Only Time Will Tell

27

On a balmy Thursday afternoon in the Northern Transvaal, I killed eleven men, and a grateful nation awarded me the Victoria Cross for service above and beyond the call of duty. I haven’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since.

If I’d killed one Englishman in my homeland, a judge would have sentenced me to hang by the neck until I was dead. Instead, I have been sentenced to life imprisonment, because I still see the faces of those eleven wretched young men every day, like an image on a coin that never fades. I’ve often considered suicide, but that would be the coward’s way out.

In the citation, gazetted in The Times, it was stated that my actions had been responsible for saving the lives of two officers, five non-commissioned officers and seventeen private soldiers of the Royal Gloucesters. One of those officers, Lieutenant Walter Barrington, has made it possible for me to serve my sentence with some dignity.

Within weeks of the action I was shipped back to England, and a few months later I was honourably discharged following what would now be described as a mental breakdown. After six months in an army hospital, I was released back into the world. I changed my name, avoided my home town of Wells in Somerset, and set off for Bristol. Unlike the prodigal son, I refused to travel a few miles into the next county where I would have been able to enjoy the tranquillity of my father’s home.

During the day, I would roam the streets of Bristol, rummaging around in dustbins for scraps, while at night my bedroom was a park, my resting place a bench, my blanket a newspaper, my morning call the first bird to announce a new dawn. When it was too cold or wet, I retreated to the waiting room of a local railway station, where I slept below the bench and rose before the first train shunted in the next morning. As the nights became longer, I signed up as a non-paying guest of the Salvation Army on Little George Street, where kind ladies supplied me with thick bread and thin soup before I fell asleep on a horse-hair mattress below a single blanket. Luxury.

As the years passed I hoped that my former companions-inarms and brother officers would assume I was dead. I had no desire for them to find out that this was the prison I’d chosen to carry out my life sentence in. And it might have stayed thus, had a Rolls-Royce not screeched to a halt in the middle of the road. The back door swung open and out leapt a man I hadn’t seen for years.

‘Captain Tarrant!’ he cried as he advanced towards me. I looked away, hoping he’d think he’d made a mistake. But I remembered only too well that Walter Barrington was not a man who suffered from self-doubt. He grabbed me by the shoulders and stared at me for some time before he said, ‘How can this be possible, old fellow?’

The more I tried to convince him I did not need his help, the more determined he became to be my saviour. I finally gave in, but not before he had agreed to my terms and conditions.

At first he begged me to join him and his wife at the Manor House, but I’d survived too long without a roof over my head to regard such comfort as anything other than a burden. He even offered me a seat on the board of the shipping company that bore his name.

‘What use could I possibly be to you?’ I asked.

‘Your very presence, Jack, would be an inspiration to us all.’

I thanked him, but explained that I had not yet completed my sentence for the murder of eleven men. Still he didn’t give in.

I finally agreed to take the job of night watchman at the docks, with three pounds a week pay and accommodation provided: an abandoned Pullman railway carriage now became my prison cell. I suppose I might have continued my life sentence until the day I died, had I not come into contact with Master Harry Clifton.

Harry would claim, years later, that I had shaped his whole life. In truth, it was he who saved mine.

The first time I came across young Harry, he couldn’t have been more than four or five. ‘Come on in, lad,’ I called to him when I spotted him crawling towards the carriage on his hands and knees. But he immediately leapt up and ran away.

The following Saturday he got as far as looking in through the window. I tried again. ‘Why don’t you come in, my boy? I’m not going to bite you,’ I said, trying to reassure him. This time he took up my offer and opened the door, but after exchanging a few words, he ran away again. Was I that frightening a figure?

The next Saturday, he not only opened the door, but stood, feet apart, in the doorway, staring at me defiantly. We chatted for over an hour, about everything from Bristol City FC to why snakes shed their skins and who built Clifton Suspension Bridge, before he said, ‘I’ll have to be off now, Mr Tar, my mum’s expecting me home for tea.’ This time he walked away, but looked back several times.

After that, Harry came to visit me every Saturday until he went to Merrywood Elementary School, when he started turning up most mornings. It took me some time to convince the boy that he should stay at school and learn to read and write. Frankly I wouldn’t have managed even that without the help of Miss Monday, Mr Holcombe and Harry’s spirited mother. It took a formidable team to get Harry Clifton to realize his potential, and I knew we had succeeded when once again he could only find the time to visit me on Saturday mornings because he was preparing to enter for a choral scholarship to St Bede’s.

Once Harry had started at his new school, I didn’t expect to see him again until the Christmas holidays. But to my surprise, I found him standing outside my door just before eleven o’clock on the first Friday night of term.

He told me he’d left St Bede’s because a prefect was bullying him – damned if I can recall the cad’s name – and he was going to run away to sea. If he had, I suspect the boy would have ended up an admiral. But happily he listened to my advice and was back at school in time for breakfast the following morning.

Because he always used to come to the docks with Stan Tancock, it was some time before I realized Harry was Arthur Clifton’s boy. He once asked me if I’d known his father, and I told him yes, and that he was a good and decent man with a fine war record. He then asked me if I knew how he died. I said I didn’t. The only time I ever lied to the boy. It was not for me to ignore the wishes of his mother.

I was standing on the dockside when the shift changed. No one ever gave me a second glance, almost as if I wasn’t there, and I knew that some of them thought I wasn’t all there. I did nothing to dispel this, as it allowed me to serve my sentence in anonymity.

Arthur Clifton had been a good ganger, one of the best, and he took his job seriously, unlike his best mate, Stan Tancock, whose first port of call on the way home was always the Pig and Whistle. That was on the nights he managed to get home.

I watched Clifton as he disappeared inside the hull of the Maple Leaf to make some final checks before the welders moved in to seal the double bottom. It was the raucous sound of the shift horn that must have distracted everyone; one shift coming off, another coming on, and the welders needed to get started promptly if they were going to finish the job by the end of their shift and earn their bonus. No one gave a second thought to whether Clifton had climbed back out of the double bottom, myself included.

We all assumed that he must have heard the blast on the horn and was among the hundreds of dockers trooping through the gates, making their way home. Unlike his brother-in-law, Clifton rarely stopped for a pint at the Pig and Whistle, preferring to go straight to Still House Lane and be with his wife and child. In those days, I didn’t know his wife or child, and perhaps I never would have if Arthur Clifton had returned home that night.

The second shift was working flat out when I heard Tancock shouting at the top of his voice. I saw him pointing to the ship’s hull. But Haskins, the chief ganger, simply brushed him aside as if he were a tiresome wasp.

Once Tancock realized he was getting nowhere with Haskins, he charged down the gangway and began to run along the quayside in the direction of Barrington House. When Haskins realized where Tancock was headed, he chased after him and had nearly caught up with him by the time he barged through the swing doors into the shipping line’s headquarters.

