The meeting with Albert Hughes was never far from Neville's thoughts over the next few weeks. His story was fascinating, remarkable that he should have survived when so many others had died, but also sad that after recovering from the frightening experience of loss of memory, he was now a stranger to his own family. Working for the newspaper, although not as a journalist, he wondered if this would make a local interest story, however he felt it had been told in confidence and somehow it was for his ears only.
There were so many open questions; what was the reason he did not return to his family, why had his family failed to contact him after the war, why had he not told his story to anyone else and why did he tell it to Neville. He found the answers to most of these questions over the coming months, but the question as to why he decided to confide in Neville remains.
In addition to working in the Station Inn, Albert's daytime job was Head Gardener for the Eastbridge council. He and a small team of colleagues were responsible for ensuring a year round floral display in the parks and gardens for the tourists visiting this coastal town. During the twenty years working in the gardens he was approached many times by the council to work in the Town and Planning department, but this would have meant an office job and taken him away from his first love of being outdoors, working with “mother nature”. The gardens were his first and only love. He had never married and other than John Turner did not have any real friends. He had many acquaintances, he met people in the Inn or in the gardens, but few of these over the years he regarded as friends. Many people would approach him in the gardens and either comment on the quality of the display or ask advice about their own gardening problems. He always had time to stop and listen or help. He enjoyed other peoples company, either in the gardens or in the Inn. These were his own spaces, environments and conversations he could control. He took great pleasure in joining in the discussions around the bar about the state of the local football side, which formation they should play, was it time to get a new manager, should they build a bigger stadium; these were conversations he could control. Like an office manager, sitting behind his desk talking to his employee using the desk as a barrier, a definer of space and control, Albert had the bar between himself and the public. He needed this distance, stopping people getting too close, physically or emotionally. If the conversation started getting too personal, questions about him or his family, Albert would move away saying,
“Can’t stand talking, things to do, must get on”.
It was four weeks later when Neville next visited the Station Inn. Christmas was fast approaching and he needed to visit some of his clients in the town centre. He found himself close to the Inn at lunchtime and decided to call in for a sandwich. Albert was not there. Neville asked after him and was told by one of the bar staff that he only worked in the evenings. It was then that he learned of Albert's other job working as a gardener that meant he was only available for bar work during the evenings and some weekends. John, the owner, overheard Neville asking about Albert and surprisingly remembered his previous visit. John said he was a little concerned about Albert as he had not seen or heard from him for a few days. This was unusual as Albert was very conscientious about letting him know if he was unable to work. Neville finished his sandwich and a drink and prepared to leave when Albert appeared at the door. He looked as if he had aged four years in the past four weeks. He was unshaven, his greasy salt and pepper coloured hair flattened with his hands rather than combed. He wore a dirty heavy-duty jacket, probably the one he used when working outdoors. It was open, revealing a shirt that showed evidence of spilt drinks. The dark rings under his eyes, his tanned face unusually pale suggested a man who had not slept for number of nights and probably been drinking heavily. He practically knocked Neville over as he walked towards the bar. He hesitated, shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and then recognised Neville.
“I want a word with you”, Albert said, more as a demand rather than a request, “over there”, pointing to a bench seat in the corner of the room.
Neville was twenty-three years old. He was not worldly wise. He was used to the pressures of work, from his manager, from his clients, the raised voices and desk banging when things did not go well, when targets were not achieved, the drive for more. Work was a game to him, it was not real. He could cope by telling himself it was not real. He knew how to react to situations, the words he was to use. He had received sales training on the rules of the game, how to play the game, how to recognise weaknesses and use them to his own advantage. He now found himself sat opposite a man in turmoil, someone outside those rules. This was real, this was serious, and the consequences of mistakes could be grave. Neville did not know what to do; what did he want from him?
Albert's hands constantly moved from his pockets to his face; then rubbing the back of his head, then tapping the table. He finally trapped them between his legs and the seat. Now they were still, and now he could speak.
“I sent a birthday card to my sister, as you suggested. I sent it to the only address I have, the one where we all lived before I went in the army."
