FLASH FICTION - DISCOVERY

Jenny sat quietly. Everything depended on the outcome of the conversation. Her loved ones had told her that everything would be all right, but Jenny’s doubts continued. Then the doctor walked in.

‘As you would expect, discussions have been had, and we’ve carried out further investigations.’

There was a pause as the doctor waited to see whether Jenny was ready to take the news. ‘The result is positive,’ he said. Jenny was speechless. She wanted to speak, but the words remained in her head, refusing to make that journey from brain to mouth. This wasn’t unusual. Jenny habitually self-censored, so that the drawbridge remained closed, her thoughts locked inside the castle’s keep, not being permitted to float across the water to the world outside. 

Although Jenny’s words did not cross the moat, water did appear, running down Jenny’s face. These tears expressed the emotion that she was trying to keep locked away.

‘Thank you,’ she said, before the doctor could say any more. ‘You have left me speechless. I shall see you tomorrow.’

As Jenny drove home, she went past familiar surroundings, reflecting that, after living in the same town all her life, she would not see it beyond the next few months. Driving past the old Post Office, Jenny remembered how much she had enjoyed sending presents to her nieces at Christmas. She loved to watch the delight in their eyes, as they opened their gifts from Santa. Last year, she had heard the children reading Christmas stories themselves for the first time. She hoped that, when they discovered the truth about Christmas, they would not be too disappointed, understanding that adults had told them tales to bring them happiness.

Jenny sat at home, waiting for her husband, Rob, to arrive. Rob loved their home town. Then she heard the sound of Rob’s key in the front door. Her heart sank as she prayed that she would be able to tell him the news. Listening to the sound of Rob’s footfall as he approached the living room, Jenny asked herself, ‘Why is it so easy for Rob’s feet to march along when my words, so often, remain stubbornly locked away?’ 

‘Well?’ said Rob. On this occasion Jenny’s mouth opened. 

‘The answer is ‘Yes’. Dr. Richard, the professor of the Philosophy Department, has told me that I have been accepted. I’m going to be a lecturer at the University of Washington. It means that we’re going to leave this town and start afresh.’ There was still doubt in Jenny’s voice.

But Rob cast that doubt to one side, stepping forward to hug and kiss the only woman he had ever truly loved. ‘I love you so much!’ he said. Then Jenny cried again. It was the second time she had cried with happiness that day. Rob had made a discovery, as children make discoveries when they find out the truth about Father Christmas.

As adult readers, we can also make discoveries. But not until we reach the story’s end.

(NOTE TO READER: THIS ENTRY HAS A CERTAIN LAYOUT IN THE ORIGINAL - TO VIEW THIS, PLEASE CLICK ON THE FILE AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS ENTRY)

“I hereby pronounce this extraordinary general meeting open!”, boomed the Chair, her broad benign smile putting everyone at their ease, apart from the krill who trilled a hasty retreat sinking out of sight on a cold descending current.

“Can I take a roll call to ensure that all the communities affected by recent events are represented? Cuttlefish? Puffer fish? Seals? Turtles? Manatee? Hermit crabs? Yes, stop chattering at the back you dolphins, I can see you. I’ll represent the whales if that’s OK.

Now as I understand it, the Sargasso Neighbourhood Watch has reported a number of disturbing events which fall into three broad categories: child protection issues; damage to property; and what I can only describe as acts of voyeurism and public indecency.

I’d like to start with child protection, potentially the most serious, but I believe no actual harm came to the youngsters involved? I my own case I had left my little Willy at the surface while I sank to feed and when I came back he had made friends with some half-witted calf. Mrs Grey-Seal, I believe something similar happened to Sammy?”

……“Yes – he made friends with a stray seal  - dreadfully common sort - no manners on him. To be fair, he kept Sammy company while I was out at sea, but my Sammy is not the sharpest tool in the box and could easily have been led astray.”

“Can we move on now to Mr Puffer-Fish? Tell us what happened to you.”

…….“Yes, well you know how much pride I take in my sculptures. I’d spent ages grading the pebbles and arranging the sand, and blow me, if a rather ungainly chap kept swimming over and dropping shells all over the place. Took me hours to get it right and I missed several chances to impress the ladies, if you know what I mean.”

…….“I get you!”, piped up one of the turtles. “Me and the missus were just getting it on if you catch my drift. Now my missus is a bit of a flight risk at the best of times and there I was clinging on for dear life when her eye was caught by this big fella. He didn’t look the full shilling to me, but you know how size always impresses the ladies.”

