The Lost Child

VII. FAMILY

Ronald Johnson carefully put the cup of tea back into the circle of the saucer and placed the unfolded newspaper on the tabletop. That was his grandson; he was sure of it. The boy was taller than he had imagined, and although he moved quickly past the window, he could see his daughter’s face in the upper lip and the eyes. There was a girl with him who was small and blond, with a kind and smiling face, and it looked as though they were holding hands, but everything had happened so fast. One second they were passing the huge glass window, so close that he could have reached through and touched them, and the next they were swallowed up by a crowd of jabbering, nervously excited students, who, once the traffic lights had turned red, streamed across the road towards the imposing nineteenth-century building where they would be taking their final examinations.

He took a deep breath and then picked up his cup and finished his tea before pouring himself a refill from the faux Wedgwood pot. The waitress arrived with his order of crumpets, and having put down the plate, she fished into her apron pocket and produced three miniature jars and gave him a choice of raspberry or apricot jam or marmalade. He was stumped and looked inanely at the poor young woman, who eventually took pity on him and left all three. Retired now, and in his late sixties, he often found himself worrying about the possibility of losing dignity, and these days he tried doubly hard to keep up standards. He always made an effort to dress properly in a jacket and white shirt and one of his wide selection of ties, none of which had stripes. In the past, he had tried blue shirts, and even pink, but anything but white made him feel like a dandy. He was a stickler for sturdy black shoes with a nice high polish, but since he’d lost his wife, he’d begun to experiment a little with his trousers, and he’d become fond of both turnups and flannels, so one or the other, or a combination of both, might appear, depending on his mood.

A new batch of kids were jostling around and waiting for their chance to cross the road. As he took them in, it suddenly occurred to him how light, almost weightless young people are, innocently floating along, unburdened by any experience of life’s sudden twists or turns. These students have joy, without fully understanding the prized nature of such a commodity, but soon enough they will be packing up their things and leaving the safety of their university years and setting out on their journeys. As he butters his first crumpet, he reminds himself of how important it is that he make contact with his grandson while he knows where he is, and before he loses sight of him completely. Once he graduates he’ll no doubt be off, and heaven only knows if he’ll ever be able to track him down again. Yesterday evening, after he’d found a place to park the car and checked in at the hotel, he took the pleasant walk across the centre of the town and presented himself at the porter’s lodge and asked if it might be possible to see Benjamin Wilson. The man ceased his form filling and peered up at him over the top of his reading glasses. In a sympathetic voice, he let him know that the college was closed to visitors, but told him that he was free to leave a message. He could see that the porter wanted to press him, and would most likely have flouted the rules and ushered him in and in the direction of the boy’s room had he shared more information, but he thanked the man and turned to leave. “Hang on a minute.” The porter opened the door to his small room and stepped out in front of him. “They’re all doing exams in the morning, over there.” He pointed across the street. “If you don’t want to leave a message, you can always see him either before he goes in or after he comes out.”

Once he arrived back at the hotel, he asked at the desk if there were any messages for him, half expecting Mrs. Barrett to have phoned, but the waistcoated receptionist shook his head and smiled, and then wondered if Mr. Johnson might be dining with them this evening. It had been a long drive, and he had completely forgotten about food, but he realized now that he should probably eat something despite feeling in no mood to sit alone in a dining room full of people. “Perhaps you might prefer to see the room service menu?” Indeed, he did prefer this, and an hour later he finished his platter of trout, new potatoes, and peas and stacked everything neatly back onto the tray, which he set down on the spare bed beside the large envelope of letters, and an assortment of her other writing, that represented all that he had left of Monica. For a moment he couldn’t work out whether to call downstairs and ask them to come for the tray or if he should just leave it be for the night. Either way, he knew that he needed a bit of peace and quiet so that he could peruse the contents one final time before giving the large buff envelope to his grandson, believing, as he did, that at this stage of the game that’s where the material rightfully belonged.

