Although Albert told John he needed to contact someone by telephone, it was some weeks before he actually made the first call. Since the meeting with his mother during his stay in hospital thirty-five years earlier, the only other contact he had with his family was the brief meeting with his sister Ann. This has resulted in denial and confusion and he was unsure whether speaking with someone, who reputedly knew his brother, would not end with further disappointments and turmoil. He recalled the time with his mother and the hours they had spent together in the hospital trying to piece together the fragmented memories of his boyhood life. If the weather was kind, they would sit or walk in the hospital gardens and Albert would show her the work he was doing with a sense of pride known only between mother and son. If that time was so enjoyable, why did he not then return to his mother at the conclusion of the war? This was a question he avoided asking himself as he knew he did not have an answer. Although he was aware it would have been the most natural thing to do, there appeared to be some invisible barrier that prevented him from returning to the family of his youth. He had a sense, or perhaps a premonition, that making this phone call to A.J.Waterson would bring down this barrier for ever. He would finally meet not only his family, but also the Albert Hughes that lived and breathed before the war. A person that shared his name but not his thoughts, memories, or aspirations.
The phone rang and finally answered by a rather high-pitched female voice.
“Waterson House, how can I help you?”
“Hello, I need to speak to Mr Waterson, Mr A.J. Waterson.”
“Can I ask the nature of your business?”
“It’s a private matter, I was told if I called this number I would be able to speak to Mr Waterson.”
“Can I have your name?”
“Yes, my name is Hughes, Albert Hughes, do I have the right number?”
“Oh, yes Mr Hughes, I have a note here to expect a call from you, I believe you are trying to arrange a meeting with Mr Waterson. Let me see, he has some free time next Wednesday if that’s OK with you?”
“Yes that should be possible.”
“Good I’ll put that in the diary. He said you would probably come by train and if you were to catch the 9:10 from Eastbridge, you will arrive here at 11:15. He will have someone at the station to meet you. He also suggested that you stay for two days and if that was agreeable I was to organise a hotel for you that night, which would be the Wednesday night.”
Albert was speechless. He tried to replay in his mind what the high-pitched voice had just said and gather his thoughts before he answered. When he made the telephone call, he felt in control of the situation and it was he who was deciding the course of events. However, he now felt himself part of some pre-arranged plot in which he was a bit part player. How should he respond? Whilst his mind was still reviewing his options he found himself saying, “That sounds fine; I’ll be there on Wednesday morning prepared to stay overnight.”
The 9:10 from Eastbridge departed on time. It was not as crowded as it would have been one or two hours earlier and Albert was able to find a seat next to a window facing the front. He disliked sitting with his back to the engine, he needed to see where he was going not where he had been. A small brown simulated leather suitcase was on the seat next to him. He had bought it from a second hand shop some years ago and since that time it had been stored on top of a wardrobe, never used. Its appearance suggested many far away journeys over a number of years and implied the owner had travelled extensively, which was the exact opposite of Albert who rarely travelled anywhere. He had packed his pajamas and a change of clothes together with a book. He contemplated taking out the book and reading, as this seemed to be the preferred pastime of most of the other people in the carriage, but his eyes were drawn by the countryside flashing by and his mind occupied by the thoughts of where this journey might end.
Since agreeing to meet A.J. Waterson, it seemed as if he had been sleepwalking towards the appointment. He had no feeling that he was entirely in control of the course of events. All the doubts that entered his mind, about the possible outcome of this visit, just melted away rather than being rationalised or addressed. It was as if he was in some sort of hypnotic trance and at any moment someone would click his or her fingers and he would awake to find himself standing behind the bar in the Station Inn.
His previous journey by train was about two years ago. It had been a public holiday and he decided to visit Deerson House. He had no reason to go there other than a desire to see the house where he had recovered from his injuries and the gardens where he had once worked. It was now a health spa with manicured lawns where there had once been flowerbeds and a tarmac surfaced tennis court, surrounded by a high wire fence, in the area where the greenhouses once stood. Someone had seen him wandering around the grounds and called security. He explained his connection to the house and much to his surprise they believed him and gave him a tour around the facility. The inside of the house had been altered so much that he found it difficult to imagine the hallways, stairs and rooms he once knew so well. Curiously, one thing had changed very little; the current residents were walking around wearing white gowns just as many patients did all those years ago. He was disappointed to find so much had changed but pleased that the house was now in use. His previous visit, some years earlier, had found a house with windows boarded up, a roof desperately in need of repair and nature had reclaimed what had once been the garden.
The weather was fine and the low spring sunlight glinted off the fields of green shoots giving the appearance of waves of silver blades. The glass-arched roof, that completely covered Barnshead station, was so dirty that one thought the train had entered a tunnel it was so dark compared to the brightness of the world outside the station. Albert looked through the window of the carriage searching for the station name board to confirm he had arrived at his destination. He saw a transparent reflection of his own face in the window looking like a detached head of a ghost peering in from the outside. Albert chuckled to himself. “Pull yourself together,” he thought to himself, “Let’s go and see what this A.J. chap has to say for himself.”
He followed the others getting off the train, assuming they were heading for the exit, and found himself outside the station building opposite a taxi rank and a short stay parking area with drivers standing by the car doors waiting for their passengers.
“Mr Hughes, over here,” came the shout from one of the drivers.
Albert was not familiar with different models of cars, but he realised this one was large, luxurious and undoubtedly expensive. The man who had shouted looked small by comparison to the car and wore clothes that gave the opposite image to the vehicle, small, shabby and possibly secondhand. The belt of his trousers hung below his protruding stomach and the elbows of his corduroy jacket were as shiny as any piece of antique furniture. Albert noticed the man had a pronounced limp as he walked round the car to open the doors.
“Put your case on the back seat, my golf clubs are in the boot, and you can jump in the front next to me. I’ve been meaning to get rid of this old heap for longer than I care to remember,” he continued, “but it should get us to where we’re going”.
Albert sat in the passenger seat and sank into it like an old leather armchair. He noticed the driver’s seat next him had a cover which also seemed to act like a child’s booster seat as he realised just how short this man was.
“Don’t worry I can just about reach the peddles,” the driver chortled, noting that Albert had been looking at him seemingly concerned about his ability to drive. “It’s also automatic so this old gammy leg is not a problem”.
“How did you know it was me, when you shouted my name?” Albert enquired.
“I took a guess. You seemed to be the only person with an overnight bag.”
Albert didn’t believe that to be true as he was sure there were others on the train carrying bags or cases that could be used for overnight stays.
“Are you Mr Waterson’s driver?”
“No, not exactly.” was the reply and he seemed to chuckle to himself. “I was available this morning so he asked me to drop by the station as I was passing this way. My name’s Timothy Calder by the way.”
