by Linda Coles
Her phone clock read 11.30 AM. She had thirty minutes to travel maybe a kilometre, so she had time to kill.
The photos were still on her phone, though she’d printed a copy out to show the old man. She’d written the three names she already knew under each photo in blue pen: Stuart Townsend, Cody Taylor and Philip Banks.
“I’m hoping to find the rest of your names. And even better, I’m hoping to find out what you might be doing now, so I can trace you all properly,” she said to the empty car. A nearby blackbird heard her and tweeted a birdsong reply. She wondered if maybe she should nip into the pub now, before her meeting, and see if anyone in there might recognise the boys’ faces; perhaps they were still living locally. She rejected the idea, since she had seen only one person entering the pub; it was much too early yet. No, she’d see what Frederick Browning had to say first; he’d agreed to meet her, after all. The car was getting warm as the sun climbed in the sky.
“Sod, it,” she said and started the engine. “I may as well drive round.” She checked the address again, followed the map app’s instructions, and found herself outside a small cottage a minute or two later. The little house sported leaded windows with tiny triangles of glass; she imagined him peering through them as she arrived—if he’d heard her, of course. Not bothering to lock her door, she slowly wandered up his front path and admired his garden. He must have been watching.
The door opened before she’d reached the front porch.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Frederick Browning stood unsteadily in his doorway, his stick at his side. He was obviously infirm, Chrissy noted, and he appeared to shake slightly, like a flower in a light breeze. Parkinson’s disease, maybe. He coughed as she approached, as if to confirm his frailty.
“Good morning, Mr Browning,” Chrissy shouted heartily as she reached the door.
“And good morning to you, though there is no need to shout. I might be old, but I’m not deaf.”
He smiled to signal that he wasn’t offended and Chrissy matched it with one of her own. She held a hand out to shake, and Frederick Browning took it. While his skin was paper thin like her own mother’s, he had far more sunspots, those telltale brown circular marks on the back of his hand, than she had, most likely from years outdoors in the garden. He had a surprisingly strong handshake, though his bony fingers were barely covered with flesh. It was like shaking hands with a warm skeleton.
His eyes, in contrast, were more than alive, crystal clear in fact, and she sensed he was as bright as a button up top. While his skin might be worn with his years, his brain no doubt was not.
“You’re early. I like that,” he said. “It gives us time to chat. Since it’s such a beautiful day, we should sit outside at the pub. There is usually a spare umbrella at lunchtime.” He paused for breath but with a kind of stammer to fill the space. “It’s not as crowded at this time of day, but it will be tonight. Everyone turns out from the city, looking for somewhere nice to sit and drink a pint.” Chrissy waited for him to finish his sentence so she could agree but he joined it straight up to another one, even though it seemed a struggle to speak. “It’s been good business for the village, and sunny days like these can be a goldmine for the owners.” Then he instantly changed the subject. “Shall we go?” he said, wheezing slightly. Chrissy forgot about trying to get a word in; maybe he didn’t receive many visitors to talk to. He held out his arm for Chrissy to take, though of course, given his age, it would be Chrissy supporting him. In another time his chivalry would have been commonplace, but today their roles were reversed.
He pulled the door closed with his other arm and the lock clicked almost silently behind them. Chrissy assumed he already had his door keys in his pocket; she didn’t fancy breaking in through one of the small lead windows to get the old man back inside. Slowly, they made their way down to her car. Chrissy opened the passenger side for him, waiting patiently while he supported himself on the car rim. He finally got in and made himself comfortable. It was hot already inside the car, even with the windows open a little. She climbed in on the other side and waited until he’d secured his seatbelt.
“I gather we’re going to the Crown and Garter?”
“You’ve been doing your homework, young lady,” he said breathlessly, and she caught the twinkle in his eye.
“I must’ve been a detective in a previous life,” she said. “I like to know where I’m going, and since it’s a small village it didn’t take me long to find my bearings.”
“There used to be two pubs,” he said,” but the village isn’t big enough to sustain two anymore, which is a shame really. But business is business.”
Browning was already out of breath again, as he had been yesterday on the telephone. She could still hear that slight wheeze, which sounded painful. Conscious that it was hard for him to breathe and talk at the same time, she decided to save her questions until they were at the pub.
Loose chippings crunched under her own tyres for a second time in the pub’s car park, and she noticed that the assumed sales rep’s car was absent from its previous spot under the tree. She pulled up close to the door, quickly unhooked herself and hurried around to the passenger side door to open it for her guest. With trembling hands, Browning unhooked his own seatbelt and she put a supporting arm out for him to hold on to, helping him out with a slight pull. Once he stood on the gravel, she leant back in and gathered his cane. Then, with him as the pace setter, she followed quietly and steadily indoors.
If he came here every day as part of his routine, she mused, god only knew how he drove himself each day. Perhaps he didn’t, though; perhaps he used a driving service? It would make more sense.
