Rendered Silent

Chapter 8

Tuesday

I pull up near Angela’s home, cut the ignition, and bathe in the natural light of the afternoon sun. It’s unexpected yet welcome; making a last dash for glory before the coldness of winter overthrows it. The windscreen is capturing the sun and enhancing it so it falls over me like a warm blanket. It’s almost tempting to just stay in here with the comfort of it covering me, instead of  going out into the stark air, and the even starker reality of facing Angela with the burden of the knowledge my Father had unwittingly given me. We had decided not to tell her, but the deception was already making me feel a little sick.
I had called her yesterday afternoon to firm up  the plan to meet today and she confirmed, saying that she would be happy to see us. I had hinted to Geoffrey when I took the letter to him that I would like to take Lacy, so when ‘Beta Peter’ came out of his office today and informed her that she would be accompanying me, I wasn’t nearly as surprised as she was. I was however shocked at what little repercussions there had been on Peter’s part. No snide comments, no extra tedious pointless work landing on my desk just to antagonise me. For all intents and purposes it seemed he had dropped me like a hot stone and that was perfectly fine with me.
“I can’t believe I’ve been allowed to come out with you! I’m so excited!”
I smile at Lacy, who, unlike me, is halfway out the car already.
“It looks as though Peter is trying to stay in Geoffrey’s good books; make a good first impression, you know.”
She leans back in, snorting indelicately. 
“As if that’s even possible! He’ll never last being this ‘Beta Peter’ it will drive him nuts!” 
Lacy had cottoned on to the nickname with great enthusiasm when I had regaled her with the details of the meeting yesterday and how weird Peter had been. 
“I guess we have a front row seat to how it will play out either way. You’ve got the article right?”
We had decided to bring it along before it went to the printing department on Thursday (another wonderful perk of that meeting). I informed Geoffrey that I wanted to ensure that Angela was pleased with the finished product as he had thought having a snapshot of the letter within the article would perfect it. When I had informed him I had intended to visit regardless to have a proper discussion about the family history and see some family pictures, he was hugely encouraging. It was a little unnerving actually considering the criticism I am usually given in, well basically , everything I do.
Lacy thinks that this is also the perfect opportunity to get some nuggets of information to follow up on, the idea being that once we are certain of the facts, then we’ll tell Angela what we know.
I step out of the car and point out the house.
“That’s the one.”
“Woah, what a place! And she lives alone?”
“Looks that way”.
“Oh my goodness look at that door knocker,” Lacy squeals running up the drive. I look past her and notice the heavy brass knocker carved into the shape of a lion’s head, with the rung hanging from it’s mouth and lying solidly beneath.
“Bet you enjoyed knocking that the last time you came!”
“I didn’t actually notice it”.
“It’s in the centre of the door” Lacy rolls her eyes before pulling the rung several times and letting it fall back. It gives a deep thud each time and Lacy turns to me in wide eyed excitement. I try and give her what I think is a genuine smile back, no need to dump my anxious thoughts on her.
After a few moments I see Angela’s busy form bustle down the hallway and like the first time the door is ripped open with enthusiasm, however, unlike the first visit the face that greets us is warm and welcoming.
“James, good to see you again! And you must be Lacy, please come on in.”
She offers us drinks but instead of heading down to the kitchen, where we met last time, she veers off into the first door to the left which leads into a high ceiling living room painted bright red with an ornate fireplace. There’s a walnut coffee table in the middle of the room and two comfy looking leather sofas, and scattered on the floor and across one of the sofas are a variety of pictures, some in colour, some sepia and faded like the one in her kitchen. Much to my bemusement the table is actually completely clear except for one shoe box with what looks like a few more pictures in it.
Angela tells us to make ourselves comfy and then whizzes out the room with our drinks orders.
Much to my surprise Lacy immediately makes a beeline for the middle of the photo frenzy, sitting herself on the floor with her back to the sofa, she picks up one of the photographs, her curiosity getting the better of her. I take a seat hesitantly on the edge of the other sofa, an uncertainty washing over me in the newness of my surroundings, and the weight of the news I felt I was carrying.
Angela grabs a tube from underneath the table and pops the lid off.
