Lost Christmas

by David Logan

  Anthony watched him go. He had his answer.

  Back in the park, Anthony finished his description of what he had seen and Frank was lost for words. Though not for long.

  ‘Dr Clarence. My God! Of course. Man’s always reading. Reads like a book a day, sometimes two, he told me once. I can’t believe it. This is amazing.’ Frank couldn’t stay still. His mind was racing.

  Goose could see Frank’s excitement, but he wasn’t convinced. ‘Aw, come off it, Frank. He touches your hand for, like, a millionth of a second and can tell you something you couldn’t possibly know. How could he learn that from you if you didn’t know it to begin with?’

  Frank looked blank and shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He turned to Anthony, who looked just as blank and also shrugged. ‘I don’t know either,’ he said.

  Goose let out a howl of exasperation. ‘I don’t have time for this. I need to find Mutt. Please, Frank …’ Goose looked imploringly at Frank, who shrugged awkwardly and shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, Goose. I have to get that book. You understand.’

  But Goose didn’t understand. ‘It’s just a book,’ he snapped. Not a living, breathing thing like Mutt, he thought.

  ‘It’s not about the book. It’s about Jemma and Alice. I’m going to lose them and I can’t let that happen. If I get the book, it means I don’t lose them.’

  Goose still didn’t understand how a book could stop Frank’s wife and daughter from emigrating to the other side of the world, but there was a determination to Frank that Goose hadn’t seen before.

  Frank shook his head. ‘I can’t lose them, Goose. I just can’t. Sorry.’ Frank couldn’t look Goose in the eye. He backed off a little and then turned and started to walk away. Goose opened his mouth to protest but couldn’t think what to say.

  Anthony stepped up in front of Goose. He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s all connected: book, bangle, dog. Find one; find them all.’ Goose frowned: could that be true? ‘You never know,’ said Anthony, and he walked off too, after Frank.

  Soon both men had disappeared up the embankment and over the bridge. Goose heard Anthony’s footsteps echoing from above and then he was all alone. Now what?

  14

  THE DOCTOR WHO HAD HIMSELF STRUCK OFF SO NO ONE WOULD BOTHER HIM

  Frank marched ahead with purpose as Anthony and Goose followed behind. As they progressed, the neighbourhoods started to change and the houses became bigger and grander. They left behind the two-up, two-down new builds, moved through the 1930s semi-detacheds and approached the detached, four-storey Victorians with their gravelled fronts and high surrounding walls.

  Frank had been surprised when he’d discovered where Dr Clarence lived. It had been a topic of conversation one night in the Witches. The surprise was because he lived nowhere near the pub. There were at least half a dozen pubs much closer to Dr Clarence’s home and as Frank walked he remembered that he always suspected there were good reasons why none of those were his local. Dr Clarence was what was politely called a ‘curmudgeon’ or less politely called a ‘grumpy old git’. Frank guessed he had made himself unpopular in each of those venues and now he had to trek the best part of an hour for a pint. Chances were that one day soon enough Dr Clarence would burn his bridges at the Witches too, and then he would be forced to walk even further.

  Frank stopped outside Dr Clarence’s large and imposing house and waited for Anthony and Goose to catch up.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Goose, looking up at the gothic red-brick monstrosity in front of them.

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s a bit Addams Family,’ said Frank.

  ‘Who?’ asked Goose genuinely. Frank shook his head as if to say, Never mind.

  They stepped through a tall, wrought-iron gate that had been left ajar and crunched across the gravel drive to a set of steps leading up to a tatty enclosed porch. The wooden surround had once been painted green, but its hue had faded with time to more of a dirty grey. Its windows were stained-glass and were once probably beautiful, but through neglect they had become dull and lifeless under thick grime. Goose couldn’t help thinking that a good wash would make them look a hundred times more inviting.

  There was an ancient bell pull above a brass plate which read: ‘Doctor R. Clarence’, but someone had taken a hammer and chisel to the ‘Doctor’ and done their utmost to obliterate it. However, it was still just about legible. Frank pointed to the plaque.

  ‘He had himself struck off,’ he said, by way of explanation.

  ‘Had himself struck off?’ said Anthony, frowning.

