by L. C. Tyler
‘He’d remembered something. Look, do you want to sit down?’
‘Why should I want to do that?’
I nod. I figure she’s not going to keel over like some pale Victorian heroine, though sitting still seems quite a good plan. I check there’s a rock nearby.
‘Malcolm says he does remember another Malcolm Biggenhalgh, but that he died some time back. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’
I explain about Martin and everything. For a moment she says nothing. Then it’s her turn to cry and my turn to be the strong one with a firm but absorbent shoulder. I’m glad I chose a spot where nobody was about to overtake or pass us. I offer her a nice rock, but she prefers to cling onto me a bit longer.
‘Thank you,’ she says after a bit. ‘Thank you for telling me straight away.’
‘It might not be your father,’ I say.
‘Oh, come on . . . how many Malcolm Biggenhalghs are there going to be? And his son lives in Horsham.’
I pass her a tissue, which I have in the rucksack and which is, surprisingly, quite clean. She blows her nose. I take back the tissue and put it in my pocket. There aren’t many people whose snotty tissue I would willingly carry around with me.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘I’d do anything for you. Anything at all.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she says, watching me pocket the tissue. She takes my hand and does not let go until we are safely back in sheep land.
I am walking through a green valley with spring blossom everywhere. At my side is the person with whom I wish to spend the rest of my life. All I need to do is to find a way of telling her that does not sound like one of my one-liners. And sooner or later I shall find a way of doing this.
The sheep turn their attention briefly from the grass and look at us as if they have always known we would be back sooner or later. Smug bastards. They’d be a bit less cocky if they realized that they didn’t exist.
* * *
We are back at the guesthouse for our final evening in Grasmere. I have been sitting at the desk for some time writing on a sheet of A4 paper.
‘What’s that?’ asks Virginia after a bit, breaking my train of thought.
I hand the sheet to her. It reads:
On Stopping in a Bar on a Snowy Evening
It’s getting very late I know
And really now I ought to go
But still there’s time for one more beer
Before I face the rain and snow.
My wife must think it rather queer
That dinner’s done and I’m still here
Instead of eating pasta bake
With those I hold most close and dear.
She’ll give her pretty head a shake
Well knowing there is no mistake . . .
‘It stops in mid-verse,’ she says.
‘That’s what happens when you start porlocking,’ I say.
‘It’s not exactly “Kubla Khan”,’ she says.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I like the original.’
‘Robert Frost,’ I say. ‘“On Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”. The construction is brilliant. In a poem about nostalgia, the main rhyme of each stanza harks back to the unrhymed line in the stanza before.’
‘Whereas in yours . . .’
I shrug. I don’t believe I’ve ever claimed to be America’s greatest twentieth-century poet. And I don’t do nostalgia. Ever.
‘Why do you only write pastiches?’ she asks. ‘You could do so much better by just being you.’
I shrug again, because I don’t know the answer.
‘It’s also very domestic for somebody who doesn’t show the slightest interest in permanent relationships.’ She raises an eyebrow.
Is this the moment? What could lead more easily into a proposal? What have we to fear except fear itself?
‘I’m starving,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and eat.’
I have booked a table at a small restaurant called the Jumble Room, where I’ve been told the food is good. Virginia surprises me by saying that she’s eaten there before.
‘I didn’t know you’d been to Grasmere before.’
‘I was just passing through. You don’t know everything about me.’
I reflect that, actually, I do know pretty well everything about her by now, but I just smile and nod because I don’t want an argument. Anyway, it’s as well we should both save up a few bombshells like that one to while away the long winter evenings together.
When we get to the Jumble Room, Virginia is greeted as a long-lost friend. It isn’t clear whether it’s because she was a big hit last time or whether it’s just that sort of place – which it looks as though it might be. It suddenly strikes me though that people do instinctively like Virginia: both the snotty kid on the beach and Malcolm (the almost-father) took to her like a shot. She genuinely cares about humans in a way that I need to study and see if I can fake.
