by Gary P Moss
It was his mother.
* * *
Dear Tim,
I thought long and hard about replying to your thoughtful letter, but eventually I arrived at the conclusion that I owed you at least an explanation as to why I was not as forthcoming as you might have wished. And I also wished to say that I was sorry to learn of your father’s death.
I have lived a quiet life since the regrettable split with your father. I married again, years later, to a good man who also died well before his time, and when you arrived on my doorstep, I had only just returned from visiting his grave. I was still upset, you see, I’d forgotten the flowers and was about to return, and your sudden appearance unnerved me. For that, I am also sorry.
I imagine that you might have a lot of questions for me, but I am afraid that I probably will not be able to answer most of them. The split with your father was rather sudden and acrimonious and I was not well for a long time afterwards. I did not wish to leave but I had been ill for some time and was in no position to argue or to adequately defend myself. I am grateful at least that your father does not appear to have muddied my name, at least to yourself.
Although you kindly do not accuse me of wilful neglect in respect of my not contacting you over the years, it must be a question that you would wish to ask if you were a less than thoughtful man. I did not wish to disturb the new life that your father and you had undoubtedly made, and I assumed that he would have remarried. I know, to assume is wrong. Also, and I hesitate to say this as I have no desire to be disrespectful to your father’s memory, but he quite robustly warned me and indeed my parents to stay away from you once we had separated. I never did understand that, and like I mentioned before, I was ill and perhaps too weak in character and body to challenge his decision.
It was a very traumatic time, so much so that I changed my name, which I imagine must sound rather bizarre but there you have it, some things cannot be so easily explained.
Anyway, I am pleased to see, at least by your academic address, that you have achieved plenty in your life.
Kindest wishes,
Sara
Sara, not Mum. How ridiculous to expect that! I turn up out of the blue and she’s had the decency to offer me an explanation. My mother is alive! But what now?
Thoughts rattled around his brain. Not all of them were positive. He kept asking himself the same questions. What do I want from her after all this time? She’s already provided a potted explanation. Delving deeper might cause resentment and anyway, it’d be a one-sided narrative.
He was attempting to fill in gaps in his life, that was all. He also sought honesty from himself. Demanded it. Should he thank her for replying, thank her for her explanation, then let her get on with her life as she had let him get on with his own? He wasn’t sure. Contradictions crisscrossed his mind like fluid junctions filled with rush hour traffic. His natural inclination, at least since the beginning of his academic life, was to dig deeper. But this wasn’t objective historical research. This was personal, emotive. He was an early middle-aged man, supposedly mature in intellect and outlook.
He’d not dig. He’d be grateful for Sara reaching out. For making such a difficult decision. Sara. His mother. He shook his head, gathered some student papers from the dining room table, then left the flat. He’d take some time before he decided what to do next.
‘What do you think he’ll do?’ Andreas asked. On the telephone his voice sounded heavy, breathy, as if his lungs were under stress.
‘I really don’t know. And I’m not so sure it was a good idea to contact him,’ Sara replied.
‘I told you, it gives you some control over what happens in the future. Not that there’s much future left over there.’
‘I just don’t want him turning up again. I’d rather not have him here.’
‘But you said he seemed sensible, mature.’
‘He is, he was. He seemed like a nice enough man.’
Andreas’ voice took on a deeper, gravelly tone.
‘Now you sound like you might want a relationship with him. Remember what he did to you, Sara. The lies he told your husband. Some people never change. Forget that. Most people never change.’
You know about the alleged push, but you’ll never know about Mike. About what happened in that lighthouse.
She grinned to herself, as if she were secretly mocking Andreas from afar. Which, she supposed, she was. Andreas tried his best to be controlling, she knew that. But she also thought that she knew who was really in control. And some secrets would never be revealed.
‘Don’t worry, Andreas. There’s no attachment. I’ll keep it cool. Polite, formal even. But he must be well off, I imagine.’
She looked behind her, and out of the glass each side of the telephone box. There was no one around.
‘A bonus. Before I leave.’
‘All right but get to work, my darling, okay? One more, and we’ll have enough. For extras. For treats.’
‘I’ll get right on it tomorrow, my love. Bye for now,’ she whispered. She waited till he disconnected before she replaced the handset onto its cradle.
In a small town, high on the west coast of Scotland, Michael Firth, retired lighthouse keeper, part-time fisherman and general odd jobber, sat in the back room of a community centre. It was a computer session he sometimes looked forward to but often forgot about. A community worker, Alice, reminded him on the morning of each session. She then called back half an hour before it started to ensure he’d be coming along.
The session usually began with a recap of the skills Mike had usually forgotten about during the week. Then there’d be memory prompts and minor research tasks. After that, Alice would leave him alone on the internet till he became distracted and bored.
‘Funny how you never forget the tide tables, eh Mike?’
‘Aye, lassie, and I don’t suppose I ever will. It’s not memory, you know. Hard wired, it is, in my what’s it.’
