Читать книгу The Name You Once Gave Me - Mike Phillips - Страница 6

BROWNJOHN HAD SEEMED A little wary of him at first. His manner changed when he was clear about what Daniel wanted. In the next couple of hours, Daniel heard everything he might ever have wanted to know about the district.

It was a fine, bright, summer’s evening. They sat facing the French windows which were open to the garden. The fading sunshine slanted in, glinting off the top of Brownjohn’s bald head. In the distance, over the tops of the apple trees, Alexandra Palace shimmered against the sky.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Brownjohn said, as if he’d been reading Daniel’s mind. He got up and strode to the window, his cup of tea still in hand. ‘Two hundred years ago, this was all farmland and countryside. Now look at it. But the gardens are still lovely.’

Daniel nodded, trying to look as if all this was still holding his interest. In fact he was thinking it was time to go and was working out his exit line. At the same time he was wondering how he would describe Brownjohn to Louise. Suddenly he was tired, and it was harder and harder to focus. Brownjohn, meanwhile, was still talking about the history of the district. ‘All this used to be empty fields,’ he said. ‘The bits in between London and the next town. We’re close to the highway. The old turnpike was over there. Get them to think about the names of the places. They’re full of history.’

Daniel nodded again. He already knew the local history, but it seemed rude to say so. Instead he shifted about in his chair, trying to signal that he was about to leave. Brownjohn took no notice and instead seemed to be talking faster, skipping quickly from one subject to another. ‘They named these streets after famous admirals,’ he said. ‘Cochrane, Collingwood, Nelson. I used to live there, in Nelson Avenue.’

Daniel sat up, some instinct telling him that the words were important. ‘Nelson Avenue?’

‘Yes. Number 12.’

‘Not Number 12?’

Surprised, Brownjohn turned to look at him. ‘Yes…Number 12. I lived in the top flat and rented the ground floor to some students.’

Daniel took a moment to think about it. The entries on his birth certificate flashed through his mind. ‘I was born there,’ he said slowly.

Brownjohn laughed, amazed, and not yet certain Daniel was serious.

‘It’s true,’ Daniel said. ‘That’s where I was born.’

‘How old are you?’ Brownjohn asked.

‘Twenty-six.’

Brownjohn stared at him, taking in what Daniel had said. ‘I know you,’ he said slowly. ‘Your parents lived there. I can see them now.’ He paused as if finding the right words. ‘A mixed couple.’

‘You’re sure?’ Daniel asked.

‘Quite sure. Wait a moment.’

He went out of the door and Daniel waited, his mind in a turmoil. If the old man was right, he would have known his father. There would be a lot he could tell him that he had always wanted to know.

Suddenly Brownjohn was back, carrying a photo album with a faded red cover. It was already open and he held it up in front of Daniel and pointed to an old photo of a couple, standing in a garden. The man was holding a baby.

‘That’s you,’ Brownjohn said.

Daniel gazed at the photo, bending over to get as close as he could. The woman was Sarah, his mother, younger than he could remember, but certainly his mother. The man was tall, the same height as Daniel. There was a strange pattern in the fading colours. It was as if the skin tones, black, pink and brown, had been carefully matched.

Daniel’s heart seemed to skip a beat. Before this he had never seen a photo of his father. Once, in the middle of an argument with his mother, he had let loose his anger about that.

‘How could you not have a photo of him?’ he had shouted.

‘My life was different then,’ she replied. ‘I travelled light. Things got stolen. Once I lost all my belongings. All that got lost.’

‘I can’t understand you, Mum,’ he had told her, his rage turning to sadness.

‘I liked your father,’ Brownjohn said. ‘He used to joke about my name: John Brownjohn.’

He laughed. Daniel didn’t think it was that funny but he smiled to be polite.

‘How is he?’ Brownjohn asked, still chuckling at the memory.

Daniel looked at him, puzzled. ‘Didn’t you know? He died before I was born.’

Now it was Brownjohn’s turn to look puzzled. He stared at Daniel. ‘But I saw him a couple of years ago. He came up behind me in the High Street. “John Brownjohn,” he said. “John Brownjohn!” and he laughed. I’d know that laugh anywhere.’

He stared at Daniel, taking in the young man’s look of shock. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but if that’s your father, he’s still alive.’