Trench Rat - 7. Chapter 7

I sensed Mr and Mrs LaTouche’s relief when I turned up for breakfast the following morning and rested my rucksack against the wall. Mrs LaTouche even offered her husband’s help to drive me to the Eurostar station in Lille. Rapid-fire words passed between them in French when I accepted, words I could not understand. Thankfully, the journey from Ripont took only forty-five minutes of awkward silence before we parted ways.

On the journey back to London, I managed to prise open the old tobacco tin that I’d taken from beneath the bathroom basin. Wrapped in wax paper, the container had remained remarkably well-preserved and still smelled of musky tobacco. Neatly arranged inside sat Alfie’s notebook and pencils, a small knife presumably for sharpening pencils, and a couple of folded letters from home, one containing another sepia photograph of his family sitting together in a more formal setting. I read a few entries in his cursive handwriting, with scratched-out words, spelling mistakes and doodles, all pencilled over a hundred years ago. Some notes mentioned Paddy, but most were about the filthy, inhuman conditions and the endless fighting that appeared to achieve nothing and favour neither side.

Changing trains at St Pancras in London—I had decided to see my adventure through—I bought a ticket to York, which would drop me at the station where I could catch a bus connecting to Pickering. As I had told Alfie, I rarely journeyed in England. The extent of my exploration comprised summer holidays spent in my grandmother’s house in Penzance along the Cornish coastline and a trip to the Mumbles in Wales with a former lover. I had never ventured as far north as Pickering. But as I took my seat on the long ride to York, Alfie’s parting words spurred me on.

With plenty of time on my hands and after a reasonably decent lunch from the dining car, I pulled out my phone and did some work. Once I had sent an apologetic message to Juliette and Roberto in Lausanne, I booked the final three days of my leave at a public house on Pickering High Street, which would mean travelling back to London on 22 December, I put Google search to good use.

On one envelope was a slightly faded but legible return address. After a few map searches, I found that both the street and the house still existed. Whether any of Alfie’s descendants still lived there, I had no idea, but at least I had a starting point. When I searched Pickering High Street, I found many old photographs from across the ages, including those from the turn of the twentieth century. An old one even showed the Shackleton Baker Shop. But when I tried searching for local bakeries, there appeared to be no recent records of the shop existing any longer, at least not from the many hits I scrolled through.

After that, I dozed off and only woke as the train pulled into York. I climbed aboard the bus that would take me into the heart of Pickering town centre, a much slower journey, and the bus appeared to stop at every town along the way. By midday, I felt travel weary, and the winter sun was already beginning to fade.

Even with the addition of modern shops, Pickering High Street seemed to wear its heritage proudly. I pulled up the collar of my raincoat against a particularly icy wind that howled down the street, a precursor to snow, perhaps. Many of the structures were built from blocks of what I assumed to be locally quarried sandstone.

As the cheerful but loquacious landlady at The Oak public house showed me up to my room—so very different from my experience in France—she spouted stories about the pub having once been a coaching inn that stabled horses and had a handful of villainous historical characters as clientele in its dim and distant past. I knew none of the names and felt too tired to concentrate. Up steep stairs and along uneven floors and narrow oak-panelled corridors, I could tell the place had history, even though my room on the first floor was modern and cosy enough, if a little overwarm, which helped to fuel my tiredness.

As I slung my rucksack onto the bed, the only question I needed answering was about Alfie’s family.

"Do you know if there’s a Shackleton Bakery on the high street?"

"Not anymore, love. Would have closed down in the eighties or nineties. Why do you ask?"

"Just doing some local research."

"My father would have known more, but I think they sold up to a chain of estate agents. I know the Shackletons moved away after the old man died. The store’s changed hands a couple of times since then. Might even be a charity shop now."

"Any idea where the Shackletons moved to?"

