The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3)

by Rupert Colley

  ‘You expect me to be thankful for that?’

  ‘So, what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Fairly obvious I would have thought. Tell DCM, thanks very much but I’ll stick with good old Tooley and Hill.’

  ‘Oh, stop being so bloody virtuous. How about if I offer you a bribe?’

  ‘Christ, Claudette, don’t you know when to stop? What sort of bribe?’

  ‘OK, right, I might as well tell you,’ she said. ‘Clive has been angling to leave for months now, so I’m in the process of negotiating a generous redundancy for him and frankly I can’t envisage any problems. So, before I leave I’ll be interviewing for his replacement. The job’s there for the taking. All you have to do, is say so.’ She paused and looked at him carefully. ‘Fancy it?’

  Tom thought for a moment. ‘No.’

  ‘You sure? More responsibility, good salary, lots of bonuses.’

  ‘OK, I’m not sure. Let me think about it.’

  ‘Yes, Tommy, you do that, you think about it.’

  *

  Tom’s father was trying to find his membership card for the bowling club. He’d looked everywhere downstairs and, feeling exasperated, hadn’t found it in his bedroom either. He heard his wife calling from the kitchen. ‘What did you say?’ he shouted back.

  ‘I said, would you like a cup of tea, Robert?’

  ‘No thanks. You haven’t seen my bowling card, have you?’

  ‘No, but you could try that box of odds and sods in Tom’s room.’

  Robert noticed how recently the spare room had become “Tom’s room”. He hadn’t stepped in there since Tom had come to stay, so he doubted he’d find the card in there. But it was worth a try. He walked in and noticed the various items of Tom’s wardrobe laid out neatly on the bed. He found the box Alice had referred to and rooted around inside. Oddly enough, the card was there. ‘Eureka!’ he said to himself. As he turned to leave, he noticed the train ticket next to ancient-looking book on Tom’s bedside table. Why was Tom jaunting off to France again so soon, he wondered. Intrigued by Tom’s reading material, he picked up the book and ran his finger along the lettering: “Guy Searight, 1914-1921”.

  He’d purposely not shown any interest in the diary, and he was already regretting having told Tom of his unhappy childhood. Why had he exposed himself like that? He didn’t feel any better for it. So much for this modern-day claptrap about talking, getting it off one’s chest. He’d learnt years ago to accept it, to forget about it. But because of Tom’s passing fad, all the old wounds had reopened, and forgotten and suppressed memories surfaced with painful clarity. Why had his father been so distant with him? It was all water under the bridge now and it didn’t do any good thinking about it – when he did, it kept him awake at night. He had no desire to discuss further that distant time in his life, let alone read his uncle’s diary. Nevertheless, he felt drawn to the small neat handwriting – a style not too dissimilar to his own. He sat down on the edge of Tom’s bed and carefully turned the pages, stopping occasionally to read a sentence or two. One particular page took his attention:

  20th October 1917.

  This day was the last day of my war. Today I killed a few German soldiers close to, effectively lost my leg and earned my medal. It is not a day I cherish but the date is indelibly carved onto my mind as clearly as the date of my birth. I think of it often, either consciously or subconsciously. I have no control over it...

  So, that was how his uncle lost his leg. Uncle Hobbly! He turned a few more pages.

  20th January, 1919.

  Mary and baby Clarence came to see me again today. (Ah, thought Robert, his mother and his brother.) Alas, Mary brought me sad news – my father has died. He went to his grave tormented by the war, as effectively as one who’d fought in it, deprived as he was, of both his sons. Will I regret my decision not to take over his business, I wonder? I think not. I could not bring myself to a reconciliation with my father whilst he refused to recognise that Jack too, had been his son. Finally, in his last days, he did reconcile Jack.

  I pray God reunites them and that when my time comes, He reunites us all.

  Robert was intrigued. He knew about Jack being executed; he remembered his mother mentioning it, and always with great sadness, but why the falling out with their father? Robert was hooked. He resolved that after Tom had finished with it, he would read the whole journal from beginning to end. He turned a few more pages, wondering what, if anything, his uncle had written about the day of his birth. He found the entry and read:

  1st February, 1921.