  Frank nodded. ‘When he retired. Said if he stayed on the register and someone had a heart attack in the street he could get sued if he didn’t treat them cos he was still officially a doctor. Not sure that’s true, but they don’t come much stubborner than Dr Clarence.’

  ‘Then how come he’s still called “Doctor”?’ asked Goose. Frank thought about it, and from the look on his face probably for the first time. He didn’t have an answer and shrugged. Then he pulled the knob and they heard the sound of a proper old bell clanging somewhere deep in the bowels of the house.

  A few moments later they heard footsteps approaching and the inner door opened as someone entered the porch. They saw a turbid eye studying them through one of the few clear pieces of glass in the stained-glass door. Then they heard several chains and bolts being removed and pulled back and then the door opened. Dr Clarence stepped out and examined the three people on his doorstep with undisguised suspicion.

  ‘Frank? To what do I owe this …’ He left a deliberate pause before completing the sentence: ‘… visit?’

  Frank smiled. ‘Hello, Rafe. I was just wondering if you might have picked up a book I left in the Witches a while ago. The Happy Prince.’

  Dr Clarence’s frown deepened. ‘Oscar Wilde? Would have thought Nuts was more your sort of thing, Frank.’ Frank took the dig in good humour and smiled some more. ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ said Dr Clarence, and he stepped aside.

  Frank, Goose and Anthony walked past Dr Clarence, through the porch and into possibly the largest entrance hall Goose had ever seen. It was larger than any of the rooms in his nan’s house. Almost larger than all of them put together. There was a black-and-white chequered tile floor leading to a wide curving staircase. There was a big round table directly in front of them, an ornate mirror to their right and a stunning grandfather clock to their left. But this wasn’t the first thing a person would notice on entering. On the table, on shelves and in stacks around the edge of the hall were books. Thousands of books: hardbacks and paperbacks written by every author from Shakespeare to J. K. Rowling and everyone in between. Dr Clarence was more a hoarder than a collector. His house was overrun with them.

  Frank looked a little overwhelmed by the sheer volume and disorganization before him. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered quietly to himself.

  Dr Clarence closed the front door behind them and headed over to a door on their right. ‘In here,’ he ordered. Frank, Goose and Anthony duly followed.

  They entered a large study-cum-drawing room. All available wall space was taken up with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, and every shelf bowed in the middle under the weight of the books piled on to them. Books were stacked both vertically and horizontally. There were also short towers of books scattered all over the floor and piles on pieces of furniture and every available surface.

  ‘You might have to make some space,’ said Dr Clarence as he sat in a worn leather armchair: the one piece of furniture not drowning under literature. Anthony, Frank and Goose looked to a large green couch and had to remove several stacks of books before they could sit.

  ‘So,’ said Frank. ‘About my book …’

  ‘What about it?’ asked Dr Clarence.

  ‘Well, do you know where it is?’ said Frank, gazing around at the thousands of novels surrounding him and suspecting that the answer was no.

  ‘How do I know it’s yours?’ asked Dr Clarence.

  Frank turned back t
o look at him, realizing that this might not be as straightforward as he had hoped.

  ‘It’s mine,’ said Frank resolutely. ‘I left it in the Witches. Take my word for it. Do you have it?’

  Dr Clarence brought his hand to his chin and turned his head away. ‘I’m thinking,’ he said. ‘I seem to remember it was an old edition. Illustrated by Arthur Rackham, if memory serves.’ Frank gave a noncommittal nod. He was worried that he would give away the book’s true value and then greed would get in the way. Frank had a very low opinion of pretty much everyone. ‘Hmm, yes …’ said Dr Clarence. ‘Must be worth a pretty penny.’

  ‘Forty thousand pounds,’ said Anthony, suddenly remembering what the expert had said on the television.

  Goose turned to look at Frank, his mouth agape. Had he heard right? ‘Forty thousand pounds?’ he exclaimed. He couldn’t believe it. ‘For a book?’ He looked at the faces of the adults. It wasn’t a joke.

  Frank’s eyes were closed and his fists clenched, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands to stop himself from losing his temper.

  ‘As much as that?’ said Dr Clarence with a mischievous grin flickering on his lips.

