24

We finally make it to the final resting place of St. David

Scouts like to sing. The whole way to St. David’s, they sang. Loudly and joyfully. But even their cheery renditions of “Ging Gang Goolie” couldn’t settle the weird mixture of excitement, nerves, and sheer terror I was feeling. I was convinced the Gaffer was coming after us and every time a taxi drove by I had to stop myself from hiding under my seat.

The good thing about the scouts’ sing-along was that their mouths were full of “ging gangs” and not questions as to who we were and why we weren’t wearing our scarf rings. They only stopped when the bus driver turned up his radio to listen to a news report about the pope’s announcement that he would be coming to Wales to visit Three Saints Church.

We gave the boy scouts the slip as everyone got off at the bus station in St. David’s. I couldn’t believe we had finally made it. However, my sense of achievement was short-lived, because I suddenly realized that although we’d reached St. David’s, I had no idea where to find Alan Froggley.

“We should go to tourist information,” Charlie suggested.

This seemed like an odd idea, so I said, “Alan Froggley is hardly a tourist destination.”

“Neither is Three Saints Church, but the pope is headed there on his vacation,” Charlie chuckled.

“Actually, it’s not a bad idea—tourist information—and what else have we got to go on?” Ben said.

I wasn’t sure but because I didn’t exactly have a better plan, we wandered along to the tourist information center.

Lianne—that’s the lady who worked there—was very helpful and very knowledgeable. She had a kind face and reminded me of the statue of the Virgin Mary at Three Saints. Although Lianne wore a great big scrunchie in her hair and huge gold hoop earrings.

She told Charlie he could find St. David resting at St. David’s Cathedral and gave us a helpful map of the local area. When we asked about Alan, she suggested that we go to city hall.

“Do they have records of everyone who lives here?” I asked.

“Oooh, maybe,” she said. “But you want to talk to Hilda. She knows most people around here. If anyone has heard of your Alan Froggley, it’s her.”

“Thank you, Lianne,” I said.

“We will be giving you a very positive review on TripAdvisor,” Ben added.

We eventually found Hilda around the back of city hall on her cigarette break. For an old lady, she wore an awful lot of makeup and had what Grams would call “quite daring” dress sense. She wore a leopard-print cardigan wrapped around her and her white-blonde hair was piled up on top of her head. She reminded me of Lady Gaga. Both the dog and the singer.

After I’d given her my dangers-of-smoking talk, I got to the real point of our visit.

“We were told you might know how to find somebody,” I said, waving my hands through her cigarette smoke.

She gave a dismissive wave and all the bangles on her wrist jingled. “Who do you think I am? A private investigator?”

She didn’t look like a private investigator—she had no hat or dark glasses—so I said, “No, Lianne from tourist information told us you knew everybody around here.”

“Lianne—Cathy’s daughter? Used to work at the bowling alley? Was dating young Eric Johnson before she broke his heart?”

Grams used to do this sort of thing—rattle on about people I didn’t know and had never met.

“She had a scrunchie in her hair and big earrings?”

“Oh, that Lianne. Maureen’s daughter. Why didn’t you say so?” She puffed on her cigarette. “Yes, I know Lianne. Said I knew people, huh? Well, she’s right. Who are you boys looking for?”

“Alan Froggley,” I said.

She took a little step backward and steadied herself against the wall.

“Are you okay, Mrs.?” Charlie asked.

Hilda took a long drag on her cigarette and eyed me suspiciously. “Who are you to Alan Froggley?”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to blurt out to someone I’d just met that I was Alan Froggley’s son. “My mom used to know him. I think.”

“Who’s your mom?”

“Her name was Molly Yates.”

Hilda shook her head. “Never heard of her—” And then she stopped talking and stared at me, hard. For ages. The ash on the end of her cigarette got really long and she only flicked it when Ben said, “You know Alan Froggley or what?”

She nodded slowly. “I think you’d better come with me.”

I weighed up the danger that a small elderly lady could pose to three strapping superheroes and said, “Okay, where are we going?”

“We’re going to my house. I’m not talking about my Alan here.”

What did she mean, her Alan? How could her Alan be my Alan? I wanted to ask so many questions, but from the look on her face I knew she wasn’t going to answer them right then.

Hilda’s car was the strangest car I’d ever seen. It had a roll-down roof, a spare tire on the hood, and she had to hit the front with a hammer to get it started. She said it was a Citroen 2CV and was made in 1965.

Charlie said, “I didn’t know cars existed then.”

And I was able to tell him that the first motor car was made by Karl Benz—who is the Benz in Mercedes-Benz—back in 1885. I think Hilda was impressed by my knowledge because she said, “Is that so?”

Ben said, “He has a thing about facts.”

And Hilda said, “Is that so?” again.

During the drive I tried to ask her about Alan Froggley, but all she would say was, “Wait until we’re home.” Although she kept looking at me in her rearview mirror.

Her home was a pretty little white cottage overlooking the sea. She brought a tray of lemonade and chocolate marshmallow cookies outside and we sat on a crumbling bench and watched the waves in the sunshine.

“Where are you boys from?” Hilda asked.

“Andover,” I said.

She nodded like she’d already known the answer.

“And how old are you?”

“Eleven and a bit.” I really didn’t want to talk about me. I knew about me. What I didn’t know about was my biological father. I drained my glass. “So do you know Alan Froggley?”

She looked out at the sea. “Yes, I knew Alan. I knew him very well.”

It’s funny how one little word can change everything.

She said “knew.” Not “know.” Knew.

And just like that I knew.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

I’d said those words, but it didn’t feel like they’d come out of my mouth.

“Yes, I’m afraid he is. He died almost two years ago.” A little trickle of black mascara ran down her face.

I think she kept speaking after that, but I wasn’t listening. I was remembering what I’d said to Ben—people die, they die all the time. Well, the people related to me did anyway.

A wave of sickness spread up from my toes.

It had all been a waste of time. Everything we’d done had been for nothing. I’d got Ben and Charlie in trouble for nothing. We’d traveled across the country for nothing.

Ben and Charlie were looking at me with these worried expressions and Hilda put her wrinkled hand on my knee. I didn’t want them looking at me or touching me or being kind.

I stood up and said, “I think I need to be on my own for a moment . . . if you . . . just excuse me . . .”

And then I ran. I ran out of her garden, over the hill, down toward the sea, and straight into my miracle.