  Today should have been a day of celebration, for on this day Mary gave birth to a boy – George Robert Searight. (Indeed, thought Robert, swelling with pride at seeing the occasion of his birth marked in his uncle’s diary but why, he wondered, the downbeat mood?). I could not be at the birth and neither was Lawrence, who refused to see the baby for a whole week. (Robert’s heart lurched at this sentence. Often, as a child – and many times since – he’d wondered what he’d done to so antagonise his father. Now, he knew. He’d done nothing. His father had been angry with him from the moment he left his mother’s womb, possibly even before. How could it have been, thought Robert, how can a man resent a baby, his own flesh and blood?)

  But then, who could blame him. Robert’s birth would have been a great embarrassment had the truth ever been known. (Truth, what truth? wondered Robert).

  About six days later, Mary came to see me with Clarence and the baby George. I shall never forget her words as she held George up for me to see. She said ‘Guy, this is George Robert – your son; George, this is your father. Say hello’.

  Carefully, Robert closed the journal and placed it back on Tom’s bedside table. The walls seemed to be closing in on him, his head felt light, butterflies churned in his stomach, his heartbeat hammering away. For a moment, he thought he was going to faint. Memories of the sport’s day came flooding back – his first place in the high jump eclipsed by Clarence’s runner-up slot in the hundred-yard dash, beaten only by a boy “a good half-foot taller”. He put his head in his hands. He remembered the war, his war, not Guy’s. The ship, the U-boat, the torpedo. Surviving on a lifeboat adrift for days on the Indian Ocean. Ten men, all dead except for himself, the sole survivor. Robert let out an audible groan as he visualised his father in tears having mistaken him for Clarence. Now, over half a century later, Robert finally knew why. His father was crying, not because the wrong son had been killed, but his only son had been killed. It was all so frighteningly clear now. A lifetime of confusion, of wondering, clarified in a few words written at the time of his birth. His father had had to live with an impostor all his life, a constant reminder that his wife had a child, not by just another man, but by his own cousin. Every day, a constant reminder of his failure and her infidelity. Every time he saw his impostor son, he saw Guy. No wonder his father had resented him all his life.

  Robert clenched his eyes, desperately trying to stem the tears, a whole lifetime’s worth of insecurity seemed to both disappear and intensify simultaneously. If only he’d been told, he would have understood. He could have forgiven. But no, he had to wait until his grandchildren were almost grown up before a chance letter from a woman in France had revealed the truth. The enigmatic Uncle Guy, Uncle Hobbly, had been his father, his real father. He leant over and picked up the journal again. All he knew about his real father, or was about to find out, was contained in these pages. And there were also the medals. Where had Tom put them? Robert looked on the bedside table, lifting the Dickens novel, and yes, sure enough, lying under the book, were the four medals – Pip, Squeak and Wilfred – that’s what they used to call the three Great War campaign medals. And attached to them, the DCM “for distinguished conduct in the field”. He ran his finger over the metal, feeling the lettering inscribed on the reverse. He pictured Guy showing them proudly to his parents. What mixed feelings they must have had – one son a hero, the other executed. Robert looked at the inscription on the rim of the m
edal: ‘Pte. G.Searight. Essex Reg’. His father, his real father, had been a hero.

  Chapter 17: The Red Oak

  On his way back from meeting Claudette, Tom stopped off at an estate agent to get a rough idea of how much rented accommodation cost. It was all as expensive as he feared. But what option did he have? He couldn’t go on living with his parents and he couldn’t go back home. When he first left, he fully expected Julie to come to her senses and come begging for him to return. Not only had it not happened, but she seemed more together with Mark Moyes than ever. So much for it being a casual affair. All that stuff about not fancying him and not seeing him any more was just talk. Maybe it had been true at the time but as soon as his back was turned, she tugged the string and Moyes came bouncing back, pandering to her every whim and playing surrogate father to Charlotte. Well, as far as Tom was concerned, Moyes was welcome to Julie – they deserved each other, but he was damned if Moyes was going to usurp him in Charlotte’s affections. Tom knew he hadn’t exactly been a model father since his departure. He couldn’t help not being around when Angus got run over but he hadn’t helped his cause by thumping her teacher like that. That had been a mistake. Immensely satisfying, but a mistake. He missed Charlotte. In fact, he missed them both and he missed his old life. But Julie had betrayed him and then rubbed salt in the wound, and he couldn’t forgive her for that. How could he ever go back now? What a waste he thought, twenty years since they met, fifteen married. How rapidly their mutual past had been made extinct by the present that held it in such little esteem.

