumed him.’
‘How was he towards the end Roger?’
Roger blows the air from his cheeks. ‘The thing about cancer is that it can always exceed your expectations. In his final days, he was pumped full of so much morphine his whole complexion changed. Even with an oxygen mask, you could hear the strain on his lungs. When the fog in his eyes cleared, all I could see was regret and fear, it can always exceed your darkest moments. I am sorry son.’
My whole body floods with regret. I think of the sacrifices he made in staying away, thinking he was doing the right thing. I think back to my unanswered letters and the hours of contemplation in my bedroom as a teenager.
‘Maybe the only difference between the twins and I is that I got a second chance after mum died, which I wasted, it was too late. I cannot let his suffering be in vain.’ I grab my car keys and head to the car, tapping the postcode into google maps without breaking stride.
The first realisation of what I am doing and its magnitude hits me just fifteen minutes into my journey. My stomach turns, hands clasping tighter to the steering wheel, and I feel my shirt clinging to my back. I turn on the radio wanting a distraction but grow quickly irritated by the adverts and mute it. I try and control my mind, I think of Vicky, but only images of Rachel appear, and what am I supposed to say. I run through a script in my head, on a continuous loop, each time it becomes more detailed, more like a role play. I begin to feel more secure as I envisage our conversation, my breathing slowly returning to normal when suddenly my confidence shatters again. I realise I have left the photograph of Rachel, Robbie, and dad on the dining room table.
Every conversation I have been envisaging has the photograph as an integral prop. I am also thirsty. I don’t have a jacket either, what if Rachel suggests going for a walk?
I pull the steering sharply left to pull into a lay-by. I turn off my engine leaving only the hum of the traffic from beyond the window. I think about turning around, abandoning until tomorrow. She is not expecting me so she would be none the wiser of my cowardly action. More self-doubt steamrolls into my mind; she may be on holiday, is it school half-term? She might not even live there; it took months of Caroline nagging me before I informed the DVLA we had moved.
I wish I was sitti
ng in my living room right now, sipping a beer and watching television, not a care in the world. But staring down at me in the room would be the picture of dad and the twins. Mocking me. I want answers to his trial, for that is what this is now. I need to know why he continued to keep this secret from me for all these years, they are my family too, yet he did his best rob me of this.
I put my foot down on the accelerator to send a signal of purpose to my mind.
I turn into Cannon Street, my mind switching to practicalities. Warning signs every ten metres tell me the street is for residents only with a permit required. My anxiety increases as I debate the merits of parking further away, concluding the walk is a chance to clear my mind. I drive slowly past number 24 like seeing a celebrity in the flesh for the first time, it is familiar to me, yet I have never seen it with my own eyes. I turn left out of Cannon street and ignore the next two streets running parallel, assuming them to be the same. I approach a small row of shops and slow down to read the parking sign allowing two hours maximum with no return allowed. As I park up, it dawns on me that I should come bearing gifts, or in this case, flowers from the florist, having little faith in the butchers, the charity shop or the newsagents that complete the row of local shops.
A bell rings announcing my arrival, and a young girl leaves her colleague in the back room to take up a position behind a counter. She greets me with a smile while also assessing the level of assistance I need as I stand in the shop and spin slowly 360 degrees looking for inspiration, finding the choice somewhat overwhelming.
She leaves the safety net of her counter and approaches me slowly, her olive skin colour complimented by long wavy dark hair.
‘Girlfriend, wife, mother or work colleague?’ She asks with an enthusiastic smile, which I return with silence as I run through the list again in my head.
‘Err none of those,’ I finally reply.
‘What is her style?’
I shrug my shoulders.
‘Her taste?’
I shrug my shoulders again and look to the floor, sure that my guilt is fuelling her suspicion further.