Once upon a time in Chinatown

by Robert Ronsson

  Thurslow put down his pen and picked up the picture. ‘RAF.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re sure this is him?’ He tapped a knuckle against the picture.

  ‘Not one-hundred percent. But I think there’s a likeness… don’t you?

  He looked from the image to me and back again. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Can I keep this?’

  I gave it a long moment’s thought. I couldn’t bear to lose it. ‘Yes, but look after it. It’s the only copy I have.’

  He nodded and slipped the picture into the notebook cover. ‘And you’d like me to find out what exactly?’

  I shrugged. ‘You’re the expert. What is possible? Firstly, I need to know if he’s still alive. I don’t think he can be but…’

  Thurslow looked towards the window as if he was reading from the glass. ‘We can work out his rank from the photograph. That’s easy. From there we can search RAF records and get his date of birth. From there we go to his birth certificate – marriage, family details. That’s when we’ll know.’ As he spoke his white feathery moustache oscillated on his top lip.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘If he’s dead there will be a death certificate. If he isn’t we’ll try to locate him. If the photographic studio is still operating we may get a lead to the family. Portraits like this were customarily commissioned by parents or spouses. If we can find out what happened to the original it may take us to his family, if any survive.’

  Although I desperately needed to know the answers, I could see a big bill ratcheting up. ‘Will it cost much?’

  ‘Nothing to you, old boy. Happy to do it as a favour. We’ll lose it in the billings to Scotia. It’s legwork – public records, a few phone calls. We’ll put a junior on it. Good training.’ He saw me start at the word ‘junior’ and held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry he won’t know who our client is. Anyway, he’s bound by our confidentiality guarantees.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’ll find out what happened to your father and maybe uncover some relatives. That’s gratis…’ He picked up his hat fingered the brim. ‘… but if you want us to trace them… or him…’

  I shook my head. ‘That’s not necessary.’ I turned to the window. ‘I only need to know if there’s anybody out there.’

  Thurslow stood up. ‘I’ll call you when we have something, Mr Cross.’

  I swivelled back, stood up and walked around my desk to offer my hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Thurslow.’ I was aware that our relationship had crossed a line. As I closed the door, I had to screw up my face to hold back the tears.

  5

  A week later, Thurslow’s bowler was back on my desk. He had placed it there without even lifting an eyebrow in my direction. I was ticked by his presumption and the blank look in his grey eyes. He was giving nothing away. But he had asked for the appointment; it should mean progress.

  ‘Well, Mr Thurslow?’ I didn’t offer coffee. If there was to be bad news, I wanted him to give it quickly and leave.

  He leant down to his side, unzipped a black leather document case and took out three foolscap sheets. He had something after all.

  ‘This has been an interesting assignment, Mr Cross.’ He touched a finger to the wings of his moustache. ‘I can give you the bare bones.’ He referred to the typewritten sheet. ‘First, I can confirm that, sadly, your father is dead.’

  I sighed. Thurslow had casually extinguished a fragile flame of hope but it was a relief to know that I hadn’t been misled for forty-odd years.

  He looked up, waiting.

  ‘Go on.’

  He returned to his notes. ‘His name was Anthony. His last name has been written differently: always ‘Kellie’ – ‘i–e’ – always Smith. But sometimes the words are hyphenated and sometimes they’re not. He was born in 1915. We haven’t seen his birth certificate because it appears he was born in Malaya – now Malaysia. This information appears in his service record. He never married – at least not in the UK and was a single man – again according to the RAF – when he was killed—’

  ‘He did die in action.’

  ‘Not exactly. On 30th June, 1944 there was a massive V1 rocket attack – you know – ‘Doodlebug’. It exploded not far from here in The Strand. Your father was among the fatalities.’

  ‘30th June.’ I tried to remember why I thought he had died in Normandy. Had my young brain conflated June 1944 with D–Day and had it all been in my imagination?

