As the train started again I picked up the last log book, the one my mother had tried to hide from me. He could have had little sleep that night, for the first entry was for 0800 hours. Ledder failed to make contact. And an hour later — No contact. After that there were entries for every hour, but nothing against them. And by midday he was picking up odd scraps of news commentaries and transmissions from other stations. The word GREENWOOD occurred once. This appeared to be some sort of code word, like MAYDAY, for immediately afterwards there was a note: Air search ordered. There was a reference to bad weather and then, two days later: Nova Scotia Air Rescue base.
But this book, like the last, was a mass of doodles, on the front of the cover, inside and all over that first page, an indication of the long hours he had spent alone, huddled over the receiver. If I hadn’t been so familiar with his writing I don’t think I should ever have been able to decipher it.
I rechecked the entries against the notes I had made, and as I turned the pages the men involved in the disaster were revealed. There was Briffe, the leader of the party, and a man called Baird, and then a third man, the pilot. Ledder keeps calling Laroche. This was on the second page, and two days later he had written the name LAROCHE again in capitals, and underneath: No, it can’t be. I must be mad. Nowhere could I find the names of the three men who had gone up to Area C2 on the first flight, though I did find a further reference to them amongst the jottings from news broadcasts — Advance party evacuated from C2, all three safe.
There were two other entries I thought might have some bearing on the disaster, one of which I could only partly decipher. On September 23 he had written 1705 — Made contact VO6AZ — Query geologists. And then two pages farther on: 1719-VO6AZ. SO THEY HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN ABOUT… The rest was completely obliterated, though I could read my father’s initials, J.F.F., written for some unknown reason into the middle of the sentence.
Excerpts from news broadcasts referring to the search continued until September 26. But on that date, against the time 1300 hours, he had written the one word: Finis. And then later the same day: 1714 — Made contact Ledder. Briffe and Baird both dead. L. safe. And he had added: L–L-L–L-L–IMPOSSIBLE.
Reading all this through as the train ran into Bristol, it was clear that my father had not only followed the story of the whole expedition with great interest, but he had even made direct contact with VO6AZ to clarify certain points. And bearing in mind that he was only making very brief notes for his own personal use and not transcribing messages in detail, it seemed to me there was nothing to indicate that there was anything wrong with his mental state. Some of the comments I didn’t understand and, of course, these, if looked at amongst the jottings and drawings of the muddled pages in which they appeared, would give a different impression. If, however, the so-called experts had bothered to isolate the references to the expedition, as I had done, they would have seen how clear he was about it all.
All the way out to the airport I was thinking about this and how my mother had seen him standing on his two feet and reaching out to the map of Labrador. There must be something in that message. Whether the men were dead or not, I was convinced my father hadn’t imagined it. He’d known it was important. And now all his effort was wasted because I hadn’t had the sense to isolate the relevant passages for the police as I had done on the train.
It was after six when I reached the airport — too late to report to the Company office. I felt sad and depressed, and instead of going to my digs, I turned in at the Airport Bar. The sight of Farrow drinking with a bunch of charter pilots made me think that perhaps there was still something I could do that would convince the authorities. Farrow was the Canadian pilot who had told me about the search for the missing geologists and, flying trans-Atlantic charters, I knew he must land sometimes at Goose Bay.
I thought about it whilst I had my drink, and in the end I went over to the group and asked him if I could have a word with him. ‘It’s about that survey party that was lost,’ I said as he moved down the bar with me.
The search was called off over a week ago. Briffe was dead. Baird, too. Only the pilot got out.’
‘Yes, I know.’ I asked him what he’d have to drink.
‘Fruit juice. I’m flying tomorrow.’ I ordered and when I turned to him again, I saw that he was watching me. He had baby blue eyes in a round, friendly face. But the eyes were shrewd. ‘What’s biting you?’
‘Do you ever land at Goose Bay?’
‘Sure. Every time we do the west-bound flight — unless it damps down.’
‘Do you know a radio operator called Simon Ledder?’
‘Ledder?’ He shook his head. ‘Where’s he work — Control?’
‘I don’t know exactly. His address is care of D.O.T. Communications.’
‘That’s the civilian radio station. D.O.T. stands for Department of Transport. They’re over on the American side.’
The drinks came and I paid, conscious that he was watching me as he sipped his fruit juice, waiting for me to tell him what it was all about. And now that I had him here alone with me, I didn’t know quite how to put it to him. I didn’t want to tell him more than I had to. I didn’t want to risk the look of disbelief that it would inevitably produce. ‘You’re flying tomorrow, you say. Will you be landing at Goose?’
‘Yes. Around twenty-one hundred hours our time.’
‘Will you have a word with Ledder for me — telephone him perhaps?’
‘What about?’
‘Well…’ It was so damned difficult. ‘He’s a ham operator,’ 1 explained, ‘and he was in touch with a British ham on three occasions — Station G2STO. There’s a report, too. Could you ask him to let you have a copy of it?’
‘What’s the report about?’
I hesitated. But he had to know, of course. ‘It’s about Briffe and his party. Ledder was the radio link between the survey party and the mining company they were working for. The authorities have asked him for a report of all his radio contacts with Briffe and also the contacts with G2STO.’
‘How do you know they’ve asked him for a report?’ His voice was suddenly different, the softness gone out of it.
‘Somebody told me,’ I said vaguely. But he was curious now and it made me nervous. ‘I’m sorry to bother you with this, but when I saw you in here I thought perhaps if you could have a word with Ledder …’
‘You could write to him,’ he said. And then, when I didn’t say anything, he added, ‘Hadn’t you better tell me a little more — why you’re so interested in this report, for instance?’
He was still watching me curiously, waiting for me to explain. And suddenly I knew it was no good. I’d have to tell him the whole story. ‘G2STO was my father,’ I said. And I told him about the wire I had received from my mother and how I’d gone home to find my father dead. I told it all exactly as it had happened to me, but when I came to my discovery of the message from Briffe, he said, ‘From Briffe? But Briffe was dead days before.’
‘I know.’ My voice sounded suddenly weary. ‘That’s what the police told me.’ And then I got out the notes I’d made in the train and handed them to him. ‘But if Briffe was dead, how do you explain that?’
He smoothed the sheet of paper out on the bar top and read it through slowly and carefully.
‘They’re all references from my father’s radio log,’ I said.
He nodded, frowning as he read.
I watched him turn the sheet over. He had reached the final message now. ‘Does it sound as though he was mad?’ I said.
• He didn’t say anything. He had read through the notes now and I watched him turn the sheet over again, staring down at it, still frowning.
‘That’s what the authorities think,’ I added. ‘They’re not going to resume the search. I had a letter from them this morning.’
He still didn’t say anything and I began to wish I hadn’t told him. The men were reported dead. That alone would convince him that my father had imagined it all. And then his blue eyes were looking straight at me. ‘And you think the search should be resumed — is that it?’ he asked.