The act of talking seemed to calm him down and gradually Albert described the events of the past weeks. He had sent the birthday card to his sister; he used the old family address. It would be pure luck if any of his family still lived there, so he wrote his return address on the back of the envelope expecting the card to be returned as undeliverable or person unknown. The days went by with no sign of the card being received or returned. One evening he arrived at the Station Inn and whilst hanging his coat in the storeroom one of the other staff called him to say there was a woman asking for him at the bar. The woman had the appearance of someone in her fifties. She wore a camel coat and black trousers, her straight bleached blond hair reached to the coat collar. “Albert”, she said as he approached, “I’m your sister, Ann.”
Albert did not reply, but stood there motionless looking at her as if someone had just ordered a drink in a foreign language.
The woman reached into her handbag and produced an envelope containing a card. She showed the card to Albert explaining that this was the birthday card she had received with Albert’s address on the back of the envelope.
“I went to your address and one of the neighbours saw me knocking on the door and explained where I could find you.”
Albert took hold of the envelope and card and although he knew they were the ones he had sent he had to convince himself that the person before him was really his sister. He had detected a slight West Country accent and, although he did not recognize her, Ann clearly recognized him.
“Let’s find somewhere where we can sit and talk,” he suggested, “do you want a drink?”
Albert ordered the drinks. Ann had a coffee as she said she would be driving later. Albert had a large scotch. Ann explained that she had received the card and the return address. She thought about writing to him but as she had already arranged to visit a friend in the area she decided to try to find him. She had gone to Albert’s address, but found no one there. One of the neighbours noticed her knocking at the door and after confirming she was looking for Albert, informed her he would be working at the Station Inn.
Ann described the shock at receiving the card. She thought Albert was dead, that he had died in the war. They had received a message, a telegram she thought, that he was missing presumed dead, and as they had not heard from him or seen him after the war, she naturally thought he had died.
“When did you receive the telegram?”
“It was probably towards the end of 1944,” Ann replied after trying to recall the date.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said, a puzzled expression on his face, “I was in the hospital then and my mother, our mother, visited me there."
He didn’t mention the memory loss, this was something he always found an embarrassment. He wondered if people would think he still had some sort of brain damage or mental problems and it was for this reason he had avoided talking about this experience over the years. He went on to tell her about the numerous visits by his mother until the visits suddenly stopped.
“Mother knew I was alive. She had somehow gotten word I was in the hospital and she came to see me. We spent many hours talking about the old days before the war. The staff in the hospital normally only allowed short visits, but as Mother’s visits seemed to be doing me good they let her stay longer than the rest. I don’t understand why she didn’t tell you, why you didn’t know I was alive”.
Ann tried to recall the events of that time, to try to make sense of why the authorities had not informed them Albert was alive. Was there anything that happened or said that might now give some clue to their mother’s apparent strange behavior? The most obvious event was their mother's illness. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer and within six months she was dead. The doctors suggested she had ignored the warning signs and reached the point where no treatment was possible. Ann and her father nursed her through the final weeks and it was a blessed release when she finally died. "Is this the reason why his mother suddenly stopped visiting him in the hospital?" Albert thought. "Had she learned of her illness, or become too ill to travel."
“I no longer live at the old address,” Ann explained, “after our parents died, shortly after the war, I stayed on in the house until I married Richard. I sold the house and we bought a bigger one hoping to fill it with children but it wasn’t to be, my fault unfortunately. Richard is a local policeman, or was, he’s retired now.”
“How did the card find its way to your current address?” enquired Albert.
“Oh, I went to school with June, she’s the one who now lives in the old house and she recognised my maiden name.”
It was at this point that Albert realized he had just learned of his parents’ deaths but had felt no sense of emotion or sadness. Initially, when he did not return to them after the war, he had a feeling of guilt. Returning is what he should be doing, that is what everybody did. Others longed for the day when families were reunited, but Albert did not have those feelings. Nothing seemed to be drawing him back. As the weeks and months went by the guilt gradually disappeared and he settled into a lifestyle and an existence that did not include his family.
They both sketched out their lives over the past thirty-five years, Albert describing his various jobs since the war leading to his current position working for the local council. He explained that his work in the Station Inn was really an opportunity for socializing with other people rather than a need for extra money. He had never been married; he owned his own house that he had bought fairly recently after receiving a generous benefit from someone’s will. Ann explained about her marriage, they had tried to have children but it had not worked out. They lived off her husband’s pension; they were not wealthy but comfortable.
There was a pause in the conversation whilst Ann looked at Albert. She sighed and said, “I just can't believe that you’re actually alive, sat here with me. It just doesn’t seem possible.”
