Lost Lad

by Annable, Narvel

  "My God! Just look at him! He is still one sweet gorgeous doll. Who is going to turn that down? Who cares about age, just lead me to it!"

  That was Charles Hardman. He looked just like the mature David Cassidy. A smiling handsome face, open and friendly, was occasionally looking up from the text, mischievously flashing stunning smiles and boyish grins, delighting an enthusiastic audience consisting mainly of women. He had enormous charm and generated great warmth.

  Simeon had vaguely planned to approach the author after the readings and politely ask for his co-operation. Just a few questions, a few fragments of memory might be illuminating. He would suggest to Mr Hardman that he may be in possession of faint recollections, half forgotten shadows, whose value he did not himself appreciate. He would promise Hardman total discretion, assure him that it was a purely personal crusade for personal satisfaction alone and that there were was no intention of putting any findings into the public arena. Observing that good natured countenance, nicely tanned by a foreign sun, Simeon was hopeful. He could not have faced the frosty features of Helen Hardman again but felt that Charles Hardman ... he was a different matter: precious little hostility there. After the Charles Hardman interview - that would be the end. The whole matter would be concluded.

  Having extricated himself from these absorbing considerations, Simeon was now able to give some attention to the author's work which was his first novel. Inspired by Charles Hardman's original research about fake spiritualists in Victorian Derby, this was a story about several working class characters who had been 'taken in' by unscrupulous clairvoyants. As expected, Charles Hardman came across as smooth, cultured and well educated with an impressive upper class accent which, at least to Simeon, spoke of money, Oxford and a soft life. It was, therefore, yet another surprise to hear the reader cleverly affect a dramatic change of speech, from the 'Public School' standard to the 'Bog Hole' standard, when the authorial voice suddenly changed to the dialogue of locals. His characters came across as completely authentic: they were just the same as originals, typical of the area, a lack of H's, closed U's and numerous contractions.

  It was a good book, an interesting book. Simeon enjoyed being entertained and yet ... and yet he found his concentration wandering. The audience was enraptured and so was Simeon, but for him, the sheer force of personality of the reader seemed to be greater than his subject matter. He continued to be mesmerised by those lovely eyes, twinkling teasing eyes, young eyes, sparkling eyes, sexy eyes ...

  Intrusive thoughts intruded .. From a long way back he heard a choir of girls, strings ordinary and pizzicato .. fragments of words sung by a teenage boy -

  "This love I have for you, will be my only love, my whole life through, it's strong and true, this love for you ... "

  He was called back by an enthusiastic and loud applause which filled the hall. The author gave his thanks, stood up, spoke to a few fans, signed a few books whilst Simeon, pleasantly sedated, continued to sit at the back and ponder the odd nostalgic mood which had suddenly and inexplicably come upon him. People drifted out and finally the author walked down the aisle, towards the door, and out of St John's Chapel. This was the moment which the visitor had planned for. He had intended to approach Charles Hardman ... but Simeon remained in his seat on that back row. He was riveted by what he had seen. He had seen a ghost. Not the usual ghost, not the visual form of a figure, but an essence of movement invisibly traced in the air, a signature of movement, the signature of a familiar old friend - long lost - the lost lad.

  Many times he had seen Brian Forrester move about and walk about. His mind went back to July 1960, that one last special sparkling sunny morning, the last morning in which he saw his friend. He was looking out of a bedroom window of Well Head Farm when he recognised Brian, at some considerable distance, just by the way he moved. Simeon identified Brian's distinctive gait, the individuality of his posture, bearing and carriage of head - the one thing which is most difficult to disguise - the way you move. Minutes before, Charles Hardman had stood on his feet, moved around his table to sign books, exchanged pleasantries with head nods and tilts. Finally he stepped off that low platform and walked out of the hall.

  Minutes before! Simeon must pursue Charles Hardman - at once.

