Lost Lad (40 page)

Having extricated himself from these absorbing considerations, Simeon was now able to give some attention to the author's work which was his first novel.  Inspired by Charles Hardman's original research about fake spiritualists in Victorian Derby, this was a story about several working class characters who had been 'taken in' by unscrupulous clairvoyants.  As expected, Charles Hardman came across as smooth, cultured and well educated with an impressive upper class accent which, at least to Simeon, spoke of money, Oxford and a soft life.  It was, therefore, yet another surprise to hear the reader cleverly affect a dramatic change of speech, from the 'Public School' standard to the 'Bog Hole' standard, when the authorial voice suddenly changed to the dialogue of locals.  His characters came across as completely authentic: they were just the same as originals, typical of the area, a lack of H's, closed U's and numerous contractions.

It was a good book, an interesting book.  Simeon enjoyed being entertained and yet ... and yet he found his concentration wandering.  The audience was enraptured and so was Simeon, but for him, the sheer force of personality of the reader seemed to be greater than his subject matter.  He continued to be mesmerised by those lovely eyes, twinkling teasing eyes, young eyes, sparkling eyes, sexy eyes ...

            Intrusive thoughts intruded .. From a long way back he heard a choir of girls, strings ordinary and pizzicato .. fragments of words sung by a teenage boy -

           
"This love I have for you, will be my only love, my whole life through, it's strong and true, this love for you ... "

He was called back by an enthusiastic and loud applause which filled the hall.  The author gave his thanks, stood up, spoke to a few fans, signed a few books whilst Simeon, pleasantly sedated, continued to sit at the back and ponder the odd nostalgic mood which had suddenly and inexplicably come upon him.  People drifted out and finally the author walked down the aisle, towards the door, and out of St John's Chapel.  This was the moment which the visitor had planned for.  He had intended to approach Charles Hardman ... but Simeon remained in his seat on that back row.  He was riveted by what he had seen.  He had seen a ghost.  Not the usual ghost, not the visual form of a figure, but an essence of movement invisibly traced in the air, a signature of movement, the signature of a familiar old friend - long lost - the lost lad. 

            Many times he had seen Brian Forrester move about and walk about.  His mind went back to July 1960, that one last special sparkling sunny morning, the last morning in which he saw his friend.  He was looking out of a bedroom window of Well Head Farm when he recognised Brian, at some considerable distance, just by the way he moved.  Simeon identified Brian's distinctive gait, the individuality of his posture, bearing and carriage of head - the one thing which is most difficult to disguise - the way you move.  Minutes before, Charles Hardman had stood on his feet, moved around his table to sign books, exchanged pleasantries with head nods and tilts.  Finally he stepped off that low platform and walked out of the hall.

Minutes before!  Simeon must pursue Charles Hardman - at once.

Chapter 33

Fantasy of Life

Simeon reasoned that the author would have likely parked in the same area as himself.  The nearest convenient spot was just below, possibly in the Market Place or the Coppice.  He rushed out into a shock of cold air under the darkening clear sky.  Along The Butts, a row of quaint cottages on his right, down the steep High Pavement and he was just in time to see Charles Hardman about to get into a sleek golden Jaguar.  Before the readings, that would have been fine, consistent with the image of a sophisticated and wealthy author.  But this was after the readings and now it seemed as wrong as Danny Forrester getting out of his own expensive looking vehicle.  Danny should have arrived on an old bicycle.  This man too, should have been mounting an old bicycle.

Simeon Hogg approached the author who was still standing by the open car door.  In silence both men looked at each other with blank expressions.  In those moments time became warped and for both men it seemed more like minutes: minutes in which each party re-grouped, came to terms with, and took full account of the huge significance of that special moment: the moment of mutual recognition.  Across the expressionless face of Charles Hardman there encroached a gathering softness born of inevitability, perhaps a softness born of sweet surrender.  The softness melted into a warm smile, that familiar wide boyish grin Simeon knew only too well -

           
"'Allo, Dobba."

Two old friends were facing each other.  They were sitting in the opulence and comfort of a beautiful new Jaguar.  It was peaceful in that open market place of many pubs which had yet to come to life.  

           
"I've so many questions,"
said Dobba. 
"I don't really know where to start.  Perhaps at the beginning?"

           
"Where
is
the beginning?"
replied the other. 
"For me there was no definite end or beginning.  I simply can't remember.  It took me years to remember anything."

           
"Years!"

           
"I only know what others have told me."

           
"But you remember me.  You spoke my name."

Again that enchanting smile slowly broke across that handsome face as he leaned forward and lowered his voice.

           
"I spoke your name first.  I was never allowed to go to the cinema, so the cinema came to me.  Father had it set up in our basement and one evening ... it was at the time of the Kennedy Assassination ... 1963 ... we were watching 'Treasure Island' ... how could we ever forget
Long John Silver!  I said one word - 'Dobba'.  Of course it meant nothing to father, but it was my first glimmer, my first link with 'the past life'."

           
"When you say 'father', are you referring to Algernon Hardman?"

           
"Naturally!  I'm referring to a grief stricken father who, right or wrong, took back a son."

           
"But your real parents ... "

           
"Are both long dead.  Please try to understand.  Even after seeing that film it took months for me to recall a cycling trip.  Very vaguely I began to see a group of friends ... I couldn't see their faces ... but I knew one was called Dobba."