‘Your DNA?’
‘Aye, that’s the one.’
There was a reason she joked about the tide tables, and often. He still lived in the old lighthouse, inactive for many years now, and he refused to move into more suitable accommodation, despite early signs of dementia. The more often she mentioned the tables, the less likely it was that he’d forget about them. It was still a dangerous route at times. Mike wasn’t that old, but if he forgot the purpose of walking while he was halfway across the causeway, it could prove disastrous.
He looked across the room. Alice had left him alone while she caught up on some work on another computer. He had a notebook with him that she also reminded him to bring along. For noting down any interesting facts. Or memories.
He clicked on a dating site. It had a basic section where you could join for free, but you were only allowed to view a few profiles each week. Mike noted the login details into his book.
Hundreds of women’s photographs adorned the site. He felt along the inside of the notebook. A small pocket inside the front flap held a flash drive. It contained his passport-sized photograph that he’d had taken at the local chemist, and another photograph, a casual pose of him standing close to the lighthouse. He couldn’t remember who had taken that one. Alice? One of his friends? No matter, he’d upload it onto the site, by following the instructions in his notebook. He wrote them down. He liked the look of some of the women.
He remembered a young woman once, a girlfriend he’d had. Marie. He wondered briefly what had become of her.
‘Hey, Alice?’
‘What’s up, Mike. Need some help?’
‘What happened to Marie? She was my girlfriend. Bonny lass.’
‘I don’t know, Mike. You mentioned her a few times. I think it was a long time ago. Why, are you trying to find her? Might not be such a great idea, you know? People move on with their lives.’
‘Nah, I’m not bothered. I probably upset her if she left.’
‘Probably,’ Alice said, not taking her eyes off the screen in front of her.
Mike waited a few minutes, confused at the questions the dating site required answering.
‘Alice?’
‘Yes, Mike?’
‘Could you help me with this? It says I need a profile, but I can’t answer the questions.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know you were after a lassie, eh?’
‘Hey, I know my memory’s a bit dicky but I’m a grown man. I still like female company.’
‘I know. Just be careful, okay? It’s all I’m saying. You can’t tell who these people are, if they are who they say they are.’
He bristled at the suggestion that he’d be easily fooled.
‘I still have some wits about me, Alice. You going to help me with this profile thing, eh?’
They worked together on a basic profile for the next half hour. He mentioned he loved the wild scenery, bracing air, and freedom of his life but that he also enjoyed the company of a nice woman.
‘Nice? Could you be a bit more specific, Mike?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Someone who won’t steal all my money. And all my whisky.’
Alice laughed.
‘You told me you didn’t have any money, you rascal. And as for the whisky, I’m pretty sure you leave it in the pub when you’re done.’ She grinned at him. ‘Because it belongs to the landlord!’
‘All right then. Someone who’ll remember things for me. And sexy.’ He scratched his head. ‘I’m sure I had some money.’
‘Ah, so now you want a sexy carer, do you? I don’t think you should put that though. Let’s just keep it basic for now, agreed? And if you’ve money, lovey, maybe it’s in the bank, or you’ve hidden it under your mattress.’
He nodded solemnly, unsure what it was he was agreeing with, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
‘You’ve put some good, positive things down, Mike. And you like music, don’t you?’
‘Aye, I think I must do.’
‘I know you like classical, especially the piano. Do you remember when we listened to all those tunes on the internet? You liked Brahms, and Beethoven. Both ‘B’s, easy to remember. So, you can put that down if you like. And maybe write it in your book?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Alice. Might put some women off.’
‘Well, it’s probably for the best then. You don’t want a load of old punk rockers knocking on your door now, do you?’
He looked at Alice as if he didn’t know what she meant.
‘I’ll pass them by you first, don’t worry, lassie.’
‘You’re a good man, Mike. A bit rough around the edges maybe, but you’ve a good heart and you’re fun.’ She laughed. ‘Sometimes. Wild man of the north, that’s you. All that long, wavy hair and grizzled charm. It’d be a lucky lassie who finds you.’
As Alice turned away, Mike saw that her eyes were bright with a film of tears.
Have I upset her? Is this what I do?
He resolved to become a kinder man. He wrote it in his book so he wouldn’t forget.
Chapter Eleven
Sara logged onto the free section of the dating site. She used a library computer that let you use the internet for up to half an hour without entering card details. She never needed more than half an hour.
Sara Palmer wasn’t searching for love. She already had that with Andreas.
She filtered her search by age. She preferred to look for non-smokers, not that she cared whether people smoked or not, but she didn’t want to waste her time on people who, in her opinion, wasted their money.
The few times she’d done this before, the men had been married. They had a lot to lose. When they realised they’d been fleeced, they kept quiet. But it was stressful. While Sara had some idea of the men’s temperaments, she couldn’t be sure how they’d react when they discovered she wasn’t who they thought she was.
A vulnerable widow, looking for love.