* * *

Ben looked across the examination hall and saw Mandy scribbling away at her paper, and he was once again conscious of the fact that he had nothing to offer her in exchange for the ongoing gift of her family’s warmth and generosity. Since they had started going out with each other at the beginning of their second year, he had spent every vacation with her folks in Wiltshire. Her older brother was away in the army in Northern Ireland, and her father always reminded him that while Michael was fighting the good fight, they had plenty of room in the house. Ben had explained to Mandy about having been brought up in a foster home, and presumably she must have said something to her parents, for they had never asked any questions. If they were nonplussed by anything, he knew they would be respectful enough to ask Mandy and not him, but he wasn’t sure how much she would be able to help them out. She seemed to understand that talking about his mother and father, or his brother, was difficult for him to deal with, so she never raised the subject. When Mandy’s granny died, and she had to go back home for the funeral, he did, however, tell her that he had just the one memory of his own grandparents on his mother’s side. He must have been about six, and both he and his brother were tired out when they got to Wakefield, and so, even though it was still light outside, they both were bundled upstairs and into bed. Then, before either of them knew what was happening, they were soon back on a train again. Tommy fell fast asleep, but Ben remembered looking up into his mother’s face.

“Doesn’t your mam and dad want us to stay with them?”

His mother pulled him closer to her side.

“No, love, we were only visiting. We just popped in to say hello, and now we’re off to our own flat.”

Having announced this, his mother slammed the door shut on any further discussion of his grandparents, and as both he and Tommy eventually discovered, the idea of talking about family in general was completely off the agenda as far as their mother was concerned.

* * *

The waiter asks him if the food is to his liking, and he simply nods, for his mouth is full of pasta and meatballs. The fellow couldn’t have chosen a more inopportune moment to start quizzing him, but he doesn’t seem to notice and offers a quick, self-satisfied grin and then moves on to the next table, where he presumably asks the same question. Having walked around the town for the best part of two hours, during which time he kept himself mentally spry by browsing the displays in bookshop windows, he hurried back to the main street and took up his watch across the road from the examination building. He positioned himself halfway between the college and the teashop where he had ordered breakfast, but it soon dawned on him that either his timing was off and the students had already finished for the morning, or perhaps they were exiting out of some back entrance that he was unaware of. When a bus pulled up beside him, and an excitable driver shouted, “Well, you getting on or what, mate?” he registered that he should move. He mumbled an apology and took a step back from the bus stop, and then watched as the elaborate doors concertinaed shut with a cushioned thud. There was no point to his dilly-dallying in the street, so he decided to go and find the rather unpretentious-looking Italian restaurant overlooking the river that he had walked past this morning. He hadn’t troubled himself to inspect the menu, but the presence of a blackboard on the pavement in front of the establishment convinced him that the food would be fresh as it looked as if the chalked-up offerings changed from day to day.

This morning, before he left the hotel, the lady on the front desk had handed him a folded piece of paper that contained a message from his next-door neighbour Mrs. Barrett. Would he please, when he had a spare moment, telephone her? But, the message reassured him, there was “Nothing urgent.” Last year he had finally come to the conclusion that rattling around in a big semidetached house by himself was more aggravation than it was worth. It was the postman who, having witnessed him struggling down the driveway towards the rosebushes with his secateurs at the ready, pointed out to him that the pain in his knees might be alleviated by considering the advantages of a bungalow. His home had barely been on the market for a week before he found himself at the centre of a bidding war, which eventually concluded with his being offered well above his asking price. For a man now living on the combined efforts of his state and his teacher’s pensions, the added sum of money was a great bonus and enabled him to buy into a new development that was in a small village to the west of the town, where he soon discovered that most of the newcomers were either retirees like him or first-time buyers looking to get a foot on the bottom rung of the housing ladder. The bungalow next to his was occupied by a Mrs. Barrett, who had moved in a week prior to his arrival. Recently widowed with no children, and never having had to work a day in her life, she seemed a little lost, but she was very nicely mannered and had obviously been accustomed to having access to the resources necessary to keep herself looking in tiptop condition.