To my surprise, a few minutes later Tancock came running back out of the building, and I was even more surprised when Haskins and the managing director followed close behind. I couldn’t imagine what would have convinced Mr Hugo to leave his office after such a brief conversation with Stan Tancock.

I found out the reason soon enough, because the moment Mr Hugo arrived on the dock, he gave orders for the entire shift to lay down their tools, stop working and remain silent, as if it were Remembrance Sunday. And indeed, a minute later, Haskins ordered them all back to work.

That was when it first occurred to me that Arthur Clifton might still be inside the double bottom. But surely no man could be so callous as to walk away if he’d thought, even for a moment, that someone might be trapped alive in a steel grave of their own making.

When the welders went back to work, Mr Hugo spoke to Tancock again before Tancock trooped off through the dockyard gates and out of sight. I looked back to see if Haskins was pursuing him again, but he was clearly more interested in pushing his men to their limits to recover lost time, like a galley master driving his slaves. A moment later, Mr Hugo walked down the gangway, climbed back into his car and drove off to Barrington House.

The next time I looked out of my carriage window I saw Tancock running back through the gates and once again charging towards Barrington House. This time he didn’t reappear for at least half an hour, and when he did, he was no longer red-cheeked and pulsating with rage, but appeared far calmer. I decided he must have found Clifton and was simply letting Mr Hugo know.

I looked up at Mr Hugo’s office and saw him standing by the window watching Tancock as he left the yard. He didn’t move away from the window until he was out of sight. A few minutes later Mr Hugo came out of the building, walked across to his car and drove away.

I wouldn’t have given the matter another thought if Arthur Clifton had clocked in for the morning shift, but he didn’t, nor did he ever again.

The following morning, a Detective Inspector Blakemore paid me a visit in my carriage. You can often judge the character of a person by the way he treats his fellow men. Blakemore was one of those rare people who could see beyond his nose.

‘You say that you saw Stanley Tancock leaving Barrington House between seven and seven thirty yesterday evening?’

‘Yes, I did,’ I told him.

‘Did he appear to be in a hurry, or anxious, or attempting to slip away unnoticed?’

‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘I remember thinking at the time he looked remarkably carefree given the circumstances.’

‘Given the circumstances?’ repeated Blakemore.

‘Only an hour or so earlier, he’d been protesting that his mate Arthur Clifton was trapped in the double bottom of the Maple Leaf, and they were doing nothing to help him.’

Blakemore wrote down my words in his notebook.

‘Do you have any idea where Tancock went after that?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘When I last saw him he was walking out of the gates with an arm around one of his mates.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the detective inspector. ‘That’s been most helpful.’ It had been a long time since anyone had called me sir. ‘Would you be willing, at your own convenience, to come down to the station and make a written statement?’

‘I’d prefer not to, inspector,’ I told him, ‘for personal reasons. But I’d be quite happy to write out a statement that you could collect at any time that suits you.’

‘That’s good of you, sir.’

The detective inspector opened his briefcase, dug out a police statement sheet and handed it to me. He then raised his hat and said, ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll be in touch.’ But I never saw him again.

Six weeks later, Stan Tancock was sentenced to three years’ imprisonment for theft, with Mr Hugo acting as the prosecution’s principal witness. I attended every day of the trial, and there wasn’t any doubt in my mind which one of them was the guilty party.

28

‘TRY NOT TO FORGET that you saved my life.’

‘I’ve spent the last twenty-six years trying to forget,’ Old Jack reminded him.

‘But you were also responsible for saving the lives of twenty-four of your fellow West Countrymen. You remain a hero in this city and you seem to be totally unaware of the fact. So I’m bound to ask, Jack, how much longer you intend to go on torturing yourself?’

‘Until I can no longer see the eleven men I killed as clearly as I can see you now.’

‘But you were doing no more than your duty,’ protested Sir Walter.

‘That’s how I saw it at the time,’ admitted Jack.

‘So what changed?’

‘If I could answer that question,’ replied Jack, ‘we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

‘But you’re still capable of doing so much for your fellow men. Take that young friend of yours, for example. You tell me he keeps playing truant, but if he was to discover that you are Captain Jack Tarrant of the Royal Gloucestershire Regiment, winner of the Victoria Cross, don’t you think he might listen to you with even more respect?’

‘He might also run away again,’ replied Jack. ‘In any case, I have other plans for young Harry Clifton.’

‘Clifton, Clifton…’ said Sir Walter. ‘Why is that name familiar?’

‘Harry’s father was trapped in the double bottom of the Maple Leaf, and no one came to his-’

‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Sir Walter, his tone changing. ‘I was told that Clifton left his wife because she was, not to put too fine a point on it, a loose woman.’

‘Then you were misled,’ said Jack, ‘because I can tell you that Mrs Clifton is a delightful and intelligent woman, and any man who was lucky enough to be married to her would never want to leave her.’

Sir Walter looked genuinely shocked, and it was some time before he spoke again. ‘Surely you don’t believe that cock and bull story about Clifton being trapped in the double bottom?’ he asked quietly.

‘I’m afraid I do, Walter. You see, I witnessed the whole episode.’

‘Then why didn’t you say something about it at the time?’

‘I did. When I was interviewed by Detective Inspector Blakemore the following day, I told him everything I’d seen, and at his request I made a written statement.’

‘Then why wasn’t your statement produced in evidence at Tancock’s trial?’ asked Sir Walter.

‘Because I never saw Blakemore again. And when I turned up at the police station, I was told he was no longer in charge of the case and his replacement refused to see me.’

‘I had Blakemore taken off the case,’ said Sir Walter. ‘The damn man was as good as accusing Hugo of giving the money to Tancock, so there wouldn’t be an investigation into the Clifton affair.’ Old Jack remained silent. ‘Let’s not talk of this any more,’ said Sir Walter. ‘I know my son is far from perfect, but I refuse to believe-’

‘Or perhaps you don’t want to believe,’ said Old Jack.

‘Jack, whose side are you on?’

‘On the side of justice. As you used to be when we first met.’

‘And I still am,’ said Sir Walter. But he fell silent for some time before adding, ‘I want you to make me a promise, Jack. If you ever find out anything about Hugo that you believe would harm the family’s reputation, you won’t hesitate to tell me.’

‘You have my word on it.’

‘And you have my word, old friend, that I would not hesitate to hand Hugo over to the police if I thought for one moment that he had broken the law.’

‘Let’s hope nothing else arises that would make that necessary,’ said Old Jack.

‘I agree, old friend. Let’s talk of more palatable things. Is there anything you are in need of at the moment? I could still…’

‘Do you have any old clothes that are surplus to requirements?’

Sir Walter raised an eyebrow. ‘Dare I ask?’

‘No, you daren’t,’ said Old Jack. ‘But I have to visit a particular gentleman, and I’ll need to be appropriately dressed.’

