by Alan Millard
John sat wishing she could have stayed and wondering why she’d purposely chosen to sit with him. He felt confused. What had she meant by saying she’d see him on New Year’s Day and telling him to look in the tin? What tin? The only tin he could think of was the battered tin he’d been given by Mrs. Flowers containing the faded photo. How could Sarah have known about it? He hadn’t seen the tin for years. All he wanted now was to get home and search the house till he found it.
His mind was all over the place as he rushed to the car and raced home. As soon as he was indoors he began hunting. He turned out cupboards, delved into long-forgotten drawers and just as he’d given up all hope of finding it, there it was at the bottom of the last drawer he opened. His hands shook uncontrollably as he prised off the lid and took out the photo. He was half afraid to look but when he did there was no mistaking whose picture it was. The woman, standing with a young man on the promenade was Sarah, still in the same long dress and pink blouse. She was wearing something around her neck and when he peered more closely he saw quite clearly the heart-shaped locket hanging from its chain.
With his thoughts in turmoil he poured a large whisky. How could the woman in the churchyard be Sarah, his mother? If she had been then the baby he’d touched and felt moving could only be him. He wondered if he’d imagined the encounter but knew he hadn’t. Gradually the full implications of all she’d told him and her promise to see him on New Year’s Day became horribly clear.
***
‘What do you think of the story?’ Howard asked.
I was still trying to get my head around the impossibility of a man feeling his own embryo and actually touching himself as an unborn child when he was already a retired man. ‘Amazing,’ I said, ‘Almost like time travel in reverse or going forwards.’ I couldn’t work out which of the two it might be.
‘And how do you think John would have felt after talking to his dead mother and learning when he’d see her again?’
‘If it meant that he’d see her on the day he was destined to die I imagine he’d be terrified to say the least. None of us wants to know when we’re going to die.’
‘He was terrified. Have you worked out who John really was?’
‘John I assume.’
‘Didn’t he remind you of someone you already know, an architect and pianist fond of Bach?’
‘Are you telling me John was you?’ I winced at my slowness and naivety.
‘Yes John was me. So you see why I told you that this woman’s tale was the strangest of all and my reason for asking you to stay with me.’
It was all beginning to dawn on me now. Tomorrow was New Year’s Day. If the woman, assuming she had been the ghost of his mother, meant what she’d said then today, New Year’s Eve, would be Howard’s last day. No wonder he wanted someone to be with him tonight dreading what might happen. I tried to reassure him. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I can’t imagine anything awful will happen and I’m staying with you tonight.’ In truth, I wasn’t looking forward to it. I knew we’d be watching the clock all the time, aware of the minutes and hours passing and dreading the worst. I would have to find a way of distracting him and getting him away from that gloomy house awaiting his fate which I couldn’t believe would become a reality. ‘I know what we’ll do,’ I said, ‘and I won’t take no for an answer.’
My solution was simple. I would take him to the club which on New Year’s Eve would be buzzing with life. I’d introduce him to my friends and make sure he didn’t hide away in his usual dark corner speaking to nobody. I’d involve him in the conversation and ply him with drinks. He’d be too drunk and tired to think about anything other than sleep by the time we went home. Howard resisted at first. He said he was hopeless at socialising and wasn’t especially fond of my friends but I persisted and he finally gave in.
The club as I’d expected was packed. I’d insisted on taking a taxi so there’d be nothing to stop us from drinking as much as we wanted. Keeping Howard at my side I made for the bar and ordered the drinks. Eric Short was the first to spot us. He looked surprised to see me with Howard but jostled his way towards us.
‘Well, if it isn’t Bill. We wondered where you’d been all this time. Come and join us, we’re over there by the fire. I’m sure we can squeeze you in.’
‘This is Howard,’ I said, ‘you won’t mind if he joins us will you?’
‘Of course not. Pleased to meet you. Have you been here before?’
‘Yes, I’ve been a member for some time now.’
‘I see. And what did you do for a living?’
‘I worked for Hoskins, Dyer and Blake in Hendford.’
‘Really? You should think about becoming a member. Where did you say you worked?’
I shuddered remembering how Howard summed up Eric as someone who never listened. ‘There’s time for that later,’ I said. ‘Let’s join the others.’ We elbowed our way across the room to the fireplace and squeezed ourselves in with the circle.
They were all there, Arthur Dawes spouting on as usual, Geoff Godwin taking no interest in what he was saying and waiting for a pause to jump in, Bob Wilson looking as bored as ever, Michael Farrow fidgeting impatiently and David Green staring around the room in a world of his own. They all seemed as surprised as Eric to see me with Howard but they welcomed him into the group and eventually included him in the general banter.
Arthur Dawes was the first to speak to him directly. ‘So what do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a retired architect.’
‘An architect! How fascinating. I was a teacher you know, well headteacher actually, the leading light so to speak in a village primary school. I remember on one occasion...’ The soliloquy went on for some time until Geoff stopped him mid-sentence with an unrelated tale of his own. Time and again I was reminded of how accurate Howard’s description of them had been when we met. The drinks flowed along with the conversation and by ten thirty I could see that he’d had enough and was ready to be taken home. I rose from my chair and made my excuses.
