8: Variation 7 - John

Dr. John Smith was a tall, gaunt man who’d worked at Hoskins, Dyer and Blake for as long as anyone could remember. Being one of the most senior employees he was the only person other than the directors to have his own separate office. He was highly qualified with a string of letters after his name including a PhD from Cambridge. The exact nature of his work was not generally known but he rarely left his desk and never took time off for lunch breaks except on warm, sunny days in summer when he would disappear on his own for an hour at the most. Always first to arrive and last to leave he kept himself to himself and only engaged with others on purely profession matters. Opinions about him varied. By some he was thought to be shy and by others as downright rude. But everyone agreed he was remote and unapproachable.

No one knew anything of his background or private life except that he was single and lived alone in an isolated house a few miles from town. There were countless speculations and rumours about him ranging from his being a divorcee to a closet homosexual. He never mentioned his family and as far as anyone knew he had none. He was always an enigma whose secrets would never be revealed.

What nobody guessed was that John’s life was a mystery to himself. His earliest memories were of growing up as an orphan in a children’s home overlooking a park containing a large pond. He remembered going there to fish for tadpoles which he kept in a jam jar hidden inside his locker. His aim was to see the tadpoles magically turn into frogs but they never did. They invariably died after one or two days and were secretly flushed down the loo. Everything he did was done in secret.

Apart from Mrs. Flowers, the matron, the adults in charge were generally hostile and eager to dish out punishments for the slightest offence.

John clearly remembered his first days at school. Anyone from the home was shunned by the children who lived in conventional families. Even the teachers seemed wary of them expecting them all to be disruptive as some of them were. John saw himself as being separate from the others. He didn’t belonging to any group. During break times he stood in the playground alone away from everyone. In class he worked hard and stayed out of trouble. His carers and teachers were surprised when he passed his eleven plus and became the only child from the home to win a place at the local grammar school.

Mrs. Flowers took him aside and told him how proud his mother would have been. His mother had never been mentioned before and it came as a shock to hear her named. He wanted to know more about her but felt too frightened at first to enquire further till plucking up courage he raised the question he’d always wanted to ask and said. ‘Is my mother alive?’

Putting an arm around him Mrs. Flowers gave him the answer he half-expected. ‘No,’ she said, ‘sadly your mother died but I’ve kept this.’ She took from her apron pocket a small, battered tin and opening the lid removed a faded photograph. ‘It’s all we have. We were going to keep it until you left us but you can have it now if you like.’

John stared at the sepia image which showed a woman standing with a man on a seaside promenade. He wanted to cry but held back the tears. ‘Is that my mother and father?’

‘Yes but we think your father left your mother before you were born.’

John asked if he could keep the photo and having been told he could he put it into the tin and closed the lid. In his room he placed it beneath some clothes in the bottom of his bedside locker and there it stayed untouched till the day he left.

Leaving the children’s home and starting grammar school happened almost simultaneously. For some time it had been Government policy to move children out of institutional care into foster homes where they could form closer attachments. It may have been John’s success at school that persuaded the Bidgoods to foster him. Without knowing why he’d been chosen John came home at the end of his first week at the grammar school to find Mrs. Flowers and a middle-aged couple waiting to greet him. Matron ushered them into her office. John was made to stand wondering what was happening. He wasn’t sure what to make of the couple who’d taken their seats and were gazing up at him. The man was about forty, short and portly with a moon-like face, ruddy cheeks and thin sandy-coloured hair parted in the middle. He was sitting with the jacket of his three-piece tweed suit open. The matching waistcoat stretched over his paunch had three of its bottom buttons left undone. The woman was about the same age as the man but slightly taller and extremely thin. Her bony face and pointed nose reminded John of a raptor.

‘This,’ said Mrs. Flowers, ‘is John, and this John is Mr. and Mrs. Bidgood who’ve kindly agreed to look after you. What do you think of that?’

John had no idea what to think but knowing that other children from time to time had been sent into foster care he assumed his turn had come. ‘Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Bidgood,’ he said. He shook hands in a formal manner.

‘Well, what do you say?’

‘Oh, thank you. When will I be going?’

‘You’ll be leaving next Friday but Mr. and Mrs. Bidgood have offered to take you to their house tonight for an hour or two so that you can meet their daughter and see your room. Would you like that?’

‘Yes, very much. Thank you.’

‘Excellent. Well, go and change out of your uniform. Mr. and Mrs. Bidgood will wait for you here. Don’t be long.’ John thanked them again, ran upstairs to his room and in no time at all was back and ready to go.

The Bidgood’s car, a beautifully polished Ford Anglia, was waiting outside on the forecourt. After saying goodbye to Mrs. Flowers John followed his new foster parents out of the door and climbed into the back seat of the car. Never having been in a car he felt like a lord as they pulled away and began the short ride to the Bidgood’s home, a pebble-dashed semi-detached house in a road not far from the grammar school.

On entering the first thing he heard was the sound of someone playing the piano. ‘That’s Henrietta,’ said Mrs. Bidgood. ‘She’s practicing for her Grade 1 exam in a fortnight’s time.’ She raised her voice. ‘Henrietta, come and meet John.’

The music abruptly stopped and a sandy-haired girl with green eyes appeared in the hallway. She had an appealing face and a friendly smile. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Henrietta.’

John guessed she was a year or so younger than him. ‘Hello,’ he replied before adding shyly, ‘I liked the music.’ The compliment pleased her.

A tour of the house followed. He liked his room as soon as he saw it. It was light and airy with posh, gold-striped wallpaper. A bedside cabinet with a lamp on top stood at the side of a single bed with a blue candlewick bedspread covering it and a soft, plump pillow nestled against the headboard. Facing the bed was a wood-veneered wardrobe and small chest of drawers emptied ready for his clothes and belongings. Red, velvet curtains hung at window which overlooked the back garden and the town’s playing fields. It was cosy and inviting, nothing like his sparsely-furnished bedroom back at the home with its off-white walls.

When the tour of the house was over it was time for tea, an ordeal John was not looking forward to. He would rather have stayed in his new bedroom alone with his thoughts. Tea at the children’s home consisted of sitting on benches at trestle tables covered with oilskin cloths where nobody talked and it didn’t matter if you spilled your drink. Here there were ringed napkins, items of cutlery he’d never seen, a dainty china dish containing sugar cubes and tongs, fancy cakes on a tiered stand and sandwiches with their crusts removed on a plate covered with a doily. Everything was neatly arranged on a spotlessly white, embroidered tablecloth. At meal times there’d be no escape from having to make polite conversation.

‘Tea or squash?’ Mrs. Bidgood asked when he’d seated himself. Copying the others John placed his napkin precariously on his lap.

‘Squash please.’

When the drinks were poured and the sandwiches distributed it was Mr. Bidgood’s turn to talk. ‘Well John, what would like to tell us about yourself?’ John had just taken a bite of cucumber sandwich and wasn’t sure what to say. He knew it was bad manners to speak with food in his mouth so he swallowed it down hurriedly and tried to think of something to tell them but nothing would come. ‘Do you have any hobbies?’ asked Mr. Bidgood.

‘I’m interested in tadpoles,’ he said, ‘and I like reading.’

‘I see,’ said Mr. Bidgood raising his eyebrows. At this point John noticed Mrs. Bidgood staring down at his hands. He’d forgotten to clean his fingernails and feeling embarrassed he clenched his fists and concealed his hands under the table. Thankfully Henrietta took his mention of reading as her cue to speak.

‘I like reading too,’ she said. ‘I’ve nearly finished reading Black Beauty. Have you ever read it?’

When John confessed he hadn’t she gave him a detailed account of the plot which lasted for several minutes and saved him from having to answer any more questions.

Little more was said. As soon as they’d eaten Mr. Bidgood looked at his watch. ‘Well my boy we’d better be on our way or Matron will be wondering where you are.’

‘Did you have nice time?’ Mrs. Flowers asked when he returned.

