34
OLD JACK TOOK his place in the fifth row of the congregation, hoping no one would recognize him. The cathedral was so packed that people who had been unable to find a seat in the side chapels stood in the aisles and were crammed in at the back.
The Bishop of Bath and Wells brought tears to Old Jack’s eyes when he talked about his father’s unquestioning faith in God, and how, since the premature death of his wife, the canon had devoted himself to serving the community, ‘The proof of which,’ proclaimed the Bishop, raising his arms to acknowledge the vast congregation, ‘can be seen by the number of those present, who have come to honour him from so many walks of life, and to pay their respects.
‘And although the man knew no vanity, he could not hide a certain pride in his only son, Jack, whose selfless courage, bravery and willingness to sacrifice his own life in South Africa during the Boer War saved so many of his comrades, and led to him being awarded the Victoria Cross.’ He paused, looked down into the fifth row and said, ‘And how delighted I am to see him in the congregation today.’
Several people began looking around for a man they had never seen before. Jack bowed his head in shame.
At the end of the service, many members of the congregation came up to tell Captain Tarrant how much they had admired his father. The words ‘dedication’, ‘selflessness’, ‘generosity’ and ‘love’ fell from everyone’s lips.
Jack felt proud of being his father’s son, while at the same time ashamed that he had excluded him from his life, in the same way as he had the rest of his fellow men.
As he was leaving, he thought he recognized an elderly gentleman standing by the great gates, clearly waiting to speak to him. The man stepped forward and raised his hat. ‘Captain Tarrant?’ he enquired with a voice that suggested authority.
Jack returned the compliment. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘My name is Edwin Trent. I had the privilege of being your father’s solicitor, and, I’d like to think, one of his oldest and closest friends.’
Jack shook him warmly by the hand. ‘I remember you well, sir. You taught me a love of Trollope and an appreciation of the finer points of spin bowling.’
‘It’s kind of you to remember,’ Trent chuckled. ‘I wonder if I might accompany you on your way back to the station?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘As you know,’ said Trent as they began walking towards the town, ‘your father was resident canon of this cathedral for the past nine years. You’ll also know that he cared nothing for worldly goods, and shared even the little he had with those less fortunate than himself. If he were to be canonized, he would surely be the patron saint of vagabonds.’
Old Jack smiled. He recalled going to school one morning without breakfast because three tramps were sleeping in the hallway and, to quote his mother, they had eaten them out of house and home.
‘So when his will comes to be read,’ continued Trent, ‘it will show that just as he entered this world with nothing, he has also left it with nothing – other than a thousand friends, that is, which he would have considered a veritable fortune. Before he died, he entrusted me with one small task should you attend his funeral, namely that of handing you the last letter he ever wrote.’ He extracted an envelope from an inside pocket of his overcoat and handed it to Old Jack, raised his hat once more and said, ‘I have carried out his request, and am proud to have met his son once again.’
‘I am obliged, sir. I only wish that I hadn’t made it necessary for him to have to write in the first place.’ Jack raised his hat and the two men parted.
Old Jack decided that he would not read his father’s letter until he was on the train, and had begun the journey back to Bristol. As the engine shunted out of the station, billowing clouds of grey smoke, Jack settled back in a third-class compartment. As a child, he remembered asking his father why he always travelled third class, to which he had replied, ‘Because there isn’t a fourth class.’ It was ironic that, for the past thirty years, Jack had been living in first class.
He took his time unsealing the envelope, and even after he had extracted the letter, he left it folded while he continued to think about his father. No son could have asked for a better mentor or friend. When he looked back on his life, all his actions, judgements and decisions were nothing more than pale imitations of his father’s.
When he finally unfolded the letter, another flood of memories came rushing back the moment he saw the familiar bold, copperplate hand in jet-black ink. He began to read.
The Close
Wells Cathedral
Wells, Somerset
26th August, 1936
My beloved son,
If you were kind enough to attend my funeral, you must now be reading this letter. Allow me to begin by thanking you for being among the congregation.
Old Jack raised his head and looked out at the passing countryside. He felt guilty once again for treating his father in such an inconsiderate and thoughtless manner, and now it was too late to ask for his forgiveness. His eyes returned to the letter.
When you were awarded the Victoria Cross, I was the proudest father in England, and your citation still hangs above my desk to this very day. But then, as the years passed, my happiness turned to sorrow, and I asked our Lord what I had done that I should be so punished by losing not only your dear mother, but also you, my only child.
I accept that you must have had some noble purpose for turning your head and your heart against this world, but I wish you had shared your reason for so doing with me. But, should you read this letter, perhaps you might grant me one last wish.
Old Jack removed the handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his eyes before he was able to continue reading.
God gave you the remarkable gift of leadership and the ability to inspire your fellow men, so I beg you not to go to your grave knowing that when the time comes for you to face your maker, you will, as in the parable Matthew 25, v14–30, have to confess that you buried the one talent He gave you.
Rather, use that gift for the benefit of your fellow men, so that when your time comes, as it surely must, and those same men attend your funeral, the Victoria Cross will not be the only thing they remember when they hear the name Jack Tarrant.
Your loving father
‘Are you all right, my luv?’ asked a lady who had moved from the other side of the carriage to sit next to Old Jack.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, the tears streaming down his face. ‘It’s just that I was released from prison today.’