Once inside, Browning headed to a quiet corner, even though he had previously suggested dining outside. Maybe his short-term memory wasn’t what it used to be; Chrissy hoped his long-term memory was in better shape. After all, that’s why she was there. When he was seated, she enquired what he would like to drink.
“I’ll have half a mild …. and a whiskey chaser if I may, please.”
It wasn’t really a question. Chrissy smiled and walked over to the bar to place their order. The lunchtime menus were stacked in a neat pile, and she picked two up before ordering their drinks. She ordered a white wine spritzer for herself, as she was driving. The man behind the bar said he would bring the drinks over and take their order then. He seemed pleasant enough, and Chrissy quite rightly suspected that he was the owner; he had the starting of a beer gut around his middle. Chrissy thanked him and walked back to their table.
“He’ll bring them over,” she said, and handed the old man a menu. From the inside of his tweed jacket pocket he produced a pair of half-moon reading glasses and propped them on the end of his nose. He reminded her of Richard, Julie’s husband, peering over the top of his spectacles like a schoolteacher. At least the man in front of her had a legitimate excuse—he was both a schoolteacher and old.
He closed his menu and looked straight at Chrissy.
“I can highly recommend the pork pie and salad, though it’s not on the menu. I have it almost every day. I guess you’d call me a creature of habit,” he wheezed. “I’ve had about eighty-odd years to perfect my habits, and in my time of life, I don’t care about the cholesteryl content. I figure the salad balances it out.”
Chrissy smiled; no doubt she’d be the same when she got into her eighties. Although she hoped she wouldn’t be suffering like the man in front of her was.
“Then I’ll have the same,” she said as the barman brought over their drinks. Chrissy placed the food order for them both and the man left, and then it was time to move on to the business that had brought her here. She wasn’t entirely sure where to start the conversation, but she felt it would be impolite to start with pleasantries. It seemed false somehow, chatting about the weather. She needn’t have worried, though, because the old man took the decision out of her hands.
“So, you said you wanted to talk to me about some pupils from the late eig
hties.”
Inwardly she sighed with relief. She imagined he’d been just as businesslike as a headmaster, before taking the cane to some unruly child’s backside. Swiftly. Get it over with. She bent to her bag and pulled out the printout of the boys’ photos and slid it in front of the old man. She waited, wondering if he’d say anything else before she probed. He didn’t. But she watched his face like a hawk would watch a mouse. The signs of recognition were there if you knew where to look. And Chrissy did.
Frederick Browning’s worst fears had come true. He’d kept these images out of his mind for nearly 30 years, and yet here they were, flat out in front of his face with a stranger asking questions. He’d told himself the previous night that if it was about the incident, he wouldn’t tell her; he wouldn’t resurrect the hurt and the angst it would cause to those involved all over again.
Whatever the woman’s motive was, as nice as she might seem, he’d decided not to tell, to keep the secret a while longer. But seeing the pictures again in front of him unearthed something deep down, and he was once again unsure of what to do.
All he could do was let out a sigh and pretend to be thinking.
Which he was. But his eyes welled up, giving his sadness away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The old man’s reaction wasn’t lost on Chrissy. She was silent, giving him time to collect himself. The old man’s breathing sounded even more shallow, but still she waited patiently.
She was interested in what he had to say. As the headmaster of the school there was no reason why he wouldn’t know the boys. The question burning in Chrissy’s mind, was what was so significant about these boys, why were all their pictures hidden away in the tin? And why was he crying?
“I’m sorry,” she said reaching a hand out to cover his. Thick blue veins were visible through his papery skin. He felt warm. “I don’t mean to upset you.”
He wiped a tear away and smiled weakly. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
Their food arrived and the old man seemed thankful for the interruption; he picked up his utensils and tucked in.
But after a long moment, she couldn’t contain the urge to say something, she couldn’t wait any longer. Carefully, she raised the subject again, this time in a more soothing tone. The last thing she wanted was to upset him again.
“Since you were the headmaster when these boys were at school, you obviously know who they are, I mean, I expect you knew each of the boys at the school?”
“I remember their faces well,” he conceded. He didn’t elaborate any further, which was frustrating, but Chrissy tried her best not to show it. The old man was quick to recover himself, and picked up his knife and fork as if pretending that they were doing nothing other than having a friendly lunch together and had not seen the photographs in front of them. Chrissy, on the other hand, ignored her meal and pointed slowly to the first picture, on the top left-hand side of the page, tapping her finger gently at it.
“I think I have three of the boys’ names already. I’ve written them under the photos, as you can see. Can you confirm if I’m right so far?” Chrissy was pointing to one she knew—Stuart Townsend. “Can you confirm this is Stuart?”
The old man put his knife and fork down and chewed thoughtfully but still didn’t say anything. What was going on in his head? she wondered. Why was he not forthcoming? It was an age before he spoke again.
“Yes, that’s Stuart.” He glanced at the other names. “And yes, that’s Cody and that’s Philip. You’ve got those correct. It’s a long time ago now. My brain is a bit rusty, but seeing their names—yes, I remember them.”
