He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) (33 page)

Another seal plopped into the water.

From sea to sea.

I had to find Fred and Lori.
 

Peg said Christchurch was like an English city, but I didn’t think it was.
 
Not that I’d seen much of England, except for the bits closest to Blountmere Street.
 
Most Christchurch streets were unwaveringly straight and bordered by wooden bungalows.
 
And I was perfectly sure it wasn’t the same ‘Up West’ when we had gone to Lyons Corner House with Fred and Lori.
 
I could still remember it clearly.
  
I didn’t think Devon had wide roads, either.
 
In Paula’s library book, the streets had looked narrow, some of them no more than a strip.
 
If anything, it was the gardens that were reminiscent of England, or at least of the Dibble’s, with their precision-planted regiments of red, white and blue.

Yipsley Street, which was where I was going to board, was identical to all the streets around it, but Peg approved.
 
‘Nice and quiet.
 
Everyone keeps their gardens well which is always a good sign.’
 
Peg squinted at the numbers on the post boxes.
 
‘Number twenty-three’s here.’
 
She opened her window and leant out.
 
‘Yes, this is it, the one painted yellow.’
 
She appraised it as if she was thinking of buying it.
 
‘It looks tidy enough and the windows seem clean.
 
Nicely painted, though I would have preferred cream myself.
 
Should be a good indication of what’s inside.’

‘We’ll find out soon enough.’
 
I couldn’t understand the need for such speculation when we were just about to see inside the house.
 
Anyway, Miss Jervlin had said that the place belonged to her cousin’s friend, and she could vouch for it.

‘Best to be prepared, and make a bit of an assessment,’ Peg counselled.

Like many of its neighbours, number twenty-three had a fretwork butterfly hung at an angle next to the front door.

‘Nice, very nice,’ Peg observed.

The door-knocker was highly polished.
 
The door was opened by a woman so straight and fleshless, she reminded me of a pencil.
 
Peg immediately sniffed her disapproval.
 
In Peg’s opinion, anyone that thin didn’t have a mere flaw in their make-up, but a deep sinful chasm.

‘You must be Tony.
 
I’m Mrs Munn.’
 
The woman extended a bony hand.
 
‘Come on in.’
 
She lead us along a wood-panelled hall into the front room.
 
It smelt of lavender polish.
 
While it wasn’t as cozily haphazard as the Millard’s lounge room, it wasn’t the mausoleum the Downston’s had been.
 
Above the red-brick fireplace was a painting of pink roses, their petals dropping into a silver bowl.
 
Under it, but with no apparent relevance to the picture, were the words,
As for me and my house we will serve the Lord
.

‘Good words, some of Uncle Rewi’s favourites.’ Peg nodded towards the painting, appearing to be getting over the shock of Mrs Munn’s shapelessness.
 
‘I’m Peg Millard, by the way.’

‘I gathered you were.
 
How d’you do?’

Mrs Munn escorted us through into another wood panelled room, with a red velvet seat built into a lead-lighted bay window.
 
Above a fireplace, identical to the one in the front room, hung a picture of The Last Supper, under which the words announced:
The Lord is the unseen guest at every meal, the silent listener to every conversation
’.

‘This is the dining room.
 
We eat all our meals here,’ Mrs Munn informed us.

‘Very nice,’ Peg surveyed the place.
 
She was always impressed by people who ate in their dining rooms, on the assumption that if they went to the trouble of eating in a special room, then surely they would have cooked plenty of good wholesome food to go with it, as it were.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mrs Munn asked.

‘We’d love one.’
 
Peg edged her way to the door.
 
‘The kitchen’s through here, is it?
 
We’ll come and wait while you make it.’
 
This was the crucial part of Peg’s assessment.
 
I followed, hoping Peg’s son would soon arrive to pick her up and take her the rest of the way to his place.
 
Personally, the only room I was interested in was the one that was going to be my bedroom.
 
All I wanted was for this to be a base, not only for my university studies, but for my search for Fred and Lori.
 
Christchurch was just the sort of place they would live.
 
I had to find them.

In the kitchen, we sat at a table covered with red oilcloth in the middle of a scrupulously tidy kitchen.
 
I wasn’t sure if Peg would view it as commendable.
 
She certainly appeared to be impressed by the row of preserves on the bench under the window.
 
Not as many as she herself would have made, but preserves nonetheless.
 
Mrs Munn busied herself with cups and saucers before opening a larder to reveal a tower of tins.
 
‘You like cakes, Tony?’ she asked.

‘I love them.’
 
I knew I dare not answer otherwise, with Peg sitting opposite me.

‘I always fill my tins every Tuesday.
 
Monday’s washing day, Tuesday’s baking.’
 
Mrs Munn began extracting various dainties and placing them onto a cake plate with a chrome handle, much the same as the one Peg had.

‘I wash on a Monday as well.
 
Same routine.
 
Monday’s washing, Tuesday’s baking.
 
It’s the only way to do things, in my opinion.’
 
Peg sat forward on her chair and winked at me, as if to inform me that anyone who filled their tins every Tuesday had to be all right.

‘Ginger gems,’ Peg observed.

‘Oh yes.
 