“So your main job is a gardener?” Ann asked quizzically, surprised to learn this was Albert’s occupation.
He nodded in reply and Ann, as if reacting to this gesture, backed away from him. She looked around the room, sprang to her feet and, grabbing her handbag, asked where she could find the ladies toilet.
“It’s through that door in the corner,” Albert replied, “are you OK?” obviously concerned by this sudden reaction.
“Yes, I just need to......” the rest of the sentence trailed away as Ann walked briskly towards the door he had indicated.
It was some minutes before Ann reappeared, her face flushed despite attempts to hide it with an additional application of face powder. Her neck glistened with perspiration. Before Albert could ask if she felt better, Ann blurted in rather a breathless voice,
“I really must be going, I’m staying with a friend of mine and I don’t want to be late, she might worry.”
She had draped her coat over the arm of the chair. She picked it up and opening her handbag, checked her car keys were in the bag. She took out a pair of leather gloves and looked around the room, anxiously looking for the exit door.
“I thought you would stay longer, perhaps have something to eat,” Albert pleaded still concerned about Ann’s health, “the owner won’t mind if I take the evening off. We can ring your friend and explain you will return later."
“No I really must be going."
Before Albert could say more she gathered her handbag, hung her coat over her arm, walked towards the door and without a backward glance, opened the door and disappeared into the gloom of a December evening.
Albert could not understand why Ann’s mood had changed so dramatically. He replayed the events of that meeting to see if there was anything he might have said. Her facial expressions and body language had changed so dramatically. Had she suddenly felt ill? He realized that he had not asked her for a telephone number, or details of her current address, so if he wanted to contact her he would have to use the old address. However, the explanation was not long coming as a few days later a man met him at his home announcing himself as Ann’s husband.
Albert arrived home after spending a day in the gardens. As he unlocked the front door of his house a man’s voice said, “Are you Albert Hughes?” Albert turned to see a tall, thickset man wearing a long dark overcoat, a trilby hat and carrying a brown leather briefcase.
“Yes I’m Albert.”
“I’m Richard Bartlett, Ann Bartlett’s husband. Ann you met a few nights ago. You know her as Ann Hughes.”
“Please to meet you,” said Albert and the two men shook hands.
“Can we go inside?” asked Richard as he took off his hat revealing a practically baldhead, his remaining hair silver grey and closely cut.
Albert unlocked the front door and the two men entered the hallway of his mid-terraced house.
“Go in the lounge, sit down, I’ll be with you in a minute after I’ve changed these work clothes.”
Albert opened a door on the right of the hallway and turned on a wall light. It revealed a small homely lounge with a settee positioned facing an open fireplace, and a casual chair in the corner next to a bay window. The window overlooked a cottage style front garden, and a paved path leading from the front door to a wrought iron gate giving access to the street. Richard went into the lounge whilst Albert went upstairs to change his clothes.
“Would you like a drink,” Albert enquired as he descended the stairs, “I haven’t had a drink all afternoon and I’m desperate for a cup of tea.”
“No thank you, I think we should get down to business”.
Albert was somewhat taken aback by this phrase and decided to forgo the tea. Entering the lounge he found Richard stood next to the fireplace and having opened his briefcase, taken out what appeared to be an old photograph album and a large envelope and placed them on a lamp table. It was obvious that Richard was not going to sit. He was going to deliver some sort of speech and this required a standing position. Albert did not know what to expect. He sat on the settee facing this man whose size and presence seemed to fill the small room.
“After your meeting with my wife, she returned to her friend’s house and called me at home. She was very upset and anxious.”
Albert started to interrupt, asking if she had recovered.
“No let me continue. After I calmed her down, she told me about the meeting, what you’d talked about, the strange business about no one in the family knowing you were alive, except according to you, Mrs Hughes Ann's mother.”
“What do you mean, according to me?” blurted Albert. “Look, my mother visited me a number of times. She knew I was alive and now she’s dead we’ll never know why she didn’t tell the others”.
Albert was becoming annoyed with the tone of the conversation, but he reminded himself that the man in front of him was a retired policeman and perhaps this was just his manner.
Carrying on, ignoring the outburst from Albert, Richard opened the photograph album and after turning a few pages, found the photograph he was looking for. He turned it around to show Albert.
“This is a picture of Albert Hughes; it was taken just after he was called up to join the army."