  Frank opened his eyes and forced a calm tone into his voice. ‘Sentimental value,’ said Frank. ‘Used to read it to my daughter when she was little. Belonged to my dad. Been in my family a long time and I’d like it back, Rafe.’

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ said Dr Clarence, clearly enjoying toying with Frank. ‘I’m curious. Why do you think I picked it up in the Witches?’

  Frank and Goose both involuntarily glanced at Anthony. The look was not lost on Dr Clarence. He frowned.

  ‘What? Why look at him?’ He studied Anthony. ‘I don’t remember seeing you before.’

  Finally Goose sighed and said, ‘He touched Frank’s hand and saw you pick it up. Like in a vision or something.’

  Dr Clarence tittered for a second, then stopped abruptly as he saw from the looks on Frank and Anthony’s faces that Goose was being serious.

  ‘I know. Crazy, right?’ said Goose.

  Suddenly Anthony spoke: ‘What sort of doctor are you?’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Dr Clarence. ‘Any more,’ he added. ‘I was a GP.’

  ‘Have you ever come across anything like this before?’ asked Anthony.

  ‘What? Someone having visions? Of course, they used to be in my surgery all the time. Dozens of them. Hundreds.’ Dr Clarence smiled to himself.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Anthony. ‘It hurts, you see, when it happens.’

  Dr Clarence stopped smiling, affected by Anthony’s obvious sincerity. ‘I’m sorry. No, I never heard of anything like that.’

  ‘Would you examine me?’ asked Anthony.

  ‘No,’ said Dr Clarence firmly. ‘I’m not a doctor any more.’

  ‘But it’s not like you’ve forgotten everything,’ said Anthony.

  Goose scoffed: ‘Why not? You have.’ He smiled, pleased with his quick remark, but then he noticed no one else was smiling and felt self-conscious.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Dr Clarence.

  ‘He’s lost his memory,’ said Frank, by way of explanation. ‘Doesn’t know who he is. Doesn’t remember a thing.’

  ‘’Cept for bobbins about owls and aglets,’ said Goose, finding it hard to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  ‘Aglets?’ asked Dr Clarence.

  ‘The hard bit at the end of your shoelace,’ said Anthony.

  ‘Interesting,’ muttered Dr Clarence, his mind elsewhere.

  ‘No, it’s not!’ barked Goose, having swallowed his frustration long enough. He jumped to his feet. ‘It’s mental. Why’s it all about him? What about Frank’s book? It’s his, not yours, and you should give it back. And I know there’s one place Mutt definitely isn’t and that’s here.’

  ‘Mutt?’ asked Dr Clarence.

  ‘My dog! He disappeared and he –’ said Goose, stabbing an angry finger in Anthony’s direction – ‘knows where he is.’

  ‘Lost dogs, lost books. Good Lord,’ said Dr Clarence.

  ‘There you go,’ said Anthony. ‘That’s what I said. There must be a connection. Lost bangles too. The bangle brought me to Goose, Goose brought me to Frank, Frank brought me to you.’ He looked at Dr Clarence. ‘What have you lost, Doctor?’

  Dr Clarence shook his head. ‘Me? Nothing.’

  ‘Did you retire through choice or pressure?’ Anthony asked.

  ‘Very much my choice,’ was Dr Clarence’s reply.

  Anthony’s brow knitted as he thought. There was still so much fog in his head. So much of his past obscured. But it seemed as if he was here for a reason. He was almost sure of it. It was only a feeling, nothing he could articulate, but a voice in the back of his head was telling him he was on the right track. He came to a decision and removed his glove. He held out his hand to the doctor.

  ‘I told you, I haven’t lost anything,’ said Dr Clarence.

  ‘There’s no need to worry. It only hurts me,’ said Anthony.

  Dr Clarence hesitated. He stared at Anthony’s offered hand. The atmosphere was heavy with tension. Dr Clarence lifted his hand, started to reach out but stopped. He looked into Anthony’s eyes and saw his reluctance – even though this was Anthony’s decision, even though he was the one with his hand outstretched. Dr Clarence could see the anxiety in his face. It hurt, he had said. This is not something he wants to do, but rather something he feels he has to do. Dr Clarence was intrigued. He let his hand continue. He took hold of Anthony’s hand. And as skin touched skin Anthony drew in a sharp breath.