The journey continued with small talk about how busy the train was, how warm it is for this time of year, the traffic through the town should be fairly quiet now after the early morning rush hour, and finally the car turned into an open gateway and onto a curved gravel drive. The car stopped in front of an impressive three-storey building. Two pillars framed the doorway, at the top of a short flight of stone steps. The pillars supported a carved entablature over a wooden door, painted in glossy bright red.
“It’s Georgian you know,” said the driver nodding at the building. “I don’t know much about architecture, but I guess you can always tell them by the regular rectangular windows. As you can see they are all the same size and shape, upstairs and down.”
Albert retrieved his case from the back seat and closed the rear door. He also did not know much about architecture but somehow he found this building intimidating. Perhaps it was not the building, more likely what he might find or learn inside.
The driver wound down his window.
“I’m not coming in, I can’t stay. Give my regards to A.J. and the very best of luck Mr Hughes.”
If he had said any more Albert would not have heard it over the sound of the tyres on the gravel drive as he drove away. His wishes of good luck sounded very heartfelt and gave Albert a sense of foreboding that he was sure was not the intention.
At the side of the door was a plaque with a number of names of what Albert assumed were companies or individuals like solicitors or consultants. The plaque was headed, Waterson House, and under that heading the top name on the list was A.J. Waterson Associates.
The front door gave access to a small hallway that contained a desk behind which was seated a middle-aged woman. The style of her hair, makeup and clothes were presumably designed to make her look younger, but had the opposite effect. Albert thought she looked comical but also sad, and felt like telling her how much better she would look if she allowed herself to age gracefully.
“Good afternoon, oh no it’s still morning, how can I help you?” said a high-pitched voice he remembered from the phone call.
“My name is Hughes, I have an appointment with Mr Waterson.”
“Oh yes Mr Hughes, we’re expecting you. He said you were to go straight up but I'll just call him to let him know you have arrived. Before you go, here are the details of your hotel. One night at the Grenadier Hotel, I’m sure you will find it very comfortable.”
She handed Albert a card with the hotel details and indicated that Mr Waterson’s office was on the first floor. She pointed to the stairs at the side of her desk, and explained his office was located up the stairs and at the end of the corridor. He could not miss it as Mr Waterson’s name was on the office door.
He knocked on the office door which received an “Enter, it’s not locked” in reply. Even through the thickness of the door, Albert could tell this was a voice of a man of authority. He was to meet a man who was used to giving orders and expected people to carry them out, without question. He had met men like this before, sometimes they had a military background or more often, they were heads of companies, meeting with their staff or clients in the Station Inn. They oozed calmness and confidence and even in a crowded bar their presence could be felt as they spoke with clarity of thought and purpose.
The sight that met him, as he opened the office door, took Albert aback. All the walls, ceilings and woodwork he had seen so far, from the entrance to the stairs and corridor were painted brilliant white. He had thought this looked clinical and gave the antiseptic sense of a hospital. He opened the door to what he assumed would be an office of similar design and was met with something more like a sitting room from a stately home. Wallpaper, in the deepest red, covered the wall opposite the door, and in the middle of the wall stood an open fire with an ornate white surround. The flames of the fire added to the glow given off by the wallpaper. Hanging on this wall and above the fireplace were three paintings of individual men and women dressed in costumes from centuries ago. The style of the painting with the subjects posed before a dark background, suggested that these were originals and probably very valuable. In front of the fireplace were two fabric-covered sofas facing each other standing on a square carpet. This was the only floor covering in the room, as the rest was oak coloured wood. Two of the other walls, covered in the richest of mahogany panels, also containing paintings of a similar theme to the ones next to the fireplace. Other mahogany furniture was scattered around the room and included tables of various shapes and sizes, cabinets either fully enclosed or partially glazed displaying the contents of ceramics or glass containers. Behind the door, which Albert was still holding, was a small round dining table and four high backed upholstered chairs. To his left, the wall had two windows that were half covered by gold coloured fabric blinds hanging from the ceiling. In addition, hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, was a crystal chandelier containing eighteen candle shaped bulbs.
“Close the door, come in,” the assured voice said, “Do you like it?” gesturing around the room.
“It’s, it’s incredible,” Albert managed to stutter in reply.
“These are things I’ve collected over a number of years. The house, as you might have guessed, is Georgian and I’ve tried, as best I could, to make sure my contents are of the same period. This house was a wreck when I bought it; most of the original features either had been stripped out or were beyond repair. So everything you see I’ve obtained from other houses. Like this wooden paneling and the oak floor. Put your case down, come over to the window, there is something I want you to see. I think you in particular will appreciate it.”
Albert walked over to the window nearest the fireplace and stood next to A.J. What he saw from the window was a formal parterre garden stretching away from the house for about one hundred yards. In the middle of the garden was a closely cropped hedge standing about two feet high. It edged an ornamental fountain surrounded by a round stone dish. The rest of the garden contained square or rectangular enclosures formed by the same type of dense miniature box hedges with paved paths creating the overall geometric pattern. In some of the enclosures were topiary figures of birds or animals whilst others were cut into ball or cube shapes. Down each side of the garden were equally spaced trees with thin trunks and a ball of thick foliage on top of each trunk looking like children’s giant lollipops.
“In a few weeks time we’ll add a few plants to give some colour throughout the summer, I’m sure the traditionalist wouldn’t agree, but it’s my garden so I guess I can do what I like. What do you think?”
“I think it’s, it’s just incredible,” Albert stuttered again.
“When I bought the house, the garden was like the house, it was a mess. My plan for the building was to turn it into a hotel but I needed the land at the back for a car park and the garden would have to go. When I realised it was possible to save the garden, and transformed into what you see today, I changed my plans and turned the house into offices. There are six now, including this room, but I can reconfigure it to get another couple if necessary. Come let’s sit over here by the fire, or will that be too hot? Do you want a drink of anything? I have wines, spirits, and beers up here, or I can call down to Beryl if you want tea or coffee. I guess you met Beryl on the way in. I know what you think, but she is the most efficient person I’ve ever met and I couldn’t survive without her. Oh but of course it’s lunch time, you must be hungry, I can arrange for some food to be brought in if you want?”
Albert suddenly realised the assurance had gone out of A.J.’s voice. He seemed to be nervous and talking too much. Albert said he was fine at the moment and didn’t need any food or drink.
“I’ll help myself to drink if you don’t mind,” said A.J. and poured himself a whiskey from a decanter. “I don’t normally drink at this time of the day, but somehow today is different.”
“What do you mean different?” asked Albert. Nevertheless, A.J. didn’t reply and rather than sitting down he walked over to the window to look at the garden.
“Have you seen that comedy series on the television, I don’t remember what it’s called, but it has a character called C.J. Little did I realise all those years ago when I decided to be known as A.J. I would find myself the butt of jokes from this series. What is it he says? Oh yes, I didn’t get where I am today without something or other.”
“Reginald Perrin,” said Albert.
“What?” came A.J.’s absent-minded reply.