To begin with, she asked him if he’d be interested in joining her at church on Sunday morning, but he had to tell her straight that this wasn’t his thing. He did, however, suggest that he’d enjoy her company for an evening stroll to The Bulldog, where they might enjoy a half-pint, or whatever took her fancy. A month or so later, when his chest problems began to flare up again, a hangover from his childhood pneumonia, she began to regularly bring him soup and sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and she insisted on faffing about and doing the occasional bit of tidying up around the bungalow. He was soon back on his feet, but he now found himself taking her for a twice-weekly run out in his Ford Escort, usually to the supermarket in the town centre, where the prices were better, and as a result, he was forced to listen to her going on about her Alfred as if he had been the thirteenth disciple. Some part of him knew that he should be grateful that he had such a caring neighbour who clearly enjoyed his company, but this woman had bullied her way into his life, and he simply wasn’t ready to deal with another person and all her needs and foibles. While he was wrestling with his concern over how best to bring this up with her, he noticed that certain items were starting to disappear from his place and were suddenly making an appearance over at Mrs. Barrett’s bungalow. First, a carriage clock, and then the silver tankard that the school had presented him with on the occasion of his retirement, but because, during his illness, he’d given Mrs. Barrett the spare key to his bungalow, it was no mystery to him how his things were getting over there.

He’d bought a bottle of sweet wine from Asda with the express purpose of using it to help lubricate what he imagined might be a taxing conversation. It was a sunny afternoon, and they sat opposite each other on the garden chairs he’d brought with him from the old house, and they listened to the birds trilling and twittering in what he considered to be an annoying fashion. “To your good health,” he said. They clinked glasses, and he had to admit he’d never seen Mrs. Barrett looking so happy and contented. As a result, instead of admonishing her for her petty pilfering, or asking for the spare key back, he unexpectedly found himself telling her the story of how, not that long after he’d lost Ruth, he received the phone call from the secure hospital in London during which the woman told him that his daughter had taken an overdose of pills and he’d have to come down and identify the body. He asked the woman, “What, come down now? It’s after seven, and even if I leave right at this moment, I don’t think I can get down there before midnight.” The woman reassured him that there was no rush and tomorrow would be fine, but after he put down the phone, he sat in the gloom for nearly an hour, and then, worried that he was about to be overwhelmed by grief, he suddenly rose to his feet and grabbed his jacket. He went out to the car and drove down through the night to London, and once there he sat outside the hospital, with his driver’s seat reclined, until the gates opened at seven. It was a coloured nurse who greeted him at reception, and she ushered him into the hospital proper and steered him to a room where he had to make the identification.

The whole thing was depressingly straightforward. They simply pulled back a sheet, and he nodded and quickly turned his head. They’d closed Monica’s eyes, but they’d not done anything else for her, so her makeup was all streaked, and he could see that she was as thin as a rake. She looked emaciated. Bloody hell, Monica, it’s not right. The processing was swift; he signed two forms, and they told him that cremation was usual, unless he had other instructions, and they could send him the ashes if he so wished. After everything that had gone on, it just didn’t seem fitting to have her lying with Ruth. I’m sorry, Monica, but I can’t warrant it. And what was he going to do with ashes? What bloody use were ashes? They let him know that social services would be informing her son, and so at least he was spared that awkwardness, and then the nurse handed him a large envelope containing some letters and papers and said this was all Monica had. He wanted to ask about his wife’s gold watch, but he imagined that his daughter must have lost it or had it stolen from her possession, and so he said nothing, and that was it: his Monica was gone.

Mrs. Barrett leaned over and touched his arm. “Ronald, are you alright? Let me go in and make you a nice cup of strong coffee.” By the time he came back to himself, he realized that his neighbour was inside his bungalow by herself, and that’s when it occurred to him that he ought to get Monica’s envelope out of there and put it where it belonged. Really, he couldn’t risk his daughter’s effects going walkabout, for these days it was all he had left of her.