  As he caught the train back to Enfield, Tom’s thoughts turned to Maria. It annoyed him that her grandmother had never tried, as Maria had done, to track down the Searights. From what Maria had said, she had never even attempted to. She had held a secret from his father, who, had he known, would have been spared a lifetime of torment and unanswered questions. His father had always, at the best of times, been morose and in possession of a quick temper. As children, Tom and his brother, Alec, had been terrified of him and as adults wary of their father’s fluctuating moods. Tom now knew why. His ‘grandfather’ Lawrence had loved his son Clarence to the total exclusion of Robert, the product of his wife’s illicit union with Guy. Nowadays, people would understand the sort of psychological scars that would leave on a person, but his poor father had kept it all pent up, festering inside him. Should he tell his father? No, it was too late now. His father was well into his eighties; the truth wouldn’t alter anything and, indeed, could make things worse. But that wasn’t Maria’s fault. He thought about getting off the train in a few hours’ time at St Omer and being met by Maria or Bernard. He couldn’t wait to start another blissful weekend away from London.

  Tom ate lunch with his parents – an awkward affair, his father being particularly silent and morose. Soon after lunch, it was time to go to Charlotte’s school for the much-anticipated First World War performance. His father looked rather unkempt, his hair out of place. Suggesting to his mother that his father should perhaps comb his hair, Alice reminded Tom that Robert hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror for many a year.

  Tom quickly packed his holdall for the weekend, threw it in the back of his parents’ car, and picked up his passport and Eurostar ticket, which he stuffed into his back pocket. His parents had arranged to drive via Tom’s house to pick up Julie, even though she lived within easy walking distance of the school. This, thought Tom, was a taster of their future relationship – the occasional united front for the sake of their daughter. Tom drove the Vauxhall. His mother sat in the front, with the window wide open, chattering away about the latest bargains she’d found in one of the big department stores and complaining about receiving a speeding fine when she never broke the speed limit. His father sat in the back, sporadically offering Tom the benefit of his driving experience and complaining of the draught. Julie was waiting for them outside the front gate. She’d dressed up for the occasion in an outfit Tom had always liked – a smart pair of pinstriped trousers, a black top and a sixties-style green leather jacket. She looked lovely, and despite himself, Tom’s heart lurched on seeing her. She took her place next to her father-in-law. She seemed on edge, but whether she was on edge on Charlotte’s behalf or because she had to spend the afternoon with Tom and in close proximity to Moyes, Tom didn’t know. Probably a combination of both, he thought. The ex-couple managed a cordial acknowledgement but otherwise the tension remained palpable and not helped by Robert’s sullen silence. The drive from the house to the school was mercifully brief. Tom parked in a side street near the school. The four of them made their way through the school playground and into the main hall.

  Tom liked the main hall; it reminded him of his old school. It was imposingly large with a wooden floor and dark oak panels that stopped halfway up the wall. It had a very high ceiling and the far end was dominated by the large four-foot high stage, currently obscured by a thick purple curtain. The hall was decked with row upon row of black plastic, interlocking chairs, leaving a long central aisle. The place was a cacophony of noise and milling schoolchildren. The youngest ones sat at the front and their ages graduated towards the back. Behind the oldest children were the seats reserved for parents and guests. Most of the reserved seats were already occupied but there was a convenient run of four empty chairs directly behind the children and next to the aisle. Robert spotted them first and dashed ahead to claim them, followed quickly by Alice. It left Tom and Julie with no option but to sit next to each other.

