His father realised it. ‘True,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Like she says, Searight is an unusual name. He was your great-uncle, but you wouldn’t remember him – he died soon after you were born.’
‘So he fought during the First World War?’
‘Oh yes. Have you got back to this French woman yet?’
‘No, I thought you might like to?’
‘No, no, not me, thanks; I’ll leave it up to you.’
Tom was surprised; he thought it’d be the sort of project his father would relish. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘Of course. Nice chap. He and my aunt lived not too far away from my parents in Devon. My father and he were cousins, not that they got on that well. He had a wooden leg. Biscuit?’
‘A wooden leg?’
‘Well, a false one, lost it during the war.’ Robert laughed. ‘I remember he took it off once to show me.’ He helped himself to a biscuit and grinned at the memory.
‘Anything else?’
‘No. Actually yes, he had a brother – Jack. He was killed in the war. 1917.’
Alice reappeared, her letter finished. ‘How’s little Charlotte then?’ she asked. ‘Such a lovely girl.’
Tom remembered Tuesday evening was the night of the parents’ evening. He asked if one of them would come over to ‘baby-sit’. His father volunteered. It was settled. They discussed Charlotte’s schooling and the general state of education. Robert compared it to bygone eras and used it as a springboard to start on his favourite pet subject of slipping standards in today’s society. Tom felt relieved when, after the news, the police drama resumed. Robert turned the television volume up unbearably loud and Tom, taking his cue, departed.
So, thought Tom as he drove home, this Guy Searight is related. As soon as he got home, he went into what they called the study and turned his computer on. Charlotte had gone to bed and Julie was watching the continuation of the police thing. As Tom popped his head around the sitting room door, the cops were in hot pursuit. Julie seemed transfixed. He looked at her watching the television and felt a brief but overwhelming sense of resentment. How dare she carry on as if everything was normal? Had she no idea what she was doing to him? Determined to keep his mind focussed on the letter from France, he returned to the study and re-read the letter while waiting for the modem to connect.
Connected, he wrote quickly:
Dear Maria,
I recently received your letter concerning Guy Searight. I asked my father, Robert Searight, and apparently Guy was his uncle.
My father told me that Guy lost a leg during the war and he ended up in Devon. Is this the same man? If so, I would be most interested in seeing his diary.
I look forward to hearing from you,
Best Wishes,
Tom Searight.
Satisfied, Tom logged off. Tomorrow he was back at work and at the mercy of Claudette’s whiplash tongue, what a prospect. He peeped into the sitting room. Julie was still glued to the box.
*
It was Monday morning. The sun of the half-term had given way to drizzle. The Searight household was a subdued one – Charlotte was back to school, Julie also had to go back, and Tom was back to work. Tom worked for a company of office consultants based nearby in Islington. He’d been with Tooley & Hill plc for about five years. His job title was that of an Assistant Project Manager, commonly referred to as an APM. Tooley & Hill were, amongst many other projects, currently putting together a proposal as a tender to the local council for fitting out a new leisure complex. It was to consist of a swimming pool, an art gallery, museum, theatre and a public library. Tom had drawn the short straw – he’d been given the task of designing the layout for a “forward-looking, modern library” which was to occupy one whole floor. It all seemed a far cry from his little local municipal library on Valentine Road with its helpful, Data Protection-obsessed library assistant. The library patronised by Mark Moyes.
By the time Tom arrived at nine, the large, open-plan spacious office was already a hive of activity with the sound of tapping keyboards, ringing telephones, and urgent conversations. Clive, his immediate boss, passed him wearing his usual scowl. The two men grunted a ‘morning’ at each other. Tom sat down at his desk, which after just five days’ off, was already piled high with various memos, reports, forms, letters, updates and unopened envelopes. He gazed at the two photographs on his desk – a school photo of Charlotte, and a jolly holiday shot of his wife and daughter hugging each other on a Spanish beach. It always made him smile because of the striking resemblance between mother and daughter. A harsh voice interrupted his thoughts.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ It was Claudette hovering over him. Claudette Tyler, Senior Project Manager and his boss’s boss, always devastatingly made up and with an unending wardrobe of immaculate outfits, and a voice that could fell a moose at twenty paces with the choice and delivery of her words.
