Sins of the Father

They say the rain falls on the just. The cortege streamed through the cemetery and then pulled up quietly and smoothly outside the crematorium. It was a nineteenth century palladian style temple of a mellow sandstone. The grass by the gravestones looked refreshed and emerald green; the spring flowers were spotted with raindrops. The yellow of daffodils and the carmine rose of tulips did nothing however to lift my spirits. We were cremating Dad.

* * * * * *

As we filed into the back pews of the chapel Mum could be heard sobbing quietly. I was saddened of course, my face grey-white and sombre, as if my body had been drained of blood. The vicar gave out all the usual faint praise and words of sympathy. I just wanted to get back home and play my jazz records. Louis Armstrong and Chet Baker would hit the spot, soothing away my anxieties - restore a sense of calm. I eased my flaccid body into the waiting limousine and tried to comfort Mum. Aunty Jen said words of comfort too and soon, all too soon, we were back at our house in Golden Sun Walk. There was the tinkle of tea-cups, it would be the periwinkle service I knew, and niceties were observed. In half an hour I would be upstairs playing my jazz. Dad was dead. I was twenty-five, Dad had only been fifty-nine, and now Mum was a widow. I wondered if she would be a merry one. Today it did not seem like it.

* * * * * *

When I awoke the next day the bedroom seemed very cold. It was May but we were in the middle of a cold snap. I wanted to go into town, have a mooch around the bookshop in the high street. Sunderland was more bookish now it had a university, something the family was grateful for. Our house in Golden Sun Walk was victorian. The trees gave the houses shade in the summer and in autumn the road was filled with fallen leaves. It wasn't far from the centre of things. I tripped down the stairs and grabbed some breakfast before careering out of the front door and down the steps to the road. There was still some rain in the air and it felt a bit cool. I walked into town through the park and noticed the Walrus by the lake. It was a sculpture there; a reminder that the town had been visited by Lewis Carroll at some point in its history. The high street looked quite busy, it usually was, and I eventually reached the bookstore. I'd always had an interest in local history and this week there was a book display on just that. One book caught my eye: it was photographs of the past taken in the surrounding area. I thumbed through it and then noticed one particular photo. It was a photograph of a bottle factory in Washington and its rugby team. I couldn't believe what I saw - all the men were young, about sixteen or seventeen, and all workers at the factory, but one face stood out from all the rest. It was my Dad, I was sure of it. I decided I would buy the book. I'd take it home and show Mum. I paid for the book and left the store. I was rather perplexed now because I knew my Dad had grown up in the south of England, Bedford in fact. What was a photograph of him doing in this book ? Maybe Mum could explain it. It seemed to be a bit of a mystery.

* * * * * *

"No, I don't understand that," said Mum, when I showed her the photo. She did not seem to know why Dad would be in the rugby team of a Washington factory when he was growing up in Bedford. "Maybe it's just somebody that looks like him," she offered, but I was unconvinced. I'd seen photos of Dad when he was young and this was just like them. He was wearing a baseball cap and sat at the front on the grass. I wanted to find out more. Mum pooh-poohed the idea, said it would be a waste of time. I didn't think so. I would go to Washington on the bus, look out the bottle factory and ask some questions. Mum said " your Dad didn't arrive in the north-east until he was twenty-two, so he certainly did not work for Sanderson's in Washington. It's just not possible." If she was right this photo was even more puzzling than it seemed.

* * * * * *

Sanderson's bottle factory was behind the high street in Washington. I arrived one friday afternoon on a cloudy and overcast day. The premises looked fairly delapidated but the old sign on the nearby perimeter fence still said in faded lettering 'Sanderson's Bottle Factory ~ Founded 1912'. I went through the gate and approached the glass office which looked as if it had been built quite recently in front of the old building. "Can I help you ?" said a sensible-looking girl with blonde hair of about twenty. "I'm enquiring about someone I think worked here about 1967."
"Oh, the company has changed hands since then. There have been a lot of changes. We've kept the old name but the company is owned by Harlow Denham's now. One of the old directors still lives in town, maybe you should ask him. He retired five years ago, but he was here in 1967."
"Oh, who is that ?"
"It's a Mr. Clerkenwell. He lives in Friar's Pardon, it's number five, but it's the old village, not Concord."
"Oh thanks, I'll go and look him up."
With that I left the old factory premises and got back to the bus station. The village was not far away, but it was a bus ride. It was difficult without the car, but it was in the garage getting a new exhaust. I was getting desperate to get it back.