Old Jack had grown so thin over the years that Sir Walter’s clothes hung off him like flax on a distaff, and, like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he was several inches taller than his old friend, so he had to let down the turn-ups on the trousers and even then they barely reached his ankles. But he felt that the tweed suit, checked shirt and striped tie would serve its purpose for this particular meeting.

As Jack walked out of the dockyard for the first time in years, a few familiar faces turned to give the smartly dressed stranger a second look.

When the school bell rang at four o’clock, Old Jack stepped back into the shadows while the noisy, boisterous nippers poured out through the gates of Merrywood Elementary as if they were escaping from prison.

Mrs Clifton had been waiting there for the past ten minutes, and when Harry saw his mum, he reluctantly allowed her to take him by the hand. A damn fine-looking woman, Old Jack thought as he watched the two of them walking away, Harry, as always, jumping up and down, endlessly chattering, displaying as much energy as Stephenson’s Rocket.

Old Jack waited until they were out of sight before he crossed the road and walked into the school yard. If he’d been dressed in his old clothes, he would have been stopped by someone in authority long before he reached the front door. He looked up and down the corridor, and spotted a master coming towards him.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I’m looking for Mr Holcombe.’

‘Third door on the left, old fellow,’ the man said, pointing down the corridor.

When Old Jack came to a halt outside Mr Holcombe’s classroom he gave a gentle tap on the door.

‘Come in.’

Old Jack opened the door to find a young man, his long black gown covered in chalk dust, seated at a table in front of rows of empty desks, marking exercise books. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Old Jack, ‘I’m looking for Mr Holcombe.’

‘Then you need look no further,’ said the schoolmaster, putting down his pen.

‘My name is Tar,’ he said as he stepped forward, ‘but my friends call me Jack.’

Holcombe’s face lit up. ‘I do believe you’re the man Harry Clifton goes off to visit most mornings.’

‘I fear I am,’ admitted Old Jack. ‘I apologize.’

‘No need,’ said Holcombe. ‘I only wish I had the same influence over him that you do.’

‘That’s why I came to see you, Mr Holcombe. I’m convinced that Harry’s an exceptional child and should be given every chance to make the best of his talents.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Holcombe. ‘And I suspect he has one talent even you don’t know about.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘He has the voice of an angel.’

‘Harry’s no angel,’ said Old Jack with a grin.

‘I quite agree, but it may turn out to be our best chance of breaking down his defences.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Old Jack.

‘There’s a possibility he might just be tempted to join the choir at Holy Nativity. So if you were able to convince him to come to school more often, I know I can teach him to read and write.’

‘Why’s that so important for a church choir?’

‘It’s compulsory at Holy Nativity, and Miss Monday, the choir mistress, refuses to make any exceptions to the rule.’

‘Then I’ll just have to make sure the boy attends your lessons, won’t I?’ said Old Jack.

‘You could do more than that. On the days he doesn’t come to school, you could teach him yourself.’

‘But I’m not qualified to teach anyone.’

‘Harry Clifton is not impressed by qualifications, and we both know that he listens to you. Perhaps we could work as a team.’

‘But if Harry were to find out what we were up to, neither of us would ever see him again.’

‘How well you know him,’ said the schoolmaster with a sigh. ‘We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t find out.’

‘That may prove something of a challenge,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I’m willing to give it a try.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr Holcombe. The schoolmaster paused before adding, ‘I wonder if I might be allowed to shake hands with you.’ Old Jack looked surprised as the schoolmaster thrust out his hand. Old Jack shook it warmly. ‘And may I say it has been an honour to meet you, Captain Tarrant.’

Old Jack looked horrified. ‘How could you possibly…’

‘My father has a picture of you that still hangs on the wall in our front room.’

‘But why?’ asked Old Jack.

‘You saved his life, sir.’

Harry’s visits to Old Jack became less frequent during the next few weeks, until the only time they met was on a Saturday morning. Old Jack knew that Mr Holcombe must have succeeded in his plan when Harry asked him if he would come to Holy Nativity the following Sunday to hear him sing.

On Sunday morning, Old Jack rose early, used Sir Walter’s private cloakroom on the fifth floor of Barrington House to have a shower, a recent invention, and even trimmed his beard, before putting on the other suit Sir Walter had given him.

Arriving at Holy Nativity just before the service began, he slipped into the back row and took a seat at the end of the pew. He spotted Mrs Clifton in the third row, sitting between what could only have been her mother and father. As for Miss Monday, he could have picked her out in a congregation of a thousand.

Mr Holcombe had not been exaggerating about the quality of Harry’s voice. It was as good as anything he could remember from his days at Wells Cathedral. As soon as the boy opened his mouth to sing Lead Me, Lord, Old Jack was left in no doubt that his protégé had an exceptional gift.

Once the Reverend Watts had given his final blessing, Old Jack slipped back out of the church and quickly made his way to the docks. He would have to wait until the following Saturday before he could tell the boy how much he’d enjoyed his singing.

As he walked back, Old Jack recalled Sir Walter’s reproach. ‘You could do so much more for Harry if you would only give up this self-denial.’ He thought carefully about Sir Walter’s words but he wasn’t yet ready to remove the shackles of guilt. He did, however, know a man who could change Harry’s life, a man who had been with him on that dreadful day, a man he hadn’t spoken to for more than twenty-five years. A man who taught at a school that supplied St Mary Redcliffe with choristers. Unfortunately Merrywood Elementary was not a natural recruiting ground for its annual choral scholarship, so the man would have to be guided in the right direction.

Old Jack’s only fear was that Lieutenant Frobisher might not remember him.

29

OLD JACK WAITED until Hugo had left Barrington House, but it was another half an hour before the lights finally went out in Miss Potts’s room.

Jack stepped out of the railway carriage and began to walk slowly towards Barrington House, aware that he had only half an hour before the cleaning ladies came on duty. He slipped into the unlit building and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor; after twenty-five years of Sir Walter turning a blind eye, like a cat he could find his way to the door marked ‘Managing Director’ in the dark.

He sat down at Hugo’s desk. He switched on the light; if anyone noticed it was on, they would simply assume Miss Potts was working late. He thumbed through the telephone directory until he came to the ‘St’s: Andrew’s, Bartholomew’s, Beatrice’s, Bede’s.

He picked up a telephone for the first time in his life, not quite sure what to do next. A voice came on the line. ‘Number please?’

‘TEM 8612,’ said Jack, his forefinger resting just below the number.

‘Thank you, sir.’ As he waited, Old Jack became more nervous by the minute. What would he say if someone else came on the line? He’d just put the phone down. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and laid it out on the desk in front of him. Next, he heard a ringing tone, followed by a click, then a man’s voice. ‘Frobisher House.’