‘Very nice thank you.’

‘And you think you’ll be happy living with Mr. and Mrs. Bidgood?’

‘Yes.’

In bed that night John lay wide awake worrying about his new school and living with the Bidgoods. Too much was happening all at once. He needn’t have worried about school. His second week was better than the first. He impressed his teachers with his attitude to work, his politeness and quick grasp of the subject matter. Apart from the games master who saw him as a bit of wimp the others were more than pleased with his performance especially Mr. Clinic, the maths master who kept him back after one of the lessons and quizzed him about his ambitions.

‘Have you any idea what you’d like to do when you leave school laddie?’

‘Not really sir.’

‘Well, perhaps you should consider something involving maths.’

It was much the same with the other teachers. Everyone seemed pleased with the way he worked. Music was no exception. The only female teacher on the staff was Miss Carter, the music mistress. Music was generally regarded as a laugh by other boys especially when they had to learn Nymphs and Shepherds in the first lesson. Miss Carter played the piano with her face to the blackboard and missed seeing all that went on behind her back. After the singing there was a short period of musical appreciation which consisted of a brief talk about a particular composer followed by a recording of his music. Purcell was the composer selected for that first week and the piece chosen for appreciation was Dido’s lament from Dido and Aeneas.

Ignoring the low-level murmuring and general disruption around him John was transported by the sound of the woman’s voice singing about her forthcoming death and burial against the mournful background of stringed instruments playing a repetitive tune which differed from the main melody but blended beautifully with it. When the bell rang for the end of the lesson John stayed in his seat with the music still ringing in his ears while the others made a hasty retreat. The words of the song had brought his mother to mind. He wondered where she’d been laid when she died.

Miss Carter’s voice brought him back to the present. ‘Hadn’t you better be off to your next lesson?’

‘Sorry miss. I was thinking about the music.’

She looked surprised and gratified. ‘Did you like it?’

Telling her he did was all she needed to enthuse about the virtues of the piece.

This was the first time a pupil had shown any interest. She explained that the tune played on the strings underneath the melody was called a ground bass. John took in every word. The more he learned the more he wanted to know. What really interested him about the piece even more than the sound it produced was its form. He realised music like this was built on structure, pattern, logic and symmetry. It was like mathematics. He’d happily have stayed all day talking but Miss Carter’s next class was lining up and it was time to go to his next lesson. The next lesson was Maths and although he was late Mr. Clinic made nothing of it and seemed more than pleased to welcome him.

All of the teachers apart from the games master thought of John as the model pupil. His schoolmates tried to befriend him at first but as he made no attempt to reciprocate they soon gave up. He was dismissed as a boring swot who was best left alone which suited him. He was only interested in work. For him the second week at school had been a success and had kept him from worrying about the imminent move. When Friday afternoon arrived he walked back to the home for his last meal. Mr. Bidgood had arranged to pick him up at seven o’clock. He ate his dinner looking around at the others. He’d never formed close relationships with any of them and although he wouldn’t be missing their company it was strange to know that this was the last time he’d see them.

After dinner he went to his room and packed. The tin with the photo was where he’d left it at the bottom of his locker still untouched. He put it with the rest of his belongings into the small suitcase which had been bought for him as a leaving present and went down to the lounge where Mrs. Flowers was sitting in her chair waiting for him.

‘You will come and visit us won’t you. We’ll want to know how you’re getting on.’

‘Of course,’ John promised but he never did.

It was odd living with another family. To begin with he appeared only for meals and spent the rest of the time in his room. As soon as he came in from school, he disappeared upstairs, closed the bedroom door and buried himself in his homework until he was called down for dinner. Henrietta went to a private preparatory school in an exclusive part of town where the well-to-do lived. She was usually home before John practising on the piano while he did his homework. Without realising he unconsciously absorbed the musical patterns drifting up from the room below which he would later come to know as five-finger exercises, scales, broken chords and arpeggios.

Mr. Bidgood usually arrived home at six thirty. He was proud to be the manager of a men’s outfitters shop in the High Street which sold both ready-to-wear and bespoke suits. Bespoke, he enjoyed telling John on several occasions, was the tailor’s technical term for made-to-measure. He also took pleasure, especially after a glass of wine, in sharing the tricks of the outfitter’s trade over dinner. John lost count of the number of times he’d heard how the salesman would surreptitiously clench and gather the excess cloth at the back of an oversized jacket so that the customer standing in front of the mirror would be fooled into thinking that it fitted perfectly. ‘Trade secrets, my boy, trade secrets. Never let on that I told you!’ he’d say whenever the tale was repeated. Taking his cue from Mrs. Bidgood and Henrietta John learned how to chuckle with them as though they were all hearing his anecdotes for the very first time.

The weekends followed a set routine. On Saturdays Mr. Bidgood left for work earlier than usual on what was the busiest day of the week. John stayed in his bedroom completing his homework until Mrs. Bidgood and Henrietta left for town. As soon as they’d gone he’d then set off for town himself to spend the rest of the day on his own. After wandering aimlessly looking in shops he’d make his way to the Cadena Café and sit at his favourite window seat watching the world go by. From the café he’d go to the library, exchange his books then climb the stairs to the town’s museum on the upper floor. Although he’d seen every exhibit there was always something he wanted to see again. He especially liked the photos of the town’s development over the years and the stuffed animals in glass cases. There was a Penny Farthing bicycle, a collection of old tools, more than enough to keep him amused and away from the house and Henrietta’s friends who came on Saturday afternoons. He disliked their whispering and giggling which embarrassed him. When he eventually made his way home he’d go to his room and wait to be called down for dinner. Saturday nights were spent in front of the television until it was time for bed.

On Sundays he helped Mr. Bidgood wash and chamois the car. After tea he went with them in the car to St. John’s church for Evensong. They always sat in the same pew halfway up the nave. The vicar was a tall, pious-looking man whose brown sandals poking out from beneath his cassock looked oddly incongruous with the rest of his vestments.

Although John had no belief in God he enjoyed the ritual and the language of the prayer book especially the words, Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, oh Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night... which echoed something he identified with. But most of all he enjoyed the thrill of hearing the organ blast out some tumultuous music at the end of the service especially when the organist played what he’d later learn was a fugue with its intricate, mathematical structure. The congregation took the first note as their cue to leave. John stayed and listened for as long as he could until he was forced to follow the others without hearing how the piece ended. All the way home in the car the music resounded inside his head.

After several weeks John asked if he could sit in the front room and watch Henrietta practise the piano. Mrs. Bidgood wondered if something sinister was behind the request. He’d never made any attempt to befriend Henrietta and he normally tried to avoid her. Now for some inexplicable reason he wanted to be alone in the front room with her. She hoped he wasn’t having unwholesome desires. ‘Why would you want to do that?’ she asked.

‘Just to see how she does it?’

‘Haven’t you ever seen someone play the piano?’

‘Not close up. I’ve tried but Miss Carter sits with her back to us and the organist is hidden behind a curtain.’

Trusting it really was the music and not Henrietta that fired his interest she said, ‘We shall have to ask Mr. Bidgood what he thinks first - and Henrietta too. But if they’re both happy I don’t see why you shouldn’t.’

Mr. Bidgood thought anything that enticed him away from his room was worth a try. Henrietta was more than pleased to have an audience. She relished the thought of being able to show off her talents in front of anyone, even John. Her parents took little interest in what she played. ‘Come and listen whenever you like,’ she said, ‘but you mustn’t talk when I practise. I have to concentrate, especially on the difficult pieces or when I’m learning something new.’

John promised and asked when he could start. ‘Straight away if you want,’ she said and leading him into the front room she began to play an easy piece she knew by heart and could play without making too many mistakes. For the next few weeks whenever she practised John watched her fingers and matched their movements with the printed notes. He rarely spoke except to raise technical questions she couldn’t answer. Given permission to have a go he selected one of the simpler pieces and played it without a fault. When Mr. Bidgood heard he asked if John would like to learn and seeing the smile on John’s face said, ‘Then learn you shall.’

