‘No, of course not. Pardon me. My name is Jake Campbell-Ross, and I’m looking for an Arnold Wright who knew a woman called Martha.’ The uninterested look on the old man’s face said that Jake was wasting his time. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ve obviously got the wrong house.’ Jake stepped out of the porch, glad to be free of that damp woody odour. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated to the old chap, who was still standing in the doorway. Jake started back down the path.
‘My son.’
Jake was halfway down the overgrown pathway when he heard the old man’s voice. He turned back to see the man standing in the porch, leaning heavily on a wooden walking stick. He looked well in his nineties.
‘Come in, why don’t you?’
Jake walked back up the pathway as the man opened the front door wide.
Jake walked into a gloomy entrance hall.
‘Through there.’ The old man lifted his walking stick off the carpeted floor and pointed at a door.
‘In here?’ Jake tentatively opened a door.
‘Isn’t that what I just said?’ Standing in the hallway, the man regarded him for a moment before walking off.
Jake walked into a neat, cosy sitting room.
The wall opposite the window contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with books. ‘A little light reading, anyone?’ said Jake, randomly picking Dostoevsky’sWar and Peaceoff the shelf. It weighed a ton and hurt his hand. Jake put it back, scanning the other bookshelves, which were crammed with literary classics.
The old man walked into the room, carrying a tall glass of clear liquid. ‘I like to read.’
Jake turned away from the bookshelves. ‘Really?’ he said sarcastically, biting his tongue to stop any more verbal damage. He hadn’t meant to be rude, but the events back at the hospice had wound him up like a tight coil and he needed answers. His son must be dead, so why was someone pretending to be him? It wasn’t exactly a question he could just ask outright.
‘Yes, really.’ The old man eyed him warily as he placed his glass on a small circular table set under the window. He left the room.
Jake walked over to the wooden mantle shelf set over an open fire blazing in the hearth. The long narrow shelf was jam-packed with framed family pictures, some colour, and some black-and-white. Jake picked up a framed picture of a woman in bright sunshine, kneeling on grass holding a toddler, her face next to his, smiling for the camera.
‘My grandson.’
Jake glanced over his shoulder as the old man entered the room carrying another tall glass.
‘Cute.’ Jake replaced the picture on the mantle shelf.
‘Not anymore.’ He offered Jake the glass. ‘All grown up now, moved to Edinburgh.’
Jake took the glass and gave a little sniff – he could smell lemons. Jake took a gulp of the white liquid; it stung the back of his throat. ‘It’s good,’ said Jake in a croaky voice.
‘It should be. It’s homemade lemonade, none of that supermarket rubbish.’ The old chap seated himself in a worn leather chair to one side of the hearth. He put on a pair of pince-nez and picked up a book that was balanced on the thick arm of the chair.
He started to read.
Jake stared at him. He had just let a perfect stranger in off the street and made him a glass of homemade lemonade, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And it was.
Sometimes Jake longed to return to this part of Scotland; he often imagined what it must be like to live in a community where you could welcome somebody into your home without fear, know your neighbours as friends. It was another world. And it could be his, if he chose it.
‘Is this Arnold?’ said Jake, holding out a photograph he had found on the mantle. It was just a guess, going by the age of the photo, but unfortunately it wasn’t a close-up, and the photo was slightly out of focus, so he couldn’t make out the man’s features.
‘Let me see.’ The old chap put down his book and held out his hand. He studied it. ‘I haven’t seen this in a long while.’
‘It was tucked behind some other photos – there.’ Jake pointed.
The chap thrust the photo back at Jake. ‘Put it back where you found it, please.’
Jake put it back, but not so out of sight this time.
