Lesson Twelve
As soon as we turned into the street, I began to recognise it. Then, as we drove slowly enough to read the numbers, I became certain of where we were going. Once we were pulled up outside, I felt that I should have a buzzer and huge red light on top of my head, and a siren screaming what was in it.
“Don’t go in! Don’t go in! Don’t go in!!
But I didn’t have a choice, I had come to meet my boyfriend’s parents, and this was going to be the deal maker, or breaker. I loved my boyfriend and was as eager as he was to start a life together. I had a new job in Cardiff, and he was considering whether he should come with me or not. Both of us knew that it was a risk. He had been in a long-term relationship with his first love since ‘coming out’ and I had been single for about a year before I met Jacob, six months ago.
But if you don’t give it a try, you will never know, my sister had said that morning. She has always been my best advocate, and she usually gave some pretty good advice. (What would she say about the travesty of where I found myself right now?)
I got out of the taxi and paid. Then I squared my shoulders and began to walk up the steps to the front door. The steps had all been carefully repointed and the front lawn was immaculate. A low fence had been erected around the perimeter of the boundary, and the flower beds were immaculately carved out, and packed with perennials and shrubs, with little bedding plants peeping through every gap. Stiff, starchy and regimented. Everything I hate about a garden.
There were three statues on a pond and a small pond with fountain and then on a plinth above, two garden gnomes. I felt sure that they weren’t meant to be ironic, which was a shame. What total suburbia.
At the door, I scuffed my feet on the door mat and rang the bell. There was no reply. I rang again and still no reply. Which was odd, very odd, as I was right on time and Jacob was as obsessed with the courtesy of that as I am.
I peered through the letterbox, it was quite gloomy, despite the lovely sunshine outside.
I heard the whistling of the kettle; somebody was in and would be in the kitchen to stop the kettle and fill the teapot. I hopped off the step and walked around the right-hand side of the house, the manhole cover had been replaced, and the clematis panel had a new backing to it. I reached the kitchen and tapped on the window, knowing that it would be Tilly Grayson there even before she turned round. Her face was a little thinner and no more lined, but she would only be, – ten years older than me, so 45. She nearly dropped the kettle in shock, but I was there before she did herself any damage, taking the two paces and two steps up to the kitchen in next to no time.
“Michael Saunders!” She exclaimed.
“So, you are the Mickey I have been hearing so much about from Jacob. What a small world! And you ended up in Bristol. I wondered what you had done, after here.”
“Tilly, it’s good to see you. Is Jacob here? I have been ringing the doorbell, and nobody was home, it seemed.”
Tilly made a face and said quietly, “Mr Rambert keeps taking the ring doorbell off charge because, well… he says we are being watched inside the house.”
She said no more, but I filled in the gaps. Was he paranoid, or showing signs of dementia? I had to ask myself if it wasn’t the house, then dismissed that as fanciful. Although I had every reason to believe in strange occurrences in certain places.
Torn between questioning Tilly about Jacob and his parents and knowing that I should not be colluding with ‘the help,’ I remained silent and began fiddling with the offcuts of pastry that Tilly was just about to sweep away. A memory struck me. Of making jam tarts with the scraps and gobbling them greedily straight from the oven. Well as quickly as I could get away with, after once scalding my mouth with boiling hot jam.
My staying silent worked, as it always does, as Tilly leapt in to fill the silence.
“I didn’t think to see you back here, Michael, after how we got you out before. You need to know that things haven’t changed and you probably should get out of here now, before you are caught and get into trouble.”
I could feel my face go white. This was not unexpected, with the address to warn me. But I felt the room tilt.
I stuttered “J-Jacob?”
Tilly said, “Get out now. I will meet you in Fratelli’s in 45 minutes, but for the love of god, go!”
She had become frantic. I had to make a decision. And I did.
I pointed, “Back door?” She nodded and I was gone.
I ran until I was sure that I wouldn’t be followed. Then I called my office.
I was a little breathless.
“Fratelli’s in 45 minutes.” I breathed.
“Yes boss, is Jacob with you?”
“No Fiona, he is not.” I could not help the misery in my voice.
“Okay, sir.” And she was gone.
I found myself a spot to watch Fratelli’s and saw Tilly arrive, she had her hair up and was wearing a smart jacket, and was less easy to identify, but my team spotted her and took her with them. I saw her looking around for me, but I was concealed well enough.
I heard, rather than saw, the police car and van turn up at the Avenue, at the house, from my recommendation, they went in through the back door and managed to pickup 11 members of the gang, who would systematically harvest organs of those who found themselves in care.
So many children could be written off for running away, another half dozen per year could be fostered by non-existent people whose details were taken from obituaries further up country and one or two died from accidents, or being too adventurous, or childhood ailments.
And then graduation ceremonies would be held annually with big names as sponsors and actor/actresses standing in for graduates and unclear photos being affixed to the walls.
Dear Tilly came up trumps, spilling all of her secrets and a lot more besides. Of course, she couldn’t get off Scot free. She had been part of a criminal gang for more than 20 years, but I couldn’t forget the comfort she brought to a ten-year-old boy who was being fostered, before being one of the only graduates for legal adoption and by the Police Chief of Avon and Bristol constabularies, my dad.
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