The arrangements were made and their lessons would follow on from each other. A week later they rang the bell and waited for Miss Price to open the door, ‘Ah, Henrietta,’ said Miss Price, ‘and this I take it is John.’

John guessed Miss Price was probably in her early twenties but her baggy cardigan, tweed skirt and flat shoes all conspired make her look older. She was shorter than John and painfully thin. She held out a fragile hand for John to shake. He held it as gently as possible in case it should crumble in his grip. ‘Do come in,’ she said. ‘Henrietta will show you the way.’

John followed Henrietta into the lounge, a cramped room furnished with two arm chairs, a matching settee and an upright piano with Chappell and Co. Ltd. London emblazoned in gold letters on the underside of the lid. John was invited to sit while Henrietta had her lesson. Miss Price sat beside her with notepad and pencil. As John sank back into one of the chairs a plump ginger cat gave him a threatening stare before scampering out of the room. John sat in silence listening to Henrietta’s mistakes until his turn came.

Miss Price produced a book for beginners and placed it on the piano stand.

‘The first thing we have to do is find middle C,’ she said but before she could show him where it was he placed his thumb on the right note and played through the first tune faultlessly. ‘Excellent,’ said Miss Price looking surprised. ‘Perhaps we should turn to the next page.’ Again John played every note with apparent ease and then continued playing through the other pages until he reached the end of the book. Miss Price looked shell-shocked. ‘Have you had lessons before?’

‘No but I watched Henrietta then did what she did. I know some of the scales too.’ He demonstrated using the correct fingering.

‘And you read music?’

‘Yes. I watched Henrietta and compared the notes she played on the keyboard with the notes on the page.’

Miss Price had never before come across anyone like him. ‘Well, we’ll have to find out what you can’t do and start from there.’

In the weeks and months that followed the Bidgood’s piano was in constant use. Henrietta had to be told when to begin practising and John when to stop. By the end of his first year at Grammar school he played music well beyond Henrietta’s capability and skipping the earlier exams was later entered for Grade IV which he passed with distinction two weeks before his second Christmas with the Bidgood family.

Four years were to pass during which John excelled in all he did but was he never at ease with family life. The Bidgoods accepted him as a well-behaved young man whose need to be distant and self-contained was understandable in a child who had never known his parents and had been brought up in a children’s home. The relationship between John and Henrietta was never anything but awkward. He was guarded in her company and she envied his talent. Mr. and Mrs. Bidgood had hoped they would be like brother and sister though they never were.

Henrietta gave up piano at the age of twelve when she moved from prep school to an independent day school in the centre of town. At thirteen she had the figure of an eighteen-year-old and seeing John as a tall and passably handsome teenager she toyed for a while with the idea of tempting him into something more than a purely platonic relationship. She began by waiting at the bathroom door in a see-through nightie while John was getting washed ready for school and she made no attempt to conceal herself when he came out and found her standing there. John always turned away blushing and rushed back to his bedroom embarrassed by the encounter. One day when her parents were out and John was reading in his room she took a bath and called out to him asking for a clean towel from the airing cupboard. Not knowing how to refuse he darted in and out of the bathroom hurriedly depositing the towel in her outstretched hand. In spite of attempting to avert his eyes he caught a brief glimpse of her in the periphery of his vision and fled back to his room appalled by the vague impression of pink, naked flesh. Henrietta realised he would always be more interested in books and music than her and eventually abandoned her attempts to seduce him.

At school his progress was unstoppable. Mr. Clinic encouraged his mathematical brilliance by inviting him to his house for extra tuition at weekends. Miss Carter nurtured his interest in music by engaging him in erudite discussions about musical composition after school. Piano lessons with Miss Price were for both of them the highlight of the week. By the time John reached his final year in the sixth form he was predicted to pass a string of A levels and get a distinction in his Grade VIII piano exam. Both predictions proved to be correct.

At church he befriended the organist and after a few lessons was invited to play for Evensong. It was in church during a sermon on Corinthians 12 and the gifts of the spirit that John wondered what use he should make his own talents and what he should study when he went to University. Henrietta had long since stopped coming to church and the Bidgoods knowing how John liked to stay for the closing music drove home without him after the service leaving him to walk home alone. As the last people filed out of the building and the organist played Bach’s St. Anne Prelude and Fugue the answer concerning his future at university came to him as suddenly and as clearly as St. Paul’s enlightenment on the road to Damascus. Bach’s St. Anne was an architectural masterpiece just like the church building. He recalled the first time he’d come to St. John’s with the Bidgoods and had made the same connection between music, mathematics and architecture although at that age with little knowledge or understanding. Architecture combined the elements of music and mathematics. And Architecture was what he would study.

***

A cool breeze was blowing through the churchyard and with the sun beginning to set I began to feel chilly. ‘Do you think we might go somewhere warmer?’ I suggested.

‘Of course,’ Howard said. ‘I’m afraid I was carried away while you’ve been sitting here patiently getting cold and wondering when I would get to the point. It’s just that I wanted you to know as much about John’s background as possible. There is a point I assure you and I shall get to it soon but by all means let’s move. We can sit inside the church.’

As we strolled across the grass towards the porch I thought about John and marvelled that a child with his unfortunate background could achieve so much. Inside the church Howard asked where I’d like to sit and wanting to get into the spirit of the story I proposed we should sit in a pew halfway up the nave close to where John and the Bidgoods would have been. Howard agreed and as soon as we were seated he continued with the story.

***

After John had passed his exams he was offered a place at Cambridge to study architecture. His departure was marked with due ceremony by the Bidgoods who behaved as though their own son was about to leave the nest and embark on the next stage of his life. But in truth his absence from the household was hardly noticed apart from the piano becoming nothing more than a silent item of furniture to be dusted and polished.

For John the next twelve years passed in three stages, the Bachelors degree which he passed with first class honours, the MPhil and, finally the PhD. He returned to the Bidgoods during vacations and for longer periods between each of the degrees, periods which he spent acquiring the necessary practical experience working for Hoskins, Dyer and Blake who were more than happy to employ him on a temporary basis. Little can be said about his social life at Cambridge. He spent most of his time studying and keeping well away from the female students whose interest in him was a constant source of unease and bewilderment. The only friend he made was a male music student from Corpus Christi who smuggled him into the college precincts to give him access to a piano and the chance to further develop his skills. On completing his university education he was offered a permanent senior position at the Hoskins, Dyer and Blake where he soon earned enough to put a deposit on a large house close to town, purchase a Steinway grand and at last live independently away from the Bidgoods.

Very little happened over the next thirty years. John remained in the same house and went to the office every day. He arrived early and stayed late. His evenings were spent either reading or listening to music and playing his new piano. He usually stayed home for his annual holidays although in his later years he travelled abroad, always to the Continent mainly to look at the architecture and attend the famous concert halls. He visited places associated with the great composers. He explored the haunts of Bach in Leipzig, Mozart in Vienna and Beethoven in Bonn. He admired the Palace of Versailles, the Acropolis and the Coliseum. He saw Don Giovanni at the La Scala Theatre in Milan and La Traviatta at the Verona Arena. But as soon as the breaks were over he was happy to get back to work. Only on hot days in summer did he leave the office and take the short walk to St. John’s churchyard with a pack of sandwiches and a flask of coffee to gaze at the church from his favourite bench. When his time to retire came he hoped to slip away quietly at the end of the day without any undue ceremony but Mr. Hoskins and Mr. Dyer insisted on calling a lunchtime assembly to praise his achievements and present him with an engraved carriage clock. Everyone clapped though few knew anything about him or what he’d been doing over the last thirty years shut away in his office.