‘I was on leave, of course,’ said Tom, looking up.
‘What? During such a critical time as this? Our biggest tender in years and you sod off for a week.’ She was young, bright and absurdly confident with a head of long, multi-coloured corkscrew hair.
‘When isn’t it a “critical time”?’ He was used to this; Claudette delighted in playing the role of the ruthless executive, and as long as Tom gave as good as he got, they seemed to rub along.
She repressed a smile. ‘Well, whatever, you’re gonna have to catch up, Clive’s been tearing his hair out. While you’ve been swanning it, the rest of the team have made strides. You’ve fallen behind. We’ve got an APM progress meeting at ten where we can bring you up to speed with what’s been happening, all right?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch up, but I’ve got to leave on time tomorrow.’
‘What the bloody hell for?’
‘Parents’ evening.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake; you disappear for a week and then want to bugger off early as soon as you come back. Couldn’t you have had this parents’ thing during your time off?’
‘Oddly enough, it’s not up to me.’ He enjoyed these silly games. She flicked her hair. Tom grinned; he always knew he’d scored a point when she did that.
‘You don’t say?’ She smiled back; she couldn’t help herself. ‘Look, I don’t really care, just get your final draft to me by Wednesday morning. The library department has finally gotten its act together and given us a list of their requirements.’ She handed Tom a piece of paper.
He cast his eye down the list of prerequisites. ‘Blimey, if they want a counter that big, it’ll take up half the floor space. And surely they’ll want more PCs than that.’
‘That’s what they want.’
He looked at her. ‘Do you know a man called Adrian, has a blue beard, works for Dunstone, Cutler and Maine?’
Claudette glared at him, her eyes momentarily furious, but then immediately softened. She knew him all right. ‘Someone at DCM? Never heard of him.’
‘He knows you.’
‘Like I said, never heard of him.’ She turned abruptly to leave, her corkscrew hair bouncing behind her with each purposeful stride.
The young woman sitting at the desk to Tom’s left smiled – Gabrielle, his very capable assistant. ‘Welcome back,’ she said with a wry smile.
‘Thanks,’ said Tom with a roll of the eyes.
*
Charlotte had had quite a good day at school, but she was dreading the prospect of Tuesday’s parents’ evening. She’d get a good report from Mr Parker (‘Pick-a-Nose Parker’) in geography, and Miss Baines in PE, although that probably didn’t count for much, Mrs Moore for art and Miss Grossman in music (did those count?), and of course, the gorgeous Mr Moyes in history. And Mr Wodehouse (Mr Woodlouse) in English might be OK, but it was the science subjects she dreaded most. She perpetually mucked around with Mr Oparinde in physics, and Miss Bullock (Miss Bollocks) in biology hated her – she stood no chance there.
On the Monday, she had biology and Charlotte went out of her
way to be well-behaved and attentive. She even volunteered to help Miss Bollocks wash out the Petri dishes. Abigail teased her; ‘too little, too late,’ she sniggered. On Tuesday, Charlotte had history with Mr Moyes. She told him about her trip to the Imperial War Museum with her dad, and Mr Moyes seemed suitably impressed with Charlotte’s extracurricular activities. Charlotte brimmed with pride. Even Abigail singing “Born Too Late” failed to take the shine off her moment of glory. She even managed to behave during physics despite being bored stiff.
Charlotte saw Gavin briefly in the playground, but as a rule, they tended to ignore each other at school. He was in the year above. Any communication between them was conducted via text. She reluctantly declined Gavin’s invitation to meet at the oak tree on Tuesday after school. It wasn’t worth the risk with the parents’ evening that night; she’d be too much the focus of attention.
