He pulled the Mercedes across the entrance to the car park, whose gates his father had driven through in his beautiful Aston Martin on many an occasion. The sense of nostalgia left a lump in his throat. He knew that Peregrine James Montgomery the Third, of Theobald’s House, Vaizey College, would have been delighted to see his son returning to the place he’d held so dear.
A car beeped behind him. He looked into his rearview mirror at a man trying to pull in from the lane. Theo raised his hand in acknowledgement and drove forward into the car park. The silver Range Rover rolled past and parked up next to him, disgorging two boys in full games kit. It made him smile, how only a blink ago that had been him, albeit without the enthusiasm these two now showed for getting to their match.
He watched a woman, bent over, struggling with a cardboard box as she lifted it from the boot of an old Golf. And as she straightened he felt his stomach shrink around his bowels.
It was Kitty.
‘Jesus Christ!’ He swallowed and looked behind him, keen to make a hasty retreat, unable to cope with another painful encounter, unwilling to deal with a rerun of the ‘stay away’ glare she’d fired at him on the bus. But with the Range Rover tight behind, he was hemmed in. Trapped.
Becoming aware of his stare, Kitty looked up, blinked and squinted, before placing the cardboard box on the ground and walking over. His heart raced and he was unsure of what to do or how to explain his presence. He didn’t want a scene, especially not here – he didn’t want any more bad memories to heap onto those that already held him captive. He rolled down the window.
‘Theo! Oh my God! Theo, it is you! I don’t believe it!’ she called out with something closer to delight than distress, her fingers lying flat against her chest.
‘Hello, you.’ He beamed, studying her. ‘I didn’t want you to think...’ He ran out of words, not sure what he was apologising for. The image of her on the bus was still crisp in his mind; the way she had implored him with her eyes to stay away.
This was different, felt different. She looked well and wasn’t tense in the way she’d seemed then. She stared at him, seemingly at a loss for words. He climbed slowly from the car, aware of his slightly crumpled suit and the mud clinging to the soles of his shoes.
‘So which is it – hell or high water?’ she asked slowly, her hands on her hips.
‘What?’ He was confused and embarrassed that he hadn’t picked up the thread.
‘I seem to remember you saying that those were the only two things that would ever drag you back here to Vaizey.’
She took a step towards him, her face now only inches from his, as if this was the most natural thing in the world and this was exactly the right distance to have between them. But whereas once he might have held his ground, drinking in every bit of her, today he took a step backwards.
‘Yes, I probably did say that.’ He smiled and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘If you must know, I’ve been fishing and I’m about to gatecrash a funeral, if you can believe that.’
‘Oh I believe it.’ She grinned.
‘And what about you?’ He jerked his head towards the school, expecting Angus to pop up from somewhere at any moment. He decided that he would shake Angus’s hand firmly, smile, and meet his eye – getting to know Wilson really had been helpful in laying his school ghosts to rest.
‘Just dropping off.’
‘Where’s Angus?’ he asked, looking over her shoulder towards the quad.
‘How should I know? On a golf course probably.’ She shrugged. ‘Did you think we were still together?’
His gut lurched. ‘Are you not?’
‘No, not for a while. But it works – we share the kids’ care and we are quite good friends now, better friends in fact than we ever were when we were married.’
‘So that’s good?’
‘Yes, it’s good!’ She laughed again. ‘Angus is... with a new partner and happy.’ She nodded and gave a thin smile. ‘So it’s all good!’ A flicker of nerves seemed to have disturbed her casual demeanour. ‘So you’re off to a funeral?’
‘Yes. Mr Porter’s, actually, who used to be the groundsman here.’
‘Oh, I remember him! He had a lovely crinkly smile.’
Theo was happy that she remembered this about him. He pictured Mr Porter standing not far from where they were now, with a wheelbarrow full of compost.
‘I must admit, I never had you down as the huntin’ and fishin’ type! What did you catch?’