“Mrs Cuttlefish? You had a similar experience? No need to blush, we are all adults here.”

“I was at the Jamaica Inn Coral Reef the other night and I spotted a handsome young cuttlefish. His skin was flashing and I was getting all the right signals. I was very attracted. There  was a challenge from another male but instead of flexing his tentacles he changed colour and transitioned to a female! I feel confused and betrayed.”

Other creatures clamoured to tell their stories…the imposter that surfed with the bottlenose dolphins, the manatee tricked into a kiss, the hermit crab embezzled of its shell…..

At the bottom of the seabed, Rock Cam whirred into life. 

(NOTE TO READER: THIS ENTRY HAS A CERTAIN LAYOUT IN THE ORIGINAL - TO VIEW THIS, PLEASE CLICK ON THE FILE BELOW)

Harry was sure his late father’s missing manuscript remained in the cottage. Now that the cottage has been sold, it was time for a frantic one last search. Sitting in the lone winged-back chair in his father’s study clutching a cup of coffee, Harry’s thoughts shifted to his father’s character. Like his music, his father William was man of surprises – he liked crosswords and frequently employed crossword strategies to get his audience to decipher music meaning.

Speaking out loud to his father’s ghost that Harry felt resident in the study, Harry said, “Ok William Sage, where is your manuscript hiding? It’s here somewhere!”

There was a knock that seemed to come from one of the wooden wall panels to the left of the fireplace. Then a second knock from the same panel. Harry got up to investigate the panel closely. He could see there was a slight opening. Prizing the panel open, inside there lay a written clue. Harry read the clue, “Five letters, placing of notes on lines.”

“Staves! Right Dad, six panels to the right. Hey! Another open panel. There’s a new clue. What is the title of Beethoven’s third symphony?”

There was a knock six panels going down from the E of Staves. 

“Eroica is the title of Beethoven’s third. Too easy Dad. You taught me all I needed to know about the maestro by the time I went to prep school.”

Harry counted another six panels down where he met the junction of fireplace hearth and skirting, so he realised the next clue would have to take him left. Another clue was found.

“Prokofiev’s piece that was not intended for Christmas. Greg Lake may know the answer…”

Harry scratched his head. “Greg Lake wrote I Believe In Father Christmas but what was the link with Prokofiev? Wait! Of course! Prokofiev’s Troika.”

There was another knock that Harry confirmed was his father agreeing with the answer. Counting to the left, Harry met the corner of the panelled wall with doorframe. He knew another clue must be lurking in the corner panel. Sure enough, the panel appeared to be slightly ajar. Harry reached in and grabbed the clue.

“Ok, listen carefully Dad. The clue says, Mozart Act 3 Figaro wedding where x marks the spot.”

Harry returned to his chair. This clue required a good think as he had not been such a good student after all. He reached for his mobile phone but strangely had no signal so google was not an option. What was special about the actual wedding in Mozart’s Figaro? 

As if a conductor was bringing an orchestra to attention, Harry heard six clear knocks. He heard them a second time. 

“Sextet! It’s Sextet!”

Harry counted six panels up where the S of sextet met the S of Staves. 

“The manuscript must be here. It’s got to be here!”

One knock was heard which Harry took to being confirmation. His father had lived in this seaside cottage overlooking a smugglers cove for nearly forty years… SeXtet!

He sits, head slightly bowed, gloved hands folded neatly in his lap. The room is quiet, austere; dark, but for the single shaft of sunlight that the shutters let in. He feels its warmth, like a reassuring hand laid upon his shoulder. Within, the only sounds are of his breathing and of muffled voices somewhere beyond the thickness of the door. Without, more sounds: distant shouts, barked orders, the rev of an engine – all seem far, far away, drifting in and out of his consciousness, like something from a dream. His eyes remain closed, but still, he looks – a fixed, inward, stare. He’s on the final leg of a journey - a voyage of discovery – and he’s shining a light into the darkest recesses of his soul…

But, how has it come to this?

He remembers happy childhood days: playing chase with his mother, brothers, and sisters; the German Shepherd; walks in the country; climbing oaks; and tearing the wrapping from the paintbox and brushes, a precious Christmas gift. The faintest of smiles plays across his lips and, for a moment, he’s relaxed. He shifts slightly in his seat, watching the scenes flick and jump across his inner lids, like a Thirties’ Hollywood film, of the sort he loves. But it quickly fades; and with it, his smile.

Don’t all young men fall out with their fathers? Isn’t it part of nature’s plan?