  Chapter 33

  Fantasy of Life

  Simeon reasoned that the author would have likely parked in the same area as himself. The nearest convenient spot was just below, possibly in the Market Place or the Coppice. He rushed out into a shock of cold air under the darkening clear sky. Along The Butts, a row of quaint cottages on his right, down the steep High Pavement and he was just in time to see Charles Hardman about to get into a sleek golden Jaguar. Before the readings, that would have been fine, consistent with the image of a sophisticated and wealthy author. But this was after the readings and now it seemed as wrong as Danny Forrester getting out of his own expensive looking vehicle. Danny should have arrived on an old bicycle. This man too, should have been mounting an old bicycle.

  Simeon Hogg approached the author who was still standing by the open car door. In silence both men looked at each other with blank expressions. In those moments time became warped and for both men it seemed more like minutes: minutes in which each party re-grouped, came to terms with, and took full account of the huge significance of that special moment: the moment of mutual recognition. Across the expressionless face of Charles Hardman there encroached a gathering softness born of inevitability, perhaps a softness born of sweet surrender. The softness melted into a warm smile, that familiar wide boyish grin Simeon knew only too well -

  "'Allo, Dobba."

  Two old friends were facing each other. They were sitting in the opulence and comfort of a beautiful new Jaguar. It was peaceful in that open market place of many pubs which had yet to come to life.

  "I've so many questions," said Dobba. "I don't really know where to start. Perhaps at the beginning?"

  "Where is the beginning?" replied the other. "For me there was no definite end or beginning. I simply can't remember. It took me years to remember anything."

  "Years!"

  "I only know what others have told me."

  "But you remember me. You spoke my name."

  Again that enchanting smile slowly broke across that handsome face as he leaned forward and lowered his voice.

  "I spoke your name first. I was never allowed to go to the cinema, so the cinema came to me. Father had it set up in our basement and one evening ... it was at the time of the Kennedy Assassination ... 1963 ... we were watching 'Treasure Island' ... how could we ever forget Long John Silver! I said one word - 'Dobba'. Of course it meant nothing to father, but it was my first glimmer, my first link with 'the past life'."

  "When you say 'father', are you referring to Algernon Hardman?"

  "Naturally! I'm referring to a grief stricken father who, right or wrong, took back a son."

  "But your real parents ... "

  "Are both long dead. Please try to understand. Even after seeing that film it took months for me to recall a cycling trip. Very vaguely I began to see a group of friends ... I couldn't see their faces ... but I knew one was called Dobba."

  "Not even your twin brother?"

  "In cases of severe amnesia the patient needs constant support and encouragement to regain his original identity. He needs people around, people of his own class who speak of family, friends and familiar places. If there is a conspiracy to withhold those familiar things, the process of recall takes even longer still. Memory loss varies from person to person and no two cases are ever the same. In my case a whole new life was substituted and I was groomed to receive a complete new identity. My little world was a handful of carefully selected tutors, Simon, Dolly and ... of course ... father. I hardly went anywhere until Oxford, when I was 18 - in fact I was actually 21.

  "So you were a prisoner?" said Dobba, but Brian disarmed him again with another winning smile.

  "Of course not! You got it all wrong, Dobba. I heard you on Radio
Derby. Oh yes, I was listening - we all were. I heard the fear and dread in your voice, but let me promise you this my friend - nothing, absolutely nothing at all unpleasant or sexual ever happened to me. I was taken in, cared for and loved. It had nothing to do with lust - it had everything to do with love, love and grief."

  "The accident in Albania," said Dobba, slowly and thoughtfully. He suddenly added - "Grief for his wife ... "

  "And his son."

  "His son? Charles Hardman? I don't understand? What did they do with Charles Hardman? Where is he?"

  "Buried somewhere in Albania with his mother where they were both killed in a motor accident on the Saturday of July 23rd 1960. My father went into a state of shock, he was like a zombie. The hotel manager was very kind, made all the arrangements, chartered a plane and got him back home as soon as possible. But home to what? He had lost everything ... and then he found me."

  "He found the lost lad," meditated Dobba in a whisper. Two youths strolled past the car and disappeared into The Cross Keys, one of several public houses on the Market Place. It was getting darker by the minute.

