by GJ Minett
He’s told the professor other things too, things he remembers from long ago. Or thinks he remembers. That’s the problem with having to be inventive all the time. After a while things tend to get blurred until it gets to the point where he’s not sure any more whether they happened quite the way he’s described them. Some are clear enough. Like the car door. He didn’t make that up. He’s not sure he’s ready to tell him about that, nor about that afternoon in the park – not just yet. But he might tell him about what she did to Mrs Watson’s cat. The professor will like that one, and it’s a true story – well, most of it. He’s pretty sure it is anyway. Maybe he’ll tell him that one.
Only not today.
He’ll save it for another time, maybe when the professor brings d-d-doughnuts.
February 2008: Ellen
Trevor Bassey looked like a man in shock.
Ellen felt the least she could do was invite him inside for a few minutes to give him a chance to recover. She sent Sharp into the kitchen for a glass of water and led the way into the conservatory, where Bassey slumped into the sofa like an oversized rag doll.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ellen, sitting next to him. ‘This must be awful for you.’
He nodded and tried gamely to muster a smile from somewhere.
‘I can’t believe it. It’s so –’ He ran his fingers through his thinning grey hair. ‘My God, how on earth am I going to tell Sarah?’
‘Sarah?’
‘My wife. She was going to travel with me but she didn’t sleep too well last night and wasn’t really up to it. She stayed at home to do some shopping for the weekend, give the place a last-minute once over, you know? This . . . she’s going to be devastated.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again, patting his arm. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Bude – in Cornwall, you know?’
‘And you’ve driven all that way this morning?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded his thanks to Sharp and took several gulps of water before continuing. ‘I generally set off early so as to get here before lunch. That way I can have a bite to eat and rest for a couple of hours before we start the return journey. I always prefer it if we can get back before the light starts to go. Sarah worries about me driving after dark.’
‘So Eudora was supposed to go with you then?’ asked Ellen, recognising an opportunity to learn a little more about her. He nodded, squeezing his temple with thumb and forefinger.
‘For a week. We do this three or four times a year – either Sarah and I come and stay at Primrose Cottage or we take her back to our place. We were here for a week in October, so it’s our turn to play hosts.’
‘You must be very close.’ Ellen winced inwardly at the inappropriate tense but decided she would feel a whole lot worse trying to correct it. ‘How did you come to know each other in the first place?’
He drained his glass and struggled to reach the coffee table. He had to rock backwards and forwards a couple of times to gain enough momentum to do so.
‘We met on holiday – must have been, what, fifteen years ago? Something like that. Anyway, it was Eudora’s first holiday of any sort since her husband died and he’d been gone for quite some time – I remember that much. She and Sarah got on so well, even though there was quite a big age difference, so they swapped addresses at the end of the week. It all took off from there, really. God . . .’
His face crumpled again and he took a large, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose. Ellen waited patiently, unsure of what to do. Naked shows of emotion made her feel a little uncomfortable and she always worried that she might say or do something that would make the situation worse. She found herself staring at the handkerchief, the initials FOH prominent in one corner.
‘You know what I’ve just realised?’ he continued after a while. ‘I rang her last night, like I always do when I’m coming up here . . . just to let her know what time I’m hoping to arrive. And when she didn’t answer, I assumed she’d gone to bed early – you know, to get ready for the long journey. Can you believe that? I sat there listening to her voice on the answerphone, and she’d already been dead for, what . . . a week, you say? How terrible is that?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ellen, switching her attention from the handkerchief to him. ‘Did you say you phoned her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Last night?’
‘Well, not her, obviously. Like I say, it was her answerphone. Actually, do you think I could trouble you to fetch me another glass of water? I still feel a little faint.’ He smiled at Sharp, who sprang forward to pick up the glass and disappeared once more into the kitchen.
Ellen studied him closely while he refolded the handkerchief and blew his nose once more. Then she looked down at the arm of the sofa, where her fingers had been snaking in and out of the patterned hem of the throw. She extricated them, then straightened the material and stroked it flat. Slowly.
‘I’m sorry, you did say your name was Bassey?’
‘Please – call me Trevor.’
‘And your wife,’ she said at length, ‘Sandra, was it?’
‘Sarah.’
‘Sarah. Are you going to phone her now to explain?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I think it’s best if I tell her in person.’
‘Are you sure? You’re very welcome to.’
‘I think I’d rather be there when she hears the news.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Actually,’ he said, shaking his head as if waking from a daydream, ‘it’s only just occurred to me, what with everything that’s happened – I don’t even know who you are or why you’re here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ellen. ‘This is Mr Sharp, who’s here on behalf of Aitcheson, Wilmot and Lowe. They’re the executors for the estate.’ She extended an arm in Sharp’s direction as he came back from the kitchen. He stepped forward to offload the drink and offered Bassey his hand.
‘And you are . . .?’
‘Ellen. Ellen Sutherland.’
