Читать книгу Gold Beach - Elisabeth Jones - Страница 6

Moffat, Scotland, July 5th 1975

Mr Young told me I should be more aware of signs. His tone of voice and patting my shoulder as we said goodbye reminded me of my first father. Ever since I had fled to Lichfield with a tiny suitcase, he had treated me as if I were someone special to him, and I actually was, although I wasn't conscious of it then. I told him he was right and that I would do it, to humour him, but inside I thought, What is this man saying? However, as I came into the pub with Isobel and heard Pink Floyd's new song Wish You Were Here I began to understand what he had meant.

My recent breakup with Claire had made me reconsider my life. I had a family with whom except for my mother and little sister, I barely kept touch, and at my thirty years of age it seemed I would never manage to settle down. Once we took the decision to break up, or rather, once she took it, living together became so unbearable that I needed to get away from Lichfield until she had left my house for good, but where could I go to avoid giving explanations to anyone? I came across the solution when I phoned my mother. It seemed destiny was determined to bring me back to the start. Ever since my mother had opened her Bed & Breakfast she had never gone on summer holidays until, coincidentally, that year. She would spend the whole month of July with her husband and my sisters in Saundersfoot, Wales, so my childhood home would be vacant to accommodate a single tenant: me. Seizing the opportunity that showed up, I made her believe that I had finally decided to spend some days in Moffat. When she heard she was speechless for a moment as if she couldn't believe what I had just told her. I didn't need to see her to know that she was crying. When she managed to regain her voice, she told me that this was the gift she had been expecting for years. From my brief, abrupt answer she understood that I didn't want to talk about the past, so it didn't take her long to change the subject. She didn't even ask me about Claire. I suppose that since I didn't mention her, she had already imagined what had happened. Given that my mother always kept up with the idle coming and going of the women through my life since my relationship with Isobel ended, her discretion on these matters was absolute. After thanking me for wanting to spend some days at home, she begged me to wait for her until she returned. And it was then when, without knowing why, I asked her about Isobel. I hadn’t seen her since she made the decision that broke my heart thirteen years ago. I broke up not only with her that day, but also with my family because I considered them to blame for our breakup. A few years after that fateful day, I picked up my relationship with my mother but I had never heard anything from Isobel again. I learned to my surprise that she was still living in Moffat, that she was the most beloved teacher at school and that she inexplicably didn't have a boyfriend. Was that a sign?

It took me nearly five hours in my Mini to cover the 233 miles that separated Lichfield from Moffat, but it didn't seem to take that long. I used those hours to try and sort my mind out a little. Grief and sadness, loyal companions to romantic breakups, didn't join me this time. Now I seemed to perceive the signs Mr Young talked to me about clearly. I should have left Claire long ago. But what really surprised me was to feel that almost teenage joy again at not being able to get Isobel out of my mind. Why had I asked about her? It seemed that the pride then that stopped me from coming back had vanished completely. Maybe now I was making the journey back home that I never got to do then? Only time would tell me.

As the hands of the clock verged on noon I arrived in Moffat. As soon as I went through the front door of the house that had seen me grow up, the memories and feelings that I had managed to shut into oblivion for the past years crowded my mind, as if demanding my attention. The house had been closed for a week but there was still a scent of fresh flowers. I stopped for some time to look around. Although the decoration was slightly changed, it didn't feel like someone else's home. I left my suitcase on the floor and set about opening the curtains to let in the light of a bright sun that surprisingly shone over the town. The first thing I did was to head for my old bedroom to unpack. As I opened the door I discovered that everything was exactly as I had left it. Shaking my head, I closed my eyes and sighed sadly. How could I have hurt my mother so much? At that moment I would have loved to have her by my side to hug her, but once again we were miles apart. As I opened my eyes, I shook my head energetically as if telling myself that it was time to put things right, at least to her and my sisters. In a blur of opening and closing doors and drawers I arranged all my clothing neatly and tidily. After many years of hearing the same words from the lips of every woman who had been through my life, from my mother to Claire, they had finally succeeded in brushing up my tidy mess. Before going out I looked around. I was surprised to find a note on my pillow. I approached with curiosity to read it. It was written in my mother's hand.

Isobel. 5, Warriston Rd.

She would love to see you again.

Mum xxx

Isobel, I repeated in my mind. Would she really be happy to see me after the things we said to each other that day at the train station? I had my doubts. I definitely hadn’t come back to Moffat to be reunited with her. That story was already over and done with. Maybe my mother had misinterpreted my asking about her. The only thing I looked for in Moffat was to be alone and far from the world, at least for the next month. That question had been nothing more than out of pure courtesy. I crumpled the note and put it in my trouser pocket to throw in the bin later.

I went down the stairs as if I was late for school. As I went through the hall to head for the kitchen, I stopped by the wooden table opposite the front door. It was just as I remembered it. There was a little bunch of dried flowers at the centre, lilac this time, tied with a pink ribbon and next to a white candle not yet lit. To the left a picture of John with his white coat and his tie, to the right a picture of Elwyn in his army uniform. The two men my mother had loved shared, on an equal footing, that tiny sanctuary. I stared at my two fathers. I remembered the first one fondly; I still couldn't love the second one.