           
"Not even your twin brother?"

           
"In cases of severe amnesia the patient needs constant support and encouragement to regain his original
identity.  He needs people around, people of his own class who speak of family, friends and familiar places.  If there is a conspiracy to withhold those familiar things, the process of recall takes even longer still.  Memory loss varies from person to person and no two cases are ever the same.  In my case a whole new life was substituted and I was groomed to receive a complete new identity.  My little world was a handful of carefully selected tutors, Simon, Dolly and ... of course ... father.  I hardly went anywhere until Oxford, when I was 18 - in fact I was actually 21. 

           
"So you were a prisoner?"
said Dobba, but Brian disarmed him again with another winning smile.

           
"Of course not!  You got it all wrong, Dobba.  I heard you on Radio Derby.  Oh yes, I was listening - we all were.  I heard the fear and dread in your voice, but let me promise you this my friend - nothing, absolutely nothing at all unpleasant or sexual ever happened to me.  I was taken in, cared for and loved.  It had nothing to do with lust - it had everything to do with love, love and grief."

           
"The accident in Albania,"
said Dobba, slowly and thoughtfully.  He suddenly added
- "Grief for his wife ... "

           
"And his son."

           
"His son?  Charles Hardman?  I don't understand?  What did they do with Charles Hardman?  Where is he?"

           
"Buried somewhere in Albania with his mother where they were both killed in a motor accident on the Saturday of July 23rd 1960.  My father went into a state of shock, he was like a zombie.  The hotel manager was very kind, made all the arrangements, chartered a plane and got him back home as soon as possible.  But home to what?  He had lost everything ... and then he found me."

           
"He found the lost lad,"
meditated Dobba in a whisper.  Two youths strolled past the car and disappeared into The Cross Keys, one of several public houses on the Market Place.  It was getting darker by the minute. 

           
"Father never told me anything.  He would never discuss the circumstances of my arrival.  As far as he was concerned I was his son and heir Charles Hardman, born and raised at Cressbrook Hall.  He treated me as one would treat a delicate invalid.  He treated me as if
I
was the one who'd suffered the mental breakdown, struggling to come to terms with the trauma of an accident and the death of my mother.  And that's how it really did feel.  For years I believed I
was
indeed Charles Hardman.  It was assumed the Albanian accident had taken my memory and identity, had robbed me of my past.  Everybody called me Charles and recalled anecdotes of things I did as a kid.  Simon kept talking about a dog I once had called Pilot.  He showed me the toys I once played with - even a doll I called Jennifer!  I'll tell you that got me worried!"
  

They laughed.  Brian sank back into the leather upholstery and idly watched three rowdy lads falling out of a pub.

           
"But eventually ... " 
encouraged Dobba.

           
"Eventually I started to ask questions.  Not of father.  It would hurt him.  Yes, he was stern and could be very severe with the servants and strangers, but upon me, he heaped a massive amount of affection.  He steered me through those years and gave me protection.  He was an excellent teacher, inspired and encouraged me to write - he gave me everything.  I came to love my father ... I wish you could have known him, Dobba, he was a wonderful man.

           
Eventually, yes, I was very curious.  I asked Simon and Dolly questions.  It was like trying to get blood out of a stone - but, gradually, little by little I wheedled out bits of information and started to piece them together.  Simon found me.  He and father took
me in.  I was unconscious for hours.

Dobba was absently admiring two young trees which had been planted outside The White Swan.  Struggling with moral implications and unwilling to be confrontational, he was almost afraid to ask the next question.

           
"Your real parents!  What about
their
grief, Brian?  What about your brother Danny?  What about the pain and agony of waiting.  Couldn't you have put them out of their misery?  Did you not think about making contact?"

           
"Many many times." 
Brian took a deep breath and looked directly into the eyes of his one time friend.
  "Look, Dobba, forgive me old pal, but you really don't have a clue do you?  You don't know, you can't possibly know what it was like to be me.  Many times I talked to Simon and Dolly.  I suggested to them that I should let mum, dad and our Danny ... 

           
Our Danny!  Sounds so funny to say that now.  I proposed trying
to get a
message to Heanor, delivered secretly, just to say I was OK.  But, you see, it was me against them.  They were powerful and I was weak.  A boy against the combined solid logic and wisdom of two persuasive adults.  I was defeated by argument.  Dolly said it would all end in disaster.  He said that father would be arrested by the police and put into prison.  He was right.  Father would have been destroyed by that experience.  And I could not let that happen to the man who was the centre of my universe.  Look, this crisis of conscience occurred in 1964.  By that time the world had assumed that I was dead ... and, Dobba, try to understand, it
was
like that for me.  Brian Forrester was as good as dead.  Of course ... every now and again he gets a jolt of conscience ... like on the radio the other day when I heard Danny say 'Hello, Dobba'.  That wasn't easy for me.  I was gutted.

           
And ... I'll be honest with you old friend.  Try to see it from my point of view.  I had long talks with Simon.  We both know what it's like to be poor.  In my old life I had a loving family and I know they've suffered but ... what would you do?  Would you, if you had the choice, say goodbye to Cressbrook Hall and a substantial income for life?  Would you go back to Heanor, to the old life and become a brickie, or a plumber or for that matter - a teacher?"