“Reginald Perrin, that’s the name of the TV series.”
“Oh yes.”
“Mr Waterson I came here to ask you a question, I think I’d better ask it. What do you know of my brother James?”
A.J. turned to look at Albert and took a large drink of his whiskey.
“I know your brother; in fact I’ve known him all my life. I’m your brother James. A.J. is short for Arthur James. I’m James your brother.” James took another long drink.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” James enquired.
Albert decided this was one time when he needed a clear head and declined the drink.
Of the two men, Albert seemed to be the calmer. He decided to speak first.
“I guess I’ve got a lot of explaining to do. You see, other than your name, I don’t remember you. Something happened to me during the war and there are so many things I still don’t remember, even after all these years. You must have thought I had died, but somehow you don’t seem surprised to see me, in fact I get the impression you know a lot more about me than perhaps I know myself.”
A.J. had presented before audiences of hundreds of people, he had given after dinner speeches to groups that included royalty, but he never felt more nervous than he did now stood in front of his brother. His hands were shaking and he had an overwhelming desire to down the decanter of whiskey in one. He had dreamed of this day for so long, to be face to face again with his brother. He had prepared and rehearsed this speech, what he wanted to say, in the order he needed to say it, and now the day had arrived his whole being was turning to mush. He wanted to stop it now, to go back to how it was before he had received that phone call from Neville Conrad. Why hadn’t he just ignored it and denied all knowledge of Albert’s brother James? However, he knew why. There were wrongs he had to right, they had gone on far too long, and now finally was the time to face his demons, whatever the consequences.
“God it’s hot in here, I wish I’d never lit this bloody fire.” A.J. paced the room. He had started the day, as he always did, wearing a suit and tie. He had discarded the jacket before Albert arrived and now he was pulling at the tie trying to loosen it from around his neck. He was about the same height as Albert but heavier; constantly promising to shed a few pounds before he became what others would regard as overweight. His hair was the same salt and pepper colour as Albert’s but expertly cut and styled to hide the areas that were thinning. He and Albert shared many of the family facial features, except the eyes. Albert’s were kindly with a sense of humility and humour; A.J. had a penetrating look that locked onto his prey.
“James, someone I know helped me find you, but he couldn’t find any record of your birth. He reckoned our parents might have adopted you. Is that why your surname is different to mine?”
A.J. walked over to the window and sat on one of the high backed chairs. His body faced into the room, with his head turned sideways towards the window, away from Albert.
A.J. took a deep breath; the time had come to say what had needed to be said for so long.
“The reason our names are different is because you are not Albert Hughes. Your real name is George Waterson. Albert Hughes died in the war.”
Albert stared at A.J., the phrase, “you are not Albert Hughes”, repeated and repeated in his head like a stuck record. He tried to formulate a question but the phrase kept going round and round until he thought he would scream or faint. The words replayed faster and faster, getting higher and progressively higher until all he could hear was a high-pitched siren.
“Albert, I think you’re hyperventilating, Christ what am I supposed to do? Just try to breathe normally. Come on look at me, concentrate on breathing normally.”
A.J. was standing in front of Albert’s gently shaking his shoulders; looking him in the face trying to get him to listen to what he was saying. “Would Beryl know what to do?” he thought to himself, but Albert’s breathing seemed to be returning to normal and in a few moments the worst appeared to over.
“Christ Albert you gave me a right scare, do you want a drink now. Perhaps some strong sweet tea or whatever you’re supposed to have in these situations?”
Albert didn’t reply; a strange and surprising calmness came over him. His mind was suddenly clearer than it had been for such a long time, as if he had miraculously recovered from a fever.
“You called me Albert, but you just said my name was George.”
“As far as you remember, Albert is the only name you’ve ever had. There’s no point in calling you by your real name, you just wouldn’t recognise George. I guess now that you know it’s one of the things you’ll need to decide, what you want to be called?”
“That’s easy. My name is Albert Hughes.”
“Ok, Albert it is. You said you had some explaining to do, but all the explaining is mine. All this mess, it’s all my fault.”
A.J. sat on the sofa, opposite Albert. He had left the unfinished whiskey on the table and decided he didn’t need that anymore. There were some difficult things he still needed to explain but the courage now had to come from his overwhelming desire to put right the previous wrongs, rather than the contents of a whiskey glass.
“The first we heard about what happened in France was the telegram telling us you were missing presumed dead. It hit mother and father so bad they hardly spoke for days. It was as if they hoped by not talking about it then it hadn’t really happened. However, I was pleased. I was pleased you were dead, that you were not coming back. Before you say anything, I know that’s a terrible thing to say about your own brother and I’ve still got a lot of explaining to do. You don’t remember how it was then, the family life during the war. I was a teenager; I hated everything. I hated the war, the way we lived, I hated father and hated you. Hate, it’s an easy word to say and most people don’t really mean it when they say it, but then I really hated everything around me and drove me to do some terrible things.”
Albert realised he was still wearing his jacket and as they were now sat near the fire he was becoming uncomfortably hot. He took it off and folded it on the seat next to him. He looked at the man opposite him. They were supposed to be brothers and he could see some features that others might describe as a family resemblance. However, what he did recognise was a man who was about to bare his soul. He could not imagine what these “terrible things” might be but he knew that the consequences would affect him.
“Father had a small business. He had a shop selling fruit and vegetables. As you can imagine this was probably not the best business to be in during the war. The government rationed everything and fruit was practically impossible to get, except for a few strawberries and the like. There was nothing like bananas, you know what I mean. As well as the shop, he had a horse and cart. He used them to collect the produce from the local farms and go round the streets in the town selling from the cart. People who couldn’t get to the shop thought this was wonderful, he was so helpful, but to mother and I he was a tyrant. He did everything possible to make our lives miserable. You were his favourite. At first, when you were younger, you enjoyed it but later you could see how he used you as a psychological weapon against us.
If someone came to him for help, for some food that they couldn’t afford, or didn’t have the ration coupons, he would always help them out, especially if it meant giving away our own food. We practically starved. Some of these requests were genuine, but others were people just taking him for a mug. He could see that but he didn’t care, as long as it resulted in making our lives even more miserable.”
A.J. paused as if recollecting some events at that time and then breathing deeply returned to the present.
“The situation became worse when you joined the army and went away. Father felt he had to tell me things about the family just in case something happened to you. Our grandfather, his father, was a very wealthy man. He owned land, had a big house, and regarded like the lord of the manor in the local area. I didn’t know this until father told me because grandfather had died before we were born. They hadn’t talked about him because; well I guess they were embarrassed by the way he died. His wife, our grandmother, had died some years earlier and since her death, he had become increasingly depressed. It got so bad he sold all the land and the house, took a trip the east coast of England and committed suicide by jumping off a cliff. The people who saw him do it said he didn’t exactly jump, he just carried on walking as if there was something out there, on the horizon, he was trying to reach. All his money came to father, who instead of using it, spending it on the things we needed, he put it all in trust for you. Can you imagine how I felt when I learned this? We had lived like paupers all these years, taken advantage of by people he regarded as friends, and all this time we were wealthy. And even worse, the money was destined to go to you, someone I thought would have no idea how to use it and probably give it away. That’s why I was glad when I thought you were dead; the money would come to me.”