  This time the sensation was even more violent. It felt as if Anthony’s arm was being clamped in solid metal. The feeling spread up, past his elbow, over his shoulder and then penetrated him, burrowing into his armpit, like the root of an iron tree frantically searching out sustenance. The wormlike root drilled into him, through his chest and then launched skywards, snaking up his throat until it reached the centre of his brain. Everything went black.

  Anthony opened his eyes and found himself staring at a ceiling. He turned his head and discovered he was lying on a familiar black-and-white chequered tile floor. He sat up and he knew he was still in Dr Clarence’s house. However, it was very different in one immediately apparent aspect: no books.

  Anthony climbed to his feet. He looked around and saw the table and the grandfather clock, the ornate mirror and the curving staircase. Everything was clean and bright and loved. The table was highly polished and visible, not covered in a mountain of novels. Instead there was a vase in the centre of it, full of lilies. Sunlight shone through the stained glass in the porch, splashing pools of colour across the floor.

  Then Anthony heard a ringing phone coming from the drawing room and he moved towards the sound …

  The drawing room was as bright and joyous as the hallway. There were more flowers in here and the only books were neatly lined up on the shelves. Heavy velvet curtains were tied back and bright sunshine was streaming in. Anthony saw a trim phone chirruping on the desk and was just thinking that that was odd, seeing as the trim phone was a fixture in the 1970s but was mostly extinct nowadays, when the door behind him opened and Dr Clarence entered. He was forty years younger than the man Anthony knew. His hair was long, touching his collar, and he had thick, lustrous sideburns. As Dr Clarence answered the phone, Anthony crossed to the window and looked out. He saw a light blue Vauxhall Viva parked in the driveway outside. A Hillman Imp drove past. He realized this was the seventies.

  ‘Yes, hello,’ said the younger Dr Clarence into the telephone. Anthony turned to look at him. ‘Where the ruddy hell are you? I’ve been worried sick.’ The doctor listened to the person on the other end of the phone and as he did so his face grew darker. ‘What do you mean? When are you coming home? What does that mean? Where are you going?’ He listened some more and his features grew more and more purple with rage until he exploded: ‘Who are you with? I demand you come home right this second. You
’re my bloody wife, Emily, and you will do as you are ruddy well told!’ He listened some more, his breathing heavy. ‘Letter? What letter? In the kitchen? What are you talking about? Come back and talk to me face to face.’ Then, as if realizing this was the wrong approach, he softened. ‘We can work this out if only we could speak. Please come back. Emily? Emily … ?’ As he realized his wife had hung up, his fury overtook him and he smashed the receiver back down on to the cradle with enough force to shatter the phone. Then he turned and pounded out of the room …

  Anthony was already in the large, bright kitchen. He was looking down at an envelope addressed to ‘Rafe’ sitting on the table propped up against the toast rack.

  The door crashed open as the younger Dr Clarence stormed in. A breeze dislodged the letter and Anthony watched helplessly as it skimmed off the table and floated down to the floor where, unbelievably, it slipped through a crack in the floorboards, close to a distinctive-looking knot in the wood, and disappeared from view. Young Dr Clarence never saw it. He raged about the kitchen searching for it …

  Back in the drawing room, Goose was startled by the abruptness with which Anthony let go of Dr Clarence’s hand and tipped over backwards, his body going limp. Goose winced as Anthony hit a table. The table was heavy oak with chunky carved legs. It hardly moved as Anthony’s dead weight bounced off it on his way to the floor. He convulsed for several moments, letting out what Goose thought sounded like a dying breath. Then, all of a sudden, Anthony became still.

  Goose put his hands over his mouth as if to stop himself from screaming. He was genuinely concerned. ‘Anthony,’ he squeaked. He was quite sure he had just watched him die.

  Dr Clarence moved fast. He jumped up and strode across to a cabinet, retrieving a dusty old medical bag from inside. He dashed back to Anthony, dropping to his side and dragging a stethoscope from the bag. As he reached out, Goose stopped him.