The black and white photograph had a white border and showed the head and shoulders of a young man in army uniform. A professional photographic studio had produced a well-posed and well-lit scene. Albert did not remember the photograph, but clearly this was a picture of him over thirty-five years ago.
“The man in this picture is Ann’s brother. When he was about eight years old he had an accident. He was playing football with some of his friends when he fell and banged his head on some bricks. They had piled up some bricks to mark where the goal post should be and Albert’s head hit the corner of one of the bricks. He was unconscious for a time but recovered quite quickly. The only long-term damage was to his ear. The corner of the brick had cut a “V” shape out of the top of his ear. It was a large notch, about this size, and formed a perfect right angle. You can just about see it in this photograph, but to make things clearer I have enlarged part of the picture.”
Richard opened the A4 envelope and took out a photograph. The enlargement had created a grainy effect but it was clearly a picture of the side of a man’s head and an ear with a “V” shaped piece missing.
“The man who has that notch in his ear will have it for life. It will not grow back to its original shape. Farmers use ear notches to mark their animals. It is permanent. Your ear does not have this notch. You are not the man in the picture. You might call yourself Albert Hughes, but you are not my wife’s brother."
Albert stood up and snatched the photograph. After looking at it for a few moments he slammed it down on the table.
“What’s all this nonsense about ear notches? My name is Albert Hughes. I have a sister called Ann; she lived with the rest of the family and me at the address where I sent the birthday card. That was her home, she is the same person, and I’m her brother. If she doesn’t want me to contact her anymore then just say it, we don’t have to go through this charade with photographs and stuff."
Albert strutted over to window and stood looking out at the people walking home after work. He tried to calm himself, to clear his thoughts, to make sense of what he had just heard, but seeds of doubt were already sown and beginning to germinate in his brain.
“Ann noticed that you did not have the piece missing from your ear, but she already had doubts about you when you described the work you had been doing,” Richard continued, even though Albert persisted looking out of the window with his back to the room.
“Ann’s brother was mad about anything mechanical. He constantly stripped down, repaired old motorbikes, and rode them around the country lanes long before he could to ride on the roads. When he left school he started an apprenticeship at a local firm making parts for military vehicles. His hands were constantly stained black from old grease. His hands were never in the soil, in the earth, working as a gardener would be the last thing Albert Hughes would have done, before or after the war.”
“People can change, the war can do that,” Albert said, with less fight in his voice. So many things happened before the incident in France he could not remember. Over the years he had even stopped trying to remember, to find the keys that would trigger a memory of an event long forgotten. Had he been this person who delighted in mechanics and machinery, rather than the joys of seeing young green shoots of daffodils in early spring? Could a temporary loss of memory change one’s own nature?
“Could I have a look at that photograph album?” Before Richard could reply, Albert picked it up from the table and started to turn the pages.
They were the usual family photographs you would find in the average household. They were all black and white, some faded to sepia, with pictures either of people, individuals or in groups, wearing the fashion of the time. Most of them were outdoors and at least one taken at the seaside, presumably during a family holiday. One showed a woman and a small girl sat on a wooden seat with a man and larger boy stood behind the seat. In the background a pier stretched out to sea.
“I recognize this photograph,” remarked Albert, “that’s me and the rest of the family. I have the same picture somewhere.”
He left the room and returned a few moments later with an old cardboard shoebox. A few minutes search of the box produced a photograph of the same scene.
“It was given to me by my mother during one of her visits to the hospital. This proves I’m Ann’s brother."
“All it proves is you have a photograph, it doesn’t prove where you got it, or that you're Ann's brother.”
Albert wondered if Richard had been a good policeman. He obviously had already made up his mind about the facts of this “case” before he arrived and no amount of evidence that Albert could produce was going to change his mind.
“I’ve often wondered about this photograph,” Albert said, pointing to the one in his hand. “I wonder where my younger brother is. It’s unlikely he is taking the photograph as he would have been too young, so he should be there, probably sitting with Ann.”
“Well mister, whatever your name is, you should have done a more thorough research job before trying to pass yourself off as Ann's brother. Ann only had one brother, the one in the picture, he died in the war. There was no second brother. When I came here I expected to find a con man. I didn’t know what his game was as Ann and me are the most unlikely targets, me a pensioner, hardly the well to do. I’ve seen many con men during my time in the force, but you’re not one. I don’t know what this is all about, but you are not Ann’s brother. I suggest you’re seriously confused, you should try to get some help.”
