mines and got buried.”
He said no more. He knew it hadn’t been like that. Uncle James had been staying with them in Brook Road, and while he was there, he seemed to join the army. Up till then he’d been unfit on account of having some minor thing the matter with him, a badly fallen arch on his left foot. On a second try they took him. He was going to go home to London, where he lived with an aunt and uncle, but he never got there. His uncle tried to trace him. James hadn’t told him where he would be stationed, that wouldn’t have been allowed, but he did have the names of two men he would be starting his training with and their addresses. Both of them replied. They had never heard of Private James Rayment. The army had never heard of him, though he’d said he had joined up. Efforts to find him had failed. He had disappeared.
That was sixty years and more ago, and Uncle James had never been heard of since. As Jo said, people disappeared in wartime. It was a good time to change your identity or vanish or hide from authority. In those days you had an identity card and you had a ration book, but that was all. No bus passes, no credit cards, no mobile phones, and since you never drove, no driving licence, probably no bank account. You were free. Free to hide, free to be someone else, free to disappear. Lewis’s family also did all they could to find Uncle James, but they failed. After a time his disappearance mattered less, receded into a sort of semi-oblivion. It wasn’t as if he had died, but rather as if he had gone a long way off, perhaps to live on some distant continent where no one ever went. Perhaps he had.People did rarely go to those places, but sending airmail letters was troublesome and the cost of phoning was prohibitive. Uncle James might have tried to phone but failed to get through, as often happened.
Lewis’s mother clung to a belief that he would one day turn up out of the blue and present himself on her doorstep. James had often stayed with them in Brook Road, and Gwen Newman, looking back over the past couple of years, now remembered that while there her brother had gone out a lot in the evenings. Not every evening but often, and she had had a feeling that he only stayed in with her and her husband and Lewis because it was expected of him as a guest. When James couldn’t be found, she remarked on this behaviour and what she said had stayed with Lewis all these years.
“I should have asked him where he was going, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. After all, he was a grown man. He used to get back very late, or I suppose he did. I was always asleep.”
“Now you mention it,” said Lewis’s father. “I heard him come in after midnight once or twice.”
“I did ask him once if he’d had a nice evening, but he only said, ‘Lovely, thanks,’ and didn’t tell me any more.”
“I sometimes wondered why he wanted to stay with us. It must have been rather dull with nothing to do in the evenings.”
“He had something to do,” said Gwen. “A girlfriend. A woman. He’s gone off with her and maybe she was married. That’s why he never told us.”
T HEYDON B OIS WAS one of those suburbs in Surrey or Essex or Hertfordshire on the edge of London. The tube went to Theydon. It was desirable commuter land with shops, big and small houses, a village green, and it was in Epping Forest. Unfortunately, you could hear the distant roar of the motorway, the M25, not yet built when Stanley first lived there in the sixties. Thinking themselves cleverand polyglot, visitors pronounced its name Theydon Bwah , but Boys was correct.
Stanley and George, Batchelor Brothers, had built several of the houses in Theydon, and Stanley and Helen lived in one of the larger detached ones. Stanley had bought it when his children left home, his first wife died, and he married a woman twenty years younger than himself. When he had written back to Lewis Newman and invited him to lunch, Stanley had supposed he
He said no more. He knew it hadn’t been like that. Uncle James had been staying with them in Brook Road, and while he was there, he seemed to join the army. Up till then he’d been unfit on account of having some minor thing the matter with him, a badly fallen arch on his left foot. On a second try they took him. He was going to go home to London, where he lived with an aunt and uncle, but he never got there. His uncle tried to trace him. James hadn’t told him where he would be stationed, that wouldn’t have been allowed, but he did have the names of two men he would be starting his training with and their addresses. Both of them replied. They had never heard of Private James Rayment. The army had never heard of him, though he’d said he had joined up. Efforts to find him had failed. He had disappeared.
That was sixty years and more ago, and Uncle James had never been heard of since. As Jo said, people disappeared in wartime. It was a good time to change your identity or vanish or hide from authority. In those days you had an identity card and you had a ration book, but that was all. No bus passes, no credit cards, no mobile phones, and since you never drove, no driving licence, probably no bank account. You were free. Free to hide, free to be someone else, free to disappear. Lewis’s family also did all they could to find Uncle James, but they failed. After a time his disappearance mattered less, receded into a sort of semi-oblivion. It wasn’t as if he had died, but rather as if he had gone a long way off, perhaps to live on some distant continent where no one ever went. Perhaps he had.People did rarely go to those places, but sending airmail letters was troublesome and the cost of phoning was prohibitive. Uncle James might have tried to phone but failed to get through, as often happened.
Lewis’s mother clung to a belief that he would one day turn up out of the blue and present himself on her doorstep. James had often stayed with them in Brook Road, and Gwen Newman, looking back over the past couple of years, now remembered that while there her brother had gone out a lot in the evenings. Not every evening but often, and she had had a feeling that he only stayed in with her and her husband and Lewis because it was expected of him as a guest. When James couldn’t be found, she remarked on this behaviour and what she said had stayed with Lewis all these years.
“I should have asked him where he was going, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. After all, he was a grown man. He used to get back very late, or I suppose he did. I was always asleep.”
“Now you mention it,” said Lewis’s father. “I heard him come in after midnight once or twice.”
“I did ask him once if he’d had a nice evening, but he only said, ‘Lovely, thanks,’ and didn’t tell me any more.”
“I sometimes wondered why he wanted to stay with us. It must have been rather dull with nothing to do in the evenings.”
“He had something to do,” said Gwen. “A girlfriend. A woman. He’s gone off with her and maybe she was married. That’s why he never told us.”
T HEYDON B OIS WAS one of those suburbs in Surrey or Essex or Hertfordshire on the edge of London. The tube went to Theydon. It was desirable commuter land with shops, big and small houses, a village green, and it was in Epping Forest. Unfortunately, you could hear the distant roar of the motorway, the M25, not yet built when Stanley first lived there in the sixties. Thinking themselves cleverand polyglot, visitors pronounced its name Theydon Bwah , but Boys was correct.
Stanley and George, Batchelor Brothers, had built several of the houses in Theydon, and Stanley and Helen lived in one of the larger detached ones. Stanley had bought it when his children left home, his first wife died, and he married a woman twenty years younger than himself. When he had written back to Lewis Newman and invited him to lunch, Stanley had supposed he
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