Albert interrupted him.
“This is all well and good, but what has this to do with you believing I’m your brother George?”
“I’m sorry I’m not explaining this well. I had it all planned what I was going to say, but it’s all coming out in a jumble. You see, when you were sent back to England from France you had lost your memory, you did not know who you were, and there was a mix up identifying the people who were killed in that troop.”
Albert interrupted him again.
“Yes, but what you don’t know is the hospital contacted my mother and she came along and identified me as her son Albert. There’s no doubt who I am.”
“I know all about Mrs Hughes visiting you and how she said you were her son.”
“But how could you possibly know that?”
“Because she wrote to me and explained about the terrible thing she had done.”
A.J. had arrived at the point where he needed to confess. He took a few moments to calm himself and try to organise his thoughts before continuing with his explanation of what had happened those years ago.
“Mrs Hughes wrote to me. She felt so ashamed about what she had done to another woman and her son she felt she could not bring herself to write to a mother so she wrote to me. She told me about how she had received a letter from the hospital telling her they thought one of their patients was her son. She described the feeling of hope and anticipation after assuming he was dead. When she saw you in the hospital, she knew immediately you were not Albert and that Albert was dead. But she was ill and knew that she probably did not have long to live. She was so desperate to spend her last remaining time with her son she convinced the hospital staff, herself and you, that you were Albert. She turned you into Albert. She told you things about the family; the times you had all spent together; about your sister Ann and these memories became your memories. She planted these images and thoughts in your head and you became Albert.”
A.J. paused again expecting Albert to speak but he remained silent.
“She eventually became too ill to travel and she stopped visiting you. It was at this time her conscience could not let her go to her grave without telling someone what she had done and she wrote to me.”
Albert finally broke his silence and asked,
“What did you do with the letter?”
“I burnt it. I read it, screwed it up into a ball and threw it on the kitchen fire. I told no one in the family about the letter and that you were alive in a hospital in the south of England.”
A.J. walked over to the window and resting his hands on the windowsill he bowed his head rather than look outside.
“You see I hoped and wanted you to be dead. I didn’t want you coming back into my life and ruining all my plans. I assumed that gradually over time you would recover your memory and realise who you were. Nevertheless, I hoped that in the meantime, I could start what I needed to do and it would be too late for you to spoil everything. For weeks, months, even years I expected every day that you would appear knocking at the door, but you never did. You lived your life believing you were Albert Hughes.”
“And my real parents lived their lives thinking their son was dead,” Albert barked back.
“Father died just before the end of the war. He just collapsed and died. They said it was a massive heart attack, nothing that anyone could have done even if I had found him earlier.”
“From what you have told me, it doesn’t sound as if you would have tried very hard,” Albert said rather sarcastically.
“I don’t know what I would have done. It haunts me the thought of finding him alive and me looking down on him gasping for breath. I would like to think I would have done something, but I really don’t know. I found him lying in the yard at the back of the shop, that’s where we kept the horse. A week later the horse died on exactly the same spot. Father had cared more for that horse than he did us. Mother thought it died of a broken heart. It was just old and over worked, it just died.”
A.J. then went on to explain how, after his father’s death, he managed to release the money from the trust and started to build up the business. To replace the horse he bought a lorry, the biggest one he could find. When they visited the farms to buy fruit and vegetables, they bought as many as the lorry could carry and sold the products to local shops, hotels, and restaurants. Over time, he bought some of the shops and established a chain of grocery stores across the county. When the import of food started again he bought more lorries and bought the products directly from the importers. He took over more stores and started buying hotels. He finally sold the haulage business for a huge profit and ploughed this back into the hotel chain. His latest venture was residential homes for the elderly. He had converted some of the existing hotels to care homes and begun building some purpose built facilities.
“And you run all that from here?” inquired Albert, gesturing around the room.
“No this is my private retreat, somewhere I can escape from the world. The company has some offices on a local trading estate, the rents cheaper.”
“I guess the other employees don’t have quite the same office furniture,” remarked Albert with a sense of annoyance in his voice. A.J. didn’t answer.
A.J. poured himself another drink. Albert declined the offer.
“It was difficult to keep tabs on you for the first few years, especially after you left Deerson House the second time. You moved around so much, but once you settled down in Eastbridge, working for the council, it was easier to keep an eye on you.”
“Keep an eye on me, what the hell does that mean?” Albert’s body had stiffened and he was close to shouting.
“At first I was worried you would come back. I needed to know where you were and what you were doing. I was trying to stay ahead of the game and make sure there were no surprises.”
“Oh it was just a game to you. You just let me live my life thinking I was somebody else and to you it was just a game.”
“When I realised that you were not going to recover your memory, I wanted so many times to find you and tell you all about this, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was too late. You had created a life for yourself and you seemed to be so happy, so contented, I did not want to suddenly ruin it by turning everything upside down. I hoped that somehow you would find out and you would find me.”
“Oh I get it; you didn’t want to take the responsibility. It had to be my entire fault. I can see it now, that’s where Neville Conrad fits in. You got him to set this whole thing up. He somehow found your name from some old newspaper article; as if I can believe that; so you didn’t have to do the dirty work.”
“If you’re talking about that young man who said he knew you and asked about me, I’ve never met him, that was the first and last time I spoke to him.”
“Why is it I don’t believe you?”
“Albert please calm down. I really did not want it to be like this. For years, I’ve wanted us to get back together as brothers. I imagined us running the business together, that’s why I called the business A.J. Waterson Associates. There isn’t anyone else, it was intended to be you.”
“I’ve often wondered if I was quite right in the mind. I put it down to what happened in the war, but it looks as if it runs in the family. Grandfather kills himself and you’re mad. You’ve been following me around for years, keeping an eye on me as you called it, probably using private detectives to keep an eye on me, and then you expect me to say hello brother, how are you, I’d love to be one of your Associates.”
Albert stood up and put on his jacket. He felt in his pocket and finding a piece of paper he walked towards the fireplace.
“You once threw a letter in the fire and the flames took me out of your life. On this paper are your name and telephone number and these flames will do the same.” He threw Neville’s note into the red embers of the log fire. He picked up his suitcase and walked towards the office door pursued by James.
“Albert please don’t go, not like this. Why don’t you go to the hotel, have a good meal and a night’s sleep and we can talk about it tomorrow?”
Albert did not reply or look back. He closed the door behind him and descended the stairs to the entrance hall.
“Beryl, I feel sorry for you working for that man. Can you tell me where I can find a taxi to take me to the station?”