"Sorry, love, no. Back then, people couldn’t wait to get out of our quiet little corner of Yorkshire. Now they seem to be crawling to get back by the coachload. Here’s your room. Breakfast is from seven until ten-thirty."

By the time I had unpacked what little I had, settled in and rested on the bed, I fell fast asleep, thankfully undisturbed by any of the ghosts haunting the coaching house.

*****

The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, I pulled on my winter jacket and ventured out. Overnight, the weather had dropped to Arctic levels, and I was glad to have packed my gloves. I checked up and down the high street, even though, as the landlady had stated, there was no sign of the Shackleton bakery. If I had been more gregarious, I might have enquired in some of the older shops, but I decided instead to head to the address I had found.

The street was a fifteen-minute walk away, and apart from modernisations such as double glazing and solar panelling, the structure looked precisely the same. Old houses were built to last.

I knocked once and peered through the side window. From what I could tell, nobody appeared to be at home. I tried a second time, but still no response. I stepped back and thought about my next move. Perhaps the residents were working or had popped out. I had just begun to walk away, heading to the warmth of the cosy coffee shop I had noticed a couple of streets away when a woman a few doors down emerged and eyed me curiously.

"What are you after, love? They’re on holiday. Won’t be back until the New Year."

"I’m so sorry. I might have the wrong address, anyway. I’m looking for the Shackleton family. Merry Christmas, by the way."

Surprise filled the older woman’s eyes, but she appeared friendly enough and clearly interested. After putting her door on the latch, she waddled over to chat with me—so different to his neighbours in London who kept themselves to themselves and might even have called the police by now.

"Merry Christmas to you, too. The Shackletons haven’t lived here since the eighties. Edward left the house to his grandson, James, who decided to sell up."

"Oh, I see," I said, unable to keep the disappointment from my tone.

Another dead end. I stared back at the house one last time, nodding my thanks and mentally preparing to give up the search.

"Are you a friend of the family?" she asked. "Don’t sound like you’re from around these parts."

"No, I’m from Banstead, down south. But I found something belonging to the family—old letters from the First World War—and I came up here to see if I could find any surviving members. Doesn’t matter—"

"Hang on, love. James’ wife, Sarah, still lives around town. She runs the antique shop on Potter Lane, two streets behind Asda. Bits and Bobs, I think it’s called. They might be closed for Christmas, but I’d suggest you try there. Tell her Jessie Flintoff sent you."

After I thanked her, I had almost reached the high street when something came to me. Had Alfie told me Patrick’s family name was Flintoff? Surely a coincidence, although I had begun to question the nature of chance. Luck was on my side that day because I managed to find the little curio shop tucked away and was happy to see the place open and empty. The ping of the door brought a woman out from the back.

"Are you Sarah Shackleton?" I asked.

"No, dear. She’s not working today. I’m Eileen, the mother-in-law. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Look, I know this might sound strange, but did you have an Alfred Percival Shackleton in your family line?"

"Aye, he would have been one of ours on my husband’s side. Why do you ask?"

"I stayed in an old farmhouse in France and happened upon this old tobacco tin buried in the bathroom wall. I had a peek inside and found a handwritten diary of his with a couple of letters. They had the name and return address of Mr and Mrs Shackleton."

"That would have been his grandparents. Can I take a look?"

I opened the tin and handed over the contents. As she read one of the letters, tears welled in her eyes. Seeing a tear spill down her cheek, I led her over to one of the chairs beside the counter. After I plucked a pack of tissues from my pocket and offered her one, she smiled while shaking her head.

"You have no idea what this means. Alfred—Alfie—was the brother of Edward, my late husband’s grandfather. And he were their mother’s favourite, by all accounts, although, apparently, she tried hard to hide the fact the way mothers do. They lost Mark and Alfie to the first war and James to the second. Edward couldn’t enlist because he’d had polio as a kid. He were otherwise healthy, mind, and pretty much ran the bakery between the wars. But I know his mother and father never got over losing her boys. They managed to bring Mark home and bury him but had to assume Alfie’s body was in a field in France somewhere. Terrible times. And such a waste of life."