‘Is that Noel Frobisher?’ he asked, recalling the tradition that each house at St Bede’s was named after the housemaster of the day. He looked down at his script; each line had been carefully prepared and endlessly rehearsed.

‘Speaking,’ said Frobisher, clearly surprised to hear a voice he didn’t recognize addressing him by his Christian name. A long silence followed. ‘Is there anyone there?’ Frobisher asked, sounding a little irritated.

‘Yes, it’s Captain Jack Tarrant.’

There was an even longer silence, before Frobisher eventually said, ‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Forgive me for calling at this late hour, old fellow, but I need to seek your advice.’

‘Not at all, sir. It’s a great privilege to speak to you after all these years.’

‘Kind of you to say so,’ said Old Jack. ‘I’ll try not to waste too much of your time, but I need to know if St Bede’s still supplies St Mary Redcliffe with trebles for its choir?’

‘We do indeed, sir. Despite so many changes in this modern world, that’s one tradition that remains constant.’

‘And in my day,’ said Old Jack, ‘the school awarded a choral scholarship each year to a treble who showed exceptional talent.’

‘We still do, sir. In fact, we will be considering applications for the position in the next few weeks.’

‘From any school in the county?’

‘Yes, from any school that can produce a treble of outstanding quality. But they must also have a solid academic grounding.’

‘Well, if that’s the case,’ said Old Jack, ‘I would like to submit a candidate for your consideration.’

‘Of course, sir. Which school is the boy attending at the moment?’

‘Merrywood Elementary.’

Another long silence followed. ‘I have to admit that it would be the first time we’ve had an applicant from that particular school. Do you by any chance know the name of its music master?’

‘It doesn’t have a music master,’ said Old Jack, ‘but you should get in touch with the boy’s teacher, Mr Holcombe, who will introduce you to his choir mistress.’

‘May I ask the boy’s name?’ said Frobisher.

‘Harry Clifton. If you want to hear him sing, I recommend you attend Matins at Holy Nativity Church this Sunday.’

‘Will you be there, sir?’

‘No,’ said Old Jack.

‘How do I get in touch with you once I’ve heard the boy sing?’ asked Frobisher.

‘You don’t,’ said Old Jack firmly, and put the phone down. As he folded up his script and placed it back in his pocket, he could have sworn he heard footsteps crunching across the gravel outside. He quickly switched off the light, slipped out of Mr Hugo’s office and into the corridor.

He heard a door open, and voices on the stairs. The last thing he needed was to be found on the fifth floor, which was strictly out of bounds to anyone other than the company’s executives and Miss Potts. He wouldn’t want to embarrass Sir Walter.

He began to walk quickly down the stairs. He’d reached the third floor when he saw Mrs Nettles heading towards him, a mop in one hand, a bucket in the other, a woman he didn’t recognize by her side.

‘Good evening, Mrs Nettles,’ said Old Jack. ‘And what a fine evening it is to be doing my rounds.’

‘Evenin’, Old Jack,’ she replied as she ambled past him. Once he had turned the corner, he stopped and listened attentively. ‘That’s Old Jack,’ he heard Mrs Nettles say. ‘The so-called night watchman. He’s completely crackers, but quite harmless. So if you come across him, just ignore him…’ Old Jack chuckled as her voice faded with each step she took.

As he strolled back towards the railway carriage, he wondered how long it would be before Harry came to seek his advice on whether he should enter his name for a choral scholarship to St Bede’s.

30

HARRY KNOCKED ON the carriage door, strolled in and took the seat opposite Old Jack in first class.

During term time at St Bede’s, Harry had only been able to see Old Jack regularly on Saturday mornings. Jack had returned the compliment by attending Matins at St Mary Redcliffe, where from the back pew he enjoyed watching Mr Frobisher and Mr Holcombe beam with pride at his protégé.

In the school holidays, Old Jack could never be sure exactly when Harry was going to turn up because he treated the railway carriage like a second home. Whenever he returned to St Bede’s at the beginning of a new term, Old Jack missed the boy’s company. He was touched when Mrs Clifton described him as the father Harry never had. In truth, Harry was the son he’d always wanted.

‘Finished your paper round early?’ said Old Jack, rubbing his eyes and blinking, when Harry strolled into the carriage that Saturday morning.

‘No, you just dozed off, old man,’ said Harry, passing him a copy of the previous day’s Times.

‘And you’re getting cheekier by the day, young man,’ Old Jack said with a grin. ‘So, how’s the paper round working out?’

‘Good. I think I’m going to be able to save enough money to buy my mum a watch.’

‘A sensible present, considering your mother’s new job. But can you afford it?’

‘I’ve already saved four shillings,’ said Harry. ‘I reckon I’ll have about six by the end of the holidays.’

‘Have you chosen the watch you want?’

‘Yes. It’s in Mr Deakins’s display cabinet, but it won’t be there for much longer,’ said Harry, grinning.

Deakins. A name Old Jack could never forget. ‘How much is it?’ he asked.

‘No idea,’ said Harry. ‘I’m not going to ask Mr Deakins until the day before I go back to school.’

Old Jack wasn’t sure how to tell the boy that six shillings wasn’t going to be enough to buy a watch, so he changed the subject. ‘I hope the paper round isn’t stopping you from studying. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the exams are getting closer by the day.’

‘You’re worse than the Frob,’ said Harry, ‘but you’ll be pleased to learn that I’m spending two hours every morning in the library with Deakins, and another two most afternoons.’

‘Most afternoons?’

‘Well, Giles and I do occasionally go to the flicks, and as Gloucestershire are playing Yorkshire at the county ground next week, it will be a chance to see Herbert Sutcliffe batting.’

‘You’ll miss Giles when he goes to Eton,’ said Old Jack.

‘He’s still working on his father to let him join me and Deakins at BGS.’

‘Deakins and me,’ said Old Jack. ‘And be warned, if Mr Hugo has made up his mind, it will take more than Giles to shift him.’

‘Mr Barrington doesn’t like me,’ said Harry, taking Old Jack by surprise.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He treats me differently from the other boys at St Bede’s. It’s as if I’m not good enough to be a friend of his son.’

‘You’re going to have to face that problem all your life, Harry,’ said Old Jack. ‘The English are the biggest snobs on earth, and most of the time without reason. The lesser the talent, the bigger the snob, in my experience. It’s the only way the so-called upper classes can hope to survive. Be warned, my boy, they don’t care for upstarts like you who barge into their club without an invitation.’

‘But you don’t treat me like that,’ said Harry.

‘That’s because I’m not upper class,’ said Old Jack, laughing.

‘Perhaps not, but my mum says you’re first class,’ said Harry, ‘so that’s what I want to be.’

It didn’t help that Old Jack couldn’t tell Harry the real reason Mr Hugo was always so off-hand. He sometimes wished he hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and witnessed what had really happened the day the boy’s father died.

