Chapter 41: Chapter 41

Michael…

He’s depressed…

What can I do?

Change of scene maybe?

*****

“Charlotte, I was thinking, we’re about due for your road-trip.”

She pauses, half a sausage impaled on a fork midway to her mouth. “Road-trip, Master? What road-

trip?”

“Have you forgotten that you were bequeathed a house? And everything in it. Perhaps it is time to make good your claim?”

The half-a-sausage drops back to her plate. “Go back to the farm you mean? The last time I was there, they… they weren’t very welcoming.”

Michael is listening, chewing on toast and marmalade, suddenly looking more animated than he has for days.

Thank God…

“Things have changed since then, haven’t they,” he says. “You’ve spoken with your friend Tom. He knows the truth of what happened. And of course, there’s Chad.”

Still she stares at the sausage and the fried egg congealing by it. “I’m not sure…”

I pour myself more coffee. “Even if all you decide to do is sell the house, you’ll need to visit to go over the contents. And I would have thought there would be something there you would want to keep. Some memento of your Mr Kalkowski?”

“And if you really don’t want to…” says Michael “… we don’t have to visit your farm, although it would seem a shame. I would have liked to meet your old friends.”

She looks down, stirring the sausage through semi-solid yolk.

*****

Chad half supports the woman at the waist, guiding her movement over thick rubber matting. “That’s it.

Now tuck in your head, down and roll… And as you come down, slap the mat, both hands, as hard as you can.”

She lands on her back with a thwack and a gasp. “That’s it. You’ve got the idea,” he says. “Now try it again, but without me in the way.”

As he moves to one side, he spots me. “James?” His brows rise. “Didn’t expect to see you in the gym.

Something I can do for you?”

“In fact, there is. When you’ve done here, could I have ten minutes?”

“You can have it now.” He waves across to a girl in a tracksuit. “Jill, can you take over while I talk with Mr Alexanders.”

Chad strolls easily by me, moving with grace and a hint of restrained power. “So?”

“Not here. Somewhere private.”

“Your house then?”

“Nooo… I don’t want Charlotte to overhear.”

“Let’s grab a couple of coffees from the kitchen then and take a walk.”

Sally makes two steaming mugs. “Sun’s shining, but it’s nippy out there,” she comments, glugging a shot of brandy into each.

Mugs in hands we sit on a bench, looking down over the meadows and down to the lake. Chad sucks at his mug then smacks his lips. “This private enough? What’s so secret?”

“Not secret exactly, but I wanted to ask you a favour without you feeling pressured into agreeing for the wrong reasons.”

“James, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“You and Charlotte… Jenny to you… you broke up because…”

“Because I’m gay, yes. So?”

“I gather that your mother blamed her for the break-up? And later took the opportunity to be sure that she wasn’t welcome back in the area.”

“Ah…” Chad sighs out steam fragrant with alcohol. “I see where this is going.”

“I’d like to take Charlotte back there, to visit your Mr Kalkowski’s house, but she’s reluctant. I think the trip would do her good. And I’m trying to shake Michael out of his depression too.”

“And you’d like me to go along?”

“Yes, if you’re willing.”

He takes a mouthful of coffee, staring down at the lake. Then another. “I should have done this years ago. Yes, I’ll go. And I’ll take Seb along too.”

“Sebastian? Is that a good idea?”

He chuckles. “It’s a very good idea. My mother’s too fond of imposing her ideas on everyone else. It will do her good to have someone rattle her cage.”

*****

It’s a pleasant trip, if a long one. Driving beyond the City, away from our mountain, and north. We stop overnight en route and get an early start the following morning. Just before lunchtime, we arrive at what was once the home of Charlotte’s beloved teacher, Mr Kalkowski; now bequeathed to her in his will.

Charlotte, subdued, gets out of our car. Chad and Sebastian are already unloading rucksacks from the trunk of theirs. Sebastian takes a long look at Charlotte, then nudges Chad, pushing him towards her.

He stands by her, hands in pockets. “Hasn’t changed much, has it? You’d think he was still in there, just making tea.”

Her mouth is working. She nods a silent yes.

Trying not to cry?

The house is modest, set in a small garden. Flower borders are running riot with overgrown shrubs but the lawns, while not exactly clipped, shows signs of tending. The paint on doors and windows is touched up in places. The brass door-knocker is recently polished, the path swept, the curtains inside drawn closed.

“Someone’s been looking after the place,” comments Michael.

“I think Mrs Collier sends over one of the farm hands every so often,” says Chad. “She and Mr Kalkowski were good friends. She had a key so I think you might find the inside’s been checked over too.”

Charlotte stands, keys in hand, sucking in her lips. Chad touches her on the shoulder. “You alright, Jenny?” Her eyes are glossy. He casts a look over his shoulder to Michael, then slips his hand in to hers. “We’ll go in together, eh?”