* * * * * *

The old village of Washington was a pleasant enough place. I soon found that Friar's Pardon was not that far from the Old Hall where George Washington grew up. It was easy to find. I knocked on the door of a rather salubrious bungalow with large plate glass windows and a very neat lawn in front with conifers and a rockery. There was a small pool too at the side of the drive with a fountain jet spraying water a couple of feet into the air. After a minute or two I could see a rather large gent ambling to the front of the bungalow through the opaque glass of the door. "Hello," I said, "I'm sorry to bother you but I'm looking for someone that I believe worked for you about 1967." I then told the man in front of me about the photo and my interest in it. "Can I see the photo ?," he said.
I pulled the book out and pointed to my Dad. "I know that face," he said, "it's Johnny Dunbar."
This bit of information floored me, but I thought I would say nothing, play it cool.
"Oh thanks for your time," I said.
"Does that help ?," he said.
"It may do," I replied and then turned to leave. He seemed to mutter to himself and, as I said thankyou, the door shut. Maybe at this point I should mention who I am and fill you in on a few details. I am called Ross Macklow and my mother is Rose Macklow. My Dad was called Peter of the same name. So it was puzzling to say the least to find the person on the photo was called Johnny Dunbar. I could not imagine any rational explanation. I knew I would be spending tomorrow in the record office in Sunderland trying to find out anything I could about Johnny Dunbar.

* * * * * *

The archivist directed me to the computer. I searched for the name and found a match. There was a Johnny Dunbar born in Washington in 1951 but there was no death certificate. The man must still be alive. He had lived at Anderson Street. I took down the number and knew I would have to go back to Washington. I was to pick up my car, a sports car by the way, open-topped and speedy, at twelve o' clock from Morrison's garage. The car looked lovely. I think they had given it a bit of a polish too. My heart sank when I got the bill, but I paid by cheque and jumped into the car. I wanted to get back to Johnny Dunbar's old address. It was disappointing to find that the old house had been demolished; in its stead was a fish and chip shop circa 1980. By this time I was feeling rather thirsty so I thought I would stop off at Jamiesons, the local pub. There weren't many in and I approached the bar eagerly and asked for a pint of bitter. I took my drink over to a table in the corner. Next to my table there was an old man quite smartly dressed rolling a cigarette. Maybe this was my chance to quiz the locals. I smiled broadly. The old man smiled back.
"I've not seen you here before," he said.
"No," I answered, "I'm trying to trace someone."
"Oh, who ?"
"A Johnny Dunbar. He worked for Sandersons, about the mid-sixties."
"Oh, most of us found work there at some point or other. I remember the name, but I can't quite picture him."
I got out the book again and showed him the photo.
"Well I know that photo," he said, "I'm on it," and he pointed to another young man standing at the back of the line up.
"That's Johnny Dunbar," I said pointing to my Dad's picture.
"Oh yes, I remember him now, a quiet lad, never said much. I know he left after about two years on the job. He went to Brittany I think, in France."
"Brittany ?"
"Yes, he went to work out there. He was a young lad and he wanted to see a different country."
I then thought of our holidays in Brittany when I was ten and twelve. We had stayed in Dinard, a nice resort on the Emerald coast. Maybe there was a connection between Johnny Dunbar and my Dad. I thanked the man for this nugget of information and ordered him another drink. Maybe now I was getting somewhere.

* * * * * *

When I arrived back home Mum was sat by the window reading an Ian Rankin novel. If I couldn't confide in Mum who could I confide in ? I told her all I had learnt at Washington. She looked rather dismayed. Maybe she thought I was clutching at straws. Dad had just died and I was spinning some sort of mysterious web around him. I don't think she approved. I told her I intended to go to Brittany. She received the news with a kind of resignation. As I made my preparations, booking the ferry etc., she made no comment. I was going to Brittany again. It would be a kind of holiday. I hadn't been back to Dinard in thirteen years.

