Drowned Lives

2

We sat in my Escort, parked in the lay-by on Fosseway Lane, close to the level crossing for the branch line to Brownhills. Andrew had been too pleased with himself, too intent on being part of our conversation, for me to want to linger at the lock site where he could listen to what Samuel Longden had to say. So I’d invited the old man into my car on the pretext of the cold, and he’d readily agreed.

The Escort had taken quite a hammering over the years. The inside trim was showing signs of wear, and the bodywork was full of chips and scratches that were revealed whenever I took it through a car wash, which wasn’t often. Most worrying at the moment was a strange rattle in the engine at low revs. I didn’t dare take it to the garage, for fear of what they might find wrong, and how much it would cost.

The heater worked, though, and gradually we began to warm up. The old man sat hunched in his overcoat, staring out at traffic passing over the level crossing. Once we were in an enclosed space, I became aware of a smell about him — not the stale, unwashed odour I might associate with old people, but a sort of mustiness, a suggestion of mildew, like a stack of old books in the cellar of a second-hand bookshop.

‘It’s fascinating to see the old canal re-appearing after so many years,’ he said. ‘Wonderful. It’s history coming full circle. This was Lock Eighteen, wasn’t it? Fosseway Lock?’

‘No, Fosseway is number seventeen. Eighteen is Claypit Lock. Across the road there, to the south.’

‘Of course.’

‘And just beyond that is the site of Fosseway Wharf. It’s completely overgrown now.’

He looked at me with a smile. ‘You’ve become quite an expert, haven’t you, Christopher? Very admirable.’

The windows of the car were starting to steam up, so I wound the handle down on the driver’s side to let in a bit of the cool February air.

‘I’m not an expert on anything,’ I said. ‘Journalists rarely are. The restoration provides good copy for me, that’s all. So I’ve made it my business to know a bit about the history of the Ogley and Huddlesford.’

He propped the handle of his stick against the scuffed dashboard. The grey hair on the back of his neck curled onto his coat collar, and his large nose had turned pink with the cold. His eyes were watering slightly, and he pulled a tissue from his pocket to wipe them. Though he was an old man, there was nothing feeble about his voice. It was steady and clear, with a local accent distinguishable under an educated veneer.

‘Just one lock dug out so far, and a new bridge, isn’t it? What do you think the chances are of restoring the entire seven miles of canal?’

‘Very slim,’ I said. ‘Oh, they’ve got the enthusiasm, that lot down there. But just think of the cost. We’re talking ten million pounds at least, and the estimate is rising by the year. Where’s the money going to come from? Most of the line of the canal has been filled in, parts built over completely — factories, housing estates, garden centres, you name it. Locks have been broken up and bridges demolished. And that’s not to mention the new link road. It will cross the track of the canal twice, and the restoration trust has to pay for bridges, if they want them. It seems obvious to me that it’s more work than a handful of volunteers can possibly manage. We’ll all be dead long before there are narrowboats passing through Lichfield again.’

‘I see you know how to talk like a journalist. But I’ve been told your heart is in it, and I think they’re right.’

‘Who said that exactly?’

‘Oh, people I’ve asked about you.’

I didn’t like the sound of that. There were no dark secrets in my life, but the idea that anybody had been going round asking questions about me felt uncomfortable all the same.

The old man made no attempt to wind down his own window. He continued staring straight ahead while the glass misted up and blotted out his view of the road. His eyes had a faraway expression. I didn’t know what he was looking at, but it wasn’t anything in the real world.

‘Are you really a friend of my family?’ I said.

He turned towards me then, and fixed me with those pale eyes. He smiled, showing a set of teeth that must have been his own, judging by the unevenness and the staining of the enamel on his front incisors. For the first time, I noticed the short, white whiskers on his upper lip where he’d failed to shave properly.

‘Yes, Christopher. I’m Samuel Longden.’

‘The name still means nothing to me, I’m afraid. My parents never mentioned you.’

‘And you never met your grandfather, of course.’

‘He died long before I was born.’

‘Yes, I know.’ He turned away again and used the cuff of his overcoat to wipe a small, damp space in the condensation on his window. ‘It’s understandable, of course. But I thought I was just ignored, not forgotten entirely.’

His words sent a small, inexplicable shaft of guilt through my heart. But I couldn’t see a justification for feeling guilty, and I shrugged it off immediately.

‘You were a friend of my grandfather’s then.’ I realised they must have been of the same generation, though my grandfather hadn’t survived to anything like the age Samuel Longden had reached.

‘I knew him very well indeed,’ he said. ‘Yes, your grandfather. George Buckley.’

‘If you were a very close friend, I’m sorry that I haven’t heard of you.’

‘I shouldn’t be too surprised. There were things that happened between us, between myself and your grandfather. They meant I was no longer welcome in the Buckley family. Now I can see I was never forgiven. “Unto the third generation” they say, don’t they?’

He said this with such a note of despair that I felt sorry for him. I wanted to tell him something different, to assure him I’d heard of him after all, that my parents had talked about him often, and he’d been such a close friend of my family that I almost considered him an uncle. But I could assure him of none of these things. They wouldn’t have been true.

‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me about yourself,’ I said, as kindly as I could.

He rallied then, shook his shoulders and gave a small smile. ‘Of course. I must warn you, though — I’m happy to tell you a certain amount about myself. But there’s something I want from you in return.’

And there it was. The trap. He thought he had a hold on me, and perhaps he was right. I was curious, and whatever it was he wanted, I was going to have to cope with it. I hoped he couldn’t see the expression that passed across my face.

‘That sounds like a deal.’

He was beginning to look better in the warmth of the car. A bit of colour returned to his face, and his shoulders relaxed. He caught me looking at him, and I got that frisson of shock again as our eyes met. It was as if I was looking at somebody I’d known all my life.

‘You have seen me before,’ he said, as if reading my mind. ‘Though you might not have noticed me at the time. I’ve certainly seen you, Christopher.’

‘I don’t remember. I suppose it must have been a long time ago?’

‘Not at all. It was three months ago. I was at your father’s funeral.’

‘What?’

‘I didn’t make myself known, of course. I wanted to come along because... well, because your father was George Buckley’s son. I’ve always regretted that it wasn’t possible for me to attend your grandfather’s funeral. I knew I wouldn’t have been welcome. But with your mother and father both gone, I hoped there’d be no one to object to my presence. I took a gamble with you, Christopher, as to whether you’d recognise me. But now I see that I worried unnecessarily.’

My father’s funeral was still very clear in my mind. There had been few mourners at St Chad’s. Even fewer had bothered to come the short distance from the church to the house at Stowe Pool Lane. Most of those who appeared were my mother’s family, the Claytons and Bridgemans, the same tight-lipped middle-class couples from Birmingham who’d attended my mother’s funeral a few months earlier. Their cloying sympathy had irked me, but the knowledge that it would almost certainly be the last time I saw any of them was a consolation.

There had also been some of my father’s former colleagues — most of them rather depressed-looking men who’d been made redundant at the same time as him from the engineering factory on the Ringway industrial estate. None of those had come back to the house, so there had only been a small clutch of in-laws and one or two neighbours who were openly inquisitive about what I intended to do with the property.

As our silent group stood at the graveside, my mind had wandered over many subjects, none of them related to memories of my father. Like the neighbours, I was considering what I’d do with the house. I could sell it, but what would I use the money for? The property was vastly more desirable than the grubby flat I’d shared in Stafford. The question was whether I could bear to live in a house full of reminders of my parents. It was this mental debate that might have made me seem reserved and withdrawn.

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.