I reach a junction and wait for a gap in the traffic so I can turn right. Seconds tick by and my patience frays as a never ending procession of vehicles trundle past without slowing to let me out.
“Inconsiderate wankers!” I snap, pulling the wheel to the left and accelerating away from the junction in the opposite direction.
It takes several hundred yards of tarmac before the anger subsides and I consider an alternative route to the supermarket. However, my enforced detour then leads me towards a part of town I’ve become all too familiar with, albeit a bygone version.
One bad idea leads to another.
Without thought or concern for the consequences, I turn off the main road into a quieter side street. A left, then a right, and half a mile of straight road where I don’t move beyond third gear.
By the time I reach the turning on my left the Focus is barely crawling. My heart rate, on the other hand, is at sprint pace.
Half a turn of the steering wheel and I pass the same sign I’ve seen so many times of late: Nelson Close. It’s probably not the same sign, and in most respects it’s probably not the same Close now, but here I am.
Number sixteen is on the opposite side of the road maybe thirty yards further on, but my palms are so sweaty and the anxiety so acute I have to pull over. I slip the seatbelt off and silence the engine.
Getting out of the car, I’m met by a chill wind and a few spots of rain.
Still unsure I’m doing the right thing, I cross the road and shuffle along the pavement until I reach number sixteen. I wait until the last possible second before turning to face the house. When I do, an avalanche of emotions strike; so overwhelming I have to lean against a lamppost to remain upright.
It’s the same house but so different. The wooden gates are gone and the once perfectly manicured front lawn is now covered in paving slabs. The window frames are white plastic and the net curtains replaced with blinds. Even the brickwork has changed colour; half-a-century of exposure to the elements turning the red bricks a muddy shade of brown.
It’s a shock seeing such change in a house I left only hours ago. However, the reason I’ve ended up here has nothing to do with the house itself, more the people who once lived here, and one person in particular.
Fifty years is a long time; a lifetime for some. And even if by some miracle Jan is still living at number sixteen, what does it matter? If there is an elderly woman of the same name beyond the front door, she’s no longer my Jan. Who’s to say she would even remember me? If she does, those memories will be of a coward who suddenly walked out of her life without reason or excuse.
Jan deserves an explanation but one thing hasn’t changed in all these years — my inability to explain the unexplainable. To see the man she once loved in 1969 stood on her doorstep looking exactly the same would be akin to the cruellest of hoaxes. I could tell her the truth but would she believe me? Would she think she’s losing her mind? I would, for sure.
I know deep down I’m kidding myself. The only person who would likely benefit from an explanation is me. By offloading my guilt, I’d mess with a stranger’s mind and poke at scars which have long since healed. No good would come of it for Jan.
As for my surrogate parents, I fear George and Alice are more likely tucked up in the cemetery together. Few of us get to see out a century of life and if either of them defied the odds, it’s likely they’re now living in a nursing home. If that is the case, I pray it’s better than Trinity Place.
The front door opens and a woman about my age steps out. An unfamiliar face glances in my direction and then looks away. As unfriendly as she appears, I have to ask.
“Excuse me,” I call out.
“Yes,” she replies curtly.
I approach the front gate.
“A family used to live here: George, Alice, and Jan Wilson. I don’t suppose you know what happened to them?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” she shrugs. “We’ve been here eight years and bought the house from a couple by the name of Metcalfe. Dunno how long they’d lived here but must have been a good few years.”
“Ah, okay. Thank you.”
She gets into her car without another word but continues to glance in my direction while reversing out of the driveway. The neighbourhood is not so neighbourly now, and I suspect my presence is being treated with suspicion.
It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing for me here now — just painful memories of a life lost in time.
I return to the sanctuary of my car and stare at the steering wheel. I don’t know where to go or what to do. The alcoholic abyss now feels inappropriate but, if I don’t do something, I fear my destination will be determined for me and it’ll be over a cliff edge.
To keep my mind occupied, I decide to drive around the previous haunts of my life in 1969.
I visit St Joseph’s Church, which is locked up, and the refuge in Brompton Street which is now a coffee shop. Then, I head to the scene of my first day’s work as a plumber’s mate, only to find the Morland Court Hotel has been converted into apartments. All that work proved for nothing; the bathroom suites we fitted probably long-since removed.
After half-an-hour of aimless driving, I find myself in the vicinity of Cumberland Street. I don’t know why I want to see the Kirby’s old house but I drive slowly down the street anyway. There are no kids kicking a football around or riding bikes, nor housewives washing down windows or sweeping the pavement. The whole street has undergone gentrification, and the facades transformed to an architect's idea of what Victorian houses should look like. They’re no longer homes but assets.
My tour of the town comes to a close with a visit to Farthing Copse. The promised rain lashes down and I don’t even get out of the car — I don’t need to. The glade Jan and I spent so many happy hours at is now at the end of a cul-de-sac and re-purposed as a back garden. All that remains of a place we held so dear is a thicket of leafless trees on a site scattered with litter. The neglect is a probable excuse for developers to bulldoze whatever remains.