His retirement days were as uneventful as his working life. Five years had passed when July arrived with a scorching heat wave which lasted for several weeks. Quite what possessed him he never knew but one day for no apparent reason he had the urge to have his lunch in the churchyard just as he’d done on those rare, sunny days when he’d still been working. He made some sandwiches, filled a flask and set off for town. After finding a place to park he bought a paper and walked to the churchyard. Finding his favourite bench was empty he sat in the middle of the seat and placed his paper and flask on either side to dissuade others from sitting next to him.

A number of people were already there when he arrived. Young female shop assistants and office girls were lying on the grass sprawled out like starfish on a beach wearing next to nothing. John did his best to ignore the bare limbs and fixed his eyes on the church with its golden Hamstone absorbing the sunlight. The scattered flower beds were filled with roses but the grass was parched and brittle except for odd patches in shade under the trees. The midday sun had melted into a spinning disc that seemed to be burning a hole in the pale blue sky. John was still in his buttoned up jacket and firmly knotted tie. Taking a sandwich he picked up his paper and scanned the headlines.

In the corner of one eye he could see one of the girls laid out on the grass at his feet. She was wearing a loose top revealing more flesh than he cared to see although he couldn’t help looking. He’d never liked joining in conversations but he wasn’t averse to overhearing other people’s chitchat and he pricked up his ears when the girl at his feet was joined by a pimply youth who lowered himself beside her and said, ‘Hi Karen.’

The girl half-opened her screwed-up eyes but made no attempt to sit up. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Hi.’

‘All right then?’

‘All right till you turned up.’

‘How’s work?’

‘Work’s work innit!’

‘Just wondered. Do you still see Jason?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Just asking.’

At this point the youth broke off a stalk of rye grass and chewed the end before spitting it out. ‘Hey, watch what your doing!’ Karen flicked away the chewed end that had landed in the corner of her eye.

‘Sorry.’

‘I should think so!’ She turned over and noticed the youth staring down her blouse. John was shocked but Karen took it in her stride. ‘Had a good look then?’

‘Yeah, not bad.’

‘Dirty sod.’ The lad started tickling her chin with the grass and slowly moved it down towards her cleavage. ‘Hey! Get off!’

‘Okay, keep your hair on.’

‘Dirty sod!’ she repeated without seeming too upset. It was only when she glanced up and saw John looking that she showed any real sign of anger. She hurriedly pulled her skirt down over her knees and shouted, ‘What are you looking at, pervert?’

John shrank behind his newspaper in horror and pretended he hadn’t realised she was speaking to him. If only she knew how he felt about girls like her flaunting themselves. He had a sudden flashback to Henrietta standing outside the bathroom in her flimsy nightie. Nothing changed. Everything he’d heard and seen confirmed his view of how banal young people’s conversations were and how blatantly they flaunted their bodies with the sole aim of seducing the opposite sex. Thankfully the girl said no more and marched off with the lad following. John kept his eyes on the newspaper but the glare of the sun made it impossible to read so he laid it aside and sat for a while looking round.

At first he was hardly aware of the young woman carrying a basket and walking slowly along on the far side of the churchyard. He might have looked more closely had he not been distracted by a Jack Russell terrier that appeared from nowhere and began jumping up at him, barking and demanding attention. It was only after he’d managed to shoo it away that he noticed the woman with the basket was getting closer. She was crossing the grass and gliding towards him almost as if she were floating. She wore a pink blouse and long, black skirt which trailed along the ground covering her feet. Alarmed by the way she was heading straight for him he thought for a moment it might be Karen’s mother coming to remonstrate with him for daring to look at her daughter. Determined not to attract her he ducked behind his paper and hoped she would walk straight past. Instead she stopped right in front of him, sighed, unfastened her top button and placed the basket on the ground. What happened next astounded him. She actually spoke.

‘Good Lord, it’s sweltering!’ she said and without a by your leave she moved his flask and sat down beside him. ‘I’ll faint if I go another step carrying this lot.’

John assumed she was talking about the shopping basket not that it looked particularly heavy. He coughed nervously and pretended to read his paper. ‘Not the best time of year to be lugging this around, is it?’ she said patting her belly. ‘Not in this heat.’

‘No,’ said John still clutching his paper in a state of disbelief praying she’d go away. But the woman seemed quite relaxed and began talking as though he were one of her closest confidants.

‘You don’t have any kids yourself do you love?’

‘No, I don’t,’ he said recoiling at her use of the word love.

‘I thought not, more sense you. They’re not worth all this I can tell you.’

‘I’m sure they’re not.’ John wasn’t sure what to think. He disapproved of women as young as her being pregnant but something about her intrigued him.

‘It’s too late for second thoughts now though. No use crying over spilt milk is it?’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Acting out of character he was beginning to feel honoured to think that she wanted to talk with him. With no idea where it would lead he was content to sit and listen, at least for the time being.

‘What do think of this? Pretty isn’t it?’ She was holding out a heart-shaped locket on a gold chain dangling from her neck.

He inspected it briefly. ‘Very pretty, yes, very pretty.’ He could answer questions but lacked the ability to develop conversations never knowing what to say next.

‘Said it was token of his love,’ she sighed before adding cynically, ‘What a laugh!’

John’s new-found confidence was growing by the minute. He folded the newspaper, put it on his lap and looked at her carefully for the first time. His initial irritation at having his personal space invaded had mellowed into cautious acceptance. The woman looked no older than seventeen and apart from the bulging belly was slightly built. Her innocent face was keen and alert, her complexion soft and peachy and her dark brown eyes were alive and intelligent. There was something disarmingly open and vulnerable about her. Her clothes were dated compared with the casual styles of the day. Her long, black skirt was decidedly old fashioned and totally unsuitable for a summer’s day. Wet with perspiration her blouse clung to the contours of her body and accentuated the curves of her breasts which looked large enough to feed an army. He glanced at her hands and noticed there was no ring on the wedding finger.

‘I’m Sarah,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

He hesitated for a moment unused to receiving personal questions from anyone let alone strangers. He was about to say Mr. Smith but as she’d given him her Christian name he said, shyly, ‘John’.

‘John, what a sweet name. You don’t mind me calling you John, do you?’

‘No, please do.’

‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘I’m a retired architect.’

‘An architect!’ She seemed impressed. ‘Did you enjoy the work?’

‘I did but what about you? You’ve told me nothing about yourself.’ He surprised himself not only for asking the question but for wanting to hear the answer. He rarely if ever asked people to talk about themselves. It was easier to prejudge them and make assumptions. Most of the people he met were tediously predictable. He could guess what they were like from a quick glance especially women in her condition, pregnant without a ring and young enough to be his granddaughter. But Sarah seemed different from other girls and he was curious to know how she came to be in her present predicament.

‘Me?’ she said. ‘There’s little to say but I will when you’ve told me about yourself. There’s more to you than meets the eye I can tell.’

He suspected she was teasing him but was flattered to think she might be genuinely interested. His only problem was that he couldn’t think of anything interesting about himself to tell her. ‘Well, as I said, I was an architect.’

‘And what did you do? I don’t much about architecture.’

‘I designed things, mostly buildings - office blocks, sports complexes, supermarkets, all sorts of things.’

‘Did you do anything before you were an architect?’

‘Nothing apart from learning to play the piano and going to university, studying, qualifying and getting a job. I worked at the same firm for my entire career. Rather boring really.’

‘Anything but, I’d say.’ She looked impressed. ‘Not like me. I never settled down to any job and there isn’t much chance of getting one now, not in this condition with a baby on the way. Where do you live?’

‘Not far from here, a mile or so out of town.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No. I live alone, always have done. I’m happier on my own.’ John was beginning to bore himself with this arid account of his mundane existence. There must be something exciting to tell her about the last forty years not that he could think of anything.

‘Happier on your own? That’s sad.’ A look of disappointment crossed her face. ‘But you won’t be alone for much longer. You’ll soon have company.’

‘I doubt that. I can’t imagine anything changing.’