The meeting was over. Richard packed his briefcase, put on his hat and left by the front door.
There were so many open questions; what was the reason he did not return to his family, why had his family failed to contact him after the war, why had he not told his story to anyone else and why did he tell it to Neville. He found the answers to most of these questions over the coming months, but the question as to why he decided to confide in Neville remains.
In addition to working in the Station Inn, Albert's daytime job was Head Gardener for the Eastbridge council. He and a small team of colleagues were responsible for ensuring a year round floral display in the parks and gardens for the tourists visiting this coastal town. During the twenty years working in the gardens he was approached many times by the council to work in the Town and Planning department, but this would have meant an office job and taken him away from his first love of being outdoors, working with “mother nature”. The gardens were his first and only love. He had never married and other than John Turner did not have any real friends. He had many acquaintances, he met people in the Inn or in the gardens, but few of these over the years he regarded as friends. Many people would approach him in the gardens and either comment on the quality of the display or ask advice about their own gardening problems. He always had time to stop and listen or help. He enjoyed other peoples company, either in the gardens or in the Inn. These were his own spaces, environments and conversations he could control. He took great pleasure in joining in the discussions around the bar about the state of the local football side, which formation they should play, was it time to get a new manager, should they build a bigger stadium; these were conversations he could control. Like an office manager, sitting behind his desk talking to his employee using the desk as a barrier, a definer of space and control, Albert had the bar between himself and the public. He needed this distance, stopping people getting too close, physically or emotionally. If the conversation started getting too personal, questions about him or his family, Albert would move away saying,
“Can’t stand talking, things to do, must get on”.
It was four weeks later when Neville next visited the Station Inn. Christmas was fast approaching and he needed to visit some of his clients in the town centre. He found himself close to the Inn at lunchtime and decided to call in for a sandwich. Albert was not there. Neville asked after him and was told by one of the bar staff that he only worked in the evenings. It was then that he learned of Albert's other job working as a gardener that meant he was only available for bar work during the evenings and some weekends. John, the owner, overheard Neville asking about Albert and surprisingly remembered his previous visit. John said he was a little concerned about Albert as he had not seen or heard from him for a few days. This was unusual as Albert was very conscientious about letting him know if he was unable to work. Neville finished his sandwich and a drink and prepared to leave when Albert appeared at the door. He looked as if he had aged four years in the past four weeks. He was unshaven, his greasy salt and pepper coloured hair flattened with his hands rather than combed. He wore a dirty heavy-duty jacket, probably the one he used when working outdoors. It was open, revealing a shirt that showed evidence of spilt drinks. The dark rings under his eyes, his tanned face unusually pale suggested a man who had not slept for number of nights and probably been drinking heavily. He practically knocked Neville over as he walked towards the bar. He hesitated, shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and then recognised Neville.
“I want a word with you”, Albert said, more as a demand rather than a request, “over there”, pointing to a bench seat in the corner of the room.
Neville was twenty-three years old. He was not worldly wise. He was used to the pressures of work, from his manager, from his clients, the raised voices and desk banging when things did not go well, when targets were not achieved, the drive for more. Work was a game to him, it was not real. He could cope by telling himself it was not real. He knew how to react to situations, the words he was to use. He had received sales training on the rules of the game, how to play the game, how to recognise weaknesses and use them to his own advantage. He now found himself sat opposite a man in turmoil, someone outside those rules. This was real, this was serious, and the consequences of mistakes could be grave. Neville did not know what to do; what did he want from him?
Albert's hands constantly moved from his pockets to his face; then rubbing the back of his head, then tapping the table. He finally trapped them between his legs and the seat. Now they were still, and now he could speak.
“I sent a birthday card to my sister, as you suggested. I sent it to the only address I have, the one where we all lived before I went in the army."
The act of talking seemed to calm him down and gradually Albert described the events of the past weeks. He had sent the birthday card to his sister; he used the old family address. It would be pure luck if any of his family still lived there, so he wrote his return address on the back of the envelope expecting the card to be returned as undeliverable or person unknown. The days went by with no sign of the card being received or returned. One evening he arrived at the Station Inn and whilst hanging his coat in the storeroom one of the other staff called him to say there was a woman asking for him at the bar. The woman had the appearance of someone in her fifties. She wore a camel coat and black trousers, her straight bleached blond hair reached to the coat collar. “Albert”, she said as he approached, “I’m your sister, Ann.”