As I opened the kitchen cupboards my stomach began to growl. If I had phoned my mother sooner, the pantry would be full, but that was not the case. Thankfully I found something to eat. I literally wolfed down a plateful of beans on toast along with a cup of tea as if it were just a starter. To my totally astonishment, I washed up and tidied the kitchen. As I recalled the daily words of reproach from Claire telling me not to leave plates all over the place, I smiled knowing that she finally had succeeded. It was a pity that she wasn't with me to relish her victory. I went into the hall, put my jacket on, picked up the car keys and set off for the supermarket.

Over the thirteen years in which I hadn’t been back in Moffat, the town had changed considerably. I drove down Old Carlisle Rd trying to remember where the nearest supermarket was. When I reached The Holm I turned left to head for the town centre but inexplicably, instead of going straight ahead, I turned into Park Circle, went round the large roundabout and took the second exit to the right. Where was I going?, I thought. I braked and stopped to turn around as soon as I could because I was literally lost. I had lived in this town for seventeen years but it seemed as if it were my first visit. I looked around to try and get my bearings. I had stopped in front of five semi-detached houses. All of them had a little garden at the front, enclosed by perfectly varnished fences that added a touch of colour to the monotony of the grey façades. I searched in both directions for the name of the street, 5 Warriston Rd. I read the name again with my eyes popping out of my head, I stretched my legs, felt my trouser pocket and slowly reached in to pull out the note I had forgotten to throw away. I yield Mr Young, you are completely right, I thought.

My pulse raced and I knew exactly why. A false logic that only hid my own pride told me that what I ought to do was to head for the supermarket and forget stories from the past. But something inside me, which I refused to call heart, constantly repeated her name. I looked at my watch. It was half past one. With a little luck I could invite her to have lunch, I thought. I had time before 6pm to go shopping. But then reason brought me back to reality. Could I just show up in front of her after thirteen years to invite her for lunch as if nothing ever happened? The arrogance of thinking that relationship wouldn't affect me any more and the charisma I’d developed with all the women that had gone through my life made me believe I could. Suddenly the clouds put and end to the truce they had granted to the sun. The sky had turned grey.

For some minutes my mind tried to find the right answers for whatever could come from this reunion, but although I still believed that it wasn't a good idea, I didn't lose my courage. I got out of the car, straightened my clothes and when I was about to go through the gate I remembered Claire. Only a few hours had passed since I left her in Lichfield. I looked at the door. What I was about to do was not a new conquest; I was simply going to visit a childhood friend.

The clouds had completely darkened the sky. Shortly it would start to rain. I stood before the entrance to her new house for some minutes without daring to ring the bell until finally I did. When she opened the door she looked at me with those wonderful blue eyes that I had never managed to forget. Her look could not hide the surprise my unexpected visit provoked. Immediately she pulled up the long neck of her sleeveless pullover until it covered her jaw and adjusted the knitted cardigan she was wearing to cover her bare shoulder. For a few seconds we stared at each other with no reservations as if we wanted to admire the changes that time had taken upon us. And it was then when I understood why it hadn't worked out with anyone else.

Isobel had become a beauty. Her skin was still as soft and white as I remembered it. Her long jet black hair had grown to cover her back with undulations that looked like small waves from the sea. I literally had to bite back the urge to kiss her at that very moment. The last thing I expected at seeing her was to feel a passion again I had thought was already forgotten. For a moment I cursed my damn pride for not having let me come back for her years ago. Mr Young's words came to life once again: ‘Philip, although no one can go back and make a new start, anyone can start from now on and make a new end.’ I would have given anything I needed to know what was on her mind. Silence became so uncomfortable that I couldn't think of anything better to break the ice than using the most moderate phrase in my city wolf repertoire, ‘I'll buy you a beer at the pub.’

Without saying a single word, she turned around and disappeared inside the house. My first reaction was to think, ‘You deserved that,’ but since the door was kept open I stood waiting without knowing what to do. Those ten minutes were the longest in my life but when she turned up again, it was worth the wait. She had changed clothes and redone her long hair in record time. She was sporting a short sleeveless dress, with a high neck and big patterned flowers in citrus colours. Her handbag and cardigan hung over her arm. She ornamented her long hair with a wide white headband that matched her high platform shoes which made her nearly as tall as me. She looked stunning. She locked the door and with her childish smile said, ‘Let's go before the rain starts.’ I looked at her and smiled because I felt that she had been waiting for me. And as if all those years had become only a few hours, we picked up our friendship just where I had abandoned it.

As we entered the pub, Isobel started to hum aloud the Pink Floyd song that could be heard amidst the bustle. After ordering at the bar, we sat at a table by the window. We toasted with our pints barely looking at each other's eyes. Neither of us could maintain eye contact. She crossed her legs purposefully and started to question me about my life. Soon I embarrassingly discovered that she was aware of everything that had happened to me, she even knew that I had broken up with Claire. My mother's discretion had one exception, Isobel.

‘How are you?’ she asked with a tenderness that indicated concern.

