Whit

Morag and Ricky went off to the flumes.  Sophi and I strolled through the town, doing a bit of window-shopping and just taking the air, walking round the base of the castle and through the strange old cemetery nearby under breezy blue skies and a damp wind.  Looking west across the broad flood-plain of the Forth, we could make out the trees surrounding the bend in the river where the Woodbeans' house and the Community lay.  I tried not to feel too sick with nervousness.

We thought we'd lost Great-aunt Zhobelia for a few minutes, arriving back at the hotel to find Morag and Ricky on the brink of telephoning the police because Zhobelia was not in their room, and nowhere else to be seen, either.  Then she appeared from the hotel kitchens, accompanied by the chef, chatting.

We took more tea.  I kept asking Sophi the time.  The afternoon wore on.  Zhobelia went back up to the room to watch a soap opera, but returned a few minutes later, saying it wasn't the same watching it without the old dears there.  And then it was time to go, and we went; Great-aunt Zhobelia and I in Sophi's car, Morag and Ricky in the white convertible Ford Escort.

It took less than ten minutes to arrive at the entrance to the High Easter Offerance estate.

CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT

We left the cars at the gates and walked down the shady drive.  My stomach felt huge and hollow, resounding to the beat of my thudding heart.

'Want me to come along?' Sophi asked, just before we got to her house.

'Please,' I said.

'Okay, then,' she said, winking at me.

We helped Great-aunt Zhobelia over the bridge across the Forth.  She chuckled to see how dilapidated the bridge had become. 'Oh yes.  I think we're safe from tigers here!' she laughed.

We walked slowly up the curving track to the buildings.  Zhobelia nodded approvingly at the re-pointed orchard wall, but tutted over the state of the grass on the lawn in front of the greenhouses and verbally scolded the two goats concerned, which lay on the grass, chewing the cud and looking at us with insolent unconcern.

The gate had been drawn across the arched gateway that led into the courtyard.  This was not uncommon when there was a big Service taking place.  It occurred to me we might be better going round the long way anyway, so we opened the door to the greenhouse and walked through.

Zhobelia sniffed a few blooms on the way through and prodded the earth in the flower pots.  I got the impression she was looking for faults.  I rubbed my sweaty hands on my trousers.

A terrible thought occurred to me.  I let the others walk on a little way while I stopped with Zhobelia, who was looking at a complicated arrangement of hydroponic pipe work.

'Great-aunt,' I said quietly.

'Yes, dear?'

'I just thought; did you ever mention that little book and the money and so on… to anybody else?'

She looked puzzled for a moment, then shook her head. 'Oh no; never.' She brought her head closer to mine and lowered her voice. 'Glad I mentioned it to you though, oh yes.  Been a burden off my back, I'll tell you.  Best forgotten now, if you ask me.'

I sighed.  Fine, but my confidence was shaken.  If I hadn't thought of that until now, what else might have escaped me?  Well, it was a little late to turn back now.  Sophi, Ricky and Cousin Morag waited at the far end of the greenhouse.  I smiled at them, then took Zhobelia's elbow gently in my hand. 'Come on, Great-aunt.'

'Yes.  Lot of pipes, aren't there?  All very complicated.'

'Yes,' I said. 'All very complicated.'

We exited the greenhouse's humid, mustily perfumed warmth beside the door I had crept out of on my way to burgle the office a few days earlier.  We continued round, past the outhouses and some of the old buses and vans which had been converted into dormitories and extra greenhouses.  Zhobelia tapped the bodywork of an old coach with her knuckles.

'Bit rusty,' she said, sniffing.

'Yes, Great-aunt,' I said, choosing not to point out that the bodywork was aluminium.

We entered the courtyard from the north.  The sound of distant singing-in-tongues was sweet, and brought a lump to my throat.  I took a deep breath and looked in through the windows of the schoolroom as we headed for the main doors of the mansion house.  Somebody was standing at the far end of the room, drawing on the blackboard with coloured chalk.  It looked like Sister Angela.  The children were sat at their desks watching Sister Angela; some had their hands up.  Little Flora, Sister Gay's eldest, turned round and looked at me.  I waved.  She smiled broadly and waved, then put up her hand and waved it urgently.  I heard her shouting out.  Other small heads turned to look at us.

I walked to the main doors and held them open for Great-aunt Zhobelia, Sophi, Ricky and Cousin Morag.

'Okay?' I asked Morag.

She patted my arm. 'Fine.  You?'

'Nervous,' I admitted.

The singing was very loud in the front hall, swelling out of the meeting room's closed double doors to our left.  Sister Angela opened the door on the other side of the hall.  She looked surprised.  She looked at Ricky and Morag, then Zhobelia.  Her mouth opened.

'Sister Angela,' I said. 'Ricky.  Sister Zhobelia.  I believe you know Sister Morag.  Shall we?' I nodded into the classroom.

'Little Angela, eh?' said Zhobelia as we trooped into the classroom. 'I don't suppose you remember me, do you?'

'Ah… not that… well, yes, but… ah; children?  Children!' Angela shouted, clapping her hands.  She introduced the others to them en masse, and the dozen or so little ones dutifully said Good Evening.  Across the hallway, the sound of singing-in-tongues gradually subsided and then ceased.

'Would you tell my Grandfather that Sister Zhobelia would like to see him?' I asked Angela.  She nodded, then left the room.

Zhobelia sat in the teacher's chair. 'Have you all been good?' she asked the children.  A chorus of Yeses came in return.  I took a piece of scrap paper from the pile on the teacher's desk and wrote a number on it.

Sister Angela came back. 'Ahm,' she said, seemingly uncertain whether to address me or Zhobelia. 'He'll-'

She was interrupted by Grandfather coming into the room.

'Are you sure- ?' he said as he entered the room.  He was dressed in his best creamy-white robes.  He saw me and stopped, looking more surprised than angry.  I nodded to him and pressed the little sheet of paper into his hand. 'Good day, Grandfather.'

'What… ?' he said, looking round, glancing down at the bit of paper, and then staring at Zhobelia.

She waved. 'Hello, my dear.'

Grandfather started over to her. 'Zhobelia…' he said.  He looked at Sophi and Ricky and then stared at Morag, who was half sitting on the teacher's desk, arms folded.

I kept near Grandfather's shoulder. 'I think you should look at that bit of paper, Grandfather,' I said quietly.

'What?' He looked back at me.  His face reddened as his expression turned from shock to anger. 'I thought you'd been told-'

I put my hand on his arm. 'No, Grandfather,' I said quietly and evenly. 'Everything has changed.  Just look at the paper.'

He scowled, then did as I asked.

I'd written a number on the scrap of paper.

954024.

For a while I was worried that it was too subtle a way of getting through to him, that too much time had passed and he'd simply forgotten.  He stared down in silence at the number on the paper, looking mystified.

Damn, I thought.  It's just a string of numbers.  Meaningless to him now.  What had I been thinking of?  He probably hadn't thought of that number in forty-five years; he certainly wouldn't have seen it.  Is, Is; you idiot.

The number my Grandfather was looking at was his old army serial number.