Albert did not reply, but stood there motionless looking at her as if someone had just ordered a drink in a foreign language.
The woman reached into her handbag and produced an envelope containing a card. She showed the card to Albert explaining that this was the birthday card she had received with Albert’s address on the back of the envelope.
“I went to your address and one of the neighbours saw me knocking on the door and explained where I could find you.”
Albert took hold of the envelope and card and although he knew they were the ones he had sent he had to convince himself that the person before him was really his sister. He had detected a slight West Country accent and, although he did not recognize her, Ann clearly recognized him.
“Let’s find somewhere where we can sit and talk,” he suggested, “do you want a drink?”
Albert ordered the drinks. Ann had a coffee as she said she would be driving later. Albert had a large scotch. Ann explained that she had received the card and the return address. She thought about writing to him but as she had already arranged to visit a friend in the area she decided to try to find him. She had gone to Albert’s address, but found no one there. One of the neighbours noticed her knocking at the door and after confirming she was looking for Albert, informed her he would be working at the Station Inn.
Ann described the shock at receiving the card. She thought Albert was dead, that he had died in the war. They had received a message, a telegram she thought, that he was missing presumed dead, and as they had not heard from him or seen him after the war, she naturally thought he had died.
“When did you receive the telegram?”
“It was probably towards the end of 1944,” Ann replied after trying to recall the date.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said, a puzzled expression on his face, “I was in the hospital then and my mother, our mother, visited me there."
He didn’t mention the memory loss, this was something he always found an embarrassment. He wondered if people would think he still had some sort of brain damage or mental problems and it was for this reason he had avoided talking about this experience over the years. He went on to tell her about the numerous visits by his mother until the visits suddenly stopped.
“Mother knew I was alive. She had somehow gotten word I was in the hospital and she came to see me. We spent many hours talking about the old days before the war. The staff in the hospital normally only allowed short visits, but as Mother’s visits seemed to be doing me good they let her stay longer than the rest. I don’t understand why she didn’t tell you, why you didn’t know I was alive”.
Ann tried to recall the events of that time, to try to make sense of why the authorities had not informed them Albert was alive. Was there anything that happened or said that might now give some clue to their mother’s apparent strange behavior? The most obvious event was their mother's illness. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer and within six months she was dead. The doctors suggested she had ignored the warning signs and reached the point where no treatment was possible. Ann and her father nursed her through the final weeks and it was a blessed release when she finally died. "Is this the reason why his mother suddenly stopped visiting him in the hospital?" Albert thought. "Had she learned of her illness, or become too ill to travel."
“I no longer live at the old address,” Ann explained, “after our parents died, shortly after the war, I stayed on in the house until I married Richard. I sold the house and we bought a bigger one hoping to fill it with children but it wasn’t to be, my fault unfortunately. Richard is a local policeman, or was, he’s retired now.”
“How did the card find its way to your current address?” enquired Albert.
“Oh, I went to school with June, she’s the one who now lives in the old house and she recognised my maiden name.”
It was at this point that Albert realized he had just learned of his parents’ deaths but had felt no sense of emotion or sadness. Initially, when he did not return to them after the war, he had a feeling of guilt. Returning is what he should be doing, that is what everybody did. Others longed for the day when families were reunited, but Albert did not have those feelings. Nothing seemed to be drawing him back. As the weeks and months went by the guilt gradually disappeared and he settled into a lifestyle and an existence that did not include his family.
They both sketched out their lives over the past thirty-five years, Albert describing his various jobs since the war leading to his current position working for the local council. He explained that his work in the Station Inn was really an opportunity for socializing with other people rather than a need for extra money. He had never been married; he owned his own house that he had bought fairly recently after receiving a generous benefit from someone’s will. Ann explained about her marriage, they had tried to have children but it had not worked out. They lived off her husband’s pension; they were not wealthy but comfortable.
There was a pause in the conversation whilst Ann looked at Albert. She sighed and said, “I just can't believe that you’re actually alive, sat here with me. It just doesn’t seem possible.”
“So your main job is a gardener?” Ann asked quizzically, surprised to learn this was Albert’s occupation.