‘I tried,’ he thinks. ‘I tried to meet your expectations. Tried to be the son you always wanted. I steeped myself in culture, joined the church choir – once thought, even, about the priesthood.’ At this, he shifts again and rolls his shoulders, feels his chest lift and fall as his breathing becomes more laboured.

Another memory floats into view. It’s a tiny bed. A ragged teddy leans drunkenly at its foot. But that apart, it’s empty.

How could I have let you die? My favourite. My baby brother. It was my job – my duty – to keep you safe. And yet…

Baby Edmund, vermillion and pink, the rash of measles like a veil of small flowers on a field of snow, lies still – his small eyes pleading until a doctor’s hand smoothes them closed and the crying finally stops.

Now, a quarter of a century late, the big brother sits, alone, and finally allows the tears to flow.

*

The door creaks open and his eyes flicker. He raises his head and blinks, sensing the figure at his back. A quiet cough, deferential, and then: 

‘It’s time.’

The shutters are pulled wide and the room floods with the bright air of a glorious Bavarian spring day. He steps forward, bends his elbow, and raises his right arm to his shoulder.

‘Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!’ 

The chanting scares the birds from the trees. 

The ocean of faces stretches as far as his reddened eyes can see.

It has begun.

Many family secrets are only discovered long after their inception. Some after many decades and in unexpected places. These days, Family History Apps, like Ancestry.com, can reveal secrets to you anywhere. A year ago, at breakfast in North Wales, I saw my great grandmother for the first time. She is said to have had my grandfather out of wedlock and given him up for adoption. His birth certificate has no father listed. Her picture was uploaded by an unknown fourth cousin, linked to me by strands of our DNA. He’d found it when sorting his late father's effects..

I have a similar task now, clearing my mother's loft after her stroke and transfer to hospital. I know she kept family photos, many a century old, some revealed in my childhood. She lived in the same house since she married and the loft is an Aladdin 's cave of family history from its first conception to the present day.  In a random pattern are scattered the symbols of a relationship: among them a case with a wedding dress, a cot, a child's desk,  wooden toys, cameras, projectors, reel to reel tape recorders and boxes of LP's and cassettes. I’ll dispose of them all now. Only the family pictures will be passed to my children. Pride of place will be my parents’ collection stored in a small brown suitcase. I've never seen all the contents until now. I am relieved the case isn’t locked. Most of the pictures are sepia and most have names and dates on the back but one, a large sepia portrait, fascinates me. There’s no name but a large cross on the back. The man pictured is certainly family, same bushy eyebrows as me, same snub nose as me, same uncomfortable grin. I see my heritage framed in his old age. But who is he? I think  only my mother would know now and it may be too late to ask her. 

I rush to the hospital. She’s survived the night after another stroke, she's drowsy but awake. The doctor lets me see her.

“Mum, who's this?” I hold the picture comfortably close to her. 

Anger flicks across her face, she gurgles, fighting for words that won't come and jabs at me fiercely. Is she saying it's me? Predicting how I will look, suggesting this is some symbolic Dorian Gray portrait? How I should look after a dissolute life and not have my freakish Peter Pan looks? I'll never know what she meant. She passes later in the day without any more communication.

The next day, I don’t know why I think to do this but I send my newly identified fourth cousin, a copy of the photo. He recognises his great grandfather and we both deduce he’s mine too and we are more closely related than we thought. This is a photo of the man who put my great grandmother in the family way, despised by the family he rejected.

Sam knows I can’t swim but that didn’t stop him nudging me into the deep end as we walked round the pool. A lifeguard had to haul me to the side kicking and spluttering. Sam said he’d slipped on the wet floor but that sly look of his gave him away.

It started about a month ago just after he’d turned sixteen. Until then we were good mates. We don’t look alike. I’m tall and skinny and Sam is short and muscly. I’ve lost count of the number of times recently my older brother has done things to me by ‘accident.’ There was the time he locked me in the garden shed. He knows I get pretty stressed in confined spaces but he claimed he didn’t know I was in there and as he had his earphones on he didn’t hear me shouting and banging on the door. I can’t be sure it was him but one day when I was bombing down Long Hill on my bike the back brake cable snapped and applying the front brake too hard catapulted me into a Hawthorne hedge which scratched me to bits. That may not have been him but dosing my hot chocolate with laxative certainly was. I missed football practice as I had to stay close to the loo all that day.