“So how about this one?” Chrissy pointed to the second image, one of the ones with no name underneath. “Can you remember his name?” The old man simply stared, didn’t say a word, though he did look like he was concentrating. Chrissy pressed on. “Or how about this one here?” She indicated the photo of a boy with short ginger hair.
“Like I said, my mind is a bit rusty; it’s been a long time. But they do look familiar.” Another silent interval as he caught his breath and organised his words. “Give me a minute; I’m sure I can figure something out. See if I can remember something. Do you have even a first name to go on? That might help.”
“Nothing at all at the moment,” she said. “What I’ve found out so far, I managed to get from Google, but as you’ve said, it was a long time ago, and there wasn’t any internet back in the eighties.” She smiled, trying to break the tension. She picked her own knife and fork up and cut into her pie. Taking a small mouthful, she chewed thoughtfully, though what she was doing was giving the headmaster some more breathing space.
The old man picked the paper up and held it closer to his face, as if doing so would stimulate his brain to recover memories from a long time ago.
“Robert,” he said suddenly. “Robert something. Yes, I’m pretty sure he’s called Robert.” His gnarly finger moved along to another photo with no name under it. “Stephen—Steve, I think he was called. Yes, that’s right. Steve. Steve Marks, from memory.”
Chrissy took out her pen out of her bag and hurriedly scribbled the names underneath the images; she hoped that seeing their names there would spur him on to remember the surname of the boy with the ginger hair. There were two more names to be found now, two more photographs that she had nothing on. She picked her knife and fork back up and carried on eating again, to give the old man more time. At last he made an “aha” sound; it seemed to be working.
“I think this one is called Alistair,” he said, though sounding slightly unsure. “He was American, and so was this other fellow,” he said, pointing back to Philip Banks’s picture. “I don’t recall why they were both in the country, but they were American. They were quite pally, so if you’ve already found Philip Banks he might remember more about Alistair.”
Chrissy wrote ‘American’ under both photographs; at least it was something to add into another Google search later. But still there was one missing. Chrissy once again pointed to the last photograph and said, “What can you remember about this young man?” Once more, she resumed eating though she really wasn’t that hungry. She noticed the old man had barely touched his food at all, nor sipped at his half pint. Again, it was tempting to fill the empty space with more questions but Chrissy resisted. Finally, the old man came up with a morsel of the boy’s name.
“Moore, with an E on the end,” he said. “That was his surname.”
“Would there be a listing back at the school so I could get his first name? I’m guessing they were all in the same year, maybe the same class?”
“The same year from memory, yes, but the same class? I couldn’t tell you. May I ask why you want the names of these boys?”
It was a question Chrissy had been expecting, and she had the answer ready, though not entirely a truthful one. She noticed he’d avoided her question about a class list back at the school.
Maybe the receptionist can help you with that.
The squeaky woman?
Yep.
“I’m writing a story about another boy from back then. I believe these boys were his friends, and I figured I could talk to them and get more background for my article.” The old man’s clear eyes latched on to Chrissy’s, and she could see him trying to read her face, perhaps not trusting exactly what she was saying. He had good reason; it was all a pack of lies.
“Oh? Who is the other boy? I might be able to help there.”
“His name is Richard Stokes,” she said, quoting her brother-in-law’s name and knowing full well the old man would not remember him. Why would he? Richard had never gone to Glendene School, but it fitted her story; he would be about the same age.
The old man scratched what bits of thinning white hair he had left, looking perplexed, and said, “I don’t recall the name. Was he in the same year?”
“I believe so, but I’m not entirely sure myself.”
“What is the story that you’re writing. What is it about?”
Chrissy had
that covered too. “Richard is quite a whiz at investment banking and I’m doing a story about what type of person it takes to be so successful in the industry. Nothing more than that, really,” she said brightly hoping to relax the old man away from thinking it was something more sinister. Which, of course, it was. In her mind, at any rate. But having watched the old man’s reaction to the photos, she was now certain there was much more to it, that something, well, sinister, had gone on back then.
He seemed to relax a little and resumed eating his meal. Chrissy changed the subject, hoping to put him further at ease. They chatted about mundane subjects such as the weather and how long he’d lived in the area and how he filled his day: safe topics, stress-free topics. After an hour or so Chrissy ordered coffee for them both and tried one last time for answers to her questions. It was time she was leaving.
“So,” she said “have you thought any more about the names of these boys? It would be really helpful if I could find out who they are.” She slowly slipped the sheet of paper back in front of his nose and was quiet while she let the old man pore over it. She watched his face for the slightest movement, the slightest twitch, anything at all that would give the game away, tell her that he knew who the boys really were.
“Samuel,” he said with certainty. “That’s the boy. Samuel Moore—yes. Samuel Moore. Sam for short.”
Chrissy wrote it down under the relevant picture and sat back. She had almost all the information she needed now. It was almost like filling in a crossword puzzle, though there were still a few gaps and very little in the way of clues.