We chat for a bit over the menu and the conversation turns, as in my experience it so often does, to Bishop George Berkeley (1685–1753).
‘Berkeley held,’ I say, ‘that things existed only if perceived. Esse est percipi, as they say. It’s the question of the tree that falls in a deserted forest with nobody to hear it fall – does it make a noise?’
‘Yes,’ says Virginia. ‘Obviously it does, because falling trees do. You’d probably hear it for miles, whether you were in the forest or not. The lamb was good last time. I might try it again. All of the puddings are good, so don’t pig yourself on the main course, as you are probably planning to. You’d like the bread-and-butter pudding.’
‘Or,’ I continue, ‘if there is nobody in the quadrangle to see a tree, does it continue to exist?’
‘Forgive me for saying this, but was Bishop Berkeley a bit tree fixated?’
‘His point was that the reality of objects consists of their being perceived. He doesn’t necessarily deny the existence of material things, but holds that they exist only in the mind. Logically, if you leave a room, everything in it ceases to exist until you return and perceive it again.’
‘He sounds like the sort of person who is always losing his keys,’ says Virginia. ‘Typical man. Are you ready to order?’
We are well into our main course before we get to the big question of the evening.
‘What next?’ I ask.
‘Pudding, I should imagine. Just concentrate on one course at a time.’
‘No, I mean – finding Malcolm. Is that it? Case solved?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. I’d like to talk to Martin at least. Even if Malcolm is dead, I’d like to find out something about him. Or maybe he’s not the right Malcolm either, in which case I need to know, so I can have one more shot at finding him.’
‘Martin it is, then,’ I say. ‘But, please, can we just phone him up this time, not shadow him all the way round Horsham before confronting him outside Pizza Hut.’
‘That is a better plan,’ she concedes.
There is a gap in the conversation during which I wonder whether this is in fact the moment to ask Virginia to do me the signal honour and so on and so on . . . but the waiter pauses to ask if we are enjoying our meal and, as we reflect on the quality of the battered cod, the moment somehow passes. There’ll be plenty of better opportunities anyway.
* * *
There is in fact an opportunity as we walk back along the lake with the moon flickering on its deep and largely untroubled waters, but again more pressing business raises its head.
‘I was wondering,’ says Virginia, ‘whether you would like to say a few words about Hugh at the funeral. I think it would be appropriate.’
‘I’d be honoured,’ is all I reply.
And so the rest of the way back I am thinking about what I should say. He was a good man. No doubt about that. A genuine friend. Honest, obviously. But behind that mild don’t-mind-me exterior there was something much firmer. I remember one time when we were walking along a country lane somewhere in Sussex and came
across a kitten that had just been run over. When I saw that, bloody and mangled though it was, it was still alive and wriggling, my first reaction was to throw up in the nearest bush, but Hugh just waved the rest of us on our way and stayed with it. He rejoined us after a bit. I noticed there was a bit of blood on his shoe, and thought that there must have been more that he had wiped off. Hugh was always very particular about his shoes. ‘What did you do?’ I asked. ‘The only thing I could do,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t going to survive, so it was better that it was over quickly.’ I decided I had enough detail already, so I never discovered precisely what he had done back there in the lane, or where he had learned to give the coup de grace to small felines, but I was certain that whatever had been done had been efficient and right. There was a steely resolve to his compassion, whereas mine was just mushy and contemptible. I had to admire that, though it frightened me a bit too. It was a side of Hugh that I had never seen before and I wondered at the time what else he might be capable of, if push came to shove. If you can kill a kitten, then you can do a lot of other stuff – in my opinion anyway. Did it give some insight as to why such a mild-seeming man could also be so interested in bloody battles and military equipment?
I’m not sure how much of this I will be able to weave into a valedictory address – maybe not the kitten story in its full glory – but hopefully I could show that there was more to Hugh than you saw at first sight.