  "Father never told me anything. He would never discuss the circumstances of my arrival. As far as he was concerned I was his son and heir Charles Hardman, born and raised at Cressbrook Hall. He treated me as one would treat a delicate invalid. He treated me as if I was the one who'd suffered the mental breakdown, struggling to come to terms with the trauma of an accident and the death of my mother. And that's how it really did feel. For years I believed I was indeed Charles Hardman. It was assumed the Albanian accident had taken my memory and identity, had robbed me of my past. Everybody called me Charles and recalled anecdotes of things I did as a kid. Simon kept talking about a dog I once had called Pilot. He showed me the toys I once played with - even a doll I called Jennifer! I'll tell you that got me worried!"

  They laughed. Brian sank back into the leather upholstery and idly watched three rowdy lads falling out of a pub.

  "But eventually ... " encouraged Dobba.

  "Eventually I started to ask questions. Not of father. It would hurt him. Yes, he was stern and could be very severe with the servants and strangers, but upon me, he heaped a massive amount of affection. He steered me through those years and gave me protection. He was an excellent teacher, inspired and encouraged me to write - he gave me everything. I came to love my father ... I wish you could have known him, Dobba, he was a wonderful man.

  Eventually, yes, I was very curious. I asked Simon and Dolly questions. It was like trying to get blood out of a stone - but, gradually, little by little I wheedled out bits of information and started to piece them together. Simon found me. He and father took me in. I was unconscious for hours.

  Dobba was absently admiring two young trees which had been planted outside The White Swan. Struggling with moral implications and unwilling to be confrontational, he was almost afraid to ask the next question.

  "Your real parents! What about their grief, Brian? What about your brother Danny? What about the pain and agony of waiting. Couldn't you have put them out of their misery? Did you not think about making contact?"

  "Many many times." Brian took a deep breath and looked directly into the eyes of his one time friend. "Look, Dobba, forgive me old pal, but you really don't have a clue do you? You don't know, you can't possibly know what it was like to be me. Many times I talked to Simon and Dolly. I suggested to them that I should let mum, dad and our Danny ...

  Our Danny! Sounds so funny to say that now. I proposed trying to get a message to Heanor, delivered secretly, just to say I was OK. But, you see, it was me against them. They were powerful and I was weak. A boy against the combined solid logic and wisdom of two persuasive adults. I was defeated by argument. Dolly said it would all end in disaster. He said that father would be arrested by the police and put into prison. He was right. Father would have been destroyed by that experience. And I could not let that happen to the man who was the centre of my universe. Look, this crisis of conscience occurred in 1964. By that time the world had assumed that I was dead ... and, Dobba, try to understand, it was like that for me. Brian Forrester was as good as dead. Of course ... every now and again he gets a jolt of conscience ... like on the radio the other day when I heard Danny say 'Hello, Dobba'. That wasn't easy for me. I was gutted.

  And ... I'll be honest with you old friend. Try to see it from my point of view. I had long talks with Simon. We both know what it's like to be poor. In my old life I had a loving family and I know they've suffered but ... what would you do? Would you, if you had the choice, say goodbye to Cressbrook Hall and a substantial income for life? Would you go back to Heanor, to the old life and become a brickie, or a plumber or for that matter - a teacher?"

  "You certainly wouldn't be driving this car on a teacher's pay!" laughed Simeon. "And you wouldn't have received the prestige and respect Mr Brentnall enjoyed from us!"

  "Exactly. Anyway, I wouldn't have got anywhere near a teachers college. Working class social pressure would have pushed me towards a manual job and would have offered me a selection of girls from the next street. A girl like Helen with her 'county' background: my God, if she as much as suspected - I'd be treated as dirt under her feet!"

  Simeon, who had taken an instant dislike to the haughty Helen Hardman (and was bitterly opposed to blood sports) resisted the temptation to put in a good word for Heanor girls. Brian continued to defend his position.

  "Face it, Dobba, you went to America. You did the best for yourself. Algernon Hardman showed me a world I didn't know existed. He took me around Europe and showed me art, architecture, culture ...

