* * *
When he opens his eyes, he can see shadows in the room, and the noises emanating from the street have a different, more subdued tone. It is immediately apparent that he must have fallen asleep, and so he turns his head. Sitting on top of the coverlet on the spare bed, he sees the envelope containing his daughter’s writing, and he notices on the desk the unopened pack of notepaper, with matching envelopes. Yesterday’s drive must have knocked the wind out of him, and last night he hadn’t got much sleep as he tossed and turned and worried about how to handle the upcoming day. He now knows that he should act decisively, and so, having opted to forget about writing a short letter, he stands and begins quickly to smarten himself up. He scurries across town, careful to dodge the platoons of swerving bicycles, and when he reaches the college, he sees that it is a different porter. He is a younger man with slicked-back hair, and he might even be the son of the fellow with whom he spoke earlier, for they appear to share a family face. He asks if Benjamin Wilson is in his room as he wishes to leave something for him. This seems to amuse the junior porter, who begins to chuckle.
“Well, sir, if you want to go to his room, that’s one thing. However, if you want to leave something for him, then that’s another thing altogether, isn’t it?”
He understands that if he is going to leave the envelope, then he will have to ask this man for a sheet of paper and a pen so that he might at least let his grandson know that he has visited and give the lad some contact details.
“But the truth is, you won’t find him in his room. They’ve set up a tent outside of the college bar, and all the third-years are enjoying themselves, shall we say. You’re free to go through and give him your package yourself, if that’s what you’d prefer.”
There is a girl leaning against him, the same blond girl that he saw him with this morning. Her glass of Pimm’s is choked with bits of fruit, and it’s discernible that there is nothing under her flimsy sweater to restrain any part of her in the event of a sudden movement. The lad is holding court with a pint of beer in his hand, and he appears to be laughing at a joke that one of his friends has just told.
* * *
“Excuse me, Benjamin.”
He hears his name and turns and sees a well-dressed old man, in a navy blazer and what look like cricket trousers, standing before him. For a moment he wonders if he’s somebody from the university. Maybe he has made some brainless mistake on his papers, for the bloke has a large envelope in his hand, and he looks really serious.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s no reason that you should know who I am. Do you have a minute?”
His friends are staring now, and Mandy has grabbed his arm as though determined that he shouldn’t go anywhere.
“A minute? Yeah, alright.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”
* * *
The lad said that he had no objection to a short walk, so Ronald Johnson decided to take the young man to the bar of his hotel as opposed to some noisy town centre pub. As they walked, he asked him how his exams had gone, and once again he apologized for the intrusion and for dragging him away, albeit temporarily, from his friends. They soon reached the hotel and edged their way across the bar and took possession of two black leather chairs in the far corner underneath a life-size oil portrait of a founder of the university. The busy facility appeared to be full of parents and their children celebrating the end of term, but the waiter was surprisingly quick, and he placed the gin and tonic and pint of lager on the table in front of them and then confirmed that the drinks were to be charged to a room. Ronald Johnson touches glasses with his grandson, before nudging the slice of lemon over the edge and into the fizzing concoction and then lifting the vessel to his mouth. “Cheers.” He looks at the boy over the rim, and can see that he does indeed have an aspect of his mother, particularly around the unblinking almond-shaped eyes. However, not wishing to be caught gazing, he resolves to come straight to the point and not waste any more time.
“I have some of your mother’s writing, and a few letters to you that she never sent.” He gestures towards the large envelope that he has placed on the table before them, but he can see the boy looking quizzically at him as though wanting to ask, How come you have this stuff? “They gave the material to me at the hospital in London.”
Memory blunders towards Ben as he suddenly feels undone by the very sound of this man’s voice. He has spent six long years attempting to empty his mind of his mother’s treatment of them both, and now here he is, in this hotel bar, suddenly remembering the dumb stories that Derek Evans encouraged her to write that he said he’d pass on to the arts editor of the Post. Tommy insisted he was alright, but Ben was always trying to tell his brother that Mam’s friend was a liar, and there was no way he could get any stories published or the autographs of any footballers or pop stars like he promised. He hated this man, and he knew that he sometimes stopped over, but he didn’t tell this to Tommy. Bloody hell, Mam must have been desperate for a friend if she lowered herself to that. In fact, thinking about it like this was the only way that he’d ever been able to square anything in his mind. I mean, really desperate.
“Excuse me, sir.”
They both look up and can see that the waiter is standing over them, but he is addressing the younger of his two guests. In his hands he holds a maroon-coloured tie, which he offers to Ben, who reluctantly takes it from the man.
“Dress code, I’m afraid. I hope you don’t mind wearing it while you’re with us here in the lounge.”
Ben fastens the tie around his neck and tucks it under the collar of his tee-shirt, and then he thinks of Mandy. He said he’d be only an hour, so he ought to be getting back soon. After all, if this man has driven all this way just to give him some of his mother’s belongings, then that’s fine, he’s done it now. If there’s something else, then he should say it and stop beating around the bush. He is already dreading having to explain the visit to Mandy and his friends, and he wants to get out of this place before the bloke suggests having more drinks. All this small talk about what his post-university plans might be is just a waste of everyone’s time, and they both know it.
* * *
Why can’t the boy see that they are all each other has now? He isn’t asking for anything except communication and perhaps some understanding. Obviously the lad has no idea how upset he was when he read in the newspapers what had happened to his brother. But he simply couldn’t get in touch because Monica would never have entertained any sympathy from him. And then later he’d once turned on the television set and seen a fellow called Wilson speaking at one of those commonwealth meetings where the queen is in attendance, and he couldn’t help wondering if this was the scoundrel that Monica ran off with. He stares at his grandson. Maybe the boy knows the chap, and he has found some way to reestablish a connection with his father. So many questions that only this young man can answer, but he can now feel himself running out of options and beginning to panic.