I was soon to discover that I had still only scratched the surface with Hugh – but, that evening, as I thought of all these things, for the third time I let slip a chance to mention to Virginia that I was planning to marry her. It didn’t seem important. I rather imagined, as you do, that the moon would always be shining on Grasmere.
19
On the Road Again
We’re driving south. I’m at the wheel and don’t need to hand over to anybody as we pass the crash site. I’m fine. This time I have used directory enquiries and phoned ahead. Martin Biggenhalgh is bemused by my call, but willing to see us this evening. All we need to do is stop off in London again for a change of socks and maybe underwear, then onwards to Horsham.
In Islington I pull out once again the file that I have so carefully hidden away. The important paper for today’s meeting is a small supplementary press cutting. I double-check. I wouldn’t want to get any of this wrong.
* * *
Martin’s house is almost identical to Hugh and Daphne’s. There are lavender bushes growing in the garden rather than roses, and the door is green, but it might be at the other end of the same road rather than on the other side of town, as it is.
Martin opens the door. I do not doubt for one moment that we have struck gold this time. To the extent that I can judge, as another bloke, I would say he was pretty good-looking. If father was anything like son, you can see why Daphne might just have preferred Malcolm to Hugh. Like Virginia, his features are fine and even and his eyes have the same hard, sapphire sparkle. His hair is dark and flops slightly into his eyes. He brushes it back and grins at us. The gesture and the smile are both Virginia’s.
So, he looks like Virginia’s brother all right. I’m convinced even if they are not. But the same thought seems to occur to Martin and Virginia. They don’t for the moment ask any questions; they just say a brief ‘hi’ and look at each other. Based on this opening exchange, I reflect that Martin would also probably sound just like Virginia’s brother if it were not for the hint of a Newcastle accent. It’s a strange moment, and I feel like an intruder. But I’m not an intruder. In my own small way, I’m part of this evening’s discussion too. They just don’t know it yet.
Martin ushers us both into the sitting room.
‘My wife is putting the children to bed,’ he says. ‘She said she’ll join us later, but . . . sorry, this is really weird. So you’re my sister?’
‘Half-sister, I guess,’ says Virginia. ‘Apparently your father was also my father, though we’re not sure whether he knew it.’
Martin takes a deep breath and lets it out again. ‘This is taking some getting used to. You know my father – our father – died some years ago? And my mother died last year. I didn’t think I had any close family left, though I’ve lots of cousins and things up north. How odd that we’ve both been living in Horsham all this time and never knew. I bet we’ve passed each other dozens of times in the street.’
‘So, you’ve been in Horsham some time?’ I ask conversationally.
‘We moved here from Newcastle shortly after my father died. He’d always talked of coming here for some reason. I’ve no idea why, except he had lived in London for a while, years back. Just before he died he’d been down to Horsham and found a house – this one actually. He passed away before the contract could be signed but we bought it and we came here anyway.’
‘Not a good time to try to find that sort of money – just after you’ve lost a husband?’ I say.
Martin smiles. ‘Dad was in insurance for a long time,’ he says. ‘My mother was better off with him dead than with him alive. He saw to that.’
‘Still, you’d have thought it would have been better to stay put,’ I say.
Martin shrugs. ‘I don’t know why he wanted to move at all. We were perfectly happy in Newcastle. He had no problem in finding work. The move was horrendous at first. You think of Horsham as pretty law-abiding, but during our first couple of months here we had three or four break-ins. I don’t think they stole much, but they made quite a mess the very last time it happened and my mother was really rattled. I thought maybe we’d be moving back to Newcastle, but then things got better and we stayed, as you can see.’
‘Did he ever mention my . . . did Malcolm ever mention Hugh Dewey?’ asks Virginia.
‘Hugh Dewey? Yes,’ says Martin. ‘He was . . .’
‘The man my mother married. He was the man I thought was my father.’