  Tom turned around. Two rows behind him he saw Rachel, catching her eye. But she pretended not to notice and turned to speak to Adrian, whose blue beard was now pink. Pinkbeard didn’t seem to roll off the tongue so neatly, thought Tom. The big white clock on the wall showed ten minutes to three. The performance was due to start on the hour. As various parents, teachers and children milled around, the Searights flicked through the crudely produced programme. Charlotte’s solitary moment of glory was due to be the second act, directly after the Passchendaele Sisters. At least, thought Tom, Charlotte would get her bit over and done with. As if reading his thoughts, Julie said, ‘Poor girl, she’ll be a nervous wreck by now.’

  ‘I feel a nervous wreck for her.’

  ‘Yes, so do I, I’ve got awful butterflies.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Oh, she was in a dreadful state this morning what with all this, but generally, she’s very down at the moment. You could have called her, you know; she’s missed you desperately. She thinks you don’t love her any more.’

  ‘Hell, does she? I tried to meet her from school–’

  ‘But you were drunk and you hit Mark, you idiot. She doesn’t need that, poor girl.’

  Tom nodded and resisted the temptation to ask where it all started. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice rising loudly above the din of the hall.

  ‘Quieten down now please.’ It was Mr Nolan, the head, standing on the stage in front of the curtain. He was a suitably severe-looking man, with a neat beard and glasses, who spoke in a flat, even tone. ‘That’s enough, thank you.’ He waited patiently until the noise subsided to a muffled silence, but there were still plenty of audible whisperings to one side of the hall. ‘I am waiting,’ he added until he got the silence he wanted. ‘That’s better, thank you.’ He paused, ensuring he had everyone’s undivided attention. ‘Welcome everyone to our summer term’s special performance by Year Ten and a special welcome to parents and carers; thank you for coming. As you all know, the theme for this year’s display is the ninetieth anniversary of the start of the First World War. It’s been the focus of a wonderful collaboration between the history, music and art classes, so a big thank you to those teachers involved – Mr Moyes, Miss Grossman and Mrs Moore respectively. Now, a few practical points I need to mention. School today will finish directly following the end of the performance. That does not mean to say I want to see a huge scrum for the exit as soon as the curtain comes down, is that understood? You will wait quietly in your seats until you
are given permission to leave in an orderly fashion.’ He paused for a few moments to allow his instruction to sink in and then informed the parents where the fire exits were. ‘Right then,’ he said, ‘to start the proceedings, I will hand you over to Mr Moyes, Year 10’s history teacher. Mr Moyes...’

  Mark ran up the side steps to the stage and waited for his head to exit gracefully back to his seat at the side of the hall. ‘OK, thank you, Mr Nolan, and welcome everyone to our commemoration of the beginning of the Great War of 1914 to 1918, otherwise known as the First World War, which started ninety years ago this month. We hope today to be able to give you a small taste of what it was like to be in the war through songs, poems and re-enactments. The kids have worked really hard towards this, so please show your appreciation and give them lots of support and encouragement. Now, if you’ve read the programme, you’ll know our compère for this afternoon will be Adam Sixsmith. So, with no further ado, I present to you, ladies and gentlemen... the First World War!’ With his arm outstretched, Mark stepped back to the side of the stage as the thick purple curtain slowly rose to reveal a huge, impressive backdrop depicting the dark barren landscape of No Man’s Land. The teachers began the applause, followed by the children and parents.

  ‘Isn’t it good?’ remarked Alice clapping.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Tom. ‘I especially like the gruesome bodies.’

  ‘Painted with obvious glee,’ added Julie.

  At the front of the stage stood three microphone stands. A red-haired pupil appeared on the stage and approached the middle microphone. Tom recognised him as the boy who was with Charlotte the day he hit Moyes. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he mumbled, ‘today’s show will...’

  ‘Speak up,’ shouted an older boy in the row directly in front of Tom and diagonally to his left. The boys either side of him giggled.

  Adam stopped, looked worried, coughed and tried again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said too loudly so that his microphone squealed with feedback. Adam stepped back and glanced nervously to the side of the stage. He tried again. ‘Today’s show will start with two songs from the First World War with Miss Grossman on the piano. Please give a warm welcome to the Passin– Passchendaele Sisters...’