“Mr Hughes, if you wait a few moments I can call for a taxi for you.”
“I don’t want to stay here for one more second. I’ll find a taxi on my own.”
Albert descended the short flight of stairs to the gravel drive. When he reached the street he looked at the choice of directions. One direction appeared to be going out of town and towards the surrounding countryside, the other back towards the town. He took the direction towards the town.
A.J. picked up the internal phone on his desk and spoke to Beryl.
“I want you to get me the number of the Eastbridge Gazette, I need to speak to Neville Conrad and get me Timothy Calder on the phone?”
The phone rang and finally answered by a rather high-pitched female voice.
“Waterson House, how can I help you?”
“Hello, I need to speak to Mr Waterson, Mr A.J. Waterson.”
“Can I ask the nature of your business?”
“It’s a private matter, I was told if I called this number I would be able to speak to Mr Waterson.”
“Can I have your name?”
“Yes, my name is Hughes, Albert Hughes, do I have the right number?”
“Oh, yes Mr Hughes, I have a note here to expect a call from you, I believe you are trying to arrange a meeting with Mr Waterson. Let me see, he has some free time next Wednesday if that’s OK with you?”
“Yes that should be possible.”
“Good I’ll put that in the diary. He said you would probably come by train and if you were to catch the 9:10 from Eastbridge, you will arrive here at 11:15. He will have someone at the station to meet you. He also suggested that you stay for two days and if that was agreeable I was to organise a hotel for you that night, which would be the Wednesday night.”
Albert was speechless. He tried to replay in his mind what the high-pitched voice had just said and gather his thoughts before he answered. When he made the telephone call, he felt in control of the situation and it was he who was deciding the course of events. However, he now felt himself part of some pre-arranged plot in which he was a bit part player. How should he respond? Whilst his mind was still reviewing his options he found himself saying, “That sounds fine; I’ll be there on Wednesday morning prepared to stay overnight.”
The 9:10 from Eastbridge departed on time. It was not as crowded as it would have been one or two hours earlier and Albert was able to find a seat next to a window facing the front. He disliked sitting with his back to the engine, he needed to see where he was going not where he had been. A small brown simulated leather suitcase was on the seat next to him. He had bought it from a second hand shop some years ago and since that time it had been stored on top of a wardrobe, never used. Its appearance suggested many far away journeys over a number of years and implied the owner had travelled extensively, which was the exact opposite of Albert who rarely travelled anywhere. He had packed his pajamas and a change of clothes together with a book. He contemplated taking out the book and reading, as this seemed to be the preferred pastime of most of the other people in the carriage, but his eyes were drawn by the countryside flashing by and his mind occupied by the thoughts of where this journey might end.
Since agreeing to meet A.J. Waterson, it seemed as if he had been sleepwalking towards the appointment. He had no feeling that he was entirely in control of the course of events. All the doubts that entered his mind, about the possible outcome of this visit, just melted away rather than being rationalised or addressed. It was as if he was in some sort of hypnotic trance and at any moment someone would click his or her fingers and he would awake to find himself standing behind the bar in the Station Inn.
His previous journey by train was about two years ago. It had been a public holiday and he decided to visit Deerson House. He had no reason to go there other than a desire to see the house where he had recovered from his injuries and the gardens where he had once worked. It was now a health spa with manicured lawns where there had once been flowerbeds and a tarmac surfaced tennis court, surrounded by a high wire fence, in the area where the greenhouses once stood. Someone had seen him wandering around the grounds and called security. He explained his connection to the house and much to his surprise they believed him and gave him a tour around the facility. The inside of the house had been altered so much that he found it difficult to imagine the hallways, stairs and rooms he once knew so well. Curiously, one thing had changed very little; the current residents were walking around wearing white gowns just as many patients did all those years ago. He was disappointed to find so much had changed but pleased that the house was now in use. His previous visit, some years earlier, had found a house with windows boarded up, a roof desperately in need of repair and nature had reclaimed what had once been the garden.
The weather was fine and the low spring sunlight glinted off the fields of green shoots giving the appearance of waves of silver blades. The glass-arched roof, that completely covered Barnshead station, was so dirty that one thought the train had entered a tunnel it was so dark compared to the brightness of the world outside the station. Albert looked through the window of the carriage searching for the station name board to confirm he had arrived at his destination. He saw a transparent reflection of his own face in the window looking like a detached head of a ghost peering in from the outside. Albert chuckled to himself. “Pull yourself together,” he thought to himself, “Let’s go and see what this A.J. chap has to say for himself.”
He followed the others getting off the train, assuming they were heading for the exit, and found himself outside the station building opposite a taxi rank and a short stay parking area with drivers standing by the car doors waiting for their passengers.
“Mr Hughes, over here,” came the shout from one of the drivers.
Albert was not familiar with different models of cars, but he realised this one was large, luxurious and undoubtedly expensive. The man who had shouted looked small by comparison to the car and wore clothes that gave the opposite image to the vehicle, small, shabby and possibly secondhand. The belt of his trousers hung below his protruding stomach and the elbows of his corduroy jacket were as shiny as any piece of antique furniture. Albert noticed the man had a pronounced limp as he walked round the car to open the doors.
“Put your case on the back seat, my golf clubs are in the boot, and you can jump in the front next to me. I’ve been meaning to get rid of this old heap for longer than I care to remember,” he continued, “but it should get us to where we’re going”.
Albert sat in the passenger seat and sank into it like an old leather armchair. He noticed the driver’s seat next him had a cover which also seemed to act like a child’s booster seat as he realised just how short this man was.
“Don’t worry I can just about reach the peddles,” the driver chortled, noting that Albert had been looking at him seemingly concerned about his ability to drive. “It’s also automatic so this old gammy leg is not a problem”.
“How did you know it was me, when you shouted my name?” Albert enquired.
“I took a guess. You seemed to be the only person with an overnight bag.”
Albert didn’t believe that to be true as he was sure there were others on the train carrying bags or cases that could be used for overnight stays.
“Are you Mr Waterson’s driver?”
“No, not exactly.” was the reply and he seemed to chuckle to himself. “I was available this morning so he asked me to drop by the station as I was passing this way. My name’s Timothy Calder by the way.”
The journey continued with small talk about how busy the train was, how warm it is for this time of year, the traffic through the town should be fairly quiet now after the early morning rush hour, and finally the car turned into an open gateway and onto a curved gravel drive. The car stopped in front of an impressive three-storey building. Two pillars framed the doorway, at the top of a short flight of stone steps. The pillars supported a carved entablature over a wooden door, painted in glossy bright red.
“It’s Georgian you know,” said the driver nodding at the building. “I don’t know much about architecture, but I guess you can always tell them by the regular rectangular windows. As you can see they are all the same size and shape, upstairs and down.”
Albert retrieved his case from the back seat and closed the rear door. He also did not know much about architecture but somehow he found this building intimidating. Perhaps it was not the building, more likely what he might find or learn inside.