* * *

It was Mr. Gilpin who told Ben that a social worker would be coming around to see him in an hour or so. He’d scarcely stepped in the door from school, but Ben had a good idea of what was going on, and he’d been bracing himself for the visit. The week before, he had been to see David Bowie on his own, for at the last minute Mrs. Gilpin had banned Helen from going with him. When he came back from the concert, only Mr. Gilpin was up, sitting in a darkened living room, and the man looked as if he had been given the task of telling him something, but it was obvious that Mr. Gilpin couldn’t find it in himself to do so. When he got back from school and Mr. Gilpin told him that a social worker wanted to speak with him, he reckoned that this was it: this person would be telling him to pack his bags and get ready to move either to new foster parents or to a children’s home.

He heard Mr. Gilpin shout upstairs to him. When he came down, he could see that the young man had on big horn-rimmed glasses, behind which there was a sad look painted on his smooth, oval face. “Sit down, Ben.” Having spoken, Mr. Gilpin was quick to excuse himself, and he left them alone in the living room. As soon as he’d gone, the social worker cleared his throat and told him that there was no easy way to say this. “I’m sorry, Ben, but your mother’s passed away in London.” Ben looked at the man, but didn’t say anything. “Are you alright, Ben?” He had been sure that things couldn’t get any worse than they already were, with only Mr. Gilpin speaking to him. But right now Mr. Gilpin could stop talking to him if he wanted. He felt as if somebody had punched him hard, in the face, but it didn’t hurt. He couldn’t feel anything. The young man reached over and clumsily covered his hand. “I’m so sorry, Ben.” He wanted to pull his hand away, but it wasn’t this man’s fault. “I just want to let you know that your grandfather might be in touch. We’ve given him your details.”

* * *

After he finishes his pasta dish and pays up at the restaurant bar, he decides to stop off at one of the better bookshops and buy some notepaper and envelopes and then make his way back to the hotel. Once there he will write a short letter to his grandson, telling him that he would like him to have what is in the envelope, and letting him know that he is very sorry to have missed him. Having done so, he will then undertake the short walk back across town and deposit everything with the helpful college porter and leave it up to the lad as to whether or not he’s inclined to communicate. On returning to his hotel room, he discovers that an elderly cleaner is only now finishing off his room and emptying the wastepaper bins before readying herself to move on down the corridor, and so he stands stiffly to one side and waits. Once she closes in the door behind her, he takes off his jacket and hangs it on a wooden coat hanger in the wardrobe, and then he remembers Mrs. Barrett’s message but he doesn’t feel in the right humour to call. After all, he knows full well that she will simply be anxious to know if he is feeling alright, and then she will want to be reminded of not only the time but the day he is coming back so that she might have a nice meal ready for his return. As he slips off his shoes and lies back on the bed, he tries not to think unkind thoughts about his neighbour, for he now understands that the poor woman’s erratic behaviour is all down to her memory’s gradually failing her. These days Mrs. Barrett is living increasingly in the present, which, he imagines, might not be such an unacceptable place to dwell.

* * *

After she died, Ben threw out all of her letters and postcards to him. He also got rid of the newspaper clippings about finding Tommy, and the articles to do with the trial of Derek Evans. He’d kept everything in a grey rucksack that he stashed under his bed, but a week or so after the visit from the young social worker he took the whole lot down to the skips behind the supermarket and hurled the bag in. The only thing he saved was a small black-and-white photograph of him and Tommy that was taken on the day they arrived at Silverdale by either Peter or Rachel, he couldn’t remember which one. He put the snapshot in his pocket and then went to the newsagents to buy ten Benson and Hedges and a box of matches. He sat on a bench on the Green where everyone could see him, and he smoked one fag after another until he’d finished half the pack, but nobody said anything to him, and if he was honest, he didn’t even like the taste of the cigarettes. More than anything, he wanted to believe that she’d done the best she could, but he just couldn’t get his head around the fact that she’d given him away, which meant that there was probably something the matter with him. Why didn’t she try harder and put him first? Why didn’t she want him? When he got back to the foster home, he found Mr. Gilpin sitting in the kitchen by himself, and he could see by the look on the man’s face that he could smell the smoke, but Mr. Gilpin didn’t say anything. Instead he just asked Ben if he wanted to talk about his mother, and he reminded the foster child that he was happy to listen. Ben shook his head. After a painfully uncomfortable silence, it was Mr. Gilpin who eventually got up from his stool and left his own kitchen without saying anything further.