What worries me is that these nasty stunts are getting more serious. He had a bread knife in his hand yesterday in the kitchen when he fell onto me and sliced my arm. He said he’d slipped on a piece of fruit on the floor. Sure enough there was a smear of banana or something on the tiles which I’m positive he’d put there to provide an alibi. I spent a few hours in A&E getting the nasty gash stitched up. At least he didn’t break any bones that time. Two weeks ago he managed to slam the car door on my hand breaking a couple of fingers. I’m still wearing a splint.

I tried to tell Mum about all this but she said Sam was just clumsy and didn’t mean any harm. Since Dad left, Mum has been very low and I don’t want to add to her worries by moaning about Sam. I hear Mum sobbing in her room at night and it upsets me a lot to see her so unhappy.

But I discovered something today which explains everything. I got home from school and heard shouting and screaming coming from the living room. It was Sam and Mum having a row. I heard Sam shout, “Why didn’t you tell me I was adopted. It did my head in to find out from that file in the bureau a few weeks ago… no wonder you like Jack more than me. I know he’s your own kid.” Mum tried to tell him she loved him just as much as me but he wouldn’t listen. He packed his rucksack and left. 

It’s just me and Mum now.

(NOTE TO READER: THIS ENTRY HAS A CERTAIN LAYOUT IN THE ORIGINAL - TO VIEW THIS, PLEASE CLICK ON THE FILE AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS ENTRY)

‘Miss! Come quick!’

Now what? It’s only been five minutes since Jayson Clarke reset the dials on the display Cipher Ring so the letters spelt PENIS. Our volunteer guide was not amused. Now, Tanesha Ali and her shifty little friends are huddled around a wall-mounted photo, pointing and giggling at God-knows-what. Why did I agree to supervise? Year 8s are arseholes in the classroom. They’re even worse on class trips. 

Tanesha beckons me to hurry. ‘Seriously, Miss. You NEED to see this!’ 

‘What’s so urgent?’

‘Look!’ she says, pointing at a woman in the photo. ‘It’s you!’ 

‘You’re a time-traveller, Miss!’ Kira Levine laughs. 

I lean forward to get a better look at the monochrome image of ten female Codebreakers in military garb, posing on the steps of Bletchley Park Mansion. 

‘See?!’ 

The image is grainy. Overexposed. The hairstyle is all wrong. But my face—the same upturned nose, pointy chin, and deep-set eyes—stares back at me from an eighty-year-old photograph. 

‘There’s certainly a strong resemblance,’ I say, noting the woman’s name. Third from the left—M. Jones. 

‘She’s your doppelgänger, Miss!’ Taneesha squeals. 

‘Maybe she’s a long-lost super-rich relative!’ Kira sputters. 

I smile. ‘Wouldn’t that be something?’

*

I turn my laptop around to show Mum the photo I snapped when our guide had his back turned. ‘I think I’ve found her,’ I say, enlarging the image. 

Mum covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, my!’ she gasps. ‘Was she a … Wren?’

‘No. WWII Codebreaker.’

‘Like in the film?’

I nod. 

She pulls the laptop closer and squints at the screen. ‘Uncanny. Remarkable.’ 

‘There’s more,’ I say, producing a brown folder. I take out stapled documents and hand them to Mum. ‘I’ve been in contact with the people at Bletchley. The woman in the photo … her name was Margaret Jones. She was employed there from 1942 to 1945.’ 

‘Well, if she was working …,’ Mum says almost dismissively. 

I point to the bottom of the page. ‘She took a personal leave of absence from September ’43 to March ’44.’

Mum’s eyes widen. 

‘Personal or medical?’ I ask. 

‘The dates … they add up, but it says here she was unmarried.’ 

‘Exactly.’

I turn the laptop back towards me. ‘Once I knew her name, I could research more. Margaret Elaine Jones, born 30 January, 1920. Attended Oxford, 1938-1942. Married Captain Roland T. Montgomery in 1948. She produced four children—Roland, Maggie, Timothy, and Elaine. Deceased, May 1996, age 76.’ 

‘This is a recent photo of Elaine,’ I say, showing Mum Elaine’s Facebook page. The familiar upturned nose, pointy chin, and deep-set grey eyes stare back at us through the ether. 

*

Gran sits next to the window in her favourite wing-back chair. She smiles when she sees us enter and gestures for us to sit. 

‘It’s not Tuesday! What brings you here, lovey?’ she asks. 

I take her frail hand in mine. ‘Gran, we believe we’ve found your birth mother.’

(NOTE TO READER: THIS ENTRY HAS A CERTAIN LAYOUT IN THE ORIGINAL - TO VIEW THIS, PLEASE CLICK ON THE FILE BELOW)