‘Have you fallen asleep again, old man?’ said Harry. ‘Because I can’t hang around chatting to you all day. I promised my mum I’d meet her at Clarks in the Broad because she wants to buy me a new pair of shoes. Not that I can see what’s wrong with the pair I’ve got.’

‘Special lady, your mum,’ said Old Jack.

‘That’s why I’m buying her a watch,’ said Harry.

The bell above the door rang as he entered the shop. Old Jack hoped that enough time had passed to ensure that Private Deakins wouldn’t remember him.

‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’

Old Jack couldn’t fail to recognize Mr Deakins immediately. He smiled and walked across to the display cabinet and studied the two watches on the top shelf. ‘I just need to know the price of this Ingersoll.’

‘The lady’s or the gentleman’s model, sir?’ asked Mr Deakins, coming out from behind the counter.

‘The lady’s,’ said Old Jack.

Deakins unlocked the cabinet with his one hand, deftly removed the watch from its stand, checked the label and said, ‘Sixteen shillings, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Old Jack, and placed a ten-bob note on the counter. Mr Deakins looked even more puzzled. ‘When Harry Clifton asks you how much the watch is, Mr Deakins, please tell him it’s six shillings, because that’s how much he will have saved by the time he stops working for you, and I know he’s hoping to buy it as a present for his mother.’

‘You must be Old Jack,’ said Deakins. ‘He’ll be so touched that you…’

‘But you won’t ever tell him,’ said Old Jack, looking Mr Deakins in the eye. ‘I want him to believe that the price of the watch is six shillings.’

‘I understand,’ said Mr Deakins, placing the watch back on the stand.

‘And how much is the man’s watch?’

‘One pound.’

‘Would you allow me to put down another ten bob as a deposit, and then give you half a crown a week for the next month until I’ve paid off the full amount?’

‘That is quite acceptable, sir. But wouldn’t you like to try it on first?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Old Jack. ‘It’s not for me. I’m going to give it to Harry when he wins a scholarship to Bristol Grammar School.’

‘I had the same thought,’ said Mr Deakins, ‘should my son Algy be fortunate enough to win one.’

‘Then you’d better order another one pretty quickly,’ said Old Jack, ‘because Harry tells me your son’s a racing certainty.’

Mr Deakins laughed, and took a closer look at Old Jack. ‘Have we met before, sir?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Old Jack, and left the shop without another word.

31

IF MUHAMMAD WON’T COME to the mountain… Old Jack smiled to himself as he rose to greet Mr Holcombe and offered him a seat.

‘Would you care to join me in the buffet car for a cup of tea?’ Old Jack asked. ‘Mrs Clifton was kind enough to supply me with a quite excellent packet of Earl Grey.’

‘No, thank you sir,’ said Holcombe, ‘I’ve only just had breakfast.’

‘So, the boy just missed out on a scholarship,’ said Old Jack, assuming that was what the schoolmaster had come to see him about.

‘Failed is how Harry looks upon it,’ said Holcombe, ‘despite coming seventeenth out of three hundred, and being offered a place in the school’s A stream this September.’

‘But will he be able to accept the offer? It will place an extra financial burden on his mother.’

‘As long as there are no unexpected bombshells, she should be able to get Harry through the next five years.’

‘Even so, Harry won’t be able to afford the little extras most of the other boys will take for granted.’

‘Possibly, but I have managed to cover some of his sundry expenses from the school’s list, so he’ll be able to consider at least two of the three extra-curricular activities he’s keen to sign up for.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Old Jack. ‘The choir, the theatre club and…?’

‘Art appreciation,’ said Holcombe. ‘Miss Monday and Miss Tilly are taking responsibility for any trips the choir might make, I’m covering the theatre club and…’

‘So I get art appreciation,’ said Old Jack. ‘His new passion. I can still hold my own with Harry when it comes to Rembrandt and Vermeer, even this new chap, Matisse. Now he’s trying to get me interested in a Spaniard called Picasso, but I can’t see it myself.’

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ admitted Holcombe.

‘And I doubt if you ever will,’ said Old Jack, ‘but don’t tell Harry I said so.’ He picked up a small tin box, opened it, and took out three notes and almost all the coins he possessed.

‘No, no,’ said Holcombe, ‘that isn’t the reason I came to see you. In fact, I plan to visit Mr Craddick later this afternoon, and I’m confident he’ll-’

‘I think you’ll find that I take precedence over Mr Craddick,’ said Old Jack, handing across the money.

‘That’s very generous of you.’

‘Money well spent,’ said Old Jack, ‘even if it is the widow’s mite. At least my father would approve,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Your father?’ repeated Holcombe.

‘He’s the resident canon at Wells Cathedral.’

‘I had no idea,’ said Holcombe. ‘So at least you’re able to visit him from time to time.’

‘Sadly not. I fear I am a modern prodigal son,’ said Old Jack. Not wishing to go any further down that road, he said, ‘So tell me, young man, why did you want to see me?’

‘I can’t remember the last occasion anyone called me “young man”.’

‘Just be grateful that anyone still does,’ said Old Jack.

Holcombe laughed. ‘I’ve got a couple of tickets for the school play, Julius Caesar. As Harry is performing, I thought you might like to join me for the opening night.’

‘I knew he was auditioning,’ said Old Jack. ‘What part did he get?’

‘He’s playing Cinna,’ said Holcombe.

‘Then we’ll know him by his gait.’

Holcombe bowed low. ‘Does that mean you’ll join me?’

‘I fear not,’ said Old Jack, raising a hand. ‘It’s extremely kind of you to think of me, Holcombe, but I’m not yet ready for a live performance, even as just a member of the audience.’

Old Jack was disappointed to miss Harry’s performance in the school play and had to be satisfied with being told the boy’s version of how he had performed. The following year, when Holcombe suggested that perhaps Old Jack should attend because Harry’s roles were getting bigger, he nearly gave in, but it wasn’t until Harry played Puck, a year later, that he finally allowed the dream a reality.

Although he was still fearful of large crowds, Old Jack had decided that he would slip into the back of the school hall, where no one would see him or, even worse, recognize him.

It was while he was trimming his beard in the fifth-floor washroom of Barrington House that he noticed the screaming headline in a copy of the local rag that someone had left behind. Tilly’s tea shop burnt to the ground. Arson suspected. When he saw the photograph below it, he felt sick; Mrs Clifton was standing on the pavement surrounded by her staff, surveying the burnt-out remains of the shop. Turn to page 11 for full story. Old Jack obeyed the instruction, but there was no page 11.

He quickly left the washroom, hoping to find the missing page on Miss Potts’s desk. He wasn’t surprised to find that her desk was clear and her wastepaper basket had been emptied. He tentatively opened the door to the managing director’s office, looked inside and spotted the missing page laid out on Mr Hugo’s desk. He sat down in the high-backed leather chair and began to read.

Jack’s immediate reaction once he’d finished was to wonder if Harry would have to leave school.