‘And you’re with the same firm as Mr Sharp?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’re here –’
‘Ellen paused. ‘I’m here to view the property.’
‘An estate agent?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’ He waited for her to elaborate. Ellen gave no sign of doing so.
‘So am I to assume that the property is on the market already?’ he asked tentatively. ‘That seems rather soon.’
‘No. It’s not on the market. At least, not yet.’
‘Then how did you come to hear about it – if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Perhaps I might ask you something,’ said Ellen. He spread his hands as if to say by all means. ‘In all the time you and your wife spent with Eudora, did she ever talk about her plans for this place?’
‘Her plans? How do you mean?’
‘Her will. Did she ever discuss who might inherit the cottage after her death?’
He pursed his lips, as if giving the matter a great deal of thought.
‘I’m not sure the subject ever came up.’
‘Never?’
‘Well, it’s not the kind of thing you talk about, is it? I mean, that sort of conversation is one you tend to avoid once you reach a certain age.’
‘But she didn’t say anything about someone from her past? Someone important to her?’
‘No. Are we talking about someone in particular here?’ He paused for a moment and looked more closely at her. ‘Has Eudora left the cottage to you?’
When Ellen didn’t offer an immediate reply, he waved the handkerchief in front of his face by way of apology. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘you must think me awfully rude. It’s just that Eudora led us to believe she had no living relatives.’
‘As far as I’m aware, she hadn’t.’
‘You weren’t related?’
‘No.’
‘So how did you two know each other?’
‘You didn’t?’ He frowned. ‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Ellen, looking pointedly at her watch. ‘I had no idea it was as late as this. I certainly don’t want to rush you, given the shock you’ve had, but –’ She was anxious all of a sudden to bring the conversation to an end.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said, putting the second glass down untouched and managing this time to reach the table at his first attempt. ‘I’m keeping you.’
‘It’s just, I have rather a long journey myself . . .’
‘I’m sorry.’ He hauled himself to his feet. ‘My wife is always after me for talking too much. I hope I haven’t caused any offence. Ah – there is one thing though.’ He raised one finger as if to suggest that the thought had just occurred to him. ‘If it’s not too much to ask, that is. I wonder if I might ask you a small favour?’
Ellen handed him his trilby and waited to hear him out.
‘Last time we came here, Eudora took us through some of her memorabilia. You know the sort of thing, photos of holidays we had together, letters we exchanged. She’d only managed to find a few of them but she said she knew she had lots more tucked away somewhere. She promised she’d look them out.’
He shot the quickest of glances in Sharp’s direction, then turned his smile on Ellen once more.
‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, Eudora rang a while ago to say she’d managed to find all sorts of little mementoes –’
Ellen remembered the books and papers stacked in numerous piles in one of the bedrooms upstairs and imagined this was where he might find what he was looking for.
‘So I was wondering, do you think it’d be alright for me to have a quick look around for any photos and documents that –?’
‘I’m really sorry. I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said Ellen.
He smiled patiently.
‘I’d be quite happy for you and Mr Sharp here to vet everything I take with me.’
‘I’m sorry. For one thing, as I explained, I’m a little pushed for time –’
‘I’d be very quick.’
‘And for another, one of the reasons Mr Sharp is here is that the final legal details are still being processed. Until they’ve been completed, nothing can be taken from the property.’
Bassey spread his hands. ‘But surely a few papers and photographs –’
‘I wish I could help.’
Again he shot a glance over her shoulder as if seeking support from Sharp. There was a momentary flash in his eyes that might easily have been more than mere disappointment. Then he relaxed and slipped back into the weary, resigned expression that seemed made for those heavy features and the perpetual slump of the shoulders.
‘Of course. Forgive me. I’m a little tired after the journey and then, what with everything else. . .’
‘I’ll tell you what I will do,’ said Ellen. ‘Once I’ve had a chance to go through it all, I’ll make a pile of everything I come across that looks as if it relates to you and your wife. If I find anything, you’re welcome to it.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s most kind. Perhaps I might leave you a contact number?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a card, which he gave to her. She turned it over and noted that his job was listed as Insurance Agent with a company in Bude.
‘My mobile number is printed there at the bottom,’ he said. ‘And please remember – it’s going to be quite a task, going through everything Eudora’s accumulated over the years. If you’re pushed for time and want another pair of hands, I’d be quite happy to come back and help.’
‘Isn’t that rather a long drive, all the way from Bude?’
The sorrowful expression was back in place.
‘It would mean a lot to Sarah. I suspect she’s going to need something of a pick-me-up. If you’re worried about being here alone with a relative stranger, perhaps AWL could spare Mr Sharp here as well to keep an eye on things, as an independent third party.’
Ellen hesitated for a moment, as if weighing up what he had said.
‘I’ll let you know,’ she said eventually.
‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind. Ah . . . before I go, do you think I might just use the facilities?’
‘Of course.’