He nodded in reply and Ann, as if reacting to this gesture, backed away from him. She looked around the room, sprang to her feet and, grabbing her handbag, asked where she could find the ladies toilet.
“It’s through that door in the corner,” Albert replied, “are you OK?” obviously concerned by this sudden reaction.
“Yes, I just need to......” the rest of the sentence trailed away as Ann walked briskly towards the door he had indicated.
It was some minutes before Ann reappeared, her face flushed despite attempts to hide it with an additional application of face powder. Her neck glistened with perspiration. Before Albert could ask if she felt better, Ann blurted in rather a breathless voice,
“I really must be going, I’m staying with a friend of mine and I don’t want to be late, she might worry.”
She had draped her coat over the arm of the chair. She picked it up and opening her handbag, checked her car keys were in the bag. She took out a pair of leather gloves and looked around the room, anxiously looking for the exit door.
“I thought you would stay longer, perhaps have something to eat,” Albert pleaded still concerned about Ann’s health, “the owner won’t mind if I take the evening off. We can ring your friend and explain you will return later."
“No I really must be going."
Before Albert could say more she gathered her handbag, hung her coat over her arm, walked towards the door and without a backward glance, opened the door and disappeared into the gloom of a December evening.
Albert could not understand why Ann’s mood had changed so dramatically. He replayed the events of that meeting to see if there was anything he might have said. Her facial expressions and body language had changed so dramatically. Had she suddenly felt ill? He realized that he had not asked her for a telephone number, or details of her current address, so if he wanted to contact her he would have to use the old address. However, the explanation was not long coming as a few days later a man met him at his home announcing himself as Ann’s husband.
Albert arrived home after spending a day in the gardens. As he unlocked the front door of his house a man’s voice said, “Are you Albert Hughes?” Albert turned to see a tall, thickset man wearing a long dark overcoat, a trilby hat and carrying a brown leather briefcase.
“Yes I’m Albert.”
“I’m Richard Bartlett, Ann Bartlett’s husband. Ann you met a few nights ago. You know her as Ann Hughes.”
“Please to meet you,” said Albert and the two men shook hands.
“Can we go inside?” asked Richard as he took off his hat revealing a practically baldhead, his remaining hair silver grey and closely cut.
Albert unlocked the front door and the two men entered the hallway of his mid-terraced house.
“Go in the lounge, sit down, I’ll be with you in a minute after I’ve changed these work clothes.”
Albert opened a door on the right of the hallway and turned on a wall light. It revealed a small homely lounge with a settee positioned facing an open fireplace, and a casual chair in the corner next to a bay window. The window overlooked a cottage style front garden, and a paved path leading from the front door to a wrought iron gate giving access to the street. Richard went into the lounge whilst Albert went upstairs to change his clothes.
“Would you like a drink,” Albert enquired as he descended the stairs, “I haven’t had a drink all afternoon and I’m desperate for a cup of tea.”
“No thank you, I think we should get down to business”.
Albert was somewhat taken aback by this phrase and decided to forgo the tea. Entering the lounge he found Richard stood next to the fireplace and having opened his briefcase, taken out what appeared to be an old photograph album and a large envelope and placed them on a lamp table. It was obvious that Richard was not going to sit. He was going to deliver some sort of speech and this required a standing position. Albert did not know what to expect. He sat on the settee facing this man whose size and presence seemed to fill the small room.
“After your meeting with my wife, she returned to her friend’s house and called me at home. She was very upset and anxious.”
Albert started to interrupt, asking if she had recovered.
“No let me continue. After I calmed her down, she told me about the meeting, what you’d talked about, the strange business about no one in the family knowing you were alive, except according to you, Mrs Hughes Ann's mother.”
“What do you mean, according to me?” blurted Albert. “Look, my mother visited me a number of times. She knew I was alive and now she’s dead we’ll never know why she didn’t tell the others”.
Albert was becoming annoyed with the tone of the conversation, but he reminded himself that the man in front of him was a retired policeman and perhaps this was just his manner.
Carrying on, ignoring the outburst from Albert, Richard opened the photograph album and after turning a few pages, found the photograph he was looking for. He turned it around to show Albert.
“This is a picture of Albert Hughes; it was taken just after he was called up to join the army."
The black and white photograph had a white border and showed the head and shoulders of a young man in army uniform. A professional photographic studio had produced a well-posed and well-lit scene. Albert did not remember the photograph, but clearly this was a picture of him over thirty-five years ago.