‘What,’ said Arthur, ‘leaving already? Aren’t you staying to see in the New Year?’
‘We would but we’ve had a tiring day.’ I was about to say we’d have a lot on our plates in the morning but stopped myself realising it might unsettle Howard who now seemed less agitated than when we’d arrived. They raised their glasses, wished us a Happy New Year and we left.
I’d arranged for the taxi to pick us up at eleven. We stood outside for a few minutes waiting. It was cold and clear without the slightest breeze in the air. The stars were barely visible in the haze of the street lighting.
‘You can see why I prefer living out of town,’ Howard said. ‘No chance of seeing the Milky Way here, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ I said never having thought about the Milky Way. My main concern was Howard. ‘What did you think of the evening?’
‘Interesting. They all acted in character.’
‘You didn’t mind leaving before twelve?’
‘No, I couldn’t have taken another drink.’
‘You’re feeling all right?’
‘A little woozy but that’s not surprising.’
The taxi arrived early and dropped us off just after eleven. As soon as we were indoors Howard declared he was ready for bed.
‘Would you like me to make some coffee before you turn in?’
‘No, but help yourself to whatever you’d like. You know where everything is, my friend.’
I sat for a while in the chair pleased that the night had gone as well as it had. Howard seemed more relaxed and tired. It was the first time he’d referred to me as his friend. I now thought of him as my friend. My mind went back to that first night when I found myself sitting alone in this room then so strange but now so familiar and almost like home.
Too tired to make myself coffee I opted
for bed. I undressed, climbed under the covers and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to twelve. I switched off the light and lay there thinking about the woman wondering if she’d reappear. If she did I assumed she would come on the stroke of midnight. I could hear the clock ticking on the bedside cabinet. Time dragged. I began to think midnight would never arrive. And then I heard the first of the four quarters strike from a church tower not far away. After the last of the quarters sounded a seemingly endless silence followed before the first stroke of twelve. I stayed wide awake for some time after midnight knowing what I should do but putting it off. When I could wait no longer I plucked up courage and switched on the light. It was twelve thirty. If the woman had appeared she’d have come and gone by now and if Howard’s worst fears had been realised he would be gone with her.
I was trembling as I opened the bedroom door and crept down the narrow corridor to Howard’s room. What would I do if I found him dead in his bed? I turned the knob with a clammy hand and opened the door. I cannot describe how elated I felt when I heard him breathing deeply. I stood listening and as my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I saw the bed clothes rise and fall in time with his breathing. ‘Happy New Year,’ I whispered before retreating. Filled with immense relief I climbed back into bed and fell asleep almost at once.
It was soon after nine when I woke. The weak morning sun was already filtering through the curtains. I listened for the piano or any other signs of Howard moving about downstairs but wasn’t surprised to hear nothing. Remembering how much he’d drunk on the previous night I imagined he’d be sleeping it off. Feeling I was now a friend I crept downstairs intending to treat him to breakfast in bed. Searching the kitchen I found all I needed and climbed back upstairs with his coffee and scrambled egg on toast. Holding the tray against my side with one hand I opened the bedroom door with the other and went in. Howard was awake propped up on the pillow and looking towards me with a smile on his face. I drew back the curtains and went to the bedside. Only then did I realise the smile was permanently fixed. His eyes were milky and vacant. In sheer panic I dropped the tray and stood staring in disbelief.
My memory of what followed is sketchy. I remember the paramedics, the doctor and police arriving at different times though I’ve no idea what they said to me or I to them. My recollections of the following weeks are equally vague. I went home that afternoon and spent several days walking around in a dream. I attended the inquest and told them how I’d been invited to stay and how we’d spent our time talking and walking. No one asked what we’d talked about and I told them nothing of Howard’s tales. I explained that on New Year’s Eve, the night before he died, we’d been to the club where Howard had drunk more than usual though no one suggested it had any bearing on his death. It was assumed that Howard had suffered a cardiac arrest in his sleep and the coroner duly recorded a verdict of death by natural causes. I was told when the body could be released and the funeral arrangements were left to me.
Until that point I kept away from the club unable to face the memory of being there so recently with Howard. But as the day of his cremation approached, not wanting to be the only mourner, I went to the club hoping to persuade others to join me at the crematorium. Arthur seemed surprised that I would be going when I’d only known the fellow for a few days. Eric explained he would have come if the chap had been a paid-up club member and the others expressed their sympathy for the poor man but said they had prior engagements. The general lack of interest was disappointing but not unexpected. None of them really knew Howard and Howard wouldn’t have wanted them there anyway. I then thought about the people he’d known. I doubted that Mr and Mrs. Bidgood or Mrs. Flowers would still be alive but there might be a chance of finding Henrietta or one of the children from the home. There was also the grammar school where someone might be able to give me a lead. If Miss Carter or Mr. Clinic had been young teachers when Howard was a pupil they could still be living. And there was his piano teacher, Miss Price. If Howard had been right about her age when she taught him she might still be around. It was a long shot but for Howard’s sake I decided to do what I could to find someone who’d known him and would come to his cremation.