She nods and they walk, Chad leading her slightly, to the door. Charlotte inserts the key, and the lock turns smoothly. The pair step inside. Michael, Sebastian and I follow, through a small hallway and into a sitting room.

Inside, it’s gloomy and a little musty but with the scent of beeswax hanging. “I’ll open the curtains and windows, shall I?” suggests Michael. “Let the air through.” He tugs back drapes and sunshine spills into the small room, fresh air billowing through.

It’s as though the occupant were still here, perhaps in the next room. A couple of armchairs frame a fireplace, each with a side-table. A cup-ring on one has burned through the polish of the timber, but otherwise the grain of old oak glows amber, gold and brown.

Bookcases fill one wall. Most of the shelves are filled with volumes old and new, but an astrolabe takes pride of place on one, a lovely instrument in brass, set beside boxes and cases of various kinds.

A dresser sits against another, set with delftware and framed photographs, and polished sections of a pink and black granite, ammonites and fossil fish. More photos hang from the walls.

Charlotte stands there, looking lost. “It doesn’t feel right,” she whispers. “He’s supposed to be here, sitting in his chair by the fire…”

“… Offering you tea and some of my mother’s scones,” finishes Chad. “Yes, it feels odd, doesn’t it?”

I wander the room, looking at the photos. Some are old, black-and-white, faded to sepia in places; but the eyes of a young couple look out at me; standing together; both dark-eyed and dark-haired, he tall and lean, she shorter, with a pretty, likable face. Both wear the hairstyle and clothes of fifty years gone.

But other photographs sit on the dresser. I pick one up: a classic school photograph: thirty or forty children ranging from the tiny to teenagers, standing three rows deep, flanked by a woman to one side and a tall male figure in a suit on the other. The man is elderly, silver-haired, leaning on a walking-stick;

but his eyes are dark and penetrating. And he smiles at the camera.

His expression?

Pride…

Among the children, in the back row, tall and a little gangly, is a younger version of a face I know so well.

I peer in close, straining for the details. Carrot-orange hair frames a face not yet fully formed. The beauty is blooming, but the features are a little rounder than the ones I know, the cheekbones not so high or so finely sculpted. But the eyes are already there: emerald jewels set in pale skin.

Putting the photograph back, I move to the next. The same young face looks out at me, this time standing next to another that I know: Chad. She’s wearing shorts, tee-shirt and boxing gloves. Chad stretches her arm up with one hand, punches the air with the other. In her other hand, she holds a silver cup. In the background, the same tall suited figure leans on his stick, smiling at the young pair.

Engraved on the frame below the photo, Regional Girls’ Finalist - Jennifer Conners.

I move to the bookcases: Dawkins, ‘The Selfish Gene’, Tolkien, ‘The Lord of the Rings’, E.O. Wilson, ‘On Human Nature’, The Talmud, Lyell’s ‘Principles of Geology’, ‘The Origin of Species’, HG Wells, ‘The Time Machine’.

This is where my Jade-Eyes was formed. This was the mind that made her…

Wish I could have met him…

Charlotte paces the room, looking, sometimes touching. Michael and Chad stand in the background, watchful and silent as she paces; picking up first one thing, then another.

She runs a finger over the leather of what looks like a telescope case. “He let me use it, even though I was just a kid. Showed me how to use it. Taught me the constellations.”

“You’ll want to keep it then,” says Michael. “It sounds as though it means a lot to you.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” she says. “These were his things.”

“They’re yours now,” says Chad. “He wanted you to have them. Of all the people he could have chosen, he left it all to you.”

Her eyes brim again.

Seb breaks in. “Tell you what. Why don’t I make some tea while you have a look around the place?”

“Good idea,” nods Chad. “I’ll show you the kitchen. We’ll probably need to find the stop-cock too.”

Michael wraps arms around Charlotte, kisses the top of her head. “I can see you’re feeling emotional.

Don’t blame you. If it’s okay by you, I'll go around the house, open it up, let the fresh air through. You can look around your memories.”

Left alone with my Jade-Eyes, I say, “How are you feeling?”

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Michael had it right. Emotional. But I’ll be alright in a bit.” She turns a gaze of liquid emerald on me. “Thank you for coming, Master. It’s helped.”

“You're welcome. I would have come anyway, to give you moral support. But the fact is, that I had my own reasons for making the trip.”

Her brow wrinkles. “What would those be?”

I take her hand, rubbing my thumb over the fingers. “I wanted to check for myself something I already suspected. And I have learned that I was correct.”

“About what?”

I kiss the fingers. “Well, you see. I’d heard a rumour that you never had a real father. That didn’t feel right, so I came to see for myself.”

I gesture around the small lounge; the photos, the books, the telescope. “And you see. I was right. You did have a real father.”

Her eyes widen, she gulps, then she burst into tears.

*****