‘Fine, though it may sound strange. There are breakups that hurt you and others that set you free. Luckily, this is one of those.’

‘Have you come back to Moffat to spend the summer or just to switch off at home for a few days?’ she said as she took a sip of beer.

‘I really don't know yet. Theoretically I had to give re-sit classes for the next two weeks, but Mr Young recommended I started my holidays, so I don't need to go back to Lichfield until the end of August.’

‘Who is Mr Young?’ she asked as if she didn't know.

‘He's the headmaster of the school where I work. He's a great person and a great professional who doesn't like scandals, so when Claire showed up at the staff meeting shooting her mouth off about our breakup, with her version of the truth, he called me to his office to tell him what had happened. Evidently it wasn't his intention to meddle in my private life, but he wanted to be aware of the facts to make the right decisions. I still don't know why, but he thinks highly of me and I believe that he was even happy that I finished with her. Claire never was his cup of tea. He told me that he would find a substitute for the re-sit classes and that the best thing I could do was to return to my origins and start over. So that's why I'm here.’

‘But when you return to Lichfield and meet her again, won't you fall back into her arms?’ she asked me, clenching her jaw.

‘Fortunately she has decided to return to London. She says she misses real cities.’

‘Well, in Moffat she would have been bored stiff, don't you think?’ she guffawed.

‘Probably. In a couple of weeks, when she finishes her work at the school, she will go back to London. She told Mr Young she wouldn’t be coming back next year, so problem solved.’

‘Come to think of it, how did you dare leave her alone in your house? What if you come back and find it empty or smashed up?

‘She's hysterical but classy. She'll just collect her things and leave.’

The maturity of her thirty years of age had allowed her to keep her youthful features and vivacious and occasionally childlike behaviour. The Isobel I remembered had become a beautiful woman who hid her childhood wounds under coloured fabrics. My smile, my silence and the way I looked at her made her blush so much that she didn't take long to change the subject.

‘How could you stay so long with a woman like that? At least tell me that she was good in bed because I don't get it. English, maths teacher, blonde, whatever did you see in her?’

Apparently my mother had given her a full description of my last partner. Basically she was right. What had I seen in Claire? What did I expect to achieve with that relationship? And with the previous ones? Unintentionally I had followed Mr Young's advice to the letter. I was at the place where everything started and now that I saw her before me I knew that I was where I should be. I smiled and without stopping to look into her eyes I raised my pint of beer to make a toast.

‘To new beginnings, Isobel.’

She looked at me for a moment not knowing what to say, her cheeks went a little red until her lips started to curve into a slight smile.

‘May they be definitive, Philip.’

We left the pub at half past six. The afternoon had passed by almost without my noticing, I even forgot I was hungry. A light rain fell upon us like morning dew. The temperature had dropped considerably, so I zipped my jacket up to my neck. I walked her home as if we were the same teenagers of years ago. On the way back the old Isobel reappeared with that natural joy so contagious that it made you feel happy. It was the last thing I expected but I was thankful. I don't know what I’d have done if she had acted as I deserved. As we got to her house we took shelter under the porch to avoid the rain. Unless any last minute pretext could stop it, farewell time had come but I didn't want to leave. I had missed her company so much that the hours that we had spent together didn't feel enough. Isobel gave me peace. When I saw her taking her keys out of her handbag, I improvised the first thing that came to mind to see her again. She turned and looked at me with a questioning expression when I asked her if she would fancy going fishing with me the next morning. How tactless of me to suggest that, but now it was too late to take it back. ‘If you're hoping that we end up like the first time you invited me you're very mistaken,’ she told me.

When I was able to react I moved away from her shyly and just said with a serious countenance, ‘I just wanted to see you and spend the morning with you, nothing else.’

She looked at me, winked and said, ‘Tomorrow at ten o'clock. Picnic's on me.’ She waved goodbye and gave me a smile that touched my soul, and with no further words, she closed the door determinedly. I stood motionless for a moment because I refused to believe that she wouldn't invite me in, but she didn't open again. My physical appearance and talent for seduction, that were completely irresistible to other women, didn't seem to affect her at all any more. That summer promised to be a re-sit course for an exam I had failed long ago.

I went to the car because I suddenly remembered that I was still hungry and without thinking twice I set off for Maria's Fish & Chip shop on High Street to give myself the feast I deserved. I would find time to stock up the larder the following day.

My childhood home was located on the outskirts of the town. Once you went past the rugby field, you turned first right to go into a dark, narrow road through a deep forest. The sunlight could hardly get through those high, thick trees. Scarcely a mile later, a clearing opened in the forest and my home appeared. That house had experienced several changes along the years. It was built initially as a farm with crops and livestock areas. When my father purchased it, he transformed it into his surgery and his home. The land passed into the hands of the town council and the stables were turned into a carport and some rooms to extend the house. Before he died he converted it into the Bed & Breakfast that was nowadays.