Nobody entered the shop in all the time we sat chatting. Eileen was easy company and wanted to know everything that had happened to me, especially how I had discovered the tin in the old farmhouse. Naturally, I left out my encounter with the apparition, and after my tale, she went on to tell me about the Shackleton line, about the loves and lives of the surviving members. Her son, James, spent long months away working on oil rigs while she helped her daughter-in-law, Sarah, to run the shop. But she had three grown-up children, all doing well for themselves. Eventually, as the hour ticked by and having delivered Alfie’s notebook, I decided my job was done and readied to depart, asking directions back to The Oak. As I began to stand, she called out to somebody. Up until that moment, I thought we were the only ones inhabiting the shop.

"Freddie, love, can you come here a moment?"

"What d’you want, Gran? I’m just off out to the pub," came a young male voice from the back room.

"Would you mind taking mister—sorry, love, what was your name again?

"Farrell. Robert Farrell."

"Can you show Mr Farrell to The Oak? He’s staying there."

From the corner of my eye, I noticed someone enter the room. The woman’s face lit up as she turned toward the newcomer, and I followed her gaze. Eyes of dark brown like the loam in which he had fought and perished, the young man could have been Alfie’s twin brother. My heart began racing, and I’m sure my cheeks coloured. He must have caught my aghast expression because he looked at me quizzically. He had on jeans and a black woollen peacoat in one hand, ready to throw on for the outdoors.

"Looks like it’s your lucky day. That happens to be exactly where I’m going," said the man, walking past me and holding the shop door open for me. I must have stared a little too long because he frowned at me quizzically as he threw the coat on around his shoulders.

"You alright, mate?" came the voice, deep and humoured and very different to Alfie’s. I quickly thanked Eileen and followed Freddy towards the shop entrance.

"Yes, I—I’m fine."

"We’ve met before, haven’t we?" he asked as I drew level.

"No. No, I don’t think so."

"You look familiar. I’m Frederick, although people call me Freddy."

He took my hand, and the warm handshake felt like coming home. His eyes startled wide as I smiled and squeezed his hand back.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Are you sure we haven’t met before?" he said, leaning in close and lowering his voice. Only as I moved past him did I notice the Rainbow insignia on the breast of his black T-shirt: Scarborough Pride. "Did we not have a drink together Thursday night during a late-night show at the Oak?"

We walked companionably together along the road, occasionally bumping shoulders, and I felt as though I had known him forever.

"You must have the wrong Robert. This is the first time I’ve ever travelled north."

"Strange. I don’t usually forget a handsome face."

The honeyed compliment was not lost on me, and I turned to see a twinkle in his eye.

"I’m staying until the day after tomorrow. Maybe I could buy you a drink sometime. If you’re not busy."

"How about right now? I’m not meeting friends for another couple of hours. Are you heading back for Christmas with family?"

I faltered then, his question almost spoiling the moment.

"No, it’s just me at home."

"Alone? Please tell me you’ll not be alone."

I felt almost ashamed when he asked the question.

"It’s fine. Honestly."

"It bloody well isn’t fine. A good-looking chap like you shouldn’t be alone when everyone else is celebrating. Let’s talk about that once we’re out of this bloody cold wind, shall we?"

"Honestly, I’d love to stick around longer, but I’m sure the Oak will be full over the busy holiday period."

"Then I’ll figure something out. Honestly, Robert, I know this might sound soft, but I feel like I know you already. And everyone deserves to have a decent Christmas. I saw how happy you made Gran. Let me figure something out."

I laughed aloud.

"You promise?"

"I bloody well do, and I bloody well will. You may not know owt about me yet, Robert, but one thing you can rely on is—"

"Let me guess. A Shackleton’s promise can never be broken."

"Exactly."

>>>>THE END<<<<