I decided to look for Henrietta first and began my search on a frosty Friday morning. Knowing from Howard’s description that the Bidgood’s had lived in a pebble-dashed house overlooking the playing fields I set off for the most likely location. The first door I knocked was opened by a toddler who looked alarmed and called for her mother. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but I’m looking for the Bidgood family. I believe they once lived here or nearby.’
The woman looked blank but said her father might know. After some while an old man with a walker inched his way to the door. ‘The Bidgood’s? Yes, I knew them. They lived two doors up. Both dead now. Shopkeeper I remember. Shop’s long gone too.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Do you what happened to the daughter, Henrietta?’
‘Yes, married a bank manager. Lives next door to Hundred Stone gardens.’
I thanked him and left him to stagger back into the house with his walker while I paced up the hill to the Hundred Stone gardens on the outskirts of town at its highest point. I rang the doorbell of the adjacent house. A stout man answered the door. I apologised for the intrusion and told him I was looking for a woman whose maiden name was Henrietta Bidgood. As I spoke a voice called out asking who was at the door. ‘Someone looking for you,’ the man called back.
Forgetting the intervening years I expected a young, seductive temptress to appear and was surprised when a plump, silver-haired lady came to the door. She pushed her husband aside and faced me with folded arms like a wrestler ready to pick a fight. ‘What’s all this about?’ she asked. ‘We haven’t met, have we?’
I wasn’t sure of her married name. ‘Are you by any chance Henrietta, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bidgood?’ I asked.
‘I am. And you are?’
‘William,’ I said thinking Bill would be too informal for a bank manager’s wife. ‘I believe you knew Howard who stayed with you when he was younger.’
‘What Howard from the home? Are you a friend of his? Come in. I’ve often wondered what happened to him.’
I followed her into the dining room. ‘It’s a beautiful view,’ I said looking out of the window. ‘I’ve often admired it from the gardens and envied the people who live here.’
Henrietta smiled with self-satisfaction. ‘So tell me about Howard? Where is he now? I meant to keep in touch but you know how it is. How is he?’
‘I’m afraid Howard died a few weeks ago.’
Henrietta looked genuinely shocked. ‘Died? Oh, that’s dreadful.’
Her husband raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, well! Poor Howard. That’s another of your childhood admirers gone.’
‘Yes but he wasn’t really my type, not that I’d wish him dead. How did it happen?’
‘A heart attack. It was peaceful. He had a successful life.’
I expected Henrietta to ask me more about him but she talked about herself, her years at Roedean, her subsequent marriage and how she and her husband enjoyed holidays abroad. When she finished I told her that Howard was to be cremated on the Friday of the following week and asked if she’d care to be present.
‘Oh, I’d love to,’ she said, ‘but on Sunday we’re off to Southampton. We always take a cruise in late January to get away from the depressing weather. I really am sorry but do please pass on our condolences. Poor Howard. Such a shame.’
I left with a sinking heart but my search wasn’t over. Before leaving I managed to get the address of Miss Price. Henrietta hadn’t touched a piano for years but as far as she knew Miss Price still lived at the same address. I resolved to call on her in the morning. If that failed there was still the Grammar school, Hoskins, Dyer and Blake and the children’s home which was now a care home for the elderly but somebody there might
know of a contact.
On Saturday I rose early. It was raining but rather than drive I donned my raincoat, took an umbrella and set off soon after ten. The umbrella was useless in the gusty wind and more than once almost turned inside out. On reaching the bungalow I stood in the porch and paused before ringing the doorbell. The bottoms of my trousers were soaked and clinging to the backs of my legs. I stood listening to a short section of a tune being repeated and stopping at the same point. I rang the bell and heard Miss Price’s voice issuing instructions as she came to the door. The short, painfully thin woman who opened it was still recognisable in her baggy cardigan, tweed skirt and flat shoes. Her pale face was certainly plain and her fair hair was tied back in a bun that gave her an austere, fearsome look.
She spoke before I had time to introduce myself. ‘Mr Hall I presume.’
‘Yes,’ I said, surprised she knew who I was. ‘Bill Hall. I’m afraid I have some rather sad news.’
‘Yes, about Howard, I already know. Henrietta phoned yesterday afternoon.’
‘Perhaps I should call back. I don’t want to interrupt a lesson.’
‘No, please come in. I’m free for quarter of an hour before the next pupil arrives and Freddie will be leaving in five minutes. If you’d care to sit in the dining room I’ll be with you shortly.’ I was taken into a back room and offered a seat while she went off to finish the lesson with Freddie whose pianistic skills seemed somewhat lacking even to my untrained ear. As I sat listening to the same repeated passage I looked around at the small room filled with a bulky three-piece suite, dining table and display cabinet bursting with spotless crockery and glasses. A large ginger cat was sprawled out asleep in one of the lounge chairs, possibly a descendant of the fat creature that had taken a dislike to Howard. After five minutes Freddie was dismissed and Miss Price joined me. She went to the chair occupied by the cat, swept it on to the floor and sat down ignoring the animal’s withering gaze as it sloped off into the hall.
