I sighed. Fine, but my confidence was shaken. If I hadn't thought of that until now, what else might have escaped me? Well, it was a little late to turn back now. Sophi, Ricky and Cousin Morag waited at the far end of the greenhouse. I smiled at them, then took Zhobelia's elbow gently in my hand. 'Come on, Great-aunt.'
'Yes. Lot of pipes, aren't there? All very complicated.'
'Yes,' I said. 'All very complicated.'
We exited the greenhouse's humid, mustily perfumed warmth beside the door I had crept out of on my way to burgle the office a few days earlier. We continued round, past the outhouses and some of the old buses and vans which had been converted into dormitories and extra greenhouses. Zhobelia tapped the bodywork of an old coach with her knuckles.
'Bit rusty,' she said, sniffing.
'Yes, Great-aunt,' I said, choosing not to point out that the bodywork was aluminium.
We entered the courtyard from the north. The sound of distant singing-in-tongues was sweet, and brought a lump to my throat. I took a deep breath and looked in through the windows of the schoolroom as we headed for the main doors of the mansion house. Somebody was standing at the far end of the room, drawing on the blackboard with coloured chalk. It looked like Sister Angela. The children were sat at their desks watching Sister Angela; some had their hands up. Little Flora, Sister Gay's eldest, turned round and looked at me. I waved. She smiled broadly and waved, then put up her hand and waved it urgently. I heard her shouting out. Other small heads turned to look at us.
I walked to the main doors and held them open for Great-aunt Zhobelia, Sophi, Ricky and Cousin Morag.
'Okay?' I asked Morag.
She patted my arm. 'Fine. You?'
'Nervous,' I admitted.
The singing was very loud in the front hall, swelling out of the meeting room's closed double doors to our left. Sister Angela opened the door on the other side of the hall. She looked surprised. She looked at Ricky and Morag, then Zhobelia. Her mouth opened.
'Sister Angela,' I said. 'Ricky. Sister Zhobelia. I believe you know Sister Morag. Shall we?' I nodded into the classroom.
'Little Angela, eh?' said Zhobelia as we trooped into the classroom. 'I don't suppose you remember me, do you?'
'Ah… not that… well, yes, but… ah; children? Children!' Angela shouted, clapping her hands. She introduced the others to them en masse, and the dozen or so little ones dutifully said Good Evening. Across the hallway, the sound of singing-in-tongues gradually subsided and then ceased.
'Would you tell my Grandfather that Sister Zhobelia would like to see him?' I asked Angela. She nodded, then left the room.
Zhobelia sat in the teacher's chair. 'Have you all been good?' she asked the children. A chorus of Yeses came in return. I took a piece of scrap paper from the pile on the teacher's desk and wrote a number on it.
Sister Angela came back. 'Ahm,' she said, seemingly uncertain whether to address me or Zhobelia. 'He'll-'
She was interrupted by Grandfather coming into the room.
'Are you sure- ?' he said as he entered the room. He was dressed in his best creamy-white robes. He saw me and stopped, looking more surprised than angry. I nodded to him and pressed the little sheet of paper into his hand. 'Good day, Grandfather.'
'What… ?' he said, looking round, glancing down at the bit of paper, and then staring at Zhobelia.
She waved. 'Hello, my dear.'
Grandfather started over to her. 'Zhobelia…' he said. He looked at Sophi and Ricky and then stared at Morag, who was half sitting on the teacher's desk, arms folded.
I kept near Grandfather's shoulder. 'I think you should look at that bit of paper, Grandfather,' I said quietly.
'What?' He looked back at me. His face reddened as his expression turned from shock to anger. 'I thought you'd been told-'
I put my hand on his arm. 'No, Grandfather,' I said quietly and evenly. 'Everything has changed. Just look at the paper.'
He scowled, then did as I asked.
I'd written a number on the scrap of paper.
954024.
For a while I was worried that it was too subtle a way of getting through to him, that too much time had passed and he'd simply forgotten. He stared down in silence at the number on the paper, looking mystified.
Damn, I thought. It's just a string of numbers. Meaningless to him now. What had I been thinking of? He probably hadn't thought of that number in forty-five years; he certainly wouldn't have seen it. Is, Is; you idiot.
The number my Grandfather was looking at was his old army serial number.
Eventually, after what seemed like a long time to me, and while I was still cursing myself for a damned fool and wondering how else I might get through to him, his face changed, and slowly lost that look of anger. For a moment he visibly sagged, as though deflated, but then seemed to drag himself back upright. Even so, his face seemed crumpled, and he looked suddenly five years older. I swallowed down a feeling of sickness and tried to ignore the tears pricking behind my eyes.
He stared at me with big, bright eyes. His face looked as white as his hair. The sheet of paper dropped from his fingers. I stooped and caught it, then - as he swayed - took him by one arm and guided him back towards the desk. Morag moved away as he sat down on the edge, staring at the floor, breathing quickly and shallowly.
Zhobelia patted Grandfather on his other arm.
'Are you all right, dear? You don't look that well, you know. My, we've got old, haven't we?'
Grandfather took her hand and squeezed it, then looked up at me. 'Will you… ?' he said quietly, then looked round at Morag, Sophi and Angela. 'Would you excuse me… ?'
He stood. He did not seem to notice my hand, still supporting him. He looked into my eyes for a moment, a small frown on his face, for all the world as though he had forgotten who I was, and for another moment 1 was terrified that he was going to have a heart attack or a stroke or something awful. Then he said, 'Would you come… ?' and pushed himself away from the desk.
I followed him. He stopped at the door and looked back at the others. 'Ah, excuse us, please.'
In the hall he stopped again, and again seemed to pull himself upright. 'Perhaps we could take a turn round the garden, Isis,' he said.
The garden;' I said. 'Yes, that's a good idea…'
And so we walked in the garden, in the late-evening sun, my Grandfather and I, and I told him what I knew of his background and where I had found it, though not what and who had led me there. I showed him a copy I'd taken of the newspaper report and said that I had sent another one in a sealed envelope to Yolanda, to be kept by her lawyers. He nodded once or twice, a slightly distracted look on his face.
I told him, too, that Allan had been deceiving all of us, and that his lies would have to be dealt with. Grandfather did not seem very surprised or shocked by that.
At the far end of the formal garden there is a stone bench which looks down a steep grassy slope to the weeds, rushes and mud of the river bank. Beyond, the fields stretched to a distant line of trees, with the hills and escarpment beyond under a sky patched with cloud.
My Grandfather put his head in his hands for a moment, and I thought he might be about to weep, but he merely gave a single long sigh, then sat there, hands hanging over his knees, head bowed, staring at the path beneath us. I let him do this for a while, then - tentatively - put my arm over his shoulders. I more than half expected him to flinch at my touch and throw off my arm and shout at me, but he did not.