As I came in I was grateful that the heating had been on for a while because it was actually quite cold. I had forgotten that summer in Scotland became a warm winter at nightfall. I took off my shoes just as I went in to avoid dirtying the immaculate soft carpet in the hall, I hung my jacket on the coat stand and walked to my bedroom to put on my slippers. Before I left the room I walked to the window. If there was anything I liked about that room it was the view. I drew the curtains to admire the always green and damp wooded mountains that seemed to be there to protect the rear of the house. The sheep were grazing placidly scattered over the hillsides as if they were in a paradise of their own. During the month of July a fringe of light could be seen over the mountaintops that would stay all night, like a constant dawn. I left the curtain open and went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea that would help warm me up. It wasn’t even 8pm and I didn't have any plans other than watching TV and sleeping so I wasn’t in a hurry. Fortunately Claire didn't have my phone number so she wouldn’t bother me with her insults, recriminations and repeated suggestions that I should see a psychiatrist. At that moment I particularly appreciated the solitude of the house.

When I walked into the living room I felt a slight difference of temperature. It was cold. My body shivered from head to toe. I looked around as if I was searching for something but of course I just saw furniture, curtains and china ornaments. The lamp on the side table by the sofa was on. I was really surprised because I couldn't remember when I had switched it on. While I walked towards the sofa, I refused to accept that the heat spouting from my body had been caused by fear. Fear of what?, I thought. I sighed heavily and shook my head to clear my mind of that nonsense. I went to the television, turned it on, flopped onto the sofa. I was going to put my cup of tea down on the table when I saw it.

My mother's diary was resting beside the lamp like it was waiting for me. I couldn't believe that she had left it there by accident, with her always being so careful to protect the words of her life. This time I took it and opened it without remorse. With the help of my thumb I turned the pages quickly to the end.

June 23th, 1975

I know I lost Philip years ago. And the worst thing is that I don't know how to get him now. I owe it to him that my life sparkles again, however I let his darken. What we did for his own good ended up distancing him from me. How could I have kept him away from me? Everyday I'm ashamed of my attitude and I only hope that fate will bring him back to me soon to make up for my mistakes and help him find his way. I know who can make him happy. Am I a terrible mother for not telling him what to do? I’m sure he wouldn't follow my advice. I need him to come back. I want him to return to my side. Please Philip, come back.

Once again that diary changed the course of my life. My mother's words broke my heart. I was dying to see her again. I closed it slowly and put it back on the side table. At that moment the last thing I wanted was to bring all those memories back. I turned my eyes to the TV to forget what I had read, but I was already at the mercy of a destiny that didn't stop sending me signs, just as Mr Young predicted. The show Top of the Pops announced a new performance. On the stage 10cc was beginning to sing I'm Not In Love. The lyrics of that song summarised my own reality. I kept a photo of Isobel too. The lamplight started to flicker as if the bulb was about to blow the fuse any time until it went off. Now the living room was only lit by the light from the TV. I cuddled up on the couch as if I was cold but actually, even though the notion of it made me feel ashamed, I was afraid. While the song repeated, ‘Big boys don't cry,’ I glanced at the diary and remembered the first time I saw it. I was only fourteen years old and from that moment, my whole life changed.

The trunk my mother kept in the attic was my favourite game until it became my big obsession and the greatest discovery of my life. What would have become of us if I hadn’t found out what was hidden inside? Although even now I still regret the adventure I undertook, I always thought that my mother deserved to be happy.

When I was a child I always believed that I had to protect it because there was a great treasure inside, and in a certain way there was. On days when the winter cold stopped me from playing in the garden, I would pass my time in the attic fighting against an imaginary army to defend it, with the wooden sword that my father had made me. During my childhood years I never asked my mother what was kept inside, because my own fantasy made me believe that it was full of jewels, but when I grew up and asked her to show me the fortune I had been protecting in my games, she only told me that there was nothing but old clothes and she never found the right moment to open the mysterious trunk before me. If her words were true why did she lock it? Some years later I went from being its ardent defender to becoming its most obsessive looter. I tried to open it in a thousand different ways to no avail. If my mother had learned about my futile attempts, she certainly would have been pleased that her secret was safe, but most of all to see my total lack of talent as a thief. Nor could I find out where she was keeping the key to open it. The only choice I had left was to break the lock, but if I didn't want to get a good telling off I had to pretend that something had fallen onto the trunk and broken it. I didn't need to carry out my ingenious plan, though. I think I had been chosen by fate to change the course of our lives.

My mother's permanently melancholy look, her black hardback notebook, from which she was inseparable, where she said she wrote recipes that she never put into practice, her early morning visits to the attic when she thought I was sleeping and that trunk which seemed to have a life of its own, had become a big mystery which I needed to unravel. Something inside me urged me to open it.

At first I thought that her sorrow was because of my father's death, but then I began to remember what she was like while he was still alive. If I was to pinpoint one characteristic feature it would be the way she seemed at moments to be absent with a lost and faraway look.

My father, John McCoolant, had been Moffat's doctor all his life, so it was easy for him to diagnose the condition that ended his life. One of the advantages of his profession was that, from the first moment, you could establish, with some margin of error, the time you would have left. He spent it settling our futures. When two years later I asked my mother the cause of his death, her answer only sowed the doubt that would lead me to uncover her big secret. No one dies of sadness.

