They were advertisements, all dated March 1981, all taken from the bottom corner ofThe Times, Guardian,andDaily Telegraphclassifieds. Each one bore the same message:
Would Thomas Cavill, once of Elephant and Castle, please telephone Theo on the following number as a matter of urgency: (01) 394 7521
“Well,” I said.
“Well,”Miss Yeats concurred. “Rather curious, wouldn’t you agree? Whatever could they mean?”
I shook my head. I had no idea. “One thing’s certain: this Theo, whoever he might be, was pretty keen to get in touch with Thomas.”
“May I ask, dear—I mean, I certainly don’t like to pry, but is there anything here that helps you with your project?”
I took another look at the classifieds, pushed my hair behind my ears. “Perhaps.”
“Because you know, if it’s his service record you’re interested in, the Imperial War Museum has a wonderful archive collection. Or else there’s the General Register Office for births, deaths, and marriages. And I’m sure with just a little more time I could … oh dear,” she said, flushing as she glanced at her watch, “but what a shame. It’s almost closing time. And right when we were getting somewhere. I don’t suppose there’s anything more I could do to help before they lock us in?”
“Actually,” I said, “there is one little thing. Do you think I could use your telephone?”
IT HADbeen eleven years since the advertisements were placed so I’m not sure what I expected; I know only what I hoped: that a fellow by the name of Theo would pick up at the other end and happily fill me in on the past fifty years of Thomas Cavill’s life. Needless to say, it’s not what happened. My first attempt was met by the rude insistence of a disconnection tone and I was so utterly frustrated that I couldn’t help but stamp my foot like a spoiled Victorian child. Miss Yeats was kind enough to ignore the tantrum, reminding me gently to convert the area code to 071 in line with the recent changes, then hovering very closely as I dialed the number. Under scrutiny I grew clumsy and had to try a second time, but finally—success!
I gave the receiver a quick tap to signal that the number had begun to ring, touched Miss Yeats’s shoulder excitedly when the line picked up. It was answered by a kindly lady who told me, when I asked for Theo, that she’d bought the house from an elderly man by that name the year before. “Theodore Cavill,” she said, “that’s who you’re after, isn’t it?”
I could barely contain myself. TheodoreCavill. A relative, then. “That’s him.”
Beneath my nose, Miss Yeats clapped the heels of her hands like a seal.
“He went to live in a nursing home in Putney,” said the lady on the phone, “right by the river. He was very happy about that, I remember. Said he used to teach at a school across the way.”
IWENTto visit him. I went that very evening.
There were five nursing homes in Putney, only one of which was on the river, and I found it easily. The drizzle had blown away and the evening was warm and clear; I stood at the front like someone in a dream, comparing the address of the plain brick building before me to that in my notepad.
As soon as I set foot inside the foyer, I was accosted by the nurse on duty, a young woman with a pixie haircut and a way of smiling so that one side of her mouth rose higher than the other. I told her who I’d come to see and she grinned.
“Oh, how lovely! He’s one of our sweetest is Theo.”
I felt my first pang of doubt then and returned her smile a little queasily. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, beneath the stark fluorescent light of the hallway we were fast approaching, I wasn’t so sure. There was something not terribly likable about a person prepared to impose upon an unsuspecting old gentleman, one of the nursing home’s sweetest. An arrant stranger with designs on the fellow’s family history. I considered backing out, but my guide was surprisingly invested in my visit and had already railroaded me through the foyer with breathtaking efficiency.
“It’s lonely for them when they get near the end,” she was saying, “especially if they never married. No kids or grandkids to think about.”
I agreed and smiled and trailed her at a skip along the wide, white corridor. Door after door, the spaces between punctuated by wall-hung vases. Purple flowers, just this side of fresh, poked their heads over the top, and I wondered absently whose job it was to change them. I didn’t ask, though, and we didn’t stop, continuing right down the corridor until we reached a door at the very end. Through its glass panel, I could see that a neat garden lay on the other side. The nurse held open the door and tilted her head, indicating that I should go first, then followed closely on my heel.
“Theo,” she said, in a louder-than-normal voice, though to whom she spoke I couldn’t tell. “Someone here to see you. I’m sorry”—she turned to me—“I don’t remember your name.”
“Edie. Edie Burchill.”
“Edie Burchill’s here to visit, Theo.”
I saw then an iron bench seat just beyond a low hedge, and an old man standing. It was evident from the way he stooped, the hand holding the back of the seat, that he’d been sitting until the moment we arrived, that he’d clambered to his feet out of habit, a vestige of the old-fashioned manners he’d no doubt been using all his life. He blinked through bottle-thick glasses. “Hello there,” he said. “Join me, won’t you?”
“I’ll leave you to it,” said the nurse. “I’m just inside. Give me a yell if there’s anything you need.” She bobbed her head, crossed her arms, and disappeared sprucely back along the red-brick path. The door closed behind her and Theo and I were left alone in the garden.
He was tiny, five feet tall if he was lucky, with the sort of portly body you might draw, if you were so inclined, by starting with a rough eggplant shape and strapping a belt across the widest point. He gestured away from me with a tufted head. “I’ve been sitting here watching the river. It never stops, you know.”
I liked his voice. Something in its warm timbre reminded me of being a very little child, of sitting cross-legged on a dusty carpet while a blurry-faced grown-up intoned reassuringly and my mind took leave to wander. I was aware suddenly that I had no idea how to begin speaking with this old man. That coming here had been an enormous mistake and I needed to leave immediately. I’d opened my mouth to tell him so when he said, “I’ve been stalling. I’m afraid I can’t place you. Forgive me, it’s my memory …”
“It’s quite all right. We haven’t met before.”
“Oh?” He was silent and his lips moved slowly around his thoughts. “I see … well, never mind, you’re here now, and I don’t have a lot of visitors … I’m terribly sorry, I’ve forgotten your name already. I know Jean said it, but …”