  ‘Your father was a Wing Commander in the RAF. Quite a senior position. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross in September 1940 – perhaps he was one of The Few.’

  A hero after all. The valour I had invested in my incarnation of him was not baseless. Only now I pictured him in the cockpit of a Spitfire, a Hun bomber in his sights and the thumb of his gauntleted hand pressing the red firing button. Tracer from the wing-mounted cannon darts across the sky over London. ‘Eat lead, Jerry! I’ll make you regret taking to the skies over our green and pleasant—’

  Thurslow interrupted my reverie. ‘But by 1944 he was flying a desk – I believe that’s what they called it.’ He smiled. ‘We can assume he either worked at or was visiting the Air Ministry offices in The Strand. It looks as if he had been meeting a relative when the bomb fell and both were killed. The relative’s name was Kenneth Kellie-Smith. He is on the list of casualties alongside your father. Interestingly his name is hyphenated on the death certificate.’

  ‘How were they related?’ The skin behind my ears prickled into life. Of course, he had a family. I flapped my hand to encourage Thurslow to hurry along.

  He looked down at the notes. ‘I have the bare bones here. We’ll submit a full report. It seems he was your father’s uncle. We went back from his death certificate to his birth certificate. He was born on the same day as your father’s father in the north of Scotland. They were twins.’

  ‘You’ve seen my father’s father’s – my grandfather’s – birth certificate?’

  ‘Our young man has.’

  ‘And his name?’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t share our employee’s—’

  ‘My grandfather’s name!’

  Thurslow looked down again. ‘Of course. William. The interesting thing for you, though, is that your father had a sister–’ He turned to the second sheet.

  ‘An aunt – my aunt.’ My mind was in turmoil. I had relatives – alive.

  ‘Exactly. Helen Kellie-Smith. She was the person who registered your father’s death but her surname then – she had married – was Escobar. We tracked her back from there. Your aunt.’

  ‘Where is she?’ I had a family. Beneath the desk, I took a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped the sweat from my palms.

  Thurslow made a show of straightening the paper in his hand and studied it theatrically. ‘From her marriage certificate, we discovered that the man she married was a Portuguese national – Jose Escobar. The wedding was in 1927. There was nothing after that in London – no death certificates, she hadn’t registered any births.’

  ‘A dead-end then,’ I said, my voice cracking with disappointment.

  ‘Not exactly. Our clerk really earned his spurs on this one. Because the man your aunt married was Portuguese, he wondered whether the absence of records in the UK meant that she had emigrated with him after the war. He started looking at passenger records for sailings from Southampton to Lisbon after June 1945. On the off–chance.’

  I shook my head. ‘There must have been thousands.’

  ‘Not that many. I imagine the sailings didn’t start straight after the war. Each ship’s passenger list is in alphabetical order. He was looking for Escobar and ‘E’ as an initial isn’t that common. It was good training.’

  ‘Did he find anything?’

  ‘Yes. Your aunt Helen and her husband sailed to Lisbon. They sailed out and didn’t return inside three months – not by steamer.’

  ‘She could still be alive?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sadly, not.’

 
‘I thought you said you didn’t find any more.’

  ‘Not in England. We’ve been in contact with Lisbon. We know people there – a firm, reputable, like us. They tracked her down. She’s buried in the British Cemetery next to her father William – your father’s father.’

  ‘My grandfather. You know where he’s buried!’

  ‘Yes. In Lisbon.’

  ‘Hold on!’ I put up a hand and slipped my chair back. ‘You said it would cost me if you started tracing people. I didn’t give you—’

  ‘Normally we would have to bill you. But what could we do? As I say, our junior had the bit between his teeth. Once he set that particular hare running…’ He shrugged. ‘We know the firm in Lisbon. We put work their way. It was only a small favour. Happy to do it for you – for Scotia.’

  I pulled my chair back up to the desk. ‘Go on.’

  He tapped a forefinger to the paper. ‘Your aunt – Helen – and her husband – Jose – stayed in Lisbon and had a child.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, a cousin, your cousin.’