I recall the five years that life allowed me to enjoy my father's company as the best time of my childhood. It seems hard to believe that age hasn’t erased my memories of my time with him. His patients were his life and the two of us were his passion. When his hours of practice were over, he would leave his coat on the chair, loosen his tie and run up the stairs to find me and play for a bit with me while my mother prepared dinner. After eating, they tidied the kitchen together, made two cups of tea and we went into the living room to relax and watch some TV. We always sat on the sofa in the same way. He used to sit at the corner because he always had something to read under the light of the table lamp. My mother would lie down with her legs resting on a pair of cushions and her head on my father's leg and I would curl up on his lap until I fell asleep. Although it seemed a dream, I was always aware of how tenderly he used to tuck me into bed and kiss me goodnight.

If I had to pick three days out of those five years I wouldn't have a single doubt as to which I would choose. The first one would be the day my father held my hand and took me to the porch to make my sword. We sanded down the wood, his hands over mine, after he cut it with a handsaw, until we got it smooth and splinterless. We gave it several layers of varnish to get it gleaming and shiny and we left it to dry until next morning. That year, Father Christmas brought me a pirate hat, a patch for my eye and a belt to sheathe my sword.

The second day would be the first time he took me fishing. My mother prepared us a basket with sandwiches and biscuits, a flask with tea for him and another one with milk for me. Despite the brilliant sun that shone on that Sunday morning, she stayed at home. As we set out for the river she waved us goodbye and smiled happily. On my part I felt as if I was already a big boy, but when I saw the first fish that fought to get back to its natural environment, I got so afraid that I took refuge behind my father's back so I wouldn't see that agonizing dance. I think he threw it back into the river figuring that I wouldn't be able to eat it later. I suppose he thought that in time I would end appreciate his greatest hobby.

And the third day, when I said goodbye to him.

Two days before his death, my mother asked me to go into his bedroom to say goodnight. His slow heavy breathing was a constant agony. I remember perfectly how pale his face was and how much older he looked. The perpetual smile that was drawn on his lips couldn't hide his sorrow nor his pain. He embraced me and covered me with kisses with the little strength he had left. He was actually saying goodbye to me. Although it was hard for him to talk, he pulled out strength he didn't have to tell me a few things that have been etched in my mind ever since.

‘Are you sick, dad?’ I asked him worriedly.

‘No, I just have a little cold, that's why I have to rest. But before I go to sleep I need you to promise me something.’

‘Whatever you want, dad,’ I told him and I got closer as if he was going to tell me a secret in my ear.

‘Promise me you'll take care of your mother and you'll do what it takes to make her happy, no matter what.’

At my tender age it was almost impossible that I would have known what he meant, but those words made me feel a big boy again, so I promised him without hesitation and unaware that I had just taken on the first mission of my life.

‘I promise you, Dad,’ I told him as I crossed my heart with my thumb and sealed my promise with a kiss on my finger just as he had taught me.

‘Good boy. And one last thing, my son. Promise me you'll never forget how much I love you and how happy you've made me.’

I promised him without knowing what all that was about. My mother embraced me and she needed a moment to recover her voice choked by weeping.

‘I'll see that he never forgets you, John. Come on, Philip, kiss Dad goodnight.’

As I got closer to him I saw some restrained tears rolling down his face. I kissed him and waved goodbye as I left the room.

The night my father died, my mother had put me to bed early but his moaning kept me from getting to sleep. I got up and walked barefoot to their room. When I got there, I stood at the doorway unnoticed. Death was something unknown to me so far, so when I saw my father lying on the bed with his eyes closed I thought that he was just sleeping. My mother was on her knees beside the bed. She was holding his hand and her face rested close to his chest. She was sobbing and kept repeating over and over again, ‘Forgive me.’ Some years later I would understand what she meant. My father's chest rose with a death rattle as if he was about to draw his last breath at any moment. Suddenly he opened his eyes and turned his head towards me as if it had fallen on that side. I was afraid but when I saw him smiling at me, I relaxed. My father's chest fell slowly and never rose again.

Some months before his death, my father had turned our house into a guest house or Bed & Breakfast, as they began to call it after the war, but it took my mother six months after he passed away to have the doors ready to open for business. At the beginning of August our life changed overnight. The first guests started to show up as if they had been waiting at the door to check in, and I set foot in the schoolroom for the first time. It was there where I met Isobel. Although I was yearning for the first day of school to come, since my mother had told me that it was there where they would teach me to become a man, when I saw that she was staying at the door and a stranger took my hand and walked me inside, my desperation made me scream in terror. I don’t know who was crying more, she or I. Since my teacher knew her, she allowed my mother some more minutes to say goodbye again. She hugged me and managed to quieten me down with her sweet words. ‘Remember what you promised Dad,’ she said, ‘you have to study and become a man to take care of me.’ Of course I would. I dried my tears with my hands, kissed my mother and hand in hand with my teacher I went to the classroom with a mission to accomplish.