‘Nothing.’ He raised his hands and let them fall as he looked skywards. ‘Absolutely nothing. I actually went for the stillness, the quiet.’
‘Stillness and quiet – that sounds like bliss. Sometimes I can hardly hear myself think.’ Theo noted the creasing of her brow. ‘Actually, that’s not fair, I think I keep busy to stop from thinking.’ She bit her bottom lip and he got the impression that she rarely confessed to this.
‘Kitty, I’ve spent the last few years overthinking and it turns out it wasn’t actually very good for me.’ He nodded.
‘Well, good for you, Theodore Montgomery.’ Kitty leant a little further in, her voice now barely more than a whisper. ‘It is so good to see you.’
‘It’s good to see you too.’
‘Are you still married, Theo?’ Her enquiry was casual.
‘Yes, Anna’s great – greater.’ He looked at the ground, flustered.
‘“Great – greater”? Gosh, you really didn’t pay attention in Mr Reeves’s class, did you! That is terrible English!’ She threw back her head and laughed.
He laughed too, glad of the joviality, which erased any nervousness.
There was a beat of awkward silence as both of them allowed their façades to slip.
‘That letter I sent...’ she began, taking a deep breath.
Theo nodded. What could he say?
‘It was a very difficult time for me.’ She shoved her hands in her pockets and held his gaze.
‘It became a very difficult time for me too,’ he acknowledged, quietly.
‘I never in a million years imagined... after that one time...’ She pulled a face as if the words were physically painful. ‘I was about to get married... There was so much going on in my head.’ She tapped her forehead.
‘You don’t need to explain. I’ve spent a lot of hours thinking it through and I get it. I totally see why you didn’t want anything to do with me, didn’t want me in our... your child’s life. Why would you? I’m hardly good father material. I had nothing to offer.’ Weirdo...
‘Oh my God, Theo, is that what you thought?’ Tears filled her eyes.
He nodded.
Kitty shook her head, her mouth twisted as if she was trying to stop herself from crying. ‘No! No, it wasn’t that at all. I’ve never hidden the truth from Sophie – or Angus. Quite the opposite. You, Theodore, are the kindest, sweetest, gentlest friend I ever had. You are smart and funny and any child would be lucky to have you in their life, so lucky. It was never about you! It was only ever about me. I couldn’t see any further than what I was going through. I robbed you.’
An inexplicable feeling of weightlessness came over Theo. He exhaled and leant back on the car, fearing that if he didn’t, he just might fall. ‘But... But then on the bus...’ He faltered.
Kitty shook her head. ‘Angus and I were falling apart, I was pregnant with Oliver, and little Soph...’ She smiled up at him. ‘It would have been too much for Soph right then, and too much for me.’ She sniffed. ‘I am so sorry, Theo. I was young and stupid and frightened when I wrote to you, and if I could—’
‘Mum! Mum, have you got my hockey stick?’
Kitty whipped her head round and smiled through her tears at the confident girl striding towards them.
‘Why are you crying?’ Sophie wrinkled her nose with embarrassment.
‘I’m not.’ Kitty swiped away her tears and pulled her daughter towards her. She took her face inside her hands and kissed her nose. ‘Sophie, this man... This is...’ Emotion stopped the w
ords from forming.
Theo stepped forward and held out his hand.
The young girl with the clear skin, dark curly hair and brown eyes placed her hand confidently in his palm. ‘Hello.’ She smiled. ‘I’m Sophie. Sophie Montgomery Thompson.’
*
Theo didn’t often feel the need to give thanks, but as he parked the car and looked up towards the heavens, he closed his eyes. ‘My name! She has my name! My daughter, my little girl, Sophie – what a wonderful, wonderful, thing!’
Gathering himself, he wondered if he had come to the right place. There were very few cars around and the beautiful moss-covered Norman church looked strangely quiet. He couldn’t help but compare the scene to his father’s funeral, when clusters of well-dressed mourners had stood outside the church in Barnes, dabbing at tears and shaking hands with gusto. He flattened his suit lapels and adjusted his tie before pushing on the heavy arched wooden door. There was only a handful of people inside. A couple of elderly folk were already in situ in the front pews and one or two others, men mainly, had taken seats further back. Theo only glanced at them, avoiding eye contact, feeling like an interloper on this sad day.