He shuffled over to the doorway, hovering there for a few seconds before Sharp took his cue and escorted him down the corridor to the toilet. Ellen stood by the window, watching a vapour trail inch its way across the sky. She drummed her fingers on the desktop to keep her hand from shaking.
Sharp came back in and adjusted his tie, using his reflection in the glass to help him.
‘Poor old sod,’ he said, switching his attention to his cheeks, as if checking for areas he had missed when shaving. ‘Thought we were going to have to send for an ambulance at one stage. Still, must have been quite a shock.’
‘Yes,’ said Ellen, still trying to think things through. ‘Quite a shock.’
‘Shame we haven’t got time to help him look for those photos though. I mean, it might help cheer his wife up a bit.’
‘Actually,’ said Ellen, ‘do you think I could borrow your mobile for a moment?’
‘My mobile?’
‘I need to check in at work and I’ve left mine in the boot of my car.’
‘Sure.’
‘I promise I’ll be quick.’
‘No sweat. Take as long as you like.’ He took it out of his pocket and handed it over to her. He unlocked it for her and offered to dial the number, but she turned away and walked to the other end of the room. A short while later, she flipped it shut and returned it to him, just as Bassey walked back in.
‘Engaged,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll try later.’
‘Cool.’
Bassey made one last effort to persuade Ellen to let him have a quick search, then relented and thanked her for her hospitality. They accompanied him to the door and along the path, waiting at the gate while he fumbled in his pockets for his car keys. He squeezed himself into the front seat of a dark blue Escort and drove off in the direction from which they’d arrived earlier. Ellen watched him all the way until he’d turned the corner. Once he was out of sight, she took a deep breath to compose herself and turned back towards the cottage.
‘Seen enough then?’ asked Sharp, blowing into his hands. What sun there was had disappeared behind a bank of clouds and it was noticeably colder now than it had been earlier. ‘You ready for me to lock up?’
Ellen walked on into the cottage without answering. She turned left down the corridor and headed for the conservatory once more. Sharp followed her, pausing to pick up the keys to the cottage, which he’d left in a dish near the front door.
‘We off then?’ he asked again, stepping into the conservatory.
Ellen turned to face him, arms folded. ‘Off?’ she said. ‘No. I don’t think we are.’
Sharp picked up on the change in her mood and gave an awkward half-smile.
‘Fair enough . . . only, I thought you were in a hurry to get back.’
‘I am,’ said Ellen. ‘But we’re going nowhere just yet. Not until you and I have had a little talk.’
January 1974: John Michael
David Vaughan.
He lies back on the bed and rolls the name around on his tongue, trying it out like he’s sucking an unfamiliar sweet. David Vaughan. Hi – I’m David Vaughan. Have we been introduced? The name’s Vaughan – David Vaughan.
No middle name any more – just plain David. Best to avoid a middle name, they reckon. Play safe. When there’s hardly a person in the country who hasn’t heard of John Michael Adams, it’s best to keep it simple. Avoid drawing attention to yourself.
The Vaughan speaks for itself. His dad’s been Peter Vaughan for years now, ever since he decided enough was enough and took them up on their offer of a new identity. Could only take so much crap from his neighbours. Lives somewhere on the east coast now, new job,
new life. Comes to visit every month or so, regular as clockwork – secret visits, planned like military operations in case anyone’s watching. They’ve both been warned, as if they couldn’t have worked it out for themselves, that when he finally gets out the world and its mother will be trying to track him down. The reporter who finds John Michael Adams will be able to write his own cheque, so any visit is a potential problem. His dad’s the obvious starting place for anyone on the lookout. Find the father, find the son.
Smartest thing would be to ditch him altogether. Cut off all contact. He’s done it before, after that article came out, the one where he tried to put all the blame onto her, when she wasn’t even there to defend herself. Refused to see him, wouldn’t even read his letters. Three years he kept it up, till the professor persuaded him to back down. Great believer in the family, the professor. Didn’t like the idea of him being on the outside some day with no support. Lots of talk about burning bridges, rudderless ships and the need for life to have the sort of f-f-focus a f-f-father might provide.
So he’s given way, allowed him the chance to explain himself. He is family after all. He may not be much, but he’s all there is. And maybe John Michael hasn’t forgiven him completely but he keeps coming back to something she said, just before she went away. She said you don’t pick your family – it picks you. It is what it is. You learn to live with it.
And that’s what he’ll do. Live with it.
February 2008: Ellen
‘Talk about what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Ellen. ‘Let’s start with our friend Mr Bassey, shall we?’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, I’d like to know who he is for one thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Not difficult, Liam. Who is he? What’s his real name? And what was that touching little performance in aid of?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Sharp’s face was a picture of wounded innocence and anxiety, the latter gaining territory with every passing second. He did his best to meet her gaze but couldn’t sustain it. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, he looked at the floor, nudging the base of the sofa with alternating feet. He was so much more articulate physically than verbally. Ellen almost felt sorry for him.