“The man in this picture is Ann’s brother. When he was about eight years old he had an accident. He was playing football with some of his friends when he fell and banged his head on some bricks. They had piled up some bricks to mark where the goal post should be and Albert’s head hit the corner of one of the bricks. He was unconscious for a time but recovered quite quickly. The only long-term damage was to his ear. The corner of the brick had cut a “V” shape out of the top of his ear. It was a large notch, about this size, and formed a perfect right angle. You can just about see it in this photograph, but to make things clearer I have enlarged part of the picture.”
Richard opened the A4 envelope and took out a photograph. The enlargement had created a grainy effect but it was clearly a picture of the side of a man’s head and an ear with a “V” shaped piece missing.
“The man who has that notch in his ear will have it for life. It will not grow back to its original shape. Farmers use ear notches to mark their animals. It is permanent. Your ear does not have this notch. You are not the man in the picture. You might call yourself Albert Hughes, but you are not my wife’s brother."
Albert stood up and snatched the photograph. After looking at it for a few moments he slammed it down on the table.
“What’s all this nonsense about ear notches? My name is Albert Hughes. I have a sister called Ann; she lived with the rest of the family and me at the address where I sent the birthday card. That was her home, she is the same person, and I’m her brother. If she doesn’t want me to contact her anymore then just say it, we don’t have to go through this charade with photographs and stuff."
Albert strutted over to window and stood looking out at the people walking home after work. He tried to calm himself, to clear his thoughts, to make sense of what he had just heard, but seeds of doubt were already sown and beginning to germinate in his brain.
“Ann noticed that you did not have the piece missing from your ear, but she already had doubts about you when you described the work you had been doing,” Richard continued, even though Albert persisted looking out of the window with his back to the room.
“Ann’s brother was mad about anything mechanical. He constantly stripped down, repaired old motorbikes, and rode them around the country lanes long before he could to ride on the roads. When he left school he started an apprenticeship at a local firm making parts for military vehicles. His hands were constantly stained black from old grease. His hands were never in the soil, in the earth, working as a gardener would be the last thing Albert Hughes would have done, before or after the war.”
“People can change, the war can do that,” Albert said, with less fight in his voice. So many things happened before the incident in France he could not remember. Over the years he had even stopped trying to remember, to find the keys that would trigger a memory of an event long forgotten. Had he been this person who delighted in mechanics and machinery, rather than the joys of seeing young green shoots of daffodils in early spring? Could a temporary loss of memory change one’s own nature?
“Could I have a look at that photograph album?” Before Richard could reply, Albert picked it up from the table and started to turn the pages.
They were the usual family photographs you would find in the average household. They were all black and white, some faded to sepia, with pictures either of people, individuals or in groups, wearing the fashion of the time. Most of them were outdoors and at least one taken at the seaside, presumably during a family holiday. One showed a woman and a small girl sat on a wooden seat with a man and larger boy stood behind the seat. In the background a pier stretched out to sea.
“I recognize this photograph,” remarked Albert, “that’s me and the rest of the family. I have the same picture somewhere.”
He left the room and returned a few moments later with an old cardboard shoebox. A few minutes search of the box produced a photograph of the same scene.
“It was given to me by my mother during one of her visits to the hospital. This proves I’m Ann’s brother."
“All it proves is you have a photograph, it doesn’t prove where you got it, or that you're Ann's brother.”
Albert wondered if Richard had been a good policeman. He obviously had already made up his mind about the facts of this “case” before he arrived and no amount of evidence that Albert could produce was going to change his mind.
“I’ve often wondered about this photograph,” Albert said, pointing to the one in his hand. “I wonder where my younger brother is. It’s unlikely he is taking the photograph as he would have been too young, so he should be there, probably sitting with Ann.”
“Well mister, whatever your name is, you should have done a more thorough research job before trying to pass yourself off as Ann's brother. Ann only had one brother, the one in the picture, he died in the war. There was no second brother. When I came here I expected to find a con man. I didn’t know what his game was as Ann and me are the most unlikely targets, me a pensioner, hardly the well to do. I’ve seen many con men during my time in the force, but you’re not one. I don’t know what this is all about, but you are not Ann’s brother. I suggest you’re seriously confused, you should try to get some help.”
The meeting was over. Richard packed his briefcase, put on his hat and left by the front door.