Sarah was listening to every word and looking at him as though she knew he was hiding something. Her next question threw him. ‘Are you happy?’ she asked.

‘Happy as most, I suppose. Is anyone always happy?’ He turned away but not before noticing her worried expression.

‘I can read you like a book,’ she said staring straight at him. ‘You aren’t happy are you?’

‘Why should it matter to you whether I am or not?’

‘Because it does,’ she said. Her eyes dropped and she once again patted her tummy. ‘All I want is for him to be happy, that’s all I want.’

John overcame his earlier embarrassment about the pregnancy and his reluctance to mention the baby. He’d learned enough about mothers-to-be to know they loved nothing more than talking about their forthcoming offspring. He’d also noted her reference to the foetus as him. ‘How do you know it will be a boy?’ he asked. ‘It might be a girl.’

‘It is a boy,’ she asserted with absolute certainty.

John decided not to challenge her. ‘How long have you got to go?’

‘Not long. He’s due early September.’

‘September? That’s when I was born, September the fourth.’

She showed no surprise. ‘Yes, you’re a typical Virgo.’

Astrology to John was unscientific nonsense akin to black magic but he played along. ‘Are you a believer in the stars?’ he asked.

‘I am, enough to know a Virgo when I see one.’

‘And how would you know I was a Virgo apart from me telling you when I was born?’

‘Because you’re a typical Earth sign - intelligent, organised, practical and hardworking. You enjoy art, science and mathematics which accounts for you being an architect and a musician. Does that sound right?’

‘You could have guessed that from what I’ve told you.’

‘True, and that’s another thing about Virgos. They’re sceptics.’

‘I see. So I’m not all good!’

‘Oh no, far from it. Virgos have their negative side.’

‘Such as - other than being a sceptic?’

‘You’re shy. You hate being the centre of attraction and you can be detached, judgemental, even cold when it comes to any kind of emotional involvement.’

For someone he’d only just met she’d summed him up accurately. ‘Guilty as charged!’ he admitted. ‘Is there anything more I should know about myself?’

‘Only that because you’re a perfectionist you tend to look down on people who aren’t as clever as you.’

John couldn’t argue. Everything she’d said about him was true. He decided to get her to focus on someone other than him. ‘What about your son,’ he said. ‘Do you think he’ll be influenced by the stars and turn out like me?’

‘So you agree he will be a boy?’

‘Possibly. I meant to say your child.’

‘I think he’ll turn out to be exactly like you. The stars never lie. They have more influence people imagine.’

The one person John had been dying to ask about was the father of the child. ‘A child’s personality is influenced by both parents,’ he said. ‘What about your child’s father? Are you married?’

Sarah gave him derisive look. ‘What do you think?’

‘Probably not,’ he confessed regretting having asked. It was none of his business as Karen had informed the pimply youth when he asked about her boyfriend.

‘All you will ever see of my man is this,’ she said, prising open the heart-shaped locket she’d shown him earlier. ‘Do you want to look?’

John leant over and peered at the tiny photograph. It was too small for him to pick out any detail but he managed to decipher the face of a young man standing next to her. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Billy, but he’s not like you in any way although there’s a likeness around the eyes and the shape of his nose.’

John was puzzled by the remark. Why did she think it mattered whether the lad resembled him or not? He hoped she wasn’t suggesting that he should be some kind of substitute or stand-in for her lost lover expecting him to support this unfortunate, unborn child. He dismissed the thought. ‘Where did you meet Billy?’ he asked.

‘Here on this very bench.’

‘Here? Really?’ So that was why she had chosen to sit there. ‘What was he like?’ John’s thoughts returned to the pimply youth. He couldn’t imagine Sarah being so blantantly available to any man as the foul mouthed Karen. Sarah had pride. She possessed a raw, untutored intelligence that in different circumstances could have been nurtured.

‘What was Billy like? He was a one-off, funny, full of mischief and he made me laugh. I fell head over heels for him and thought he loved me as much as I loved him. I should have known better. One thing led to another. The relationship developed and we did what most young people do when they’re in love. But as soon as I told him I was pregnant...’

‘He left you in the lurch.’

‘That’s about it. Typical of men don’t you think?’

‘Not all men.’

‘Not men like you John. But you’d never have been in the same position as Billy would you?’

‘No, probably not.’ His mind went back to his avoidance of Henrietta and the female students at university. Looking at Sarah and pitying her position he wondered if that had been a mistake. He was growing fond of this sad young woman. Perhaps if he’d found the right partner it wouldn’t have been so bad after all but it was too late to think about that now.

‘So here I am but I wouldn’t change anything, even if I could. The baby is all that matters and I’ll give him the best possible life I can.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘She died and my father doesn’t want to know. He always said if you make a hard bed you must lie on it.’

John felt sorry for her. It was all he could do to stop himself from offering to look after her and the child. There was more than enough space in his home. She and the baby could sleep in any of the spare bedrooms. And what would happen if he did? He allowed himself for a moment to imagine living with her. He wouldn’t be the first man of his age to end up with a girl young enough to be his daughter or even granddaughter and he couldn’t help finding her attractive. But that was pure fantasy. If he were to take her home it would be for protection and companionship only. There was no mortgage and his pension was more than adequate to provide for three. He pictured the warmth of family life. He imagined himself coming down from his study and seeing Sarah feeding the baby in front of a blazing fire with his slippers in the hearth and his dinner waiting in the oven. There would be someone to share the evenings with talking or listening to music. He almost convinced himself that it could really happen until a sudden shout from Sarah brought him back down to earth. ‘Ouch! You little devil!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s him. He’s kicking again. Do you want to feel?’

John could barely believe his ears. The girl he’d just met was actually inviting him to place his hand on her belly and feel a baby moving about in her womb. And yet it felt completely natural.

‘Here,’ she said, ‘give me your hand.’ He gave her his hand and was near to tears as she laid it on her tummy and held it firmly in place. For the first time in his life he was feeling another life moving, kicking, letting everyone know it was there, part of the world already and ready to find and fight for a place in it. ‘Can you feel him? Press harder if you can’t.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he blurted out overcome with emotion. ‘Yes, I can feel him. It’s marvellous, wonderful!’ There were tears in his eyes. He was lost for words to express his delight. It was overwhelming. What moved him as much as the child’s kicking was feeling Sarah’s hand on his. Her touch was as soft as snow and surprisingly just as cold. Her flesh was distinctly icy which seemed odd on such a hot day. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes I’m fine. Why?’

‘Your hand is so cold.’

She smiled. ‘You know what they say, cold hands, warm heart.’

‘I don’t doubt your heart is warm. I can sense it.’

‘Good, I hoped you would. It’s been lovely to meet you John but I have to go.’ She stood and smoothed down her skirt.

‘Why so soon? Can’t you stay for a while? I’m only just beginning to get to know you.’ He couldn’t believe what he was saying.

‘I’m sorry but I have to leave.’

‘Can I see you again?’

‘Oh yes and that’s a promise. You’ll see me again, sooner than you think.’

‘When?’

She picked up her basket and started to walk away then turned and said, ‘On New Year’s Day. I shall come on New Year’s Day,’

‘Where? Where will you be?’

‘You’ll know when the time comes.’ She walked on a little then turned once more and said, ‘Look in the tin, John! Look in the tin!’ Those were her last words as she went gliding over the grass before she disappeared into the crowd.

John sat wishing she could have stayed and wondering why she’d purposely chosen to sit with him. He felt confused. What had she meant by saying she’d see him on New Year’s Day and telling him to look in the tin? What tin? The only tin he could think of was the battered tin he’d been given by Mrs. Flowers containing the faded photo. How could Sarah have known about it? He hadn’t seen the tin for years. All he wanted now was to get home and search the house till he found it.