  Again he looked his old friend straight in the eyes -

  "I have to admit it, Dobba, I rather like being the Master of Cressbrook Hall."

  Brian exhaled a long held breath of stress, then flashed another boyish grin.

  "Simon was right. I mean his fantasy on the radio when I was supposed to be snatched up by aliens. That gave me a close call but fortunately nobody takes him very seriously, but, do you know, Dobba - he was quite right. Effectively I was abducted by aliens - two very odd queens and an erudite recluse!

  Simon and Dolly have always been there for me, always kind and loyal. They were servants to father, but for me ... they are family, just as much as Helen and the children."

  "I met your children today at Cressbrook Hall. Utterly delightful, the girls and the small boy."

  "Aren't they just. One correction, Dobba - grandchildren."

  Another jolt, but Simeon had already been through that with Scott North. Suddenly an urgent thought intruded into domestic bliss.

  "Brian! The police! I have all the details, they checked everything?"

  "Of course they did. But you know, Dobba, sometimes they don't ask the right questions. They assumed that my father was with 'me' on the chartered plane. It never occurred to them to check the ticket which would have indicated a single person - not two people. They closely questioned the taxi driver who met father at Manchester airport. They looked at the wrong thing. They were very keen and obsessed on checking times. They had no reason at all to ask the driver if a boy was also in the car. Why should they? They assumed Charles was with his father. Had a boy been mentioned to the driver, he would say 'What boy?'"

  "Hang on a moment! I have a verbatim description of the official record from Detective Inspector Derek Russell himself - The Albanian authorities confirmed two fatalities in a head-on collision. Both cars were 'right-offs'. Did Algernon Hardman bribe the authorities?"

  "Of course not! Again it was a question of natural assumptions. The English police assumed that the two people killed were my father's late wife Marjorie and the other fellow in the other car. Since I was at Cressbrook Hall, it was assumed that Charles Hardman survived - he didn't, it was the other driver who survived."

  "And you were a young looking fifteen year old."

  "Baby faced Brian! Oh yes, anyone would have taken me as a twelve year old."

  Simeon conjured
up a mental image of Brian, Danny, Scott, Rex and Dobba swaggering across Heanor Market Place having the time of their lives, shouting and generally larking around ... How different to his perception of this group of raucous boys who were now coming towards the car. After decades of permissive progressive education, Simeon felt threatened by this group, a group he regarded as yobs out of control. Brian appeared not to notice. He was speaking of his Uncle Jack and his Brownie 127 camera.

  "That photograph was a joke. Nobody would have recognised me from that. Of course, you, Danny, Scott or Titch would have identified me immediately, but why should it be thought necessary for anyone to be brought to Cressbrook Hall to look at Charles Hardman? By the way, haven't you forgotten something?"

  "What?"

  "Fingerprints!

  "My God, yes! Your fingerprints were identified because they were all over your house in Heanor - so why ... Oh! I think I see - gloves?"

  "I wore them for months. Of course I've no memory of it."

  "But in Russell's letter he said that they took copies of your prints, the prints of young Charles Hardman at Cressbrook Hall together with Dr Hardman and Tonks. There would have been a match! The game would have been up!"

  "But it wasn't and they didn't - let me explain. The forensic team on prints and dabs was just two junior officers. Simon had made it more difficult, or easy, which ever way you look at it. He was pretty handy with the duster and polish and there were fewer prints to find. Most of the prints in Marjorie Hardman's bedroom were, quite naturally, identified as belonging to her. The same thing applied to my father's room and to Simon in his room and the kitchen. Charles Hardman had the freedom of the attic, his play room. Plenty of his prints there - none of mine. The two police men believed that they had conclusive identification without having to steel themselves to approach my unapproachable father and ask him to get his fingers inky. Remember he was already hostile to the whole intrusion and barely tolerated the police in the house as it was. Algernon Hardman was a force to reckon with! He was like the Lord of the Manor, a friend of the Chief Constable and Lord Lieutenant. The two officers felt that they had made quite sure that Brian Forrester had never set foot inside of Cressbrook Hall.