The report noted that unless the insurance company paid the full amount on her premium, Mrs Clifton would be facing bankruptcy. The reporter went on to say that a spokesman for the Bristol and West of England had made it clear that the company wouldn’t be paying out a brass farthing until the police had eliminated all suspects from their enquiries. What else could possibly go wrong for the poor woman, Old Jack wondered.

The reporter had been careful not to refer to Maisie by name, but Old Jack wasn’t in any doubt why her photograph was so prominently displayed on the front page. He continued to read the article. When he discovered that Detective Inspector Blakemore was in charge of the case, he felt a little more hopeful. It wouldn’t take that particular gentleman long to work out that Mrs Clifton built things up; she didn’t burn them down.

As Old Jack placed the newspaper back on Mr Hugo’s desk, he noticed a letter for the first time. He would have ignored it, none of his business, if he hadn’t seen the name ‘Mrs Clifton’ in the first paragraph.

He began to read the letter, and found it hard to believe it was Hugo Barrington who had put up the five hundred pounds that had made it possible for Mrs Clifton to purchase Tilly’s. Why would he want to help Maisie, he wondered. Was it possible he felt some remorse about the death of her husband? Or did he feel ashamed that he had sent an innocent man to prison for a crime he had not committed? Certainly he had given Tancock his old job back the moment he was released. Old Jack began to wonder if he should perhaps give Hugo the benefit of the doubt. He recalled Sir Walter’s words: ‘He’s not all bad, you know.’

He read the letter once again. It was from Mr Prendergast, the manager of the National Provincial Bank, who wrote that he had been pressing the insurance company to fulfil its contractual obligations and recompense Mrs Clifton for the full value of the policy, which was £600. Mrs Clifton, Prendergast pointed out, was the innocent party, and Detective Inspector Blakemore had recently informed the bank that she no longer played any part in his enquiries.

In the final paragraph of his letter, Prendergast suggested that he and Barrington should meet in the near future to resolve the matter, so that Mrs Clifton could receive the full amount she was entitled to. Old Jack looked up when the little clock on the desk chimed seven times.

He switched off the light, ran into the corridor and down the stairs. He didn’t want to be late for Harry’s performance.

32

WHEN OLD JACK got home later that night, he picked up a copy of The Times Harry had left for him earlier in the week. He never bothered with the personal ads on the front page as he didn’t need a new bowler hat, a pair of suspenders or a first edition of Wuthering Heights.

He turned the page to find a photo of King Edward VIII, enjoying a yachting holiday in the Mediterranean. Standing by his side was an American woman called Mrs Simpson. The report was couched in ambiguous terms, but even the Thunderer was finding it hard to support the young King in his desire to marry a divorced woman. It made Old Jack sad, because he admired Edward, especially after his visit to the Welsh miners when he had so clearly been affected by their plight. But as his old nanny used to say, there’ll be tears before bedtime.

Old Jack then spent some considerable time reading a report on the Tariff Reform Bill, which had just passed its second reading in the House, despite the firebrand Winston Churchill declaring that it was neither ‘fish nor fowl’, and no one would benefit from it, including the government, when it came to an election. He couldn’t wait to hear Sir Walter’s unexpurgated views on that particular subject.

He turned a page to learn that the British Broadcasting Corporation had made its first television broadcast from Alexandra Palace. This was a concept he couldn’t begin to comprehend. How could a picture be beamed into your home? He didn’t even have a radio, and had absolutely no desire to own a television.

He moved on to the sports pages, to find a photograph of an elegantly dressed Fred Perry under the headline, Three times Wimbledon champion tipped to win the American Open. The tennis correspondent went on to suggest that some of the foreign competitors might be wearing shorts at Forest Hills, something else Jack couldn’t come to terms with.

As he did whenever he read The Times, Old Jack saved the obituaries till last. He’d reached that age when men younger than himself were dying, and not just in wars.

When he turned the page, the colour drained from his face, and he experienced an overwhelming sadness. He took his time reading the obituary of the Reverend Thomas Alexander Tarrant, Resident Canon of Wells Cathedral, described in the headline as a godly man. When Old Jack had finished reading his father’s obituary, he felt ashamed.

‘Seven pounds four shillings?’ repeated Old Jack. ‘But I thought you got a cheque for six hundred pounds from the Bristol and West of England Insurance Company, “in full and final settlement”, if I recall the exact words.’

‘I did,’ said Maisie, ‘but by the time I’d paid back the original loan, the compound interest on that loan, as well as bank charges, I ended up with seven pounds and four shillings.’

‘I’m so naive,’ said Old Jack. ‘And to think that for a moment, just a moment, I actually thought Barrington was trying to be helpful.’

‘You’re not half as naive as me,’ said Maisie. ‘Because if I had thought, even for one moment, that man was involved, I would never have taken a penny of his money, and because I did, I’ve lost everything. Even my job at the hotel.’

‘But why?’ asked Old Jack. ‘Mr Frampton always said you were irreplaceable.’

‘Well, it seems I’m not any more. When I asked him why he’d sacked me, he refused to give a reason, other than to say he’d received a complaint about me from an “unimpeachable source”. It can’t be a coincidence that I was sacked the day after that “unimpeachable source” dropped into the Royal Hotel for a chat with the manager.’

‘Did you see Barrington going into the hotel?’ asked Old Jack.

‘No, I didn’t, but I saw him coming out. Don’t forget, I was hiding in the back of his car, waiting for him.’

‘Of course,’ said Old Jack. ‘So what happened when you confronted him about Harry?’

‘While we were in the car,’ said Maisie, ‘he virtually admitted to being responsible for Arthur’s death.’

‘He finally came clean after all these years?’ said Old Jack in disbelief.

‘Not exactly,’ said Maisie. ‘More a slip of the tongue, but when I left the envelope with the invoice for next term’s fees on the front seat of his car, he put it in his pocket and said he’d see what he could do to help.’

‘And you fell for it?’

‘Hook, line and sinker,’ admitted Maisie, ‘because when he stopped the car he even got out to open the back door for me. But the moment I stepped out, he knocked me to the ground, tore up the bill and drove off.’

‘Is that how you got the black eye?’

Maisie nodded. ‘And he also warned me he’d have me committed to a mental asylum if I even thought about contacting his wife.’

‘That’s nothing more than a bluff,’ said Old Jack, ‘because even he couldn’t get away with that.’

‘You may be right,’ said Maisie, ‘but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.’

‘And if you did tell Mrs Barrington that her husband was responsible for Arthur’s death,’ said Old Jack, ‘all he’d have to do is let her know you’re Stan Tancock’s sister, and she’d dismiss it out of hand.’