I wouldn’t be without my gem iron.’

Peg beamed.
 
Even if Mrs Munn’s ginger gems weren’t as plump or cream-laden as hers, Mrs Munn had passed the test.
 
Peg would personally vouch for anyone who filled their tins every Tuesday and had a gem iron.
 

‘I think you’re going to be very happy here, Tony,’ she proclaimed.

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘You’re certainly conscientious, I’ll give you that.
 
I can’t keep up with the number of times you been to one or other of the city’s libraries in the last couple of weeks.’
 
Mrs Munn rubbed at her dining room table with a polish-laden duster.
 
‘But, I suppose that’s what you have to do when you read English literature at university.’
 
She turned to me with a look that might have been one of admiration.
 
On the other hand, it could have been one of suspicion.
 
It was difficult to tell.
 
Her eyes seemed to be as thin as the rest of her.
 
Either way, she made me feel uneasy.

Yes, ‘I do have to read a lot of books,’ I said.
 
The smell of lavender polish was almost heady.
 
It caught in my throat and I gave a lame cough to clear it.

‘You’re obviously a young man who doesn’t like to leave any stone unturned.
 
I’ve never heard of anyone trying out a different church every Sunday.
 
Very devout.’
 
I shifted from foot to foot.
 

‘I … I … just like to check out their theology.’
 
I was the biggest, most pompous hypocrite in Yipsley Street, in Christchurch, in the world.
 
It wasn’t my zealousness that drove me to visit them all, but in case, by the merest chance I found Fred and Lori in one of them.
 
They could well be kneeling on a hassock, unaware I was there to bring my search for them to an end.

Mrs Munn gave her table another massage.
 
‘I can assure you there’s nothing wrong with my church’s theology.
 
It’s as sound, as sound as … ’ She searched for the right words.
 
‘As sound as the docks at Gibraltar.’

‘Of course … I never meant …’
 
I began backing out of the room.
 
Mrs Munn could be fearsome when she was upset.
 
‘I think I’ll go into the city,’ I said, grabbing my coat from the hallstand and fleeing out the door, past the fretwork butterfly and down the path.

Today, I would try another row of shops.
 
I’d just about given up on the libraries.
 
Anyway, the librarians were becoming wary of me combing the aisles of books without appearing to be looking at any.
 
And, of course, I could only do the churches on Sundays.
 

Where else could I look for Fred and Lori?
 
I couldn’t live in Christchurch without scouring every inch of the place for them.
 
If they were still in New Zealand, and I had to believe they were, Christchurch was just the sort of place they’d live.

It didn’t feel like a city, at least not like London.
 
Here you could wait all morning for someone to walk past the window.
 
I knew it wasn’t a glitch in my memory or some sort of mental conjuring trick when I remembered people passing our flat in Blountmere Street all through the day and well into the night.
 

Here, the buses were never full, nor were the shops, nor was the swimming pool nor the library.
 
And although I had never been to an English beach, I couldn’t imagine so few people on them, especially on days when the sky pulsated blue and the sun patterned the sea.

A bell jangled as I opened the door of a shoe shop.
 
A young girl in shoes that were so pointed and high I wondered she could walk in them at all, asked, ‘Can I help you?’ in a bored sing-song voice.

‘Have a man with sandy colour hair, and probably wearing navy blue and a woman with frizzy hair and a long scarf been in here?’

The girl scrutinized my sturdy brown shoes from Old Man Witchery’s last shipment only ten years ago.
 
‘I’ve got some winkle pickers that would suit you.’

‘Um … no thanks.
 
I just wondered if you’d seen these people.
 
They’re my … family.
 
We’ve lost touch over the years, and I’m trying to find them.’

The girl gave my feet another disparaging glance.
 
‘How old would they be?’
 
I wasn’t sure if she meant my shoes or Fred and Lori.
 
I’d never thought of Fred and Lori having an age.
 
‘Middle age.
 
Well, perhaps a bit older than that.’

‘Sorry, can’t recall anyone who fits that description.’

I shrugged.
 
‘Thanks.’
 
It seemed all but impossible.
 
I made my way to the next shop.
 
There was nothing much else to do except study and attend lectures and tutorials.
 

I was enjoying university and doing well, but with my letter to Paula having been returned and with no address for Angela, finding Fred and Lori seemed my best opportunity.
 
At least they lived in the same country as me, and this place didn’t have a lot of people living in it.
 
I had to find out what had happened to Mum and Angela – what had happened to the whole of Blountmere Street, for that matter.
 
I knew I would never be able to move on until I did.
 
The Millards might consider me family, but neither Jack nor Peg had ever called me son, like Fred had.
 
I’d forgive him everything for that.

In my first lecture at university, I’d sat next to Pete.
 
Now at lectures, we usually saved each other a place.
 
Like me, he was in the first year of a Bachelor’s degree majoring in English literature.
 
To begin with, we mainly met on the university campus.
 
When we did, we stopped to have a chat, usually about inconsequential things such as our lodgings or rugby.
 
Sometimes we became more serious and talked about an essay we were writing or our latest assignment, but I never told him anything about being a child migrant or about my quest to find Fred and Lori.
 
