‘Precisely,’ said Luther, apparently satisfied that I’d learned my lesson well. He did a good Obe Wan Kenobi impression. ‘So those are really just repetitions of what I’ve just told you.’
‘Confirmations,’ I corrected him. ‘Important to get your facts straight in journalism.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay. Then what’s your actual question?’
Ha. Somehow this young man had a way of making me feel brainless. He’d be a good reporter – or maybe a politician – if he chose to go in that direction.
‘Well, your story has just come right up to date, to the barn-raising and the horse pulling the buggy, and you wanting to know if I like to drive fast. So I guess I’m wondering—?
‘Where do I fit in?’ Luther smiled knowingly, and I had the feeling that he’d been quite aware what my question was going to be from the second I stopped him. A lawyer, then. Maybe he’d be a lawyer. Maybe he already was a lawyer.
‘Exactly,’ I said.
‘Andrew is my father,’ he told me, waving a hand at the lakeside. ‘I’ve been coming here for holidays for as long as I can remember, and I’ve known Molly and Charlie all my life.’
‘Andrew? I don’t remember Andrew.’
There’d been a lot of names, to be fair, and my pen had run out after the Second World War section so most of this was being committed to a fast-fading memory.
‘There was a name starting with A, though. Amos,’ I remembered. ‘Amos! They remained friends and Charlie got him the job in the payroll office.’
Luther smiled again, as if I’d passed his test. ‘Yep. Amos was my grandfather, and Charlie was his brother. That’s why I call him Great Uncle Charlie.’
‘Amos was …’ I probed gently for fear of what he might have to say.
‘He died a couple of years ago,’ said Luther. ‘Aneurism. He always liked to say he had too many brains for one head.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did he stay at the factory like Charlie and Molly?’
‘He certainly did,’ said Luther proudly. ‘He became the company accountant in the end, and retired on a decent pension at the age of sixty-five. Got the gold watch and everything,’ he added, drawing back his sleeve so that I could see it on his arm. ‘Dad let me wear it so I could show it to Uncle Charlie. He’s been so busy since Amos died that he hadn’t seen it.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Extraordinary.’
It really was extraordinary – the whole story.
Then I remembered another question. ‘So why did you ask me if I like to drive fast?’
The moment I asked it, I realized I could have answered that particular query for myself.
‘It’s what Charlie asks all the young folks he gets to know,’ said Luther. ‘It’s what he asked me when I turned sixteen. Charlie was always a fast driver, always loved the open road and his foot to the floor, but he knew – he learned – that you have to keep it under control. And sometimes, when you’re fifteen or sixteen, you don’t know so much about keeping it under control.’
‘Did you?’
Luther laughed. ‘I like a fast car as much as the next man,’ he said, ‘but I believe the other things that Molly and Charlie have always stood for are more valuable. Learning and education, firstly. Living lightly on the land. Taking personal responsibility for your actions – and loving until there’s enough to spread around. I took it all seriously and became an accountant. Like my grandfather.’
‘Those are pretty good values,’ I said with a smile.
‘And redemption,’ added Luther suddenly. ‘Uncle Charlie has always believed in second chances. He reckoned that God gave him several – avoiding the chair, learning so much in prison, getting paroled, his wonderful children …’
‘And Molly,’ I finished for him.
Luther didn’t say anything, but his smile spoke volumes.
We paused, staring out over the lake as the cool breeze ruffled its surface into foamy waves. Sitting here, with the calm blackness of the water ahead of us and the rustle of the trees behind, it was easy to believe in redemption. In all of it, in fact.
‘Hey,’ I said to Luther as he handed me another beer, ‘do you think I could meet them?’
He checked his grandfather’s gold watch, then pulled a face. ‘It’s quite late. I don’t think they’ll want to be disturbed.’ And he gave me a slow, deliberate wink.
‘Really? At seventy plus?’
‘Love until there’s enough to spread around,’ he repeated.
We both laughed, and took a slug of our beer.
Chapter 21
* * *
Together Again
* * *
Don’t you think that everyone looks back on their childhood with certain amounts of bitterness and regret? It doesn’t have to ruin your life!
Ethel, On Golden Pond