As I sit and watch the windscreen wipers whump back and forth, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if Gwen Kirby had survived her fall? I might still live here in this town but I’d now be approaching my eightieth birthday. It isn’t beyond the realm of possibility to imagine a different life where Jan and I returned to this spot and reminisced about our courtship. Maybe we’d chat about our grandchildren or great-grandchildren, or discuss plans for our golden wedding anniversary. We’d have a past, but there would be no denying how little future we’d have left together, and that’s assuming we both made it to this point.
That thought delivers a cold shudder, and with it a sense I need to be somewhere else.
I turn the car around and head back across town.
My head is so full of conflicting thoughts I arrive at my parents’ house with little recollection of the journey there. Dad’s Mercedes is on the driveway but Mum’s little red Mazda is notable by its absence. I park up and dash down the front path through the rain.
I ring the bell and Dad opens the door with a look of mild surprise on his face.
“Alright, Son. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“No, I … err, was in the area and fancied a cup of tea.”
“Tea? Thought you were a coffee addict.”
“Not any more.”
I step into the hall and kick my shoes off. There’s then an awkward moment where I consider giving Dad a hug but it would be so out of character for both of us I resist the urge. It’s been months since I last saw him but as far as he’s concerned it’s only been a few days. As hard as it is, I have to act accordingly.
“Come on through. I’ll get the kettle on.”
My parent’s kitchen is huge. It was huge the last time I dropped by but today it feels particularly cavernous compared to the kitchen at sixteen Nelson Close.
“Is Mum okay?”
It’s a question I would usually ask out of habit but today it matters.
&nbs
p; “She’s fine.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone shopping with Valerie. How they spend an entire day wandering around the shops is beyond me.”
Thinking back, there’s no comparison between the modern shopping experience and that in the sixties. People shopped through necessity back then; now it’s a leisure pursuit.
Small talk out of the way, I ask the question which has been playing on my mind since I left Farthing Copse.
“Can I ask you a question, Dad?”
“Does it involve money?”
“No.”
“Good. Fire away.”
“If you could start your life over again, would you do it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Imagine, God-forbid, you dropped dead this afternoon and were given two choices: you could come back to the same comfortable life you have now, with no guarantee how much longer you’d live, or you could return as a young man; starting again with nothing. Which option would you choose?”
He plops tea bags into mugs and turns around.
“Bloody hell, Son. There’s a question.”
“I know.”
“Let me get this straight. I either come back to this exact life or I get to start again from scratch?”
“Yep, those are your choices.”
“And would my new life include everything I’ve learnt?”
“Yes, but here’s the kicker — you’d have a lifetime of knowledge but you’d also have all the emotional baggage that comes with it.”
“I’d start again,” he replies with no hesitation.
“You would?”
“Too bloody right I would?”
“Err, but you have a good life.”
“I do, but there’s a damn site more of it behind me than in front. And I’ll tell you something for nothing: it’s all well and good reminiscing about the past but it’s gone, finished, over. When you get to my age, you realise time is a more valuable commodity than memories.”
“But what about all the people you care about? Wouldn’t you miss them … I mean us?”
“Of course, but we’d all move on in time: me, you, your mother, and Stephen. It will happen one day, Son.”
“Wow, that’s dark.”
“I know,” he shrugs. “But it’s inevitable, sad as it is. And that’s why, given the choice, I’d crawl naked over hot coals for the chance to be in your shoes.”
“My shoes?” I blurt.
“Yes.”
“But my life is crap.”
“So you keep telling me, and I’ll keep telling you what a damn idiotic statement that really is. The trouble with your generation is you’re so het up about what you haven’t got, you don’t stop to think what you have got. You’ll live a longer, healthier life than any previous generation yet you all find so much to complain about.”
It’s a well-worn argument and at this point I’d typically defend my corner. Now, I realise I don’t have a corner worthy of defending.
“And the saddest part is,” he adds “One day you’ll realise I’m talking sense, but it’ll be too late.”
Point made, he hands me a mug of tea.
“Can I ask you another question?”
“Is it likely to spike my blood pressure?”
“Possibly.”
“Go on,” he sighs.
“Can I move back home?”
He almost chokes on his tea.
“I thought you were dead against it. What’s changed your mind?”
“Let’s just say recent events have made me re-evaluate my life. I’m not sure living on my own is a good idea at the moment, and … I kinda miss having people around.”
“People?”
“Well, you and Mum.”
“This will always be your home, Son, and truth be told, I think your mum is still suffering from empty nest syndrome. She’d welcome you back with open arms.”
“And you?”
“I suppose I could put up with you.”
The slight smile and warmth in his voice betray his words.
“Thank you, Dad.”
“And does this re-evaluation also include your career?”
“Seeing as I’m unlikely to get a half-decent job with a criminal record, I reckon I need to consider working for myself.”
“Hallelujah! He’s finally seen the light.”