And so the dreaded Tuesday evening was upon her. Her father was home early at 5.30 pm, and they ate the shepherd’s pie her mum had prepared the evening before. Soon after 6.30 pm, her granddad arrived. She thought at the age of 14 she could be left alone in the house, but this wasn’t the night to argue. And anyway, her granddad was a bit of a pushover; he always let her have the choice of what to watch on telly. Ten minutes after he arrived; her mum and dad were off, looking unnecessarily smart, thought Charlotte. She and her granddad always got on. She sometimes found herself telling him things she wouldn’t tell her parents, and for an old man, he seemed to... well, understand. So when Robert asked whether she was worried by the parents’ evening, she told him the truth – which teachers would be OK and the ones she was worried about. He soon cottoned on that the history teacher was a bit of a favourite.
‘So what’s so special about this Mr Boyes?’ he asked.
‘Mr Moyes,’ she corrected him. ‘I dunno, he’s kinda nice, I guess.’
‘Nice?’
Charlotte went all coy. ‘Yeah, you know...’
‘Yes, I know. I had a teacher at school, Miss Gilmore. I thought she was “kinda nice” too; the bee’s knees.’ He smiled at the distant memory. ‘So, is this why you’re so keen on doing your history project?’
‘Yeah, but also cos we have to do this school performance about the First World War. Almost everyone in my year, anyone who does history, music or art.’
‘Your dad says you’re doing a recital.’
‘Yeah, I’ve got to read out a poem. You can come if you like.’
‘Thank you, Charlotte, I would like to very much. Are you worried about standing up in front of all your friends?’
‘Bit, but it’s only for a couple of minutes.’
‘So, what poem are you doing?’
‘Haven’t decided yet. I got this book of war poetry from the museum, but they’re either too long or got too many difficult words, and I don’t really understand most of them. I suppose I ought to ask Dad for help.’
‘Well, why don’t you bring me the book and we could choose one together. I can try to explain what they mean.’
And so they did. Charlotte and her grandfather spent over half an hour going through the poems, dismissing most for a variety of reasons and making a shortlist of potentials. Eventually they whittled it down to a list of six. ‘More exciting than the Booker prize,’ he commented. Charlotte understood this to be a little joke, but about what she had no idea. Robert suggested that she practised reciting all six to see which sounded the best. At first, she was reluctant, feeling too self-conscious to stand up and read in front of him, but, as he pointed out, she had to start somewhere and he was as good an audience as any. And so she did, gaining confidence as she went. In the end, they settled on three poems, but they agreed to keep it a secret. Satisfied with a good evening’s work, Charlotte made her granddad a cup of tea and got herself a fizzy drink.
‘Granddad?’
‘Hmm?’ Did she imagine it, or did he pull a face when he tasted his tea; maybe she hadn’t put enough sugar in it.
‘Dad was saying something about a woman in France writing to him ’bout your dad or somethink.’
‘Not my father, my uncle, your great-great-uncle.’
‘Was he in World War One?’
Robert sipped his tea and pondered the question. ‘Yes, he was a very brave man. He had a brother called Jack, and a cousin called Lawrence who was my father. So I suppose Guy, I never knew Jack, was really a great-cousin, but they were all called Searight and it was easier calling him uncle. And then I had a brother called Clarence.’
Charlotte chortled. ‘Clarence? Funny name.’
‘He was older than me, born on the last day of the war; the first one, that is. He was the bright star of the family. Got himself killed during the Second World War – he was in the navy. Another brave Searight. Then your grandmother and I had two boys – your father and your Uncle Alec, so it was a bit of a relief when you were born – too many boys!’
‘Why was your brother a “bright star”?’
Her granddad appeared lost in thought at her question and she felt worried in case she’d said something wrong. ‘Granddad?’
He sighed. ‘I know you’re an only child, Charlotte, but sometimes having brothers or sisters is not what it’s cracked up to be. Believe me.’ He took another sip of tea and tried not to grimace. ‘Lovely tea,’ he said. ‘Shall we put the telly on now?’
*
Tom and Julie walked to the school arm in arm. The evening was still warm. He wondered what was going through his wife’s mind, whether she was dreading the prospect of him and Moyes coming face to face. He’d never met him before, having missed the previous parents’ evening.
‘I didn’t tell you,’ said Julie. ‘Rachel came round for coffee.’
‘Good God. Rachel?’ He managed to stop himself from swearing. ‘Rachel came to our house?’