  ‘And is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A surge of elation rushed through me. I had a cousin. All the years I had thought of myself as some sort of remnant, a loose end. Thurslow had, with this one word, shifted me from winter into a spring burgeoning with new possibilities. Nevertheless, I couldn’t hide my irritation. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me this at the start!’

  ‘I’m sorry – I thought…’

  ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘His name is – Luis Kellie Escobar. His date of birth, 23rd April 1950.

  ‘Shakespeare’s birthday.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nothing. Carry on.’ I imagined my family tree. Up to my father, across to his sister, down to her son – my cousin. Alive. In Lisbon. I could visit him. Perhaps he had never been to London. I pictured us striding across Westminster Bridge, me pointing out the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, talking about our imminent boat trip from Westminster Pier to Tower Bridge. My handwriting was shaky as I scrawled Luis Kellie Escobar 23 April 1950 on my blotter.

  ‘We’ll put together a comprehensive report.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We know where he is – your cousin.’

  ‘You’ve contacted him?’

  ‘No. We wouldn’t do that without… The firm we used – our counterparts in Lisbon – they know of your cousin.’

  ‘They do? How?’

  ‘Apparently, he used to be a policeman. Ironically, he runs an investigation business himself. One man – you know – divorces, missing relatives, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Really?’ I shrugged. ‘Why ironically? He has to do something, doesn’t he?’ Touché! That was for holding back the key information.

  ‘You’re right. I suppose it is just coincidence – you know – we use an agency and they find a man who’s in the same line of work. Anyway, his details are in the report. Should you wish to contact him.’

  ‘Thank you. When will I have it?’

  ‘About a week?’

  ‘And if I want to contact him before then – Luis…’ I looked down at what I’d written ‘… Escobar?’

  He bent over the desktop and with his silver ball-point pen wrote two lines directly onto my blotter. I read the words upside down as he wrote them: Escobar Investigation Agency and a long telephone number starting 00351. He clipped the ball-point into the inside pocket of his jacket and looked me in the eye. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else.’ He swept up his hat with a flourish.

  I escorted him to the door. ‘I’ll await your report, Mr Thurslow,’ I said.

  After he had gone, I stood for a moment, thinking. I had a living relative – a cousin. Okay, he happened to be Portuguese and his name was Escobar but… but well, we were both Kellie-Smiths and… I couldn’t get to grips with exactly what this meant. I only knew that I was no longer alone.

  I was relieved that Thurslow had been able to confirm that my dad had died in June 1944. Dad being one of the Few meant he remained the hero I imagined. He had died because of enemy action and his reputation shone as brightly as ever. A father to be proud of and a cousin to share some sort of future with. A good day’s work and it was only midday.

  I wiped my eyes, took a few deep breaths and picked up the telephone. I could hear the buzz in the outer office as Tracy responded.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cross?’

  ‘Come in, now, Tracy. You’ll need your pad and please bring a new blotter.’

  I wasn’t on form. Normally I could rip through dictation without thinking. Most of the letters followed a formula: requests for first premium cheques; telling brokers that their clients had been rated; confirming commencement of cover; that sort of thing. I should have been able to dash them off without thinking.

  If Tracy hadn’t been new to the job I could have told her the paragraph headings and let her get on with it. But she was inexperienced and I was distracted by my family tree. A father, a grandfather, a grand-uncle (if there was such a thing), an aunt and a cousin. All now took their places joined by marriage to my mother. There was nothing on her side and no hope of ever finding where she came from. But my family tree had sprung up from nowhere and I was on one of its branches.

  Tracy was infected by my distraction and it was a difficult session. I stumbled over the flow of phrases, sentences, paragraphs and she interrupted to ask me to spell technical terms and to clarify standard words. It was no wonder that by lunchtime I needed a beer.

  Perhaps because of the two pints of London Pride inside me, I was less inhibited than I should have been when I called the Lisbon number.