‘Possibly,’ said Maisie. ‘But she wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand if I told her her husband might be Harry’s father…’

Old Jack was stunned into silence as he tried to take in the implications of Maisie’s words. ‘I’m not only naive,’ he eventually managed, ‘but I’m also bone stupid. Hugo Barrington won’t care if his wife does or doesn’t believe he was involved in your husband’s death. His greatest fear is Harry ever finding out that he might be his father…’

‘But I would never tell Harry,’ said Maisie. ‘The last thing I’d want is for him to spend the rest of his life wondering who his father is.’

‘That is precisely what Barrington is banking on. And now he’s broken you, he’ll be hell-bent on destroying Harry.’

‘But why?’ asked Maisie. ‘Harry’s never done him any harm.’

‘Of course he hasn’t, but if Harry were able to prove that he is Hugo Barrington’s eldest son, he might just be in line to inherit not only the title, but everything that goes with it, and at the same time, Giles would end up with nothing.’

It was Maisie’s turn to be speechless.

‘So, now we’ve discovered the real reason Barrington is so keen to have Harry thrown out of the grammar school, perhaps the time has come for me to pay a visit to Sir Walter, and tell him some unpalatable truths about his son.’

‘No, please don’t do that,’ begged Maisie.

‘Why not? It might be our one chance of keeping Harry at BGS.’

‘Possibly, but it would also guarantee that my brother Stan would get the sack, and God knows what else Barrington is capable of.’

Old Jack didn’t reply for some time. Then he said, ‘If you won’t allow me to tell Sir Walter the truth, I’ll have to start crawling around in the sewer that Hugo Barrington currently occupies.’

33

‘YOU WANT WHAT?’ asked Miss Potts, not sure she’d heard him correctly.

‘A private meeting with Mr Hugo,’ said Old Jack.

‘And am I permitted to enquire what the purpose of this meeting might be?’ she said, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

‘His son’s future.’

‘Wait here for a moment. I’ll see if Mr Barrington is willing to see you.’

Miss Potts knocked gently on the managing director’s door and disappeared inside. She returned a moment later with a surprised look on her face.

‘Mr Barrington will see you now,’ she said, holding open the door.

Old Jack couldn’t resist a smile as he strolled past her. Hugo Barrington looked up from behind his desk. He didn’t offer the old man a seat, and made no attempt to shake hands with him.

‘What possible interest can you have in Giles’s future?’ asked Barrington.

‘None,’ admitted Old Jack. ‘It’s your other son whose future I’m interested in.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ said Barrington, a little too loudly.

‘If you didn’t know who I was talking about, you wouldn’t have agreed to see me,’ replied Old Jack contemptuously.

The colour drained from Barrington’s face. Old Jack even wondered if he was going to faint. ‘What do you want from me?’ he finally said.

‘All your life you’ve been a trader,’ said Old Jack. ‘I am in possession of something you’ll want to trade.’

‘And what could that possibly be?’

‘The day after Arthur Clifton mysteriously disappeared and Stan Tancock was arrested for a crime he didn’t commit, I was asked by Detective Inspector Blakemore to make a statement of everything I’d witnessed that evening. Because you had Blakemore taken off the case, that statement remains in my possession. I have a feeling it would make very interesting reading if it were to fall into the wrong hands.’

‘I think you’ll find that’s blackmail,’ said Barrington, spitting out the words, ‘for which you can go to prison for a very long time.’

‘Some might consider it nothing more than a matter of civic duty for such a document to enter the public domain.’

‘And who do you imagine would be interested in the ravings of an old man? Certainly not the press, once my lawyers have explained the libel laws to them. And as the police closed the file some years ago, I can’t see the chief constable going to the trouble and expense of reopening it on the word of an old man who might be considered at best eccentric and at worst mad. So I’m bound to ask, who else do you have in mind to share your preposterous allegations with?’

‘Your father,’ said Old Jack, bluffing, but then Barrington didn’t know about his promise to Maisie.

Barrington slumped back in his chair, only too aware of the influence Old Jack had with his father, even if he had never understood why. ‘How much do you expect me to pay for this document?’

‘Three hundred pounds.’

‘That’s daylight robbery!’

‘It’s no more and no less than the amount required to cover the fees and any little extras that will allow Harry Clifton to remain at Bristol Grammar School for the next two years.’

‘Why don’t I just pay his fees at the beginning of each term, as I do for my own son?’

‘Because you would stop paying one of your sons’ fees the moment you got your hands on my statement.’

‘You’ll have to take cash,’ said Barrington, taking a key from his pocket.

‘No, thank you,’ said Old Jack. ‘I remember only too well what happened to Stan Tancock after you’d handed him your thirty pieces of silver. And I have no desire to spend the next three years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit.’

‘Then I’ll have to call the bank if I’m to write out a cheque for such a large amount.’

‘Be my guest,’ said Old Jack, gesturing towards the phone on Barrington’s desk.

Barrington hesitated for a moment before picking up the handset. He waited for a voice to come on the line. ‘TEM 3731,’ he said.

Another wait, before another voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘Is that you, Prendergast?’

‘No, sir,’ said the voice.

‘Good, you’re just the man I need to speak to,’ Barrington replied. ‘I’ll be sending a Mr Tar around to see you in the next hour, with a cheque for three hundred pounds made payable to Bristol Municipal Charities. Would you see that it’s processed immediately, and make sure you phone me straight back.’

‘If you want me to ring you back, just say “Yes, that’s right,” and I’ll call in a couple of minutes,’ the voice said.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Barrington, and put the phone down.

He opened the drawer of his desk, took out a cheque book and wrote the words Pay Bristol Municipal Charities and, on a separate line, Three hundred pounds. He then signed the cheque and passed it to Old Jack, who studied it carefully and nodded.

‘I’ll just put it in an envelope,’ said Barrington. He pressed the buzzer under his desk. Old Jack glanced at Miss Potts as she entered the room.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Mr Tar is leaving to go to the bank,’ said Barrington, placing the cheque in the envelope. He sealed it and addressed it to Mr Prendergast, adding the word PRIVATE in bold letters, then handed it to Old Jack.

‘Thank you,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll deliver the document to you personally as soon as I get back.’

Barrington nodded, just as the phone on his desk began to ring. He waited for Old Jack to leave the room before he picked it up.

Old Jack decided to take the tram into Bristol, feeling that the expense was justified on such a special occasion. When he walked into the bank twenty minutes later, he told the young man on the reception that he had a letter for Mr Prendergast. The receptionist didn’t seem particularly impressed, until Old Jack added, ‘It’s from Mr Hugo Barrington.’

The young man immediately deserted his post, led Old Jack across the banking hall and down a long corridor to the manager’s office. He knocked on the door, opened it and announced, ‘This gentleman has a letter from Mr Barrington, sir.’