* * *

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.

“Would you care for another lager, Ben? Or perhaps a meal? You could always invite your pals, you know. My treat.”

“Well, thanks very much, but we’ve got plans. It might be a bit hard to change things now.”

Yes, of course. Plans. And more plans. On the walk over to the hotel the boy let him know that he was hoping to go around Europe by train for a month or so with his friend Mandy. Their intention was to come back and get jobs over the summer that would enable them to save up and then take off again for the Far East and Australia and avoid the English winter. He wanted to ask the boy why, but he instinctively knew this would be a foolish question, and so he kept walking and tried not to think of his aching knees. And now he sees his grandson looking at his watch for a second time, and so he signals to the waiter to bring him the bill so he can sign it to his room. It’s clear that this meeting has now arrived at its natural terminus. The boy begins to strip off the tie, while he in turn reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and takes out his chequebook.

“I’d very much like to give you some money, Ben. To help you with your travels. Would that be alright?”

* * *

He lies squashed up in his single bed with Mandy, but it is he who has volunteered to be jammed up against the wall. He stares at the ceiling. When they first started going out with each other, he shared with her the photograph of him and Tommy, and he let her know that his brother had gone off to a place where he couldn’t follow, and that was about all that he could bring himself to say. However, it was evident that Mandy understood, and she never pushed it. With regard to his mother, he said very little beyond the obvious. Mandy turns slightly towards him and lets her finger ride the bumpy topography of his lips.

After he came back from the hotel bar, they said a clumsy goodbye to the others, and he and Mandy hurried off to sit together in the corner of a quiet pub, where she listened carefully to everything that he told her (my mother couldn’t cope, with anything really). He told Mandy that after his grandfather had handed him the cheque for one hundred pounds, the man smiled and then started to tell him all about his new bungalow. It was only then that he understood that his grandmother must have died.

“I do a spot of gardening these days. And I’ve got plenty of space if you’d like to stay.”

Mandy looked momentarily baffled. “He actually said that?” Almost imperceptibly, Ben began to shake his head. “Look, Ben, if you really want to go up there, you know I’ll come with you.”

He finished his drink and then turned to look at her.

“I wanted to tell him, I don’t need to read her old letters to know that in her own screwy way she cared.” He paused. “I’m tired. Let’s go back to my room tonight.”

Mandy takes her finger from his lips and then shuffles over a little to give him a bit more space. Ben continues to look at the ceiling in his bed-study room, and he remains isolated in worries as murky as fog.

“Do you feel like you’ve got something else to say to him, Ben?”

“I don’t think so, Mand. I feel badly about it, but I don’t really have anything to say to him. Nothing.”

* * *

He knew that a midmorning departure would enable him to avoid any kind of traffic issues. The motorway is practically empty, aside from the huge articulated lorries charging their way south towards London and the Channel Ports. Again he reminds himself that the ability to forgive is a virtue worth cultivating, but this is something that his daughter never understood, especially after the business with Dr. Greenwell and his accusations. (Let me put it to you simply, Mr. Johnson. My daughter doesn’t much care for the way you leer at her.) Why Hester would say something like this made no sense, but Ruth forgave him, not that he’d done anything wrong. She stood by him. The buff envelope is on the passenger seat. He wanted to see if the lad would remember to take it with him when he left the hotel bar. It soon became clear, however, that in his rush to get back to his friends he was going to leave it behind, so he decided not to remind the boy in the hope that its absence might serve as a spur for him to seek out his grandfather. He remembered to put his address and phone number on the back of the cheque so there couldn’t be any excuse. His mind is racing now. As he passes the Leicester Forest East service station, he realizes that he is going to have to say something. Sadly, the Mrs. Barretts of the world just won’t do, not while he still has something to offer his own flesh and blood. The woman means well, but she’s not Ruth, and she never will be. He is going to have to ask for his spare key back as it’s been promised to another. He deliberately didn’t say anything to his grandson, but he hopes it’s understood. He’ll just have to be patient and wait for the lad to contact him.