A keen-looking moon-faced vicar walked over and handed him a single-page order of service. Theo took it and nodded his thanks. As he gazed down at the black and white photograph of Mr Porter he felt a rush of emotion. He coughed to clear his throat and sat up straight, unable to take another look for fear of losing control in public, in front of strangers. The old man in the picture, ‘the Fishing-Fly Guy’, as Anna called him, looked thinner and very old, but his smile and the crinkle of kindness around his eyes were exactly the same. He was wearing a tweed cap and Theo pictured him raising the front and scratching his head, deep in thought, revealing the dark tan line across his brow.
Music began to play. Theo stood and smiled to hear the faint strains of Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’ coming from the speakers as the simple wooden coffin was wheeled up the aisle. The music was most fitting, Theo thought, as he recalled snippets of their conversation about Mr Porter’s wartime service: ‘We were all as scared and desperate as each other. And let me tell you, those that didn’t make it home were mourned by their families just the same, goodies and baddies alike.’ For the second time that day, Theo’s tears threatened.
The vicar followed the coffin to the altar, then stood in front of the grand brass lectern and spread his arms.
‘Welcome, all, to St Barnabas on this sad day when we say goodbye to Cyrus. But I would like to remind you that it is also a happy day, as we celebrate his long life.’
Theo looked around and counted the congregation. There were only thirteen of them in total, and that bothered him. He wondered how different today might have been, how crowded the pews, if Mr Porter’s wife, Merry, had lived and they’d gone on to have children, even grandchildren. He thought then of his own dad, who also never got to be called Grandpa, and again his whole being was filled with the image of Sophie.
The vicar continued. ‘Cyrus Porter was a man who liked to garden.’
As Theo listened to him reading from his crib sheet, he thought how shabby that was – how hard would it have been to learn a few things by heart?
‘He liked to garden and indeed won first prize three years running for his marrows in the village harvest festival competition. He had been a soldier in his youth and fought in France, before taking up the post of gardener at the prestigious Vaizey College, a much revered establishment in our county.’
Theo felt a flash of heat on his skin and, as if powered by something bigger than him, he stood and shuffled to the end of the pew. He walked steadily down the aisle, aware that all eyes were on him as his shoes, now wiped clean, clip-clopped on the tiled floor. He approached the lectern, looking first at the vicar and then at the elderly men and women in the front pew.
‘It wasn’t France.’ He leant in.
‘I’m sorry?’ the vicar asked with a tense, fixed smile.
‘Mr Porter fought his war in Italy. That would have mattered to him. It would have mattered a lot.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ The vicar coloured. ‘I can only go on the information I’ve been given.’ He held up the flimsy sheet of paper that for Theo only added insult to injury.
‘Might I?’ He nodded at the lectern.
The vicar looked towards an old woman in the front pew, who looked bemused but nonetheless gave a slow nod.
Theo took the vicar’s place and gripped the side of the brass stand.
‘My name is Theodore Montgomery. Mr Porter was the groundsman at Vaizey College and that’s where I met him.’ He cursed the tightening of his throat and coughed before resuming. ‘He was so much more than that, however, to a young boy who needed a friend, who needed an ally and an escape. He taught me...’ Theo was only vaguely aware of the tears that now coursed down his cheeks. ‘He taught me more about life than anyone else, before or since. His voice has lived in my head since I was a boy, giving me advice long after I lost contact with him.’ At this he felt a stab of pain as sharp as it had been on that day he’d found the crooked cottage empty. He bowed his head and wiped his face with the back of his hand, seeing himself as a fourteen-year-old falling to his knees and howling. ‘My friend! I’m sorry!’