“I thought it might be best to start with this,” she murmurs, as she slides and shimmies an A1 piece of card from within.
Once out she moves the drinks to the far corner of the coffee table and spreads the A1 page out on it. She looks around for a few seconds before I realise she is searching for paperweights. I pass the shoebox back just as Lace hands her a substantial book.
“You’re on Matthew 16,” she adds as an afterthought “Sorry. I shut it without thinking.” she flushes biting her lip.
I lean in to get a look at the cover and realise it is an edition of the Holy Bible.
“You’re a Christian?”
“Yep, I grew up going to church with my parents and my brother and I got baptised whilst I was away at university,” she turns her attention to Lacy “It’s fine, I’d finished the passage, it’s just habit really to leave it open.”
Whilst speaking she has smoothed out the paper and it is now apparent that what we have before us is a family tree.
“I only just started on this when I got the letter and went digging around in all the photo albums in the loft,” Angela explains.
At the top is William and next to his name is Mary/Marnia. I ask Angela why there are two names. Discomfort mirroring my own flits across her face before she states that the letter was addressed to Mary, however having spoken to her grandfather he had sent her a document which had made her slightly confused.
“I’ll go grab it,” and just like that Angela was out of the room.
“So it looks as though Edward, Angela’s grandfather, is actually William’s son,” I say, more to myself than to Lacy.
“There aren’t many older photos really,” Lacy states after a while holding up a hand with three photographs in it, all were black and white- or rather they looked more sepia. The corners were wearing and frayed in places and it looked as though someone had spilt something on the top one. 
“Well there wouldn’t be really, photography was not as popular back then and cameras were pretty expensive I think.”
I reached over and plucked the top photo from her hand and glanced down at it. The image was of a man and a woman, both unsmiling. It looked slightly older than the others, and despite the lack of cheer there was an unwavering air of solidarity in the way in which the couple clung on to one another, they appeared young in the photo; I flipped it over and could make out faded words- Oma en Opa.
“It is a shame these were not better preserved really,” I murmur.
“Ugh,” Lacy exclaims, “preserved is for impersonal things; machines, canned food and...and salt!”
I burst out laughing at her comparisons, Lacy goes red but carries on.
“It’s true! Photographs are personal treasures, they are worn because they are loved and cherished in an intimate way, not from behind a glass box, or a sheet of plastic.”
“I agree.” Angela stood in the doorway holding the framed picture I recognised from the kitchen and a folded piece of paper so thick and yellow it could have been mistaken as parchment although I suspected it was only disintegrating card.
“But one day they will just fall apart and there will be nothing left of these people!” I motion at the photo I’m holding.
“Who are these people anyway? The photo seems a little old to be William and Mary and it doesn’t look like him from what I can remember of that photo,” I gesture at the frame in Angela’s hand.
“That’s because it’s not them.” Angela came in and sat on the floor in front of us, she passed the photo frame to Lacy so she could have a look at William.
“My Grandfather, Edward, had that photo and this piece of card slipped inside his blanket when sister Margaret found him outside the children’s home.” Angela pointed to another of the two photos in Lacy’s hand. It was a picture of a group of children standing straight against a brick wall. She pointed to a boy, third in from the right.
“That’s him. He lived there, amidst evacuations, until he was sixteen, he never quite knew what to make of the photograph, but he kept the card, it had a note from his Mother on it,” as she said this she handed me the piece of card. 
On closer inspection it looked as though it had a serial number on one side of it as though it had been some kind of packaging originally. It had thousands of creases in it, some so deep the card had given way to tearing slightly at the seams, no doubt from being opened and closed countlessly. If what Angela and Lacy believed was true and a love for something could be measured by it’s disrepair then this was potentially the most doted on piece of card I had ever come across.
I gingerly pried the card apart at the main hinges, concerned that it may fall apart in my hands.
On first glance the note was surprisingly short, however I realised with growing sobriety that the words within were profound. The writing was faded due to age and was difficult to make out in places, but I was able to glean the message clearly enough. 
“So what does it say?” queried Lacy leaning over to take a look,and I read aloud.