A Very Persistent Illusion

by L. C. Tyler

  The other name of the game is the Real Life Game, because it seems to encapsulate the sort of dilemma we suffer all the time – take one opportunity and it rules out others. Wait too long and you could end up having sex with a bunch of Spurs supporters. It happens, believe me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  Virginia looks out of the bow window at the filthy old tramp shuffling past, clutching his ragged supermarket bags filled with a variety of junk. Dirt is permanently etched into every line on his face, every fold in his clothes. You can smell him just by looking at him.

  Virginia turns to me. ‘I sometimes wish I knew what went on in your funny little mind,’ she says.

  As I say, this could be a tricky one to explain, but I don’t need to because I have just grasped Virginia’s arm and said: ‘Look – over there!’

  The just visible red door of the Biggenhalgh place has opened and a man has stepped into the front garden. Is this our first view of Malcolm?

  We watch as he crosses the road and inspects the fine British sports car, parked but now empty, at the kerb-side. He does not appear to be admiring the leather gearstick or even the one good wing mirror. His gaze redirects itself like tracer bullets, along the open road and towards the cafe in which we are seated. Even at this distance, I am pretty sure that that is a crooked smile on his face. Even at this distance, too, I am slightly surprised at one thing.

  ‘He’s not what I expected,’ I say politely.

  ‘You mean he’s an ugly bastard, bearing in mind he’s my father,’ says Virginia.

  ‘Now you mention it . . .’

  ‘So, are you insulting my father?’ demands Virginia.

  ‘What do you want me to say? He’s the spitting image of you?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘So why,’ I ask, ‘would your mother have left your dad for your father? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Not put like that, anyway,’ says Virginia.

  Malcolm is getting closer. His walk is ponderous, as befits a man his size and age. He has pulled his tweed cap down over his eyes, though to what purpose is unclear. We are all playing a very bad game of I Spy.

  ‘What do we do?’ I ask. ‘Pretend nothing is wrong or hide under the table?’

  There is no time for a debate. Though there is every chance one of us will hide under the table leaving the other trying to pretend nothing is wrong, we both decide to look nonchalant. Virginia possibly succeeds. Malcolm nevertheless looks contemptuously at us as he passes. His look says that, whatever our game is, he’s more than a match for us.

  ‘The good news,’ says Virginia, ‘is that he merely seems to have us down as a pair of idiots.’

  ‘So, not a good way to meet my future father-in-law?’ I say. Then I realize what I’ve said and wonder what I meant by it.

  Virginia seems not to have noticed. She is very deep in thought. ‘Surely that can’t be the dashing Malcolm?’ she says.

  ‘Too much like a retired hill farmer?’

  ‘No, precisely like a retired hill farmer. You don’t get a face like that in a merchant bank. You don’t get a jacket like that anywhere inside the M25.’

  ‘Bucolic?’

  ‘That’s the word that sums it all up.’

  ‘What now?’ I ask.

  ‘You follow him,’ she says. Then, taking stock of my likely skills, she adds: ‘No, you pay the bill. I’ll follow him.’

  Virginia vanishes through the door as I calculate what the bill could be at its maximum, discover I only have twenties in my wallet and slap one by my plate. I wave to the girl behind the counter as I sprint away, and she waves back cautiously, just as you would to a customer who has eaten an unnecessary breakfast and then departed at a rapid pace leaving a 150 per cent tip. I probably should not go back to that cafe again.

  I catch Virginia outside Read’s bookshop. She has apparently lost interest in finding her lost father and is admiring the display of Lakes-related literature, which suggests a shorter attention span than I was expecting. Well, I’ve had enough of this if she has.

  ‘Look natural,’ she whispers to the Complete Works of Wainwright, artfully displayed in the window. ‘He’s just over there.’

  ‘Where?’ I say, looking round.

  ‘Look at the nice books, stupid,’ she hisses. ‘Don’t you know how to tail anybody?’

  ‘I understand how, I do not understand why,’ I say, feeling a literary quotation is appropriate when you are hiding behind a bookshop.

  ‘We can’t suddenly tell him in front of his wife that he has a daughter. You need to take him to one side and find the appropriate words.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘I do that, do I? But . . .’

  A couple of passing hikers, who have overheard much of the preceding conversation, give us a puzzled glance, but we ignore them.

  ‘Quick,’ says Virginia. ‘He’s moved on. Keep on his tail. Observe his conduct.’

  We follow him through the village, using whatever cover we can. I can’t quite see the point, but it is fun. And it’s fun, I reflect, mainly because I’m doing it with Virginia. We duck behind the sort of mossy stone wall that ought to have a poet leaning up against it (inconvenient though that would be for us this morning).

  ‘Even if Malc hasn’t spotted us,’ I say, ‘everyone else in the village has.’

  ‘He’s gone into the church,’ she says, pointing in the direction of the ample lych-gate.

  ‘It’s not Sunday,’ I say.

  ‘You didn’t need a second breakfast,’ she says. ‘That didn’t stop us choosing the cafe.’

  ‘Actually—’ I say.