From the very first day we never lacked customers. From Monday to Friday I could offer her little help, but weekends were different. Although she never used to wake me up, I would get up as soon as I heard her in the kitchen. I would have a wash, comb my rebellious curls and put clean clothes on to go down to serve breakfast and provide our guests with a little conversation. Everyone used to like the dimples flanking my smile. Later, while she cleaned up the rooms and changed the bedclothes, I would wash up. At first I had to do it standing on a chair until I grew tall enough to reach the sink by my own means.

Saturday afternoon was my favourite time, because after lunch we used to go to the park to play with Betty, the border collie we adopted when my father died, and to take a walk by the river until dinner time. It seemed to be only then that I saw my mother really happy.

The house was never closed to the public except for a single day: the 6^th of June. For the whole day my mother seemed to be absent. Year after year I learned to respect her silence because I thought it was the day to remember my father. And that was the truth. She used to get up early in the morning and even though she walked slowly in the attic not to wake me up, the wood always creaked under her feet. When I heard her coming down to make breakfast, I got up to have it together. Walking across the entrance hall towards the kitchen, I used to find a white candle already burning on the small table by the door and a tiny bunch of dried flowers held together with a ribbon, along with the photo of John she had put there. I used to go into the kitchen almost on tiptoes and sit at the table without even saying good morning so as not to interrupt her thoughts. After leaving my bowl of porridge next to me, she used to crouch at my level, take my face with both hands and look me in the eyes with a smile full of melancholy. For several minutes she would get lost in my features as if she would find the calm she needed on that day there. Then she would kiss me and we had breakfast in silence. When I grew up I came up with questions I never dared to ask. What did the 6^th of June have to do with my father? It wasn't his birthday, it wasn't the date of his death. Could it be the day they met? All those questions were about to find their answers.

The 6^th of June began like every previous one, but that day Isobel's life and mine would change forever. Dawn was breaking when my mother went up to the attic. Her stealthy footsteps woke me up but I waited curled up under the covers for her to go down to the kitchen. Not even an hour had passed when I heard Betty barking desperately. I sat up on my bed with a start alarmed by the barking and Geena's crying for help.

Geena was Isobel's mother and my mother's best friend. Like many women, she had lost her husband in the war so she had no option but to raise Isobel on her own. Although she was a beautiful young woman she hadn't found a man who could match Gareth yet. She was a cook at the town's pub and since my mother had opened her Bed & Breakfast, she worked some hours in the morning at our house to help her and get some extra money. Isobel and I were the same age and therefore we were classmates, but it wasn't until this event that our true friendship began.

I put on my trainers and ran down the stairs to the front door with my mother behind me. During the years that she was married to my father she had become a superb nurse. No one healed wounds in all of Moffat as well as my mother.

‘Geena! What's wrong?’ my mother asked as she held her by her shoulders trying to calm her down.

‘Please help me!’ she shouted desperately, her eyes flooded with tears. ‘A pot of boiling water has spilt all over my daughter!’

When she heard that, my mother cried, ‘My God!’ as she ran inside the house to get her first-aid kit. Betty kept going around her as if she was trying to find a way to help. Geena's voice just repeated over and over, ‘My child,’ with wrenching sobs that made me tremble thinking of the pain Isobel would be suffering. She was hiding her eyes with her hands as if she didn't want me to see her crying. I came close to her not knowing what to say to console her but most of all to hold her tightly for she seemed to be about to collapse onto the floor at any time. Geena clung to me fiercely, seized by anxiety and desperation. When my mother came out again, she literally tore her from my arms and started to run to the front gate to get in the car. Geena let herself be taken away. I stayed at the door not knowing what to do until I saw them disappearing down the road to town. Betty sat beside me and raised her paw to stroke my hand while she moaned with sadness. Back then Isobel and I were not great friends. We were classmates but I hardly used to talk to her, however, I felt I couldn't sit idly by and do nothing. I had to get dressed, take my bicycle and head for her house in case my mother needed me. At fourteen I was old enough to learn how to heal wounds. But as I got to my room to change my clothes, I remembered the trunk. I thought for a moment that the most important thing at that time was attending Isobel but then I reconsidered whether this was the opportunity I had been waiting so long for. Finally I decided to go up to the attic to check whether the trunk had its lock on or, on the contrary, was open. Betty followed me. I climbed the stairs slowly as if aware of making a big mistake, but I kept on steadily. When I got to the trunk and saw no lock on it I closed my eyes frightened. Betty started to bark lightly while she walked back and forth as if she wanted to tell me to get out of there. I crouched down to her level and began to scratch her behind her ears.

‘You’ve got to help me, Betty. I need to see what my mother keeps in this trunk but she mustn't know, so warn me when she comes back. Understand?’

Betty went to the window, stood up on her back legs and leaned on the frame. She looked at me and waved her tail energetically as if saying that she was ready. I said, ‘Good girl,’ and slowly walked to the trunk. As I stood before it I knew I was going to betray my mother's trust, but even though I felt ashamed of my behaviour, I decided to go on. For a moment I thought that if she hadn't thought fit to share with me what she kept inside, there had to be a reason, or maybe it was true that she just kept old clothes and it had been my own fantasies which made me believe that I would find some guilty secret in there. My thoughts battled against each other in two factions, one in favour of opening it and the other against it. How could I possibly please both of them and find some peace? Suddenly I came up with a solution. Before opening it I promised myself that whatever I found, I would never disclose the fact that I had opened it to my mother, that way her secret would always be safe.