Quite what kind of business I’m capable of starting remains to be seen, but I do know it’ll be far removed from my job at Red Rocket. All those months working with George demonstrated what I can achieve with a little determination and a lot of hard graft. And besides, I need something to focus on as there’s a Jan-shaped shadow blotting my future, and it isn’t going to lift anytime soon. No amount of positive thinking or alcohol is likely to change that, but I can at least distract myself while time does the healing.
We spend half-an-hour discussing the mechanics of my move from Stratfield House. It’ll take a week or two to sort out but the decision feels right, and even if it’s not, I sense Dad is pleased I’m trying to move forward. We don’t part with a hug, but I do get a pat on the shoulder — I’ll take it.
Back in the car I feel a fraction more positive. However, I’ve no choice now but to return to my empty flat, although it won’t be entirely empty as I fear the ghosts of 1969 are likely to have made themselves at home.
I know I can’t hide from them. Maybe I shouldn’t.
41.
I know what I’ve got to do but my reluctance is akin to visiting the dentist with toothache — I know the pain will only go away if I confront my fears.
After kicking the decision back and forth, I flop down on the sofa and open my laptop.
The only possible consolation of my sudden disappearance would be to learn Jan eventually went on to live a happy, contented life. It pains me to think of her living that life with someone other than me, but that pain is preferable to the crippling guilt I’m currently suffering.
Being the first words I’ve typed in over three months, the keystrokes are laboured but I enter a search term and Google returns numerous options. The first link offers a free seven-day trial. I click it and sign up for an account which will allow me to access the answers I seek.
After a faff of a sign-up process I’m finally presented with confirmation — I can search their entire database of births, marriages, and deaths, together with historic electoral roll and cemetery records.
The cursor blinks away in a search box.
I remind myself of the dentist analogy again. Short term pain, long term gain. If I don’t do this now I know I’ll never be able to move forward.
Letter by letter, I type the name. By selecting a few options I’m able to filter the results geographically. There are probably hundreds of Janet Wilsons in the database but I’m only interested in one.
A large button prompts me to submit my enquiry. Once clicked, there is no going back; no option to unknow what kind of life I left Jan with.
Click.
Two results. The first is for a Janet Wilson born in 1985; clearly not my Jan. The second result is a birth record for a woman born locally in 1948. That fits. I click the link and it confirms Janet Wilson’s parents as George and Alice Wilson.
I let the cursor hover over another link; one offering all the records available for Jan’s entry. One click is all that stands between knowing and not knowing. I’ve already reached the point of no return and click the link.
The page loads and I’m presented with a list of all of Jan’s records in chronological order. It’s the link at the top of that list which leaps off the screen and punches me in the gut: death records (1).
In all the years I’ve poured over screens full of data, never has one single bracketed figure summoned such anguish, such utter and literal heartache.
I sit back and try to regulate my erratic breathing. All the usual signs line up and reintroduce themselves as I pass beyond the cusp of an anxiety attack.
Idiot! Idiot!
Why didn’t I just leave it be?
It’s a question I repeat over and over again as I try to bring order to a crowded mind. From the mire, another question surfaces: when?
The sole purpose of this exercise was to establish Jan lived a long and contented life. That life is over but I still don’t have an answer.
As much as I want to cast the laptop aside and revert to my earlier plan, I need to know, and that means the next click is an all-or-nothing gamble. The website might confirm Jan did lead the long and contented life I pray she enjoyed, but it could just as easily reveal a truth too horrific to bear.
Heads or tails? Red or black? Some modicum of closure, or a lifetime of irrepressible guilt?
I click the link and an image loads.
My eyes dart across the scanned certificate searching for one specific date. When they find what they’re looking for it provokes relief, and a sizeable portion of disbelief. Janet Pelling — formerly Wilson — passed away exactly one year ago today, aged seventy-one.
It’s not an age as old as I hoped but it’s a long way from the age I feared. Some might call it a long life and I’m not minded to argue. The date, though, is bitterly ironic. Jan was a great believer in fate and a higher power controlling our destiny. Prior to my adventure, I’d have scoffed at her beliefs but if I’ve learnt anything from recent events, it’s keeping an open mind. Saying that, the odds aren’t that remarkable: three-hundred and sixty-five to one. Coincidences occur all the time; even unlikely coincidences.
My worst fears put to bed, I breathe a little easier and move on. One other question to address: was she happy?
Although we never discussed the subject at length, Jan mentioned she wanted children — four, I think. It would be reassuring to establish she fulfilled her wish and maybe even a handful of fortunate children got the chance to call her nanny before the end.
I return to the previous screen and scour the list of links. I hover the cursor over an obvious contender: marriage records (1).
Part of me feels sick to know some other man got the chance to walk down the aisle with the love of my life, but I have to concede it's a relief to learn Jan moved on from the arsehole who abandoned her. With mixed-feelings, I click the link and wait for the marriage certificate to load.
Tuned Out Page 35