The driver wound down his window.
“I’m not coming in, I can’t stay. Give my regards to A.J. and the very best of luck Mr Hughes.”
If he had said any more Albert would not have heard it over the sound of the tyres on the gravel drive as he drove away. His wishes of good luck sounded very heartfelt and gave Albert a sense of foreboding that he was sure was not the intention.
At the side of the door was a plaque with a number of names of what Albert assumed were companies or individuals like solicitors or consultants. The plaque was headed, Waterson House, and under that heading the top name on the list was A.J. Waterson Associates.
The front door gave access to a small hallway that contained a desk behind which was seated a middle-aged woman. The style of her hair, makeup and clothes were presumably designed to make her look younger, but had the opposite effect. Albert thought she looked comical but also sad, and felt like telling her how much better she would look if she allowed herself to age gracefully.
“Good afternoon, oh no it’s still morning, how can I help you?” said a high-pitched voice he remembered from the phone call.
“My name is Hughes, I have an appointment with Mr Waterson.”
“Oh yes Mr Hughes, we’re expecting you. He said you were to go straight up but I'll just call him to let him know you have arrived. Before you go, here are the details of your hotel. One night at the Grenadier Hotel, I’m sure you will find it very comfortable.”
She handed Albert a card with the hotel details and indicated that Mr Waterson’s office was on the first floor. She pointed to the stairs at the side of her desk, and explained his office was located up the stairs and at the end of the corridor. He could not miss it as Mr Waterson’s name was on the office door.
He knocked on the office door which received an “Enter, it’s not locked” in reply. Even through the thickness of the door, Albert could tell this was a voice of a man of authority. He was to meet a man who was used to giving orders and expected people to carry them out, without question. He had met men like this before, sometimes they had a military background or more often, they were heads of companies, meeting with their staff or clients in the Station Inn. They oozed calmness and confidence and even in a crowded bar their presence could be felt as they spoke with clarity of thought and purpose.
The sight that met him, as he opened the office door, took Albert aback. All the walls, ceilings and woodwork he had seen so far, from the entrance to the stairs and corridor were painted brilliant white. He had thought this looked clinical and gave the antiseptic sense of a hospital. He opened the door to what he assumed would be an office of similar design and was met with something more like a sitting room from a stately home. Wallpaper, in the deepest red, covered the wall opposite the door, and in the middle of the wall stood an open fire with an ornate white surround. The flames of the fire added to the glow given off by the wallpaper. Hanging on this wall and above the fireplace were three paintings of individual men and women dressed in costumes from centuries ago. The style of the painting with the subjects posed before a dark background, suggested that these were originals and probably very valuable. In front of the fireplace were two fabric-covered sofas facing each other standing on a square carpet. This was the only floor covering in the room, as the rest was oak coloured wood. Two of the other walls, covered in the richest of mahogany panels, also containing paintings of a similar theme to the ones next to the fireplace. Other mahogany furniture was scattered around the room and included tables of various shapes and sizes, cabinets either fully enclosed or partially glazed displaying the contents of ceramics or glass containers. Behind the door, which Albert was still holding, was a small round dining table and four high backed upholstered chairs. To his left, the wall had two windows that were half covered by gold coloured fabric blinds hanging from the ceiling. In addition, hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, was a crystal chandelier containing eighteen candle shaped bulbs.
“Close the door, come in,” the assured voice said, “Do you like it?” gesturing around the room.
“It’s, it’s incredible,” Albert managed to stutter in reply.
“These are things I’ve collected over a number of years. The house, as you might have guessed, is Georgian and I’ve tried, as best I could, to make sure my contents are of the same period. This house was a wreck when I bought it; most of the original features either had been stripped out or were beyond repair. So everything you see I’ve obtained from other houses. Like this wooden paneling and the oak floor. Put your case down, come over to the window, there is something I want you to see. I think you in particular will appreciate it.”
Albert walked over to the window nearest the fireplace and stood next to A.J. What he saw from the window was a formal parterre garden stretching away from the house for about one hundred yards. In the middle of the garden was a closely cropped hedge standing about two feet high. It edged an ornamental fountain surrounded by a round stone dish. The rest of the garden contained square or rectangular enclosures formed by the same type of dense miniature box hedges with paved paths creating the overall geometric pattern. In some of the enclosures were topiary figures of birds or animals whilst others were cut into ball or cube shapes. Down each side of the garden were equally spaced trees with thin trunks and a ball of thick foliage on top of each trunk looking like children’s giant lollipops.
“In a few weeks time we’ll add a few plants to give some colour throughout the summer, I’m sure the traditionalist wouldn’t agree, but it’s my garden so I guess I can do what I like. What do you think?”
“I think it’s, it’s just incredible,” Albert stuttered again.
“When I bought the house, the garden was like the house, it was a mess. My plan for the building was to turn it into a hotel but I needed the land at the back for a car park and the garden would have to go. When I realised it was possible to save the garden, and transformed into what you see today, I changed my plans and turned the house into offices. There are six now, including this room, but I can reconfigure it to get another couple if necessary. Come let’s sit over here by the fire, or will that be too hot? Do you want a drink of anything? I have wines, spirits, and beers up here, or I can call down to Beryl if you want tea or coffee. I guess you met Beryl on the way in. I know what you think, but she is the most efficient person I’ve ever met and I couldn’t survive without her. Oh but of course it’s lunch time, you must be hungry, I can arrange for some food to be brought in if you want?”
Albert suddenly realised the assurance had gone out of A.J.’s voice. He seemed to be nervous and talking too much. Albert said he was fine at the moment and didn’t need any food or drink.
“I’ll help myself to drink if you don’t mind,” said A.J. and poured himself a whiskey from a decanter. “I don’t normally drink at this time of the day, but somehow today is different.”
“What do you mean different?” asked Albert. Nevertheless, A.J. didn’t reply and rather than sitting down he walked over to the window to look at the garden.
“Have you seen that comedy series on the television, I don’t remember what it’s called, but it has a character called C.J. Little did I realise all those years ago when I decided to be known as A.J. I would find myself the butt of jokes from this series. What is it he says? Oh yes, I didn’t get where I am today without something or other.”
“Reginald Perrin,” said Albert.
“What?” came A.J.’s absent-minded reply.
“Reginald Perrin, that’s the name of the TV series.”
“Oh yes.”
“Mr Waterson I came here to ask you a question, I think I’d better ask it. What do you know of my brother James?”
A.J. turned to look at Albert and took a large drink of his whiskey.
“I know your brother; in fact I’ve known him all my life. I’m your brother James. A.J. is short for Arthur James. I’m James your brother.” James took another long drink.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” James enquired.
Albert decided this was one time when he needed a clear head and declined the drink.
Of the two men, Albert seemed to be the calmer. He decided to speak first.