His mind was all over the place as he rushed to the car and raced home. As soon as he was indoors he began hunting. He turned out cupboards, delved into long-forgotten drawers and just as he’d given up all hope of finding it, there it was at the bottom of the last drawer he opened. His hands shook uncontrollably as he prised off the lid and took out the photo. He was half afraid to look but when he did there was no mistaking whose picture it was. The woman, standing with a young man on the promenade was Sarah, still in the same long dress and pink blouse. She was wearing something around her neck and when he peered more closely he saw quite clearly the heart-shaped locket hanging from its chain.

With his thoughts in turmoil he poured a large whisky. How could the woman in the churchyard be Sarah, his mother? If she had been then the baby he’d touched and felt moving could only be him. He wondered if he’d imagined the encounter but knew he hadn’t. Gradually the full implications of all she’d told him and her promise to see him on New Year’s Day became horribly clear.

***

‘What do you think of the story?’ Howard asked.

I was still trying to get my head around the impossibility of a man feeling his own embryo and actually touching himself as an unborn child when he was already a retired man. ‘Amazing,’ I said, ‘Almost like time travel in reverse or going forwards.’ I couldn’t work out which of the two it might be.

‘And how do you think John would have felt after talking to his dead mother and learning when he’d see her again?’

‘If it meant that he’d see her on the day he was destined to die I imagine he’d be terrified to say the least. None of us wants to know when we’re going to die.’

‘He was terrified. Have you worked out who John really was?’

‘John I assume.’

‘Didn’t he remind you of someone you already know, an architect and pianist fond of Bach?’

‘Are you telling me John was you?’ I winced at my slowness and naivety.

‘Yes John was me. So you see why I told you that this woman’s tale was the strangest of all and my reason for asking you to stay with me.’

It was all beginning to dawn on me now. Tomorrow was New Year’s Day. If the woman, assuming she had been the ghost of his mother, meant what she’d said then today, New Year’s Eve, would be Howard’s last day. No wonder he wanted someone to be with him tonight dreading what might happen. I tried to reassure him. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I can’t imagine anything awful will happen and I’m staying with you tonight.’ In truth, I wasn’t looking forward to it. I knew we’d be watching the clock all the time, aware of the minutes and hours passing and dreading the worst. I would have to find a way of distracting him and getting him away from that gloomy house awaiting his fate which I couldn’t believe would become a reality. ‘I know what we’ll do,’ I said, ‘and I won’t take no for an answer.’

My solution was simple. I would take him to the club which on New Year’s Eve would be buzzing with life. I’d introduce him to my friends and make sure he didn’t hide away in his usual dark corner speaking to nobody. I’d involve him in the conversation and ply him with drinks. He’d be too drunk and tired to think about anything other than sleep by the time we went home. Howard resisted at first. He said he was hopeless at socialising and wasn’t especially fond of my friends but I persisted and he finally gave in.

The club as I’d expected was packed. I’d insisted on taking a taxi so there’d be nothing to stop us from drinking as much as we wanted. Keeping Howard at my side I made for the bar and ordered the drinks. Eric Short was the first to spot us. He looked surprised to see me with Howard but jostled his way towards us.

‘Well, if it isn’t Bill. We wondered where you’d been all this time. Come and join us, we’re over there by the fire. I’m sure we can squeeze you in.’

‘This is Howard,’ I said, ‘you won’t mind if he joins us will you?’

‘Of course not. Pleased to meet you. Have you been here before?’

‘Yes, I’ve been a member for some time now.’

‘I see. And what did you do for a living?’

‘I worked for Hoskins, Dyer and Blake in Hendford.’

‘Really? You should think about becoming a member. Where did you say you worked?’

I shuddered remembering how Howard summed up Eric as someone who never listened. ‘There’s time for that later,’ I said. ‘Let’s join the others.’ We elbowed our way across the room to the fireplace and squeezed ourselves in with the circle.

They were all there, Arthur Dawes spouting on as usual, Geoff Godwin taking no interest in what he was saying and waiting for a pause to jump in, Bob Wilson looking as bored as ever, Michael Farrow fidgeting impatiently and David Green staring around the room in a world of his own. They all seemed as surprised as Eric to see me with Howard but they welcomed him into the group and eventually included him in the general banter.

Arthur Dawes was the first to speak to him directly. ‘So what do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a retired architect.’

‘An architect! How fascinating. I was a teacher you know, well headteacher actually, the leading light so to speak in a village primary school. I remember on one occasion...’ The soliloquy went on for some time until Geoff stopped him mid-sentence with an unrelated tale of his own. Time and again I was reminded of how accurate Howard’s description of them had been when we met. The drinks flowed along with the conversation and by ten thirty I could see that he’d had enough and was ready to be taken home. I rose from my chair and made my excuses.

‘What,’ said Arthur, ‘leaving already? Aren’t you staying to see in the New Year?’

‘We would but we’ve had a tiring day.’ I was about to say we’d have a lot on our plates in the morning but stopped myself realising it might unsettle Howard who now seemed less agitated than when we’d arrived. They raised their glasses, wished us a Happy New Year and we left.

I’d arranged for the taxi to pick us up at eleven. We stood outside for a few minutes waiting. It was cold and clear without the slightest breeze in the air. The stars were barely visible in the haze of the street lighting.

‘You can see why I prefer living out of town,’ Howard said. ‘No chance of seeing the Milky Way here, is there?’

‘I suppose not,’ I said never having thought about the Milky Way. My main concern was Howard. ‘What did you think of the evening?’

‘Interesting. They all acted in character.’

‘You didn’t mind leaving before twelve?’

‘No, I couldn’t have taken another drink.’

‘You’re feeling all right?’

‘A little woozy but that’s not surprising.’

The taxi arrived early and dropped us off just after eleven. As soon as we were indoors Howard declared he was ready for bed.

‘Would you like me to make some coffee before you turn in?’

‘No, but help yourself to whatever you’d like. You know where everything is, my friend.’

I sat for a while in the chair pleased that the night had gone as well as it had. Howard seemed more relaxed and tired. It was the first time he’d referred to me as his friend. I now thought of him as my friend. My mind went back to that first night when I found myself sitting alone in this room then so strange but now so familiar and almost like home.

Too tired to make myself coffee I opted for bed. I undressed, climbed under the covers and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to twelve. I switched off the light and lay there thinking about the woman wondering if she’d reappear. If she did I assumed she would come on the stroke of midnight. I could hear the clock ticking on the bedside cabinet. Time dragged. I began to think midnight would never arrive. And then I heard the first of the four quarters strike from a church tower not far away. After the last of the quarters sounded a seemingly endless silence followed before the first stroke of twelve. I stayed wide awake for some time after midnight knowing what I should do but putting it off. When I could wait no longer I plucked up courage and switched on the light. It was twelve thirty. If the woman had appeared she’d have come and gone by now and if Howard’s worst fears had been realised he would be gone with her.

I was trembling as I opened the bedroom door and crept down the narrow corridor to Howard’s room. What would I do if I found him dead in his bed? I turned the knob with a clammy hand and opened the door. I cannot describe how elated I felt when I heard him breathing deeply. I stood listening and as my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I saw the bed clothes rise and fall in time with his breathing. ‘Happy New Year,’ I whispered before retreating. Filled with immense relief I climbed back into bed and fell asleep almost at once.

It was soon after nine when I woke. The weak morning sun was already filtering through the curtains. I listened for the piano or any other signs of Howard moving about downstairs but wasn’t surprised to hear nothing. Remembering how much he’d drunk on the previous night I imagined he’d be sleeping it off. Feeling I was now a friend I crept downstairs intending to treat him to breakfast in bed. Searching the kitchen I found all I needed and climbed back upstairs with his coffee and scrambled egg on toast. Holding the tray against my side with one hand I opened the bedroom door with the other and went in. Howard was awake propped up on the pillow and looking towards me with a smile on his face. I drew back the curtains and went to the bedside. Only then did I realise the smile was permanently fixed. His eyes were milky and vacant. In sheer panic I dropped the tray and stood staring in disbelief.

