‘You must stop it. Promise me?’
She nods.
‘We’ve been here before, Cath. Let’s deal with it quickly this time – there’s no need for you to torment yourself. Go and see the GP. Talk to her. And why don’t you ask her for something to help you sleep?’ He smiles. ‘I know you too well. You’ve tried to hide it, but I can tell. And you look bloody awful.’ He kisses her. She nods again.
‘I’m sorry, you must be exhausted,’ she says. ‘And you’ve got to be up early tomorrow.’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘Promise me you’ll go and see the doctor.’
‘Yes, I will. I promise.’
‘You know you can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you.’ It is not a question. He takes her hand and leads her upstairs. ‘Just talk to me, Catherine. When you feel like this, talk to me.’ His words – kind, caring – conflict with the backdrop in her head: her face, the one her husband is stroking, smashed beyond recognition on a railway line.
12
End of winter–spring 2013
A sharpened pencil in the right hands can be a lethal weapon. At the very least it can take out an eye, at the worst push through the socket into the brain. I had sharpened mine to perfection. But a lethal weapon is useless unless it hits its target.
I knew who my target was; I had known her name for years. All I needed was to reach her.
I took advice from a local man, the printer who had produced the Order of Service cards for Nancy’s funeral. It was he who suggested I cut out the middle man and publish the novel myself: ‘Go direct to the reader,’ he said. Music to my ears, but ‘online’? Well, there he had lost me. I was not ‘online’. I didn’t even possess a computer. There aren’t many advantages to being old and lonely, but in that instance I managed to make the most of my pitiful situation. I needed help, and that kind man gave it to me. ‘A laptop,’ he suggested. Yes, I liked the sound of a laptop and he helped me buy one, guiding me through the bewildering process, and then he set me up online. I would never have managed it without him. Such a patient man, so obliging. He gave me a freedom I didn’t even know I lacked – set me off on a voyage into a boundless universe; me, an elderly man, free to roam wherever I wanted.
My first port of call was her name. I typed it in, and up it all came. Photographs, a short biography and all her credits, everything she’d ever worked on. A few imposters came up too, but I recognized the real thing when I saw her. Even though we’d never met, I had no doubt which Catherine Ravenscroft was mine. And there was her husband too. Robert. Robert and Catherine. In one photo he had his arm round her. Her hair was windswept and she was smiling. To my amazement, I discovered that when I clicked on this photo I could find out the exact spot where it had been taken: GPS coordinates. I looked them up on a map, and there it was. Fowey in Cornwall. A holiday in a smart hotel, I imagined. The photo taken on a mobile phone. Perhaps her son had taken it. Her little boy, a young man now. Nicholas. Nicholas Ravenscroft. Here he is. No university education? A drop-out? Surely not. A salesman? I’d expected more from the offspring of such an ambitious and successful couple. Oh, happy days. So many missing years, and yet it took me no time at all to catch up and find out what she and her family had been up to. What a full, rich life she’d been leading, and how well she’d been rewarded for it. It showed in her teeth – straight and white – a sign of prosperity for sure, rather like a tan was in the sixties. Her hair was expensive too, well cut, and the grey hairs (surely she would have had some by now) ingeniously blended with blonde. Yes, she was thriving all right.
I became quite the intrepid traveller. There were other paths I was drawn to, and I confess that at times I grew distracted. One led me to a former pupil. He’d been a favourite, this young man, except he
She nods.
‘We’ve been here before, Cath. Let’s deal with it quickly this time – there’s no need for you to torment yourself. Go and see the GP. Talk to her. And why don’t you ask her for something to help you sleep?’ He smiles. ‘I know you too well. You’ve tried to hide it, but I can tell. And you look bloody awful.’ He kisses her. She nods again.
‘I’m sorry, you must be exhausted,’ she says. ‘And you’ve got to be up early tomorrow.’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘Promise me you’ll go and see the doctor.’
‘Yes, I will. I promise.’
‘You know you can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you.’ It is not a question. He takes her hand and leads her upstairs. ‘Just talk to me, Catherine. When you feel like this, talk to me.’ His words – kind, caring – conflict with the backdrop in her head: her face, the one her husband is stroking, smashed beyond recognition on a railway line.
12
End of winter–spring 2013
A sharpened pencil in the right hands can be a lethal weapon. At the very least it can take out an eye, at the worst push through the socket into the brain. I had sharpened mine to perfection. But a lethal weapon is useless unless it hits its target.
I knew who my target was; I had known her name for years. All I needed was to reach her.
I took advice from a local man, the printer who had produced the Order of Service cards for Nancy’s funeral. It was he who suggested I cut out the middle man and publish the novel myself: ‘Go direct to the reader,’ he said. Music to my ears, but ‘online’? Well, there he had lost me. I was not ‘online’. I didn’t even possess a computer. There aren’t many advantages to being old and lonely, but in that instance I managed to make the most of my pitiful situation. I needed help, and that kind man gave it to me. ‘A laptop,’ he suggested. Yes, I liked the sound of a laptop and he helped me buy one, guiding me through the bewildering process, and then he set me up online. I would never have managed it without him. Such a patient man, so obliging. He gave me a freedom I didn’t even know I lacked – set me off on a voyage into a boundless universe; me, an elderly man, free to roam wherever I wanted.
My first port of call was her name. I typed it in, and up it all came. Photographs, a short biography and all her credits, everything she’d ever worked on. A few imposters came up too, but I recognized the real thing when I saw her. Even though we’d never met, I had no doubt which Catherine Ravenscroft was mine. And there was her husband too. Robert. Robert and Catherine. In one photo he had his arm round her. Her hair was windswept and she was smiling. To my amazement, I discovered that when I clicked on this photo I could find out the exact spot where it had been taken: GPS coordinates. I looked them up on a map, and there it was. Fowey in Cornwall. A holiday in a smart hotel, I imagined. The photo taken on a mobile phone. Perhaps her son had taken it. Her little boy, a young man now. Nicholas. Nicholas Ravenscroft. Here he is. No university education? A drop-out? Surely not. A salesman? I’d expected more from the offspring of such an ambitious and successful couple. Oh, happy days. So many missing years, and yet it took me no time at all to catch up and find out what she and her family had been up to. What a full, rich life she’d been leading, and how well she’d been rewarded for it. It showed in her teeth – straight and white – a sign of prosperity for sure, rather like a tan was in the sixties. Her hair was expensive too, well cut, and the grey hairs (surely she would have had some by now) ingeniously blended with blonde. Yes, she was thriving all right.
I became quite the intrepid traveller. There were other paths I was drawn to, and I confess that at times I grew distracted. One led me to a former pupil. He’d been a favourite, this young man, except he
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