When she pretended to accidentally discover their married status, she gained the upper hand, put them in her debt. Made them sorry. Extra kind. But the last one had made her nervous. She wasn’t physically strong, especially with her damaged left hand. If things became physical, she would struggle.
No more married men.
She took a sharp intake of breath. It had been a few decades but there was an unmistakeable likeness. She’d been so fixated on the man’s face that the scenery had escaped her notice.
He was standing by the lighthouse. Incredible. He looked unsure, lost even. As if having his photograph taken was unusual. But it was him, Mike, and Sara knew that if the view expanded its panorama, she would see Devil’s Point rock. She shivered with excitement.
Before she realised what exactly she was doing, she sent him a virtual smile.
But what if he recognises me?
She knew she looked quite a bit different than she had all those years ago. Her hair had grown, it was a completely different colour. She used contact lenses now. Her eyes, once an emerald green, were now almost violet in colour. During the last few years, they’d also been brown and blue at different times. She’d had her teeth veneered, smoothing out all the imperfections. Her face had filled out a little. But was that enough? She sighed. She glanced at the computer’s countdown clock. There were still fifteen minutes left to run on the session.
Is he still upset with me?
She doubted it, after all this time. She had a new name. The thought of the lighthouse keeper stirred memories that set her heart racing. Warmth flooded through her. Then came the heat. She was flushed. She looked around. No one was looking at her.
A smile flashed up on the screen. She saw the profile, saw it was him that had sent it.
He doesn’t recognise me.
She sent him a quick message.
I’ll be here this time tomorrow. If you wanted to chat.
There was a pause for a few minutes before she saw the reply. She eyed the clock. Five minutes.
I’ll see if I can make it. No computer at home.
Two minutes on the clock. She tapped a reply.
Me neither. I’m in the library. I hope you can make it. You look nice.
Sara stared straight ahead as the computer powered down. Her body was stiff. She caught her reflection in the screen. She thought she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Which she had, in a way.
There was no way she was going to share this with Andreas. She’d let it run, if Mike turned up tomorrow. But there’d be no money in it. This would be for old times’ sake. To quench the raging thirst that had never quite left her. One more time, that’s all she’d need. Once more to see her through.
She realised she still held the computer mouse in her right hand. Lifting her wrist, she inhaled the delicious scent of bergamot oil and lemon. Penhaligon’s Eau de Cologne. She’d searched for the fragrance for years, till she passed by their flagship store on London’s Regent Street. The smell had reached her, stopping her mid-stride. She’d known straight away that it was Marie’s perfume, the one she’d worn in the newsagents that day. The day when Sara, still Lynne then, had learned that Marie would be out of town. Sara had worn it ever since. It was like a part of her body, inseparable from the rest. As vital as the rest.
She left the library exhilarated. The session had not delivered what she had intended it to, but this was an unexpected opportunity. It would be dangerous. The fiery heat coursed through her. As usual, it found its spot.
Mike tried to enlarge the photograph of the woman that had caught his eye. She was smartly dressed, standing in a back garden somewhere sunny. She looked as if she were about to attend a wedding, or perhaps a horse racing meet. A navy blue and white hat sat at an angle, partially covering one side of her face but Mike could tell two things straight away. The lady looked after herself and she was pretty. The profile mentioned she was fifty-five years of age. He thought she could have been ten years younger.
‘Alice, come and have a look at this. I think I’ve hooked a beauty already; she even sent me one o’ them smiley things!’
Alic
e ambled over. Mike couldn’t tell whether her face displayed a grin or a grimace.
‘Michael Firth, now don’t you go all rushing into things now. Give it a bit of time, suss out a few before you go diving straight in.’
‘But she’s all right though, eh Alice?’
‘Show me her profile then. No good asking me to comment on other women’s looks now, is it?’
‘Well, it says she enjoys classical music. And a quiet life. Sounds right up your street that, I must admit. And look. Homeowner. So, your money’s safe, eh Mike?’ She winked at him.
He consulted his book, turned the page till he came to the part about powering the computer down. He turned it off.
‘Finished already, Mike?’
‘Aye, well, that lassie said she’s no computer at home, uses the library. She’ll be back tomorrow, same time.’
‘Well, we can book it again for tomorrow if you like. Lucky I’m free, eh?’
‘Alice, what will I say to her? I mean, you know, my memory and things. Some catch I’ll turn out to be.’
‘You’ll need to be honest with her, Mike. I don’t mean all out straight away but just mention you’re forgetful. At first, anyway. If she’s a good one, then it won’t be a problem. But you’ll need to be prepared, if not her then some other lassie.’
He ran calloused fingers through his hair. He sighed.
‘I know. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t be doing this. It won’t be fair on anyone.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve as much right to a friendship or relationship as anyone else. You just need to be a bit more careful. To protect yourself, you know? But, like I said, if she’s all right then it won’t be a problem.’
He smiled up at her.
‘Thanks, Alice.’
‘No problem, big man. Come on, I’ll walk you home, if you’ll have me.’