He told me his father owned a factory in the North Island somewhere.
 
As soon as he’d completed his degree, he was off, he said; as far away as he could get from the factory and before he could be dragged into the business.

I completed another eight shops without success, and made my way to the university.
 
Tomorrow, I’d be able to fit in at least another half a dozen more enquiries before my lecture.
 

Pete caught up with me a few minutes before we arrived at the university.

‘Is that all you do, mooch about the city?’ he asked.

‘That and study,’ I laughed.
 

‘You’ll never make friends that way.’

‘Perhaps not.’
 
Over the years, I’d become accustomed to my own company.

‘Look, there’s a few of us who meet in the pub most afternoons for an hour or so.
 
Why don’t you join us?
 
It’ll do you good.
 
You can’t stay cooped up studying all the time.’
 
He sounded like Peg and I smiled.
 
‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Do more than that.
 
Come with me later this afternoon.
 
You’ll enjoy it.’

‘Well, I don’t … ’

‘We’ll go straight after the lecture.
 
No excuses, right?’

The group of undergraduates who met in the pub most evenings weren’t much different to the Gang - four blokes and a girl (there was a difference there, of course) sitting around talking big talk that mostly led nowhere.
 
A jug of best Canterbury bitter replaced the ubiquitous Tizer, and the chill fog of the bombsite had been exchanged for a warm smoky fug.

Mike, our self-appointed leader, wiped the beer froth from his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater.
 
It was the same colour and in about as ragged a state as the one Dennis used to wear.
 
It was the only thing about Dennis and Mike that was alike.
 
‘As far as I can see, we don’t have any alternative.
 
We have to do something to draw attention to the evils of nuclear weapons.’

Had Mike always been this serious about life, or had the enormity of it descended on him when he entered the hallowed environs of the university, I wondered?

‘So you think five measly people in a place thousands of miles from anywhere will sway world governments?’
 
Linda asked as she flicked her hair back over her shoulders.

‘At least we’d be doing something, not sitting on our backsides like the rest of humanity waiting for the planet to be blown to pieces.’

‘You’ve got a point.
 
We could stand in The Square.’
 
Pete began.

‘Demonstrate, Pete, demonstrate,’ Mike interjected.

‘Demonstrate in The Square?’
 

‘What d’you think, Tony?’ Geoff asked.

I took another sip of my beer.
 
‘Why not?
 
As Mike says, at least we’ll be doing something.’

‘You’re right, Tony, I suppose it is the best way to go,’ Linda’s knee brushed mine.

‘We’ll carry banners, shout slogans; you know the sort of thing,’ Mike brought the conversation back under his direction.

‘Very effective, I don’t think!
  
Five undergraduates shouting slogans that nobody can hear.’

Pete told me Linda and Mike used to date, but their relationship had cooled.
 
He thought Linda had been on the verge of leaving the group until I turned up.
 
“Changed her mind when she saw you, mate,” Pete had winked.

‘I can get hold of a loud hailer and a couple of orange boxes.’ Mike appeared not to notice Linda’s sarcasm.
 
‘And if five university undergraduates can’t come up with some pithy slogans, who can?
 
As I see it, we’ve only got a couple of years left at varsity.
 
Let’s take the opportunity while we can.’

‘If you’re willing, I am,’ Linda moved closer to me.

‘Right, that’s it.
 
Let’s meet, same time, same place tomorrow to discuss the details.
 
Anyone got a lecture or a tutorial?’
 
Mike eyed each member of the group except Linda.

‘Right, tomorrow it is.
 
Drink up, there’s a few minutes to go before six, so we’ve got time for one more before throwing-out time.’

‘If you’re walking home, I’ll come with you.
 
I’m going in the same direction.’
 
Linda linked her arm through mine, ignoring Geoff’s wink to Pete and Mike sullenly staring into his beer.

Mr Munn called from his shed, beckoning to me in a gesture of secrecy when I arrived back after having walked with Linda to the flat she shared with three other students.

‘Come and look at my latest.’ Mr Munn ushered me into his shed.
 
He was practically the same shape as his wife.
 
However, his most striking feature was his head: pink, shiny and devoid of a single hair.
 

Inside on shelves neatly placed and labeled was row upon row of cigarette lighters.

‘I’ve just got a new one.
 
Look at this little beauty,’ he chuckled.
 
It was made
 
in the shape of a guitar.
 
Mr Munn pretended to play it.
 
He looked like a pipe cleaner figure that was about to become untwisted.

‘You must have had a win at housie,’ I said.

Mr Munn covered his mouth with his hand to suppress a spluttered laugh.
 
He was like a mischievous child.
 
The only time Mr Munn added a lighter to his collection was when he won at housie.
 
They were both hobbies of which Mrs Munn disapproved, and she watched tight-lipped as her husband cycled off each evening to a housie night in a different part of the city.
 
“Housie and cigarette lighters!”
 
She grumbled.
 
“Tools of Satan!
 
Why couldn’t it be Scrabble and match boxes?”
 
Mrs Munn usually followed her displeasure by patting my hand.
 
“Such a comfort, such a comfort,” she murmured, patting a few more times.