I knelt facing the trunk. The padlock was on the floor along with the key. That was the best thing that could happen to me. I lifted the lid and holding my breath I looked inside. Sitting at the bottom of the trunk I only found three things: a pair of shiny black tap shoes, a perfectly folded blue dress with short sleeves and a pair of white socks. I sat back on my feet open-mouthed as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over me. I must have looked like a fool. When I could react, I closed my mouth and frowned. I was disappointed. Whose were those clothes? As far as I knew, my mother had never been a tap dancer. When I recalled all those years of trying to open that trunk I laughed. How could I have doubted my mother? So it was true what she had told me. Still with a smile on my lips I leaned on the bottom of the trunk to stand up when it unexpectedly gave way. I quickly lifted my hands thinking I had broken it, but soon I discovered that it was just a false bottom. I stooped again to remove the piece of wood with extreme care. I left it on the floor next to the dress and shoes and looked inside.

Everything was perfectly arranged. Numbered and put together in order she kept twelve black hardback notebooks like the one she used to write down her recipes. I found some photographs alongside, a handwritten note and five letters inside their respective envelopes all tied together with a pink ribbon. I picked up the note and read it thoroughly.

‘It is necessary to hope, though hope should always be deluded; for hope itself is happiness, and its frustration, however frequent, are less dreadful than its extinction.’ —Samuel Johnson.

Love,

Daddy.

I put it back in its place and took the first photo to have a closer look. It showed two embracing couples at a park. Everyone was smiling except one of the women. Those people were complete strangers to me. I put it back in its place and took some photographs wrapped in a very worn out pink paper. The first one was of a young soldier who was smiling and sported two dimples identical to mine. On the back there was something written: ‘Dream of the first sunrise that we’ll see together without ever having to be apart again. Birmingham, May 21^st, 1944.’

The second photograph was a great discovery. That young lady sporting a dress identical to the one beside me was my mother. I had a look on the back and the following could be read: ‘The day this photograph talks to you, I will stop loving you. Birmingham, May 2^nd, 1944.’

How much my mother had changed in those fifteen years. There was no doubt that time had affected her countenance. I looked again at the photographs and the dates. What did all that mean? Who was that man? Her first boyfriend? If I was looking for answers in there, all I had got were more questions.

With the photograph still in my hand, I tried to remember how my parents got on, living together. Although I was only five years old when my father died, I still held memories of moments of our lives. I was happy, we were a happy family, or at least that was what I thought. Was the man in the photograph the reason why my mother asked for forgiveness when my father died? I refused to believe that she loved another man at that time. My father didn't deserve such a thing. I put it back in its place with anger and indignation. My misinterpretation of the facts made me hate my mother at that time. I slammed the trunk shut as if I wanted to break it. Betty gave a start but kept her mind on her task. I clenched my fists against my face because I didn't want to cry but my tears were already on their own path. I began to go downstairs to get far away from there but suddenly I stopped. Why would she keep her recipe books under lock and key? Wouldn't it be more logical to store them in the kitchen? Betty look at me in wonder but followed my steps compliantly. When she saw me opening the trunk again, she went back to her guard post. I stared at the notebooks with clenched teeth and seized by nerves and uncertainty. I didn't know which to pick up first, but since they were numbered I decided to start at the beginning. As I opened it, I found a date on the first page: March 5^th 1944, followed by perfect handwriting. ‘Brenda has told me his name, it's Elwyn...’ There were no recipes in there. I turned some more pages. ‘He told me that he's setting off for the South tomorrow to join the army’... My heart raced out of control. What I had in my hands was my mother's diary.

I looked at the window, Betty still stayed alert in case she returned. I didn't even think again about poor Isobel. Before me there were twelve notebooks that I had to read to the end, but it was obvious that as soon as my mother came back I would close the trunk again. I set the book on the floor and began to walk around with my eyes closed trying to find a solution. I stopped by the padlock, I looked at it, saw the key and then I came up with the answer I was looking for. My bicycle lock. I galloped down the stairs followed by Betty as if it was a race. I ran to the porch, picked up the lock that was hanging from the wheel and went up the stairs again to my room. I started to open the drawer of my wardrobe trying to find the second key I had been given when I bought it. For the first time I cursed not having obeyed my mother when she told me to tidy my room every day. Where was the damned key? After pointlessly moving heaven and earth, I picked up the box where I kept my marbles and catapult and finally I found it. I sighed thankfully looking at the ceiling as if I wanted to thank heaven. When I bought the lock, I had put one of the keys on my key ring and thanks to my mother telling me to keep the copy, hadn't thrown it away. She said I might need it someday. How right she was. I ran again to the attic followed by my disorientated pet. I left my lock and key in the same position as my mother's and put hers in my pocket to hide away later. I looked through the window to check if she had returned. So far, everything was under control so without delay I plunged into my mother's secrets again. Betty went back to her post and I settled down on the floor to begin reading for the time Isobel's wounds would let me.