  6

  The plane descended west to east across the northern fringes of Lisbon. I had a window seat with a view of the city below. I’d studied the Fodor guide before I left so was able to identify the Avenida de Liberdade spearing southwards from a park’s triumphal colonnade. As it entered the city proper it narrowed between the encroaching hills, proceeded pinch-waisted through an arch before it exploded into the paved Praça do Comércio on the waterfront. This abutted the Tagus River extending east and west like a ribbon arranged on each side of a knot. I focused on the point where the Avenida plunged into the grid of the old city. That’s where his office was. Luis Escobar’s. My cousin.

  Over a week had passed since the afternoon I had called him: ‘Hello, Mr Escobar? Você fala inglês?’ I had no idea what I would say if he answered with, ‘Desculpe, não’.

  I held my breath and let it go when he not only said ‘yes’ but added in perfect English, ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘You are Mr Luis Escobar of the Escobar Investigation Agency?’

  ‘Yes. How may I help you?’

  My throat felt so tight I had difficulty forming the words. ‘I’m calling long-distance from London, England so I will get straight to the point.’

  ‘Please do, Mr…’

  ‘My name is Cross but it won’t mean anything to you. My father’s last name was Kellie-Smith. The same as your mother, Helen.’

  I heard him shift the phone and flick a cigarette lighter. After a long intake of breath, he said, ‘How do you know this?’ There was coating of smoke on his voice as he exhaled. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s a long story, to be honest. Basically, I’d like to come and see you to tell you the whole thing but the gist of it is that you and I are related. Actually, I’m your cousin.’

  Another deep inhalation. ‘How can it be?’

  ‘Your mother Helen had a brother. His name was Anthony. He was my father.’

  ‘Yes. But he died in the war.’

  ‘He was still my father.’

  ‘Are you sure of this?’

  ‘Sure enough to want to come and visit you in Lisbon.’

  ‘Okay.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  I said that I would make the arrangements and call him again to fix a meeting. I replaced the handset with a flourish. I may not have had a father as I gr
ew up but I was going to fill the void of his absence with family — a blood relative somewhere over in Europe.

  As the taxi from the airport sped down the same Avenida that I had observed from the sky, I tried to recollect when before in my life I had ever been so overcome with the anticipation of what might happen next. My brain whirled with the possibilities and my mouth was dry.

  I took deep breaths and distracted myself by watching the passing buildings set back on either side behind the thickly laden trees. I had given the driver written details of our destination and, after crossing the carriageway by a cinema, we passed a terrace of shopfronts before pulling up outside the Garden Hotel.

  The room was pleasant enough with a Juliette balcony overlooking a shabby square lined with parked cars. After a quick change of clothes, I was ready to wander downtown for the meeting with my cousin. The interlude had done nothing to calm my nerves and, to keep my excitement in check, I purposely maintained a leisurely pace and carefully observed my surroundings.

  The autumn sun was noticeably higher at this latitude and the sky cloudless but there was a cool breeze from the north that riffled the back of my shirt as I entered the Praça da Figueira. Heading towards Baixa, the oldest part of the city, I crossed the black and white chessboard paving, passed an equestrian statue and entered Rua Augusta, the constricted continuation of the Avenida that led down to the river.

  I was determined not to be early and, with my heart thudding, dawdled past the tables set in the centre of the street. Tourists and locals, some drinking coffee, others wine, shared pastries or slices of tart. At two minutes before 3.30pm, I turned left off Augusta into Rua Sao Julião and fifty yards along, stood outside 110. The heavy wood-panelled door was crusted with flaking, green paint. There were four tarnished brass plates, three for lawyers and the fourth for the Agência de Investigação Escobar, 2o andar. I ducked inside and had to wait a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I was in a stone-floored corridor with one doorway on each side. I worked my tongue around my mouth to try and generate some moisture so I could lick my lips. Paradoxically, my palms were wet and I wiped them on a handkerchief as I tried to work out where I should go.