If I’d seen an old man among the gathering, white haired and leaning on a stick, I couldn’t remember taking any notice of him. I did recall a flurry of excitement and alarm among some older in-laws as they queued to examine the wreaths. The occasion had been solemn and wordless until that moment, and the flutter of movement was like a raucous child bursting in and dancing round the hearse. I’d also been aware of the faces turned suddenly towards me, anxious or frankly prurient, waiting to see my reaction to something. The men had fingered their black ties nervously, the women clutched their handbags and tilted their hats into the wind as they studied me with avid eyes. But I hadn’t known what it was they expected, and I didn’t care. They’d wanted something I couldn’t give them.
Then, looking at Samuel sitting next to me in the car, I had a sudden flash of insight, like that neurological flicker they call déjà vu. It was something I should have known at the time. Maybe, in a way, I had.
‘You sent a wreath, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There were some there who knew of my existence — your mother’s mother and her brothers. They were aware of the split, though perhaps not the details. I suspect my name has become a sort of fable, mentioned only in whispers.’
‘A split? That sounds intriguing. Something to do with my grandfather?’
‘Your grandfather and me. That’s the reason I was unwelcome.’
So there was a secret in the family. Was I the only one who hadn’t known about it? I felt a flush of anger at the thought of those chattering in-laws hugging a bit of knowledge to themselves. They’d known about it, and yet they’d eaten my sandwiches and sausage rolls and drunk my beer and said nothing. They’d muttered and winked to one another and uttered not a word. In the end, the only person who’d come forward to tell me the truth was the man himself.
I studied Samuel’s distant blue eyes. I guessed it had taken some courage on his part, in the face of likely rejection.
‘I suppose I was trying to draw attention to myself,’ he said. ‘I wanted you to be reminded of me. I wanted to see if you’d get in touch. I was foolishly hurt that I’d never been informed of your father’s funeral. When you didn’t make contact, I thought you still hated me.’
‘But I knew nothing about you.’
‘I see that now.’ He sighed. ‘It seems incredible.’
‘I take it you don’t live in Lichfield?’ I said.
He frowned as his pale eyes focused on me, recalling my face. ‘No. Well, I was born here in the town, in Tamworth Street, but my home is at Whittington.’
‘Not far. What, five miles? Didn’t you think of making yourself known before this?’
‘Not while your parents were alive.’
‘Was it such a terrible row that you had with my grandfather?’
‘Oh, there was no row,’ he said. ‘Not really. We didn’t need to argue. We both knew our relationship was over. There was no doubt that we would live separate lives from then on.’
‘I don’t understand. Are you going to tell me what it was all about?’
‘Not now, Christopher. Soon. But let’s take it slowly.’
A series of possibilities ran through my mind like a flickering slideshow. I recalled being told that my Granddad Buckley was an old soldier, and I imagined him being rigid and strict in his beliefs. What might have wrecked a friendship for a man like that? Some moral transgression, surely. I wondered if Samuel could be gay. It would have been enough, in those days. Perhaps that was why the old man was taking his time, waiting until we knew each other better before he told me the truth.
‘Well, all right,’ I said reluctantly. ‘I don’t want to tire you too much.’
He smiled weakly. ‘You’re right, I do get tired.’
The old man shifted uncomfortably, easing his bones, then reached for his stick. I could feel him withdrawing from me rapidly. He was sinking into the well of his own thoughts, where no one could reach him.
‘I don’t have the energy any more,’ he said. ‘There’s a job to be done. And it needs somebody younger to finish it.’
I frowned, puzzled by the change of subject. ‘What job?’
But he just smiled at me wearily. ‘Would it be possible for us to meet again soon? Tuesday perhaps?’
I didn’t have to consult my diary. A list of my appointments for Tuesday would have read: ‘Open post, feed cat, put out wheelie bin. Pay telephone bill (if possible).’
‘That will be okay.’
‘I’ll tell you more on Tuesday then,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to appear so mysterious. I wanted to make contact with you first, to see if we can work together.’
‘Work together...?’
He held up a hand. ‘I’d like to have the chance to explain it to you properly at another time. There are also some items I want to show you, which will help you to understand things better than anything I could say.’
I sighed. ‘All right. Tuesday it is.’
So in the end, I had to curb my curiosity. Samuel asked me to take him to the bus station in Birmingham Road, where he could pick up a taxi to Whittington. When I started the car and switched on the wipers, the windscreen seemed to have gathered a coating of grime as thick as if it had stood neglected for years.
We drove back towards Lichfield through the outskirts of Leomansley and onto the roundabout at the Western Bypass. An old clock tower stands in the Festival Gardens, where it was moved to make way for a new road, The Friary. I always think it looks a bit forlorn on its new site, a victim of progress, as if it had been banished to the bypass from the city centre for some unforgivable offence, perhaps for being too obvious a reminder of the passage of time.
I wasn’t sorry to have the old boy off my hands by then. He looked ready to drop with exhaustion, and I was worried he might become ill if I kept him talking any longer. I didn’t want to find myself looking after an invalid.
At the bus station, Samuel struggled out of the car and pulled himself upright on a steel barrier. He stared at me through the open door of the car, his eyes strangely out of focus. I don’t know what he saw in my face, but suddenly a surge of anger went through him. He raised his stick above his head and brought it down with a clang on the barrier to get my attention. I was horrified to see heads turning our way from queues in the other bays.
‘Stop it,’ I said.
‘It all depends on you now,’ he barked. ‘There’s only you left.’
The old man lifted his stick again, and I thought he was going to set about battering the car. Unnerved, and frightened of an embarrassing scene, I slammed the door of the Escort and pulled sharply away from the kerb. In my rearview mirror, I saw the old man slump helplessly as two women came forward to guide him into a taxi.
3
Once Samuel Longden was out of my company, I began to wonder whether he’d just been spinning me a yarn. He was old, and perhaps not entirely in touch with reality any more. A little bit unstable. Besides, what did I really know about him, other than what he’d told me himself?
There was no evidence to back up his claim to be so closely involved with my family. On the contrary, my parents had conspicuously failed to mention him. I hadn’t asked to see any proof, of course — it would have seemed incredibly rude. My emotions at being confronted by this man, a complete stranger who seemed so familiar, had completely swamped my journalistic instincts. I’d always been taught to check my sources, to get confirmation.
Back in 1987, I began my working life as a trainee reporter on one of the local papers. It was something I drifted into, just because an advert for the job appeared in the Echo in the same week that I returned home after graduating from the University of Birmingham. I’d studied Economics at Birmingham, but I never intended to be an economist. I wasn’t alone in that. Most of the students I knew had no idea what they wanted to do when they went out into the real world — they were only concerned about whether their grants would last out and where the next party was happening.