  ‘No, Chris, actually you didn’t need a second breakfast.’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘actually he hasn’t gone into the church. Actually he’s hiding in the churchyard, watching us watching him.’

  This is true. He has ducked into the church to throw us off the scent or something. He is standing, sideways on, behind a tree, trying to be Harry Lime (or similar). Well, it’s been good but the point has arrived where somebody has to act like a grown-up, and strangely it looks as if that will have to be me.

  I step out from the cover of the wall and stride manfully towards the little church. As I do so I hear Virginia hiss: ‘Chris!’ at me, because I haven’t actually discussed my plan with her. This is possibly because striding manfully is as far as I’ve thought this through, but it’s also because if I don’t do something now, I know we’ll skulk around the village all day. At the same moment, Malcolm appears to have the same idea, except he strides manfully away from the church. We meet at the lych-gate. He is blocking my way in and I am blocking his way out. One of us is going to have to speak. Inevitably, both of us do.

  ‘What . . . hi . . . the bloody hell . . . I’m Chris, you . . . do you two young idiots . . . don’t know me but . . . think you’re playing at . . . I’m going out with your daughter,’ we say in close harmony.

  ‘You what?’ he says solo, having picked up the last few words and discovered it was all a bit more exciting than he thought.

  ‘I think I said: Hi, I’m Chris, you don’t know me but I’m going out with your daughter.’

  Should I take the opportunity to ask him for her hand in marriage? Probably a bit forward on my part. I therefore smile in a friendly manner and allow him a moment or two for the other information to sink in.

  ‘I don’t have a daughter,’ he says, in much the same way that you might say: ‘Honestly, officer, I had no idea that it was a forty-mile-an-hour-speed limit here.’

  ‘Think back a bit,’ I suggest helpfully.

  He pauses and thinks.

  ‘Is that her?’ He looks in the direction of Virginia, who has also chosen to emerge from her hiding place, and is now looking at us both with evident incredulity.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Bugger,’ he says. He doesn’t add anything about it being a fair cop, but clearly it is.

  ‘She’d like to meet you.’

  ‘Is her mothe
r here as well?’

  ‘No, she’s in Horsham.’

  He raises his bushy eyebrows. ‘Horsham, eh?’

  I nod.

  ‘We can’t talk here,’ he says, ignoring the fact that we already are. ‘Meet me in Ambleside, the both of you.’ He names a cafe and a time. I nod again.

  ‘When you pick up that wreck of a car, don’t do anything to make my wife suspicious.’

  I don’t tell him I’ve spent the morning making half of Grasmere suspicious. I figure he’ll find out soon enough.

  He looks around cautiously to see who might have seen us and, touchingly reassured, he sets off without a further word. I go in the opposite direction and rejoin Virginia.

  ‘And?’ she asks.

  ‘He knows he has a daughter. He is relieved your mother is in Horsham. He wants to meet us in Ambleside.’

  ‘And if I don’t want to meet him?’

  ‘But you do,’ I point out.

  (Pause.)

  ‘He seems OK,’ I add. ‘Not what I expected, but OK.’

  (Long pause.)

  ‘Fine,’ she says.

  15

  A Touching Reunion in Ambleside

  Malcolm has named eleven thirty as the proper hour for us to meet, so we have a certain amount of time to kill. We check out the Wordsworth tombstones in the churchyard (William, Dorothy, etc., still all present and correct, plus some that I’ve never heard of and that I think they may have made up). We admire the Wordsworth Daffodil Gardens, albeit without daffodils at this time of year. We wonder who could have thought it was a good idea to pebbledash the church. Then we stroll slowly back to the car, get in very quickly, and drive to Ambleside.

  We park expensively and wander aimlessly around different streets, looking in shop windows at various things we might wish to purchase to remind us of our visit, just in case we are likely to forget. For the first thirty to forty seconds, it is fun.

  ‘Why did he say eleven thirty?’ asks Virginia for the tenth time. ‘It doesn’t take that long to get here.’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘You could have asked him.’

  I don’t reply. Virginia is building up to a Number Seventeen (vague but persistent irritation concerning something I haven’t done that I had no reason to suspect I needed to do).

  ‘You could have asked him,’ says Virginia again.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘God, you’re an idiot.’

  ‘Probably, but thank you—’

  She gives me a look and I don’t complete the sentence. I have been demoted from being a beloved Puppy and am back to being the Idiot Chris, a role that I am at least familiar with and quite good at. I wonder whether I might not, after all, think of a pet name for her. I am no longer sure that I do want to dump her. Perhaps it might be nice to spend the rest of my life playing detectives with her, if we can just get our act together in that respect.

  Our aimless wanderings have brought us to a jeweller’s shop. We pause as we have paused outside so many shops already and admire the bracelets, the necklaces and the rings.

  ‘That solitaire diamond must cost a bit,’ I say to fill in some time.

  ‘I’d want one bigger than that,’ says Virginia, and gives my hand a squeeze.

  Oh, my God! Have I just accidentally got engaged? I pull myself together. This is the twenty-first century, not the days of Mr Pickwick and Mrs Bardell.