‘Yes, odd, isn’t it? Haven’t seen her for ages and just out of the blue she rang and invited herself round for coffee. Nice though. She was trying to make out we shared this crazy past together. I knew her as a mum, not as a mate like that. Odd, very odd.’
‘Charlotte has the potential to do well, but she needs to concentrate more and not let herself get so easily distracted.’ Miss Bullock was summing up. ‘And she needs to be more punctual with her homework. Too often she seems to think some glib excuse will suffice. Does she ever ask you for help with her biology homework?’ She looked at Tom, but Tom’s concentration had drifted. ‘Mr Searight?’
‘Tom,’ prompted Julie.
‘What?’ said Tom, coming back to the present. ‘Oh yes, all the time. Yes.’ He had no idea what he was agreeing to. Something about Charlotte’s homework.
‘If you could encourage Charlotte to hand her work in on time, it would help. She’s an intelligent girl, it would be such a shame to see it all go to waste.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tom. Feeling that Miss Bullock had come to an end, he looked at Julie, who nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss Bullock, it’s been most interesting.’ Having heard the could-do-better patter for the fifth time that evening, Tom was beginning to feel bored.
‘Where do you have to go now?’ asked Miss Bullock.
‘History,’ replied Julie.
‘Mr Moyes. Yes, you’re on the right floor. Turn left out of this room and it’s at the end of the corridor on the left. Room 3E.’
As Tom and Julie made their way down the corridor, Tom began to feel anxious, but he thought, probably not half as much as Julie. He looked at his wife and sure enough, she seemed apprehensive. She noticed that one of the buttons on her blouse had come undone. She re-fastened it and forced a weak smile. He noticed the crow’s feet around her eyes and wondered whether they were usually so prominent. He felt as if he was leading her towards a firing squad. This was all her own doing, but he suddenly felt sorry for her. A week earlier he would have been none the wiser, but now he felt crushed with the knowledge of what his wife was going through. He wanted to put an arm around her and say ‘don’t worry, I’ll look afte
r you’. But no, she was not deserving of his sympathy; he had to be strong. Let her suffer. The door to 3E was slightly ajar. Tom knocked.
‘Come in,’ said a firm voice from within. Tom opened the door for Julie and followed her in. The teacher, presumably Mr Moyes, stood up as they entered. ‘Mr and Mrs Searight?’ he asked, offering his hand to Julie. She smiled feebly. ‘How do you do? I’m Mark Moyes, Charlotte’s history teacher.’ He turned to Tom, shaking his hand with a firm grip. ‘Please... take a seat.’
Tom and Julie sat down on the two plastic school chairs on the other side of the Formica table from Moyes. Julie sat perched on the edge of her seat, her legs delicately crossed, her hands placed neatly on her lap, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. They waited a few moments whilst Mr Moyes shuffled his paperwork. Tom looked down beneath the table at Moyes’s feet. He could see the brown, scruffy briefcase.
His papers sorted, Moyes looked up and smiled. ‘Before I start, I was going to grab a quick coffee. Don’t mind, do you? There’s a machine at the other end of the corridor. Would you both care for one?’
They did. ‘One sugar,’ said Tom, rummaging in his pocket for some loose change.
‘No, no,’ said Moyes firmly, his hand held upright, ‘my treat.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tom. It’s only a cup of coffee, he thought, don’t get too martyred about it.
Moyes opened his briefcase and took a few coins from his wallet. ‘Erm, those cups are awfully thin and too hot to carry three at a time. Would one of you mind giving me a hand?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Tom was amazed how quickly Julie had jumped in, surely etiquette decreed that Tom should do it. ‘No, no, darling, I’ll do it.’ But Julie was already on her feet and following Moyes on the way to the drinks machine.
Damn, thought Tom, what story are they hatching up? He looked around the classroom and wondered where Charlotte sat. At least this was one class where she’d get a shining report, not that they’d all been bad, but none of them had been particularly good. The walls were adorned with artwork depicting scenes from the First World War. He felt a little bit ashamed that he couldn’t tell which one was Charlotte’s.
The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3) Page 6