“I guess I’ve got a lot of explaining to do. You see, other than your name, I don’t remember you. Something happened to me during the war and there are so many things I still don’t remember, even after all these years. You must have thought I had died, but somehow you don’t seem surprised to see me, in fact I get the impression you know a lot more about me than perhaps I know myself.”
A.J. had presented before audiences of hundreds of people, he had given after dinner speeches to groups that included royalty, but he never felt more nervous than he did now stood in front of his brother. His hands were shaking and he had an overwhelming desire to down the decanter of whiskey in one. He had dreamed of this day for so long, to be face to face again with his brother. He had prepared and rehearsed this speech, what he wanted to say, in the order he needed to say it, and now the day had arrived his whole being was turning to mush. He wanted to stop it now, to go back to how it was before he had received that phone call from Neville Conrad. Why hadn’t he just ignored it and denied all knowledge of Albert’s brother James? However, he knew why. There were wrongs he had to right, they had gone on far too long, and now finally was the time to face his demons, whatever the consequences.
“God it’s hot in here, I wish I’d never lit this bloody fire.” A.J. paced the room. He had started the day, as he always did, wearing a suit and tie. He had discarded the jacket before Albert arrived and now he was pulling at the tie trying to loosen it from around his neck. He was about the same height as Albert but heavier; constantly promising to shed a few pounds before he became what others would regard as overweight. His hair was the same salt and pepper colour as Albert’s but expertly cut and styled to hide the areas that were thinning. He and Albert shared many of the family facial features, except the eyes. Albert’s were kindly with a sense of humility and humour; A.J. had a penetrating look that locked onto his prey.
“James, someone I know helped me find you, but he couldn’t find any record of your birth. He reckoned our parents might have adopted you. Is that why your surname is different to mine?”
A.J. walked over to the window and sat on one of the high backed chairs. His body faced into the room, with his head turned sideways towards the window, away from Albert.
A.J. took a deep breath; the time had come to say what had needed to be said for so long.
“The reason our names are different is because you are not Albert Hughes. Your real name is George Waterson. Albert Hughes died in the war.”
Albert stared at A.J., the phrase, “you are not Albert Hughes”, repeated and repeated in his head like a stuck record. He tried to formulate a question but the phrase kept going round and round until he thought he would scream or faint. The words replayed faster and faster, getting higher and progressively higher until all he could hear was a high-pitched siren.
“Albert, I think you’re hyperventilating, Christ what am I supposed to do? Just try to breathe normally. Come on look at me, concentrate on breathing normally.”
A.J. was standing in front of Albert’s gently shaking his shoulders; looking him in the face trying to get him to listen to what he was saying. “Would Beryl know what to do?” he thought to himself, but Albert’s breathing seemed to be returning to normal and in a few moments the worst appeared to over.
“Christ Albert you gave me a right scare, do you want a drink now. Perhaps some strong sweet tea or whatever you’re supposed to have in these situations?”
Albert didn’t reply; a strange and surprising calmness came over him. His mind was suddenly clearer than it had been for such a long time, as if he had miraculously recovered from a fever.
“You called me Albert, but you just said my name was George.”
“As far as you remember, Albert is the only name you’ve ever had. There’s no point in calling you by your real name, you just wouldn’t recognise George. I guess now that you know it’s one of the things you’ll need to decide, what you want to be called?”
“That’s easy. My name is Albert Hughes.”
“Ok, Albert it is. You said you had some explaining to do, but all the explaining is mine. All this mess, it’s all my fault.”
A.J. sat on the sofa, opposite Albert. He had left the unfinished whiskey on the table and decided he didn’t need that anymore. There were some difficult things he still needed to explain but the courage now had to come from his overwhelming desire to put right the previous wrongs, rather than the contents of a whiskey glass.
“The first we heard about what happened in France was the telegram telling us you were missing presumed dead. It hit mother and father so bad they hardly spoke for days. It was as if they hoped by not talking about it then it hadn’t really happened. However, I was pleased. I was pleased you were dead, that you were not coming back. Before you say anything, I know that’s a terrible thing to say about your own brother and I’ve still got a lot of explaining to do. You don’t remember how it was then, the family life during the war. I was a teenager; I hated everything. I hated the war, the way we lived, I hated father and hated you. Hate, it’s an easy word to say and most people don’t really mean it when they say it, but then I really hated everything around me and drove me to do some terrible things.”
Albert realised he was still wearing his jacket and as they were now sat near the fire he was becoming uncomfortably hot. He took it off and folded it on the seat next to him. He looked at the man opposite him. They were supposed to be brothers and he could see some features that others might describe as a family resemblance. However, what he did recognise was a man who was about to bare his soul. He could not imagine what these “terrible things” might be but he knew that the consequences would affect him.
“Father had a small business. He had a shop selling fruit and vegetables. As you can imagine this was probably not the best business to be in during the war. The government rationed everything and fruit was practically impossible to get, except for a few strawberries and the like. There was nothing like bananas, you know what I mean. As well as the shop, he had a horse and cart. He used them to collect the produce from the local farms and go round the streets in the town selling from the cart. People who couldn’t get to the shop thought this was wonderful, he was so helpful, but to mother and I he was a tyrant. He did everything possible to make our lives miserable. You were his favourite. At first, when you were younger, you enjoyed it but later you could see how he used you as a psychological weapon against us.
If someone came to him for help, for some food that they couldn’t afford, or didn’t have the ration coupons, he would always help them out, especially if it meant giving away our own food. We practically starved. Some of these requests were genuine, but others were people just taking him for a mug. He could see that but he didn’t care, as long as it resulted in making our lives even more miserable.”
A.J. paused as if recollecting some events at that time and then breathing deeply returned to the present.
“The situation became worse when you joined the army and went away. Father felt he had to tell me things about the family just in case something happened to you. Our grandfather, his father, was a very wealthy man. He owned land, had a big house, and regarded like the lord of the manor in the local area. I didn’t know this until father told me because grandfather had died before we were born. They hadn’t talked about him because; well I guess they were embarrassed by the way he died. His wife, our grandmother, had died some years earlier and since her death, he had become increasingly depressed. It got so bad he sold all the land and the house, took a trip the east coast of England and committed suicide by jumping off a cliff. The people who saw him do it said he didn’t exactly jump, he just carried on walking as if there was something out there, on the horizon, he was trying to reach. All his money came to father, who instead of using it, spending it on the things we needed, he put it all in trust for you. Can you imagine how I felt when I learned this? We had lived like paupers all these years, taken advantage of by people he regarded as friends, and all this time we were wealthy. And even worse, the money was destined to go to you, someone I thought would have no idea how to use it and probably give it away. That’s why I was glad when I thought you were dead; the money would come to me.”
Albert interrupted him.
“This is all well and good, but what has this to do with you believing I’m your brother George?”