  But actually, there are worse potential outcomes of this little trip than to return and tell Daphne that she shall be blessed with a son-in-law and that his name shall be called Chris. I sneak a look at the rather attractive girl beside me and think that, her regarding me as an imbecile apart, I am actually quite lucky. If I went down on one knee now she would almost certainly assume it was some sort of mistimed joke, but in many other respects it seems a good move.

  We stay looking at the rings longer than we looked at the displays of Kendal Mint Cake or twee model houses or Beatrix Potter-related gifts. We are still holding hands as we move on, edging slowly towards our meeting with Malcolm.

  Inevitably we are at the cafe first and order more coffees while we sit and wait. When he does arrive, we receive a further surprise. He is dressed in a smart suit, a white shirt and a very new lilac silk tie. His grey hair, relieved of the tweed cap, is manfully combed and possibly Brylcreemed.

  He spots us and walks purposefully in our direction, barging into one of two occupied chairs as he does. He gives the briefest of apologies to each before dropping heavily into the unoccupied seat at our table.

  ‘Had to tell the wife I was off to see the bank manager,’ he says, by way of introduction.

  He looks approvingly at Virginia. Virginia looks at him and smiles. If he wasn’t won over already, that’s the smile that will do it. I wish that I had brought a camera to record this. I’d like to be able to freeze the moment for them – to allow them to enjoy it for ever. Particularly since their enjoyment is in fact destined to be short.

  ‘So,’ says Malcolm after a long pause, ‘you’re my daughter then. I always suspected something of the sort, but she never told me a thing. Not a thing. Just upped and off. So, she’s in Horsham now?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Virginia.

  He shakes his head. ‘Horsham, eh? Really?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I thought you knew that. Ever since she married Hugh, pretty much.’

  ‘Hugh?’ says Malcolm.

  Virginia looks a little puzzled. ‘Yes, of course,’ she says again.

  Malcolm repeats the head-shaking thing, then gets back onto what he thinks is firmer ground. ‘Well, well,’ he says. ‘So, you’re Betty’s little girl, eh?’ He smiles.

  ‘Betty?’ says Virginia.

  Now, I don’t know whether you have been following the conversation as you should, but if you have then you will have noticed the merest hint that all is not well.

  ‘Your mother, Betty,’ says Malcolm, still slightly off the pace.

  ‘You mean Daphne,’ says Virginia.

  ‘I mean Betty.’

  ‘I know what my mother’s called.’

  ‘Never had a Daphne,’ he announces. ‘Never shall, neither.’

  ‘Look . . .’ I say.

  Malcolm turns to me abruptly. ‘I thought you said this were Betty’s girl,’ he demands.

  ‘I said she was your daughter,’ I said.

  ‘You said Betty lived in Horsham.’

  ‘I said her mother lived in Horsham.’

  ‘Well, bugger me,’ he observes to nobody in particular. ‘I’ve put on my best suit to come and have coffee with a pair of total strangers. What exactly are you playing at, young man?’ This last remark is addressed directly at me.

  ‘Good question,’ says Virginia with a nod.

  They are both looking at me in a curious manner, though I am still trying to work out how this is my fault. It seems to me that we have all been jumping to conclusions, and that mine have been no worse than anyone else’s. Or not much.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I say. ‘Her father’s name is Malcolm Biggenhalgh. It’s not exactly the most common name in England. You might still be able to help us . . .’

  ‘Happen I could and happen I couldn’t,’ he says slowly, ‘but I’ll tell you now, I won’t. I don’t like being made to look a fool. You’ve wasted enough of my time, so I’ll bid you both good day.’

  He stands up. Virginia is still looking at him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t help us?’

  ‘I’m certain of it,’ he says.

  ‘Even though we know about Betty and know where you live?’

  ‘We know you’ve got a terrier called Scruff,’ I add.

  They both look at me again with a sort of sad curiosity. I am clearly a total failure as a blackmailer.

  ‘It’s obviously not Scruff we’re planning to talk to,’ says Virginia, getting things back on track.

  Malcolm sits down again.

  ‘I’ll have one of those va
nilla latte things,’ he says, ‘and I can’t stay more than ten minutes. Now, what do you want to know?’

  I wave ineffectively at passing waitresses (who clearly do not know that I leave 150 per cent tips) while Virginia focuses on the questions.

  ‘Are there lots of other Biggenhalghs round here?’

  ‘Depends what you call lots,’ says Malcolm. ‘There’s my brother John, who farms over by Windermere, and my brother Ken, who’s an auctioneer in Keswick. They’ve both got grown-up kids and even a grandchild, but no Malcolms. I’ve got a cousin Tom, who lives near Newcastle, and a cousin Ray, who died a couple of years back. No Malcolms there either.’ He shrugs: we’ve played our best card and it’s got us nowhere.

  ‘Anyone else?’ Virginia is more persistent than I expected.

  ‘There are a couple of gravestones in Keswick with our name on, but I don’t know they’re any sort of kin.’ He covers the family a few generations back, just to show he has nothing to hide, by which time the coffees arrive.