‘This is getting weirder and weirder,’ says Martin. ‘Yes, I remember my parents talking about him. He was the guy who used to send us money. I wasn’t supposed to know, but from time to time I’d overhear them talking. They’d say things like: “Maybe we could get Hugh Dewey to pay for it,” or: “Let’s hope we get Hugh’s cheque before Christmas,” that sort of thing. I asked my mother once who Hugh Dewey was, it must have been just after we moved here. I’d assumed he was a bit like Father Christmas, but delivered 24/7. That’s why I thought she’d be happy to talk about him, but I really got a mouthful from her. As I say, she was a bit tense with all the trouble we were having with the break-ins. I never asked again – not even when I was grown up.’
I scratch my head. ‘I can see why Malcolm might feel obliged to support you if he knew you were his daughter,’ I say to Virginia, ‘but I can’t see why it should work the other way round and why Hugh should send money to Malcolm. What for?’
‘People send money because they want to or because they have to,’ says Virginia. ‘I can’t see why Hugh would want to.’
‘My father wasn’t the sort of person to resort to blackmail,’ says Martin, nettled slightly by this suggestion.
‘Our father,’ says Virginia. ‘My mother implied that Hugh sacked Malcolm from his job in London. Could that have anything to do with it?’
Martin shrugs. ‘I don’t remember him saying anything about that. I know he’d worked for an insurance company in London and the implication was that it paid more than the job he did later. But nobody ever mentioned a sacking. He always talked about resigning. Still, if he was blackmailing Hugh Dewey, that would explain why he wanted to come south and maybe turn the screws a little tighter. If my mother was in on it, then that could explain why she went ahead with the plan and moved anyway.’
‘There’s a missing piece – something we don’t know,’ says Virginia.
For some reason they both turn and look at me, but it isn’t time yet for me to say what I know. Actually, I wonder if it’s still important.
‘And your father . . . Hugh . . . never mentioned my father?’ says
Martin.
‘Never. Did your mother ever try to get in touch with him after you moved down here?’ says Virginia.
‘I don’t think so. Once we’d bought the house, after Dad died, money was always pretty tight, so I don’t doubt she would have liked the cheques to continue, but I never heard her mention his name. Dad can’t have left her much, apart from the insurance money.’
‘What work did Malcolm do exactly?’ asks Virginia conversationally. She’s not expecting me to butt in at this point or expecting the answer I am about to give.
‘He was a lorry driver,’ I say.
Martin looks at me. ‘How on earth did you know that?’
‘He was killed in a crash on the M6,’ I continue. ‘You, Martin, would have been about seven, yes?’
‘Yes,’ he says. He is frowning. Why am I suddenly an expert on his life story? Because it’s mine too.
‘Malcolm was driving along the M6, heading back home after dropping off a load in South Wales. A car came on at a junction, just a bit too fast, and your father swerved to avoid it. I’ve still got the press cutting in a file at home.’
‘But . . .’ says Martin. Obviously I must have done a bit of research to have located him, but knowledge of his family in this depth is going to seem a bit weird – sick almost.
Virginia has a little more of my family history to go on, however, and her mind works more quickly than most.
‘You don’t mean that your parents and Malcolm were killed in the same crash? Good grief – that really is an incredible coincidence.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and, even more incredible than that, the driver of the red mini was Elvis Presley.’
OK. Let me give you a tip here. When you are offering condolences to total strangers about the death of a parent, don’t do Elvis jokes. It’s an easy mistake to make, but my advice is: don’t.
‘Sorry,’ I say in the dead silence that has followed my last remark. ‘The real answer to your question is that they did not die in the same crash. The crash that Malcolm was in was later that year, though it was at exactly the same junction and both involved a car joining the motorway slightly too fast. When it happened there was a brief mention in the papers of the earlier, larger crash my parents had died in. That’s why I noticed. That’s why I kept the press cutting. It was a coincidence, but I suppose it misses being a big coincidence by a good six months. Close but not quite there. My whole life’s been a bit like that, come to think about it.’