My memory of what followed is sketchy. I remember the paramedics, the doctor and police arriving at different times though I’ve no idea what they said to me or I to them. My recollections of the following weeks are equally vague. I went home that afternoon and spent several days walking around in a dream. I attended the inquest and told them how I’d been invited to stay and how we’d spent our time talking and walking. No one asked what we’d talked about and I told them nothing of Howard’s tales. I explained that on New Year’s Eve, the night before he died, we’d been to the club where Howard had drunk more than usual though no one suggested it had any bearing on his death. It was assumed that Howard had suffered a cardiac arrest in his sleep and the coroner duly recorded a verdict of death by natural causes. I was told when the body could be released and the funeral arrangements were left to me.

Until that point I kept away from the club unable to face the memory of being there so recently with Howard. But as the day of his cremation approached, not wanting to be the only mourner, I went to the club hoping to persuade others to join me at the crematorium. Arthur seemed surprised that I would be going when I’d only known the fellow for a few days. Eric explained he would have come if the chap had been a paid-up club member and the others expressed their sympathy for the poor man but said they had prior engagements. The general lack of interest was disappointing but not unexpected. None of them really knew Howard and Howard wouldn’t have wanted them there anyway. I then thought about the people he’d known. I doubted that Mr and Mrs. Bidgood or Mrs. Flowers would still be alive but there might be a chance of finding Henrietta or one of the children from the home. There was also the grammar school where someone might be able to give me a lead. If Miss Carter or Mr. Clinic had been young teachers when Howard was a pupil they could still be living. And there was his piano teacher, Miss Price. If Howard had been right about her age when she taught him she might still be around. It was a long shot but for Howard’s sake I decided to do what I could to find someone who’d known him and would come to his cremation.

I decided to look for Henrietta first and began my search on a frosty Friday morning. Knowing from Howard’s description that the Bidgood’s had lived in a pebble-dashed house overlooking the playing fields I set off for the most likely location. The first door I knocked was opened by a toddler who looked alarmed and called for her mother. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but I’m looking for the Bidgood family. I believe they once lived here or nearby.’

The woman looked blank but said her father might know. After some while an old man with a walker inched his way to the door. ‘The Bidgood’s? Yes, I knew them. They lived two doors up. Both dead now. Shopkeeper I remember. Shop’s long gone too.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Do you what happened to the daughter, Henrietta?’

‘Yes, married a bank manager. Lives next door to Hundred Stone gardens.’

I thanked him and left him to stagger back into the house with his walker while I paced up the hill to the Hundred Stone gardens on the outskirts of town at its highest point. I rang the doorbell of the adjacent house. A stout man answered the door. I apologised for the intrusion and told him I was looking for a woman whose maiden name was Henrietta Bidgood. As I spoke a voice called out asking who was at the door. ‘Someone looking for you,’ the man called back.

Forgetting the intervening years I expected a young, seductive temptress to appear and was surprised when a plump, silver-haired lady came to the door. She pushed her husband aside and faced me with folded arms like a wrestler ready to pick a fight. ‘What’s all this about?’ she asked. ‘We haven’t met, have we?’

I wasn’t sure of her married name. ‘Are you by any chance Henrietta, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bidgood?’ I asked.

‘I am. And you are?’

‘William,’ I said thinking Bill would be too informal for a bank manager’s wife. ‘I believe you knew Howard who stayed with you when he was younger.’

‘What Howard from the home? Are you a friend of his? Come in. I’ve often wondered what happened to him.’

I followed her into the dining room. ‘It’s a beautiful view,’ I said looking out of the window. ‘I’ve often admired it from the gardens and envied the people who live here.’

Henrietta smiled with self-satisfaction. ‘So tell me about Howard? Where is he now? I meant to keep in touch but you know how it is. How is he?’

‘I’m afraid Howard died a few weeks ago.’

Henrietta looked genuinely shocked. ‘Died? Oh, that’s dreadful.’

Her husband raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, well! Poor Howard. That’s another of your childhood admirers gone.’

‘Yes but he wasn’t really my type, not that I’d wish him dead. How did it happen?’

‘A heart attack. It was peaceful. He had a successful life.’

I expected Henrietta to ask me more about him but she talked about herself, her years at Roedean, her subsequent marriage and how she and her husband enjoyed holidays abroad. When she finished I told her that Howard was to be cremated on the Friday of the following week and asked if she’d care to be present.

‘Oh, I’d love to,’ she said, ‘but on Sunday we’re off to Southampton. We always take a cruise in late January to get away from the depressing weather. I really am sorry but do please pass on our condolences. Poor Howard. Such a shame.’

I left with a sinking heart but my search wasn’t over. Before leaving I managed to get the address of Miss Price. Henrietta hadn’t touched a piano for years but as far as she knew Miss Price still lived at the same address. I resolved to call on her in the morning. If that failed there was still the Grammar school, Hoskins, Dyer and Blake and the children’s home which was now a care home for the elderly but somebody there might know of a contact.

On Saturday I rose early. It was raining but rather than drive I donned my raincoat, took an umbrella and set off soon after ten. The umbrella was useless in the gusty wind and more than once almost turned inside out. On reaching the bungalow I stood in the porch and paused before ringing the doorbell. The bottoms of my trousers were soaked and clinging to the backs of my legs. I stood listening to a short section of a tune being repeated and stopping at the same point. I rang the bell and heard Miss Price’s voice issuing instructions as she came to the door. The short, painfully thin woman who opened it was still recognisable in her baggy cardigan, tweed skirt and flat shoes. Her pale face was certainly plain and her fair hair was tied back in a bun that gave her an austere, fearsome look.

She spoke before I had time to introduce myself. ‘Mr Hall I presume.’

‘Yes,’ I said, surprised she knew who I was. ‘Bill Hall. I’m afraid I have some rather sad news.’

‘Yes, about Howard, I already know. Henrietta phoned yesterday afternoon.’

‘Perhaps I should call back. I don’t want to interrupt a lesson.’

‘No, please come in. I’m free for quarter of an hour before the next pupil arrives and Freddie will be leaving in five minutes. If you’d care to sit in the dining room I’ll be with you shortly.’ I was taken into a back room and offered a seat while she went off to finish the lesson with Freddie whose pianistic skills seemed somewhat lacking even to my untrained ear. As I sat listening to the same repeated passage I looked around at the small room filled with a bulky three-piece suite, dining table and display cabinet bursting with spotless crockery and glasses. A large ginger cat was sprawled out asleep in one of the lounge chairs, possibly a descendant of the fat creature that had taken a dislike to Howard. After five minutes Freddie was dismissed and Miss Price joined me. She went to the chair occupied by the cat, swept it on to the floor and sat down ignoring the animal’s withering gaze as it sloped off into the hall.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Howard,’ she said. ‘Did you know him well?’

‘Only for a few days sadly but I think I came to know him as well as anyone could.’

‘He wasn’t the easiest person to get to know but his musical ability was prodigious. I’ve never before or since had a pupil like him. Did he still play?’

‘He did and beautifully too on a Steinway grand. While I was with him he played me several of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Do you know them?’

‘I do. They’re not easy to perform but nothing was too difficult for Howard. How did you come to meet him?’

‘He invited me to stay before the New Year.’ I told her how he’d gone to university and become a successful architect. She asked if he’d been married, where he’d worked and other questions most of which I could answer with confidence. Noticing that she kept one eye on the clock and knowing her next pupil was due to arrive I brought up the matter of the funeral and asked if there was any chance of her attending. Her face dropped as soon as I mentioned the day. I could tell she was genuinely fond of Howard and wanted to be there but her answer came as a disappointment. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m committed to the local primary school every Friday. They’re starting rehearsals for their spring concert and I can’t disappoint them. I help them out on a voluntary basis every Friday as they don’t have a music teacher. If only it had been on another day. All I can say is my thoughts will be with you and with Howard of course.’