That diary was a sequence of notes headed with dates. My mother seemed to have written down the decisions she had taken or the moments that had meant something important in her life so she would never forget them.

Birmingham, May 21st 1944

Dear diary,

I've taken a decision. No one knows it, I haven't even told Brenda. I'm just telling you because I know you'll keep my secret. I'm spending the night with him. I've been thinking about it thoroughly but finally I've made up my mind. I'm meeting Elwyn this evening to say goodbye. Early tomorrow morning he's setting off for the South to join the army. What if the same thing happens to him that did to my father? What if he doesn't come back? If you could speak you would tell me that I'm only a sixteen-year-old child, but as Brenda's mother says: ‘In war time you grow up faster.’ I feel like a woman who is hopelessly in love who knows what she wants and what I want is to be with him. I haven't told him yet and I don't know where we'll be staying either but I'm not going back on this. The punishment that my aunt will dish out to me when she learns that I have spent the night out is the least of my concerns, I don't care because the worst thing that could happen to me is to never see him again.

Birmingham, May 22nd 1944

My dear diary,

I’ll never be able to forget as long as I live the night I shared with Elwyn yesterday. I'll just say that he is and always will be the love of my life. I wish this war would end soon and he would come back to me to never be apart again. When I finished work at the bakery, my aunt locked me up in my bedroom with no dinner. I don't want to write all the things she said to me here. I don't want to repeat them. Thank goodness Peter gave me two scones this morning. I'll eat them when I finish writing. The abuse she threw at me hasn't offended me because it’s not true. Today I realised my days in this house are numbered. I have to write down everything Peter told me. Now I can understand many things. I knew there was some explanation that would justify my aunt's behaviour. But nothing that happened is my fault. I can only count on Brenda and Peter until Elwyn returns.

Birmingham, June 25th 1944

Dear diary,

I've just got back from hospital. This morning, when it was my turn to check the lists of the deceased on the front, what I've dreaded all this time happened. I saw his name. My legs flagged and I fell on the floor. Two men lifted me up while I kept on crying hopelessly. As I regained my strength I ran out of there barely thanking them. I didn't hear it. No one heard it. Sirens failed to warn us. Only as I flew through the air and collapsed on the floor we heard the blast of the bomb that had fallen on the city. Eileen let my aunt know that I was in hospital. I think she came to check if I was dead at last. The doctor that saw me told us that miraculously I just had several bruises that would heal soon and that regarding the baby we should wait to see what happens over the next few days. I'm pregnant with Elwyn's child. We just arrived home. My aunt has told me to leave, that she won't feed and raise anyone else's child. I don't know where to go. If I wasn’t carrying his child inside me, I would take my own life right now.

The beating of my heart rang in my ears like drums setting the rowing pace. My breath raced and a cold sweat began to spring from my forehead. Everything was getting out of hand. I couldn’t manage to believe that what I had just read was actually my mother's life. Now I could understand those moments where she seemed to be absent. Who could forget and overcome such a past? As a result of what I had read I began to be haunted by endless questions with no answer. What had happened on the 6^th of June? Did my mother give birth to that child? Did she lose it after the explosion? Where did she go when her aunt threw her out of the house? First I thought that somewhere not far away I had a brother, but it seemed impossible to believe that my mother had abandoned him. Immediately after that, I figured that child was never actually born. When did my father come on the scene? When did they meet? When was I conceived? I went through the dates again and as I counted the months that elapsed from that event until my birth on my fingers, I came to the painful conclusion that I could possibly be that child.

Betty started to bark excitedly. I didn't even look through the window to confirm whether it was my mother or not. I put the notebook in its place, the photographs exactly as they were and put the false bottom back in position. I closed the trunk carefully, patted my pocket to check I had the lock in safekeeping and grabbing my loyal guard's collar, we went down the stairs as if the devil himself was chasing us. As we reached the entrance hall my mother came in.

‘Philip, darling, you scared me! What's wrong, sweetheart? You look pale.’

I ran to her arms crying. My desperation was absolute. I couldn't tell her that I had discovered her secret, I couldn't ask her to explain what I had read, I couldn't ask her who my father really was.

‘Calm down darling, Isobel is fine. The poor child has suffered a lot but the painkiller I gave her will let her rest a while. Geena will bring her everyday for treatment, but unfortunately I won't be able to prevent her skin from being marked forever. Luckily, the boiling water didn't touch her face, but her neck and right breast are injured.’

My mother pushed me away a little to hold my face and look at my eyes. She rubbed away my tears with her thumbs. ‘Promise me that from now on you will do your best to keep her from feeling lonely. I want you to be her best friend. You promise?’

‘I promise Mum, and I also promise I'll take care of you and do my best to make you happy.’

My mother gave me a look of surprise. ‘What's this all about, Philip? I am happy. I've got you.’

I hugged my mother again tightly, unable to stop crying. She held me in her arms and started to kiss me to soothe me. At that moment my adventure began.