Mr Prendergast leapt up from behind his desk, shook hands with the old man and ushered him to a seat on the other side of the desk. Old Jack handed the envelope to Prendergast, with the words, ‘Mr Barrington asked me to give this to you personally.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Prendergast, who immediately recognized the familiar hand of one of his most valued customers. He slit open the envelope and extracted a cheque. He looked at it for a moment, before saying, ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘There’s no mistake,’ said Old Jack. ‘Mr Barrington would like the full amount to be paid to Bristol Municipal Charities at your earliest convenience, as he instructed you over the phone only half an hour ago.’

‘But I haven’t spoken to Mr Barrington this morning,’ said Prendergast, passing the cheque back to Old Jack.

Old Jack stared in disbelief at a blank cheque. It only took him a few moments to realize that Barrington must have switched the cheques when Miss Potts entered the room. The true genius of his action was to address the envelope to Mr Prendergast and mark it private, thus ensuring it wouldn’t be opened until it had been handed to the manager. But the one mystery Jack couldn’t fathom was: who had been on the other end of the phone?

Old Jack hurried out of the office without saying another word to Prendergast. He crossed the banking hall and ran out into the street. He only had to wait a few minutes for a tram to the docks. He couldn’t have been away for much more than an hour by the time he walked back through the gates and into the dockyard.

A man he didn’t recognize was striding towards him. He had a military air about him and Old Jack wondered if the limp had been caused by an injury he’d suffered in the Great War.

Old Jack hurried past him and on down the quayside. He was relieved to see that the carriage door was closed, and when he opened it he was even more pleased to find that everything was just as he’d left it. He sank to his knees and lifted the corner of the carpet, but the police statement was no longer there. Detective Inspector Blakemore would have described the theft as the work of a professional.

34

OLD JACK TOOK his place in the fifth row of the congregation, hoping no one would recognize him. The cathedral was so packed that people who had been unable to find a seat in the side chapels stood in the aisles and were crammed in at the back.

The Bishop of Bath and Wells brought tears to Old Jack’s eyes when he talked about his father’s unquestioning faith in God, and how, since the premature death of his wife, the canon had devoted himself to serving the community, ‘The proof of which,’ proclaimed the Bishop, raising his arms to acknowledge the vast congregation, ‘can be seen by the number of those present, who have come to honour him from so many walks of life, and to pay their respects.

‘And although the man knew no vanity, he could not hide a certain pride in his only son, Jack, whose selfless courage, bravery and willingness to sacrifice his own life in South Africa during the Boer War saved so many of his comrades, and led to him being awarded the Victoria Cross.’ He paused, looked down into the fifth row and said, ‘And how delighted I am to see him in the congregation today.’

Several people began looking around for a man they had never seen before. Jack bowed his head in shame.

At the end of the service, many members of the congregation came up to tell Captain Tarrant how much they had admired his father. The words ‘dedication’, ‘selflessness’, ‘generosity’ and ‘love’ fell from everyone’s lips.

Jack felt proud of being his father’s son, while at the same time ashamed that he had excluded him from his life, in the same way as he had the rest of his fellow men.

As he was leaving, he thought he recognized an elderly gentleman standing by the great gates, clearly waiting to speak to him. The man stepped forward and raised his hat. ‘Captain Tarrant?’ he enquired with a voice that suggested authority.

Jack returned the compliment. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘My name is Edwin Trent. I had the privilege of being your father’s solicitor, and, I’d like to think, one of his oldest and closest friends.’

Jack shook him warmly by the hand. ‘I remember you well, sir. You taught me a love of Trollope and an appreciation of the finer points of spin bowling.’

‘It’s kind of you to remember,’ Trent chuckled. ‘I wonder if I might accompany you on your way back to the station?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘As you know,’ said Trent as they began walking towards the town, ‘your father was resident canon of this cathedral for the past nine years. You’ll also know that he cared nothing for worldly goods, and shared even the little he had with those less fortunate than himself. If he were to be canonized, he would surely be the patron saint of vagabonds.’

Old Jack smiled. He recalled going to school one morning without breakfast because three tramps were sleeping in the hallway and, to quote his mother, they had eaten them out of house and home.

‘So when his will comes to be read,’ continued Trent, ‘it will show that just as he entered this world with nothing, he has also left it with nothing – other than a thousand friends, that is, which he would have considered a veritable fortune. Before he died, he entrusted me with one small task should you attend his funeral, namely that of handing you the last letter he ever wrote.’ He extracted an envelope from an inside pocket of his overcoat and handed it to Old Jack, raised his hat once more and said, ‘I have carried out his request, and am proud to have met his son once again.’

‘I am obliged, sir. I only wish that I hadn’t made it necessary for him to have to write in the first place.’ Jack raised his hat and the two men parted.

Old Jack decided that he would not read his father’s letter until he was on the train, and had begun the journey back to Bristol. As the engine shunted out of the station, billowing clouds of grey smoke, Jack settled back in a third-class compartment. As a child, he remembered asking his father why he always travelled third class, to which he had replied, ‘Because there isn’t a fourth class.’ It was ironic that, for the past thirty years, Jack had been living in first class.

He took his time unsealing the envelope, and even after he had extracted the letter, he left it folded while he continued to think about his father. No son could have asked for a better mentor or friend. When he looked back on his life, all his actions, judgements and decisions were nothing more than pale imitations of his father’s.

When he finally unfolded the letter, another flood of memories came rushing back the moment he saw the familiar bold, copperplate hand in jet-black ink. He began to read.

The Close

Wells Cathedral

Wells, Somerset

26th August, 1936

My beloved son,

If you were kind enough to attend my funeral, you must now be reading this letter. Allow me to begin by thanking you for being among the congregation.

Old Jack raised his head and looked out at the passing countryside. He felt guilty once again for treating his father in such an inconsiderate and thoughtless manner, and now it was too late to ask for his forgiveness. His eyes returned to the letter.

When you were awarded the Victoria Cross, I was the proudest father in England, and your citation still hangs above my desk to this very day. But then, as the years passed, my happiness turned to sorrow, and I asked our Lord what I had done that I should be so punished by losing not only your dear mother, but also you, my only child.

I accept that you must have had some noble purpose for turning your head and your heart against this world, but I wish you had shared your reason for so doing with me. But, should you read this letter, perhaps you might grant me one last wish.

Old Jack removed the handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his eyes before he was able to continue reading.

God gave you the remarkable gift of leadership and the ability to inspire your fellow men, so I beg you not to go to your grave knowing that when the time comes for you to face your maker, you will, as in the parable Matthew 25, v14-30, have to confess that you buried the one talent He gave you.

Rather, use that gift for the benefit of your fellow men, so that when your time comes, as it surely must, and those same men attend your funeral, the Victoria Cross will not be the only thing they remember when they hear the name Jack Tarrant.

Your loving father

‘Are you all right, my luv?’ asked a lady who had moved from the other side of the carriage to sit next to Old Jack.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, the tears streaming down his face. ‘It’s just that I was released from prison today.’