Howard required more than thoughts to fill the pews but I thanked her and left. I glanced at my watch. The Care Home was a mile or two away on the town’s western outskirts. It would take less than an hour to get there on foot and I needed the exercise. The wind had dropped and the rain had eased to a thin drizzle as I walked at a steady pace along the main road. Although the warmth in the bungalow had dried the bottoms of my trousers I kept to the inside of the pavement to prevent them from being soaked again by spray thrown up from the traffic. I arrived at the large Georgian house sooner than expected. The pond at centre of the park where Howard fished for frog spawn had since been filled in and grassed over no doubt for health and safety reasons. I thought how lucky Howard and I had been to grow up in an age with unrestricted access to all manner of potential perils and with them the adventure and excitement no longer available to children. Immediately beyond the park at the entrance to the Home’s driveway I saw a large notice. The Grade 11 listed Georgian house and its grounds was up for sale with planning permission for five new dwellings. Undeterred I walked down the drive hoping to find the Care Home still occupied and someone who knew of the children’s home but the place was deserted. I stood on the empty forecourt staring at the front door. I pictured Howard as a boy leaving and entering on countless occasions, going and coming from school or setting off for the pond in search of his precious tadpoles. I could see Mr. Bidgood’s Ford Anglia waiting outside to whisk him away to his new life. I thought of the building’s history and wondered about its original owners and where the forsaken children and elderly residents whose first and last home it had been were now living or laid to rest. I could have stayed dreaming about its past for longer but I knew it was pointless. The rain was getting heavier again so I raised my umbrella and with a regretful sigh began the long trek home.

After a lazy Sunday I woke on Monday with renewed optimism planning to visit the grammar school and Hoskins, Dyer and Blake. Howard’s old seat of learning was now a comprehensive school. I went to reception and pressed the buzzer. Through the sliding glass I could see a middle-aged man and a young woman sitting and tapping away at their computers. The man came to the hatch and asked what I wanted.

‘I’d like to see the headmaster,’ I said. He informed me that Ms Parker-Farr was the headteacher and asked if I had an appointment. On learning I hadn’t he told me to wait while he went to see if she was available. He disappeared through a door at the far end of the office and came back a few minutes later. ‘She can see you in about a quarter of an hour,’ he said pointing towards some chairs. ‘You can take a seat over there.’

Returning to his desk he mumbled something to his female colleague and left me to find one of the seats lined up in the corridor. I felt like a pupil again, full of apprehension waiting to be summoned by the headmistress. My unremarkable schooldays were spent in a secondary modern school. I’d never met the headmaster, a short, irascible, Napoleonic figure who hid away in his office all day and only put his head above the parapet for morning assemblies. I had on one occasion been sent to the deputy headmistress for some misdemeanour and I felt now as I had then. I looked at the aphorisms displayed on the walls, Courage is grace under pressure, Without fear there cannot be courage and Believe and you’re halfway there. They did nothing to dispel my anxiety. Turning my attention to the clock I watched the minute hand judder forwards at fifteen second intervals. After nearly half an hour I was about to change my mind and leave when the man appeared at the hatch. ‘Ms Parker-Farr will see you now. Go through the door to the second room on the left.’ He pressed a buzzer to open the door and I found the headteacher standing inside waiting for me. She led me to her office and invited me to take a seat.

Ms Parker-Farr looked young enough to have been my granddaughter if I’d had one. She wore a smart, pinstriped suit over a white blouse and looked more like a fashion model than a headteacher with her perfectly-groomed hair, immaculate make-up and charming smile. I felt instantly at ease with her and was sure she’d be able to help. Not knowing where to begin I gave her a garbled account of how Howard had been a star pupil at the school gaining a place at Cambridge. I told her what inspirational teachers Miss Carter and Mr. Clinic had been, what a brilliant pianist Howard had become even though he’d studied architecture, how he’d recently died and how pleased I would be if Miss Carter or Mr. Clinic could come to his funeral. Ms Parker-Farr listened patiently as I prattled on until I stopped to take a breath.

‘When was Howard a pupil here?’ she asked.

‘Well, I suppose it would have been some fifty years ago. He was in his late sixties when he died.’

‘I see. So Miss Carter and Mr. Clinic would be in their eighties or nineties now I imagine.’

‘Yes I suppose they would be.’ I could see where this was going but still stupidly hoped she might know something of their whereabouts.

Ms Parker-Farr gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘Most of the teachers from the grammar school left before or at the time of the reorganisation and those who stayed retired soon after. We have a very young staff now, almost entirely new appointments. Perhaps you should try the Education Office. They might be able to help.’

I apologised for taking up her time and left. As I walked away I heard the raucous sound of jazz being played on drums, clarinets and guitars blasting out from one of the classrooms and I realised how times had changed since the days of Nymphs and Shepherds with Miss Carter sitting sedately at the piano with her back to the class. Discounting the Education Office I doubted now if Hoskins, Dyer and Blake would be of any more help than Ms Parker-Farr had been but clinging on to the aphorism Believe and you’re halfway there I walked away from the school gates and made for town and the place where Harold had spent most of his working life.

As I climbed the steps to the porch I noticed the brass plaque screwed to the wall bearing the partners’ names. I paused for a moment recalling how Marcus Blake had stood on these very steps looking at the same plaque before setting off on that fateful holiday to the Isle of Wight. I could see it reflecting sunlight on that Sunday afternoon when Simon and Matthew returned from their Ninesprings nightmare. How many times had Gary walked passed it before his encounter with the harvester or Tom before his final night in the Mendip cave? I pictured it glistening in rain as Trevor and Liz rushed back from their lunchtime break at the Mermaid and thought of Paul at the Burrator reservoir who would never see it again. And now it had cast its curse on Howard. I remembered our first walk when he’d pointed towards the clearing which would later be covered in bluebells and I understood why he’d said he’d like to invite me back in the spring before adding that it wouldn’t be possible. As I thought about Hoskins, Dyer and Blake I wondered why anyone chose to work there or what might happen to me if I dared to enter the building. But enter I did and spoke to the girl behind the reception desk. The outcome as I’d feared was much the same as it had been at the school except that on this occasion I never got further than reception. I learned that Mr. Dyer had died and that Mr. Hoskins was in a care home suffering from dementia. The firm though still retaining its name for the present was about to be taken over. Grasping at straws I asked if there might be a Liz or Elizabeth still on the staff though I wasn’t sure if Liz would ever have met Howard. The girl thought not but checked her computer before informing me no one named Liz or Elizabeth appeared on the staff list.

Why does it so often rain on sad occasions when just the occasion is sad enough without the additional dreariness? Having had no success at Hoskins, Dyer and Blake I whiled away my time until the day of Harold’s cremation. The rain was lashing down as I waited outside for the hearse to arrive. When it did I followed the coffin into the chapel to the recorded sound of the Goldberg variations as I’d requested. The duty vicar appeared and asked if I wanted to say any more about the departed’s life apart from the brief account I’d already given him. ‘No. let’s keep it brief,’ I said. For rest of the service I sat lost in thoughts of my own and was glad when it was over. The music resumed at the end of the proceedings. I consoled myself that at least one of Howard’s friends and possibly the one who’d known him best had been there to see him off. The vicar was standing by the door ready to offer his consolatory farewell. I shook his hand and as I was leaving glanced back at the chapel. In a moment of wishful thinking I imagined a young woman dressed in a pink blouse and long, black skirt sitting where I’d sat. I pictured her fingering a heart-shaped locket and giving me a radiant smile as I caught her eye. I left uplifted in the hope that she and Harold would be together at last. Not caring about the rain I drove home, poured a large whisky and raised my glass in a toast to Howard and Sarah.

From that day my life returned to some kind of normality. I settled back into my old routine - morning strolls into town for the paper, coffees and crosswords, afternoon naps and evenings in front of the television. I wanted nothing to change or disrupt it. But that was not to be. Although there’d be no more tales from Howard my own story was yet to be told.