“I’m sorry I’m not explaining this well. I had it all planned what I was going to say, but it’s all coming out in a jumble. You see, when you were sent back to England from France you had lost your memory, you did not know who you were, and there was a mix up identifying the people who were killed in that troop.”
Albert interrupted him again.
“Yes, but what you don’t know is the hospital contacted my mother and she came along and identified me as her son Albert. There’s no doubt who I am.”
“I know all about Mrs Hughes visiting you and how she said you were her son.”
“But how could you possibly know that?”
“Because she wrote to me and explained about the terrible thing she had done.”
A.J. had arrived at the point where he needed to confess. He took a few moments to calm himself and try to organise his thoughts before continuing with his explanation of what had happened those years ago.
“Mrs Hughes wrote to me. She felt so ashamed about what she had done to another woman and her son she felt she could not bring herself to write to a mother so she wrote to me. She told me about how she had received a letter from the hospital telling her they thought one of their patients was her son. She described the feeling of hope and anticipation after assuming he was dead. When she saw you in the hospital, she knew immediately you were not Albert and that Albert was dead. But she was ill and knew that she probably did not have long to live. She was so desperate to spend her last remaining time with her son she convinced the hospital staff, herself and you, that you were Albert. She turned you into Albert. She told you things about the family; the times you had all spent together; about your sister Ann and these memories became your memories. She planted these images and thoughts in your head and you became Albert.”
A.J. paused again expecting Albert to speak but he remained silent.
“She eventually became too ill to travel and she stopped visiting you. It was at this time her conscience could not let her go to her grave without telling someone what she had done and she wrote to me.”
Albert finally broke his silence and asked,
“What did you do with the letter?”
“I burnt it. I read it, screwed it up into a ball and threw it on the kitchen fire. I told no one in the family about the letter and that you were alive in a hospital in the south of England.”
A.J. walked over to the window and resting his hands on the windowsill he bowed his head rather than look outside.
“You see I hoped and wanted you to be dead. I didn’t want you coming back into my life and ruining all my plans. I assumed that gradually over time you would recover your memory and realise who you were. Nevertheless, I hoped that in the meantime, I could start what I needed to do and it would be too late for you to spoil everything. For weeks, months, even years I expected every day that you would appear knocking at the door, but you never did. You lived your life believing you were Albert Hughes.”
“And my real parents lived their lives thinking their son was dead,” Albert barked back.
“Father died just before the end of the war. He just collapsed and died. They said it was a massive heart attack, nothing that anyone could have done even if I had found him earlier.”
“From what you have told me, it doesn’t sound as if you would have tried very hard,” Albert said rather sarcastically.
“I don’t know what I would have done. It haunts me the thought of finding him alive and me looking down on him gasping for breath. I would like to think I would have done something, but I really don’t know. I found him lying in the yard at the back of the shop, that’s where we kept the horse. A week later the horse died on exactly the same spot. Father had cared more for that horse than he did us. Mother thought it died of a broken heart. It was just old and over worked, it just died.”
A.J. then went on to explain how, after his father’s death, he managed to release the money from the trust and started to build up the business. To replace the horse he bought a lorry, the biggest one he could find. When they visited the farms to buy fruit and vegetables, they bought as many as the lorry could carry and sold the products to local shops, hotels, and restaurants. Over time, he bought some of the shops and established a chain of grocery stores across the county. When the import of food started again he bought more lorries and bought the products directly from the importers. He took over more stores and started buying hotels. He finally sold the haulage business for a huge profit and ploughed this back into the hotel chain. His latest venture was residential homes for the elderly. He had converted some of the existing hotels to care homes and begun building some purpose built facilities.
“And you run all that from here?” inquired Albert, gesturing around the room.
“No this is my private retreat, somewhere I can escape from the world. The company has some offices on a local trading estate, the rents cheaper.”
“I guess the other employees don’t have quite the same office furniture,” remarked Albert with a sense of annoyance in his voice. A.J. didn’t answer.
A.J. poured himself another drink. Albert declined the offer.
“It was difficult to keep tabs on you for the first few years, especially after you left Deerson House the second time. You moved around so much, but once you settled down in Eastbridge, working for the council, it was easier to keep an eye on you.”
“Keep an eye on me, what the hell does that mean?” Albert’s body had stiffened and he was close to shouting.
“At first I was worried you would come back. I needed to know where you were and what you were doing. I was trying to stay ahead of the game and make sure there were no surprises.”
“Oh it was just a game to you. You just let me live my life thinking I was somebody else and to you it was just a game.”
“When I realised that you were not going to recover your memory, I wanted so many times to find you and tell you all about this, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was too late. You had created a life for yourself and you seemed to be so happy, so contented, I did not want to suddenly ruin it by turning everything upside down. I hoped that somehow you would find out and you would find me.”
“Oh I get it; you didn’t want to take the responsibility. It had to be my entire fault. I can see it now, that’s where Neville Conrad fits in. You got him to set this whole thing up. He somehow found your name from some old newspaper article; as if I can believe that; so you didn’t have to do the dirty work.”
“If you’re talking about that young man who said he knew you and asked about me, I’ve never met him, that was the first and last time I spoke to him.”
“Why is it I don’t believe you?”
“Albert please calm down. I really did not want it to be like this. For years, I’ve wanted us to get back together as brothers. I imagined us running the business together, that’s why I called the business A.J. Waterson Associates. There isn’t anyone else, it was intended to be you.”
“I’ve often wondered if I was quite right in the mind. I put it down to what happened in the war, but it looks as if it runs in the family. Grandfather kills himself and you’re mad. You’ve been following me around for years, keeping an eye on me as you called it, probably using private detectives to keep an eye on me, and then you expect me to say hello brother, how are you, I’d love to be one of your Associates.”
Albert stood up and put on his jacket. He felt in his pocket and finding a piece of paper he walked towards the fireplace.
“You once threw a letter in the fire and the flames took me out of your life. On this paper are your name and telephone number and these flames will do the same.” He threw Neville’s note into the red embers of the log fire. He picked up his suitcase and walked towards the office door pursued by James.
“Albert please don’t go, not like this. Why don’t you go to the hotel, have a good meal and a night’s sleep and we can talk about it tomorrow?”
Albert did not reply or look back. He closed the door behind him and descended the stairs to the entrance hall.
“Beryl, I feel sorry for you working for that man. Can you tell me where I can find a taxi to take me to the station?”
“Mr Hughes, if you wait a few moments I can call for a taxi for you.”
“I don’t want to stay here for one more second. I’ll find a taxi on my own.”
Albert descended the short flight of stairs to the gravel drive. When he reached the street he looked at the choice of directions. One direction appeared to be going out of town and towards the surrounding countryside, the other back towards the town. He took the direction towards the town.
A.J. picked up the internal phone on his desk and spoke to Beryl.
“I want you to get me the number of the Eastbridge Gazette, I need to speak to Neville Conrad and get me Timothy Calder on the phone?”