‘He was so much more than the groundsman of Vaizey College, so much more than a man who grew prize marrows.’ He paused again to regain what composure he could, but his eyes flamed and his tears spilled.
He reached for his suit lapel and turned it over to reveal the small gold pin decorated with a fishing fly of green and blue feathers above a square red bead.
‘He was like a father to me.’
He gripped the sides of the lectern as the breath stuttered in his throat and the tsunami of emotion that had been swelling inside him for so long now found its release. The hush in the church was broken by the creak of a pew near the back. A portly man in his late fifties stood and walked forward until he reached Theo’s side. He turned over his lapel to reveal a similar fishing fly and shook Theo’s hand before turning to the assembled mourners and speaking through a mouth contorted with emotion.
‘He was like a father to me too.’
And then a third man came forward; his fishing fly sat proudly on his shirt. ‘He was like a father to me,’ he offered in a rich Middle Eastern accent.
Then up came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth and a seventh, all of them standing in a line behind the coffin of the man who had scooped them up when they had needed him the most and cared for them when kindness had been in short supply. Their collective tears turned to laughter as they stood shoulder to shoulder, the now grown-up sons of very, very busy people.
Each had thought they were the only one.
‘Seemingly Cyrus was a most wonderful man!’ The vicar stood next to them, giving words to the air of celebration that now filled the church. ‘How very lucky you all were to have him guide you when you were at your most vulnerable.’
‘Yes.’ Theo nodded, still unable to stem his sadness. ‘Very lucky.’
It no longer mattered that there were only thirteen people present. The love those thirteen felt for Mr Porter could have filled a cathedral built for a thousand mourners.
Later, as he threw dirt into the freshly dug hole that had received his dear friend, Theo felt a strange sense of elation.
‘Mr Montgomery?’ a voice called from the church path as he was making his way back to the car.
‘Yes?’ He turned to stare at the elderly woman from the front pew, who was supported by a nurse on one side.
‘I’m Nelda, Merry’s sister,’ she explained in a rasping voice. ‘Cyrus was my brother-in-law.’
‘Yes, of course. Hello!’ He shook her hand warmly; the skin was paper thin and cool beneath his touch. ‘I’m sorry if I...’ He pointed towards the church, feeling a little awkward now, in the daylight, that he had taken centre stage without invitation.
‘No, don’t be sorry.’ She shook her head and smiled at him. ‘Cyrus wou
ld have been so very proud, touched, I know. I have something for you. He didn’t leave any instructions, but my son found an envelope in a box and it has your name on it. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have known where to begin if you hadn’t shown up today – I would probably have discarded it. But that’s by the by, because here you are.’
‘Yes, here I am.’ He smiled. ‘Where is it, the envelope?’
‘Back at his house. Only five minutes’ drive.’
Theo followed Nelda’s Ford along the winding lanes until they came to the village of Marlstonbury. Having left the nurse in the pub, he and Nelda made their way slowly across the village green, Nelda holding onto his arm.
‘I’m glad the rain held off. It’s turned out nice after all.’ She waved her stick towards the sky.
‘Yes, it has. Is your son here today?’
‘No, he had to go back to Glasgow – that’s where he lives now. So far away. I do miss him.’
He thought of Spud.
‘Here we are, at Cyrus’s house.’ She pointed ahead and there, next to a paddock, sat a small cottage, not quite crooked but not far off. ‘Not quite sure what we’ll do with it – sell it, I suppose.’ Nelda pulled out a key from her handbag and opened the front door.
Theo stepped into the narrow hallway. The peculiar aroma – of earth, smoke, oil and wood – instantly took him back to the day when, at seven years old, a cottage like this had provided him with a refuge, a home.
‘Do you know, I once slept in the little house Mr Porter lived in at Vaizey College. It was in the grounds of the school and it was very much like this. I felt safe and cosy and I remember thinking how lovely it must be to wake up like that every single day of your life. I was about fourteen.’
‘Did you not have parents?’ she asked matter-of-factly.
‘I did, yes, but they were... they were very busy people.’
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