Ten
My mother and father were married in Cambridge on July 22nd 1965. I remember this, despite it being six years before I was born, because their anniversary was the same date as my mother's birthday. She would often joke that it was the only way she would be able to get my father to remember either occasion, and she was probably right.
On the mantelpiece in our sitting room at home, in an ornate silver frame, stood the only picture from that event that I’d ever seen. My mother, having turned 24 on that day, stood in the centre, her train running down the church steps and her face partially obscured by a veil, but not enough to hide the wide smile on her face. To her left, towering over her and looking decidedly less impressed by proceedings, stood my father, his dark brown hair parted at the side, his crooked smile looking forced, and on the back of his right hand a scar shaped like an anchor that he’d always maintained had come from an accident with some old printing machinery when he was younger.
It was that same scarred hand, adorned with the very ring that I’d found in the safe, that was resting on the shoulder of Mrs Hopkin in the portrait over her bed. The man staring back at me, though younger than in any picture I’d ever seen of him, was undeniably my father, John Jacob. He had the same eyes, the same features, and even the same parted hair that he would sport until the day he died. There was no denying it and I was frozen to the spot struggling to accept it.
It was only when Mr Hopkin coughed from behind me that I even remembered that I was not alone. “I need to go,” I said, springing into action and bolting from the room and down the stairs.
“What on earth is the matter?” Mrs Hopkin called out as I barged through the kitchen and out into the back yard.
I went as fast as my feet would take me. Rain was slashing against my face as I bolted down the hill towards the village and the sun had almost completely set, darkening my route, but I didn’t mind my step. I just ran. When I reached the pub I spun right, up the hill past Mair’s cottage and all the way up to the top field, hopping over the fence and through the grass until I was right back where it all started; the field I woke up in.
I don’t know if I’d intentionally brought myself there or if I’d just run out of village to run through, but I came to a stop in the centre of that field and screamed at the top of my lungs. They could probably hear my voice at both ends of the valley by the time I’d stopped screaming but I let out every last bit of tension and anger and frustration I’d been holding onto since I’d arrived. And then, exhausted, I fell to the ground.
Had I finally cracked? The rain was lashing down, soaking me from head to toe, and I was lying in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere screaming into nothingness. The more I tried to reconcile my thoughts the more convinced I became that I must have gone mad and I was soon hysterical with laughter. I just couldn’t stop myself. Each time I considered what had happened to me, what I’d seen in that room, the puzzle pieces that were starting to slowly fit together, my chest would heave and my shoulders would shake and I’d roar with laughter again. Despite the rain, however, and despite the laughs, I was also very aware of the tears I was shedding at the same time. I was incredulous at the absurdity of it all and devastated by the loss of everything I thought I knew.
“What’s so funny, then?” a voice called out from the distance.
I turned my head, the grass brushing against my face, and saw Gwyn walking in my direction. He was slow, more careful of his footing this time, and holding onto his ribs as he moved. I knew he’d hurt his side more than he was letting on earlier, the liar. When he reached the spot I was lying in, he slowly lowered himself down on the grass beside me.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said, bringing my hands up and rubbing the rainwater from my face.
“You went past that window quicker than lightning.” He stared off over the village as he talked, a pensive look on his face. Finally, after some silence, he said, “I was glad to see you again, Tom.”
I raised myself off the ground and sat properly beside him. “I’ve ruined even more of your clothes,” I said, pointing to the mud that was now caking the back of my legs and likely the back of my whole body.
“That’s ok,” he said, and he reached over and put his hand on my knee. Unlike our previous connections that ended as quickly as they started, this time he let his hand stay there. “It’s Mair you’ll have to grovel to.”
The rain began to ease off to a drizzle and we looked out over the village as the final moments of sunlight disappeared beyond the rooftops.
“It’s a nice night,” he said. “Don’t you think?”
I moved my hand across my leg just slightly so that our fingers were lightly touching. “Yeah,” I replied, staring off over the village. “It’s a lovely night.”
By the time I arrived back at Pen Castell Farm, everybody had already eaten and the youngest children were in bed. I crept into the kitchen looking for food and hoping not to disturb anyone, only to find Mr and Mrs Hopkin sitting at the dining table. They stopped talking as soon as I entered the room and both looked at me with concern.
In all the fuss of the previous month, I had continued to stay in the barn without any discussion of my intentions to remain and when I saw them both sitting there, especially with all that had gone on and Nan returning home, I was suddenly worried that I may have outstayed my welcome and was about to be given my marching orders.
“Sit down, love,” Mrs Hopkin said, her usual smile nowhere to be seen. My heart sank, but Mr Hopkin not having his head in the paper at the table made me most nervous of all.
I took a seat opposite them and prepared myself for the news. I knew I could go to Mair’s house if I absolutely had to but it was cramped enough already with just two of them living there. With me moving in as well and bringing no money to the pot I knew I’d just be a burden. At least at the farm I’d be able to work for my supper.
“You ran out with the winds of God earlier,” Mrs Hopkin started. “Do you want to tell us what upset you? Only, John said you were fine until you saw the photograph in the bedroom and-”
“If you know anything about Jack’s whereabouts, now is the time to tell us,” Mr Hopkin interrupted, his face reddening. I could see he had little patience for this conversation or his wife’s delicate approach and my reaction had obviously made him suspicious.
“We’re not accusing you of anything, love,” Mrs Hopkin chimed in, “but Christmas is right around the corner and we want him home with us. If you’ve any idea where him and that girl have disappeared to, please, we just want to know.”
Her face was filled with anguish and I knew she was looking to me to put her mind at ease but what could I say? ‘Sorry Mrs Hopkin, but you know your son who you saw last month as a 23-year-old? Well, I buried him six weeks ago aged 63. Oh, and it was also 109 years from now in 1998. Also, he was my father. Sorry I didn’t mention it sooner but I only just found out myself.’
I wanted to put an end to their worry but I knew I couldn't tell them the truth. I wasn't even entirely sure what the truth of it all was but if I told them what I thought I knew they’d throw me out for sure.
“I saw him,” I said, beginning my lie. “It was just before I got to the village. I’d stopped for food and met a couple on their way to Cardiff. I only spoke to them for a minute but they seemed happy and normal and it was miles from here so I didn’t make the connection. It wasn’t until I saw the picture that I even knew what Jack looked like. I’ve never been upstairs before. I’m so sorry, Mrs Hopkin, I promise I didn’t know.”
Mrs Hopkin brought a clenched fist up to her mouth and closed her eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was praying or about to cry but I was instantly wracked with guilt about my deception.
“They both seemed happy,” I continued, hoping my lie might bring them some peace. “And he said his name was John,” I added, because that’s what I’d always thought my dad’s name to be.