* * * * * *

I drove my car onto the ferry at Poole harbour and had to endure the slow crossing because all the tickets for the fast one had gone. It took over four hours but I arrived in Cherbourg refreshed and eager to do the drive down. It was sunny and warm in Cherbourg and the smell of the sea air reinvigorated me. I put on my sunglasses, threw my jacket on the back seat and prepared myself for a bit of a journey. I would stop off at Coutances and look in at Barneville-Carteret and also Granville, and I didn't want to miss Mont St. Michel either. The Mount had astonished me when I was a boy, I was sure it would again. The scenery was lovely - all rolling farmland and chateaux as well as the inevitable gites. The coastal route was interesting, but I went inland to see Coutances. I was being a bit of a tourist but I wanted to see the famous cathedral. From its lantern tower I got superb views over the town and then I relaxed in a cafe by the Jardin des Plantes with its vivid green lawns and sumptuous flower beds full of geraniums and fuchsias. A plate of oysters was very welcome, together with a french beer, and then I continued my journey. Mont St. Michel was basking in strong sunlight, the causeway exposed as the sea receded into the distance. It was lovely and breezy in the car and I was glad I had come. Even if it all turned out to be a wild goose chase it was a holiday, a welcome break from Sunderland. I thought of Dad when he was here with me, the happy times we'd had together. When I arrived in Dinard it was getting cooler but the light was creating magical effects over the town, a town redolent of the nineteenth century with its old style villas and sedate promenade walks. One of the villas had been used in the film 'Psycho'. Mum had joked about it on our holiday. She had me worried we wouldn't leave in one piece. But our times on the beach and wandering around the old town had been happy enough. The eucalyptus and mimosa were as fragrant as ever, their scent wafted over me; the palms a lovely backdrop. I remembered spending a lot of time in the outdoor cafes, maybe I could pick up some information in them this time. I was full of optimism.

* * * * * *

My hotel in Dinard was on the sea-front. I had wanted a sea view. Tomorrow I would have a promenade around the town. Tonight I just wanted to sleep.

* * * * * *

It was a lovely summer's day when I awoke to the sound of the waves on the beach. It was early June and the sun was bright in the sky. After my croissants and coffee I refreshed my memory of the town's geography. Nothing had changed much in thirteen years. I thought I would have a swim then laze on the beach but really there was work to be done. At five o' clock I took my deck chair back and started to leave the beach, but it was then an american couple collared me. They were staying at my hotel.
"You are Mr. Macklow aren't you ?" they said in unison. "We saw your name in the hotel register last night. We are the Greenacres."
"Oh, nice to meet you," I said back.
"We've been in an amazing museum in San Malo, you'll have to go," they said. "We noticed your name particularly," they then said.
"My name ?"
"Yes. In the museum in San Malo we learnt that the founder of San Malo was a welsh monk called Maclow."
"Oh, that is interesting," I said, not realizing then this gave me a link with the town. It was to dawn on me later that american tourists can provide quite a lot of useful information.
"Oh, and if you need a dry cleaners, Rue Marguerite, they are wonderful and so quick."
Maclow was a welsh monk then and it just happened to be my name too. It occurred to me this gave the family a link with San Malo, not Dinard at all. We had holidayed in Dinard and Dad had friends there, but now when I came to think of it they had travelled from San Malo to see him. Maybe my next port of call should be San Malo.

* * * * * *

I decided to go by boat the next morning. It was only ten minutes across the water. If I'd taken the car it would have been twice as long and this trip was masquerading as a holiday anyway. I thought I might go to the museum the americans had mentioned, see if I could get any more bits of information that might help. I wanted to visit the Aquarium too, but I didn't think that would help further my enquiries. The museum was open luckily and I mooched around its exhibits. Then I came to the history of the monk Maclow. Our name had a k in it, that was the only difference. The americans had not mentioned that. Maclow had become bishop of Aleth and he is now known as St. Servan. I had passed a street called after him, Rue Saint Servan. Maybe I should go back. Rue Saint Servan was lined with pavement cafes. I stopped off at the first one I came to.
"Cafe, s'il vous plait."
"Au lait ?"
"Oui, merci."
Next minute I was stirring the brown sugar in my coffee cup. This was the cafe 'Jardin des Fleurs'. The owner looked lethargic and bleary-eyed and was counting money inside. She must have been about sixty plus. She was dressed all in black with a white lace collar and a string of pearls around her neck. As I approached her she looked a trifle sad.
"Sorry to bother you Madame," I said, " but I am looking for information on somebody - does the name Dunbar or Macklow mean anything to you ?"
"No," she said, quite definitely. "Who is this person ?"
"An English worker, came here in about 1969."
"Oh English workers, they all went to 'Le Parc Vert' in the 1960's. It's down the other end of the street. It's changed its name since then though, it's now 'Les Papillons'. Ask there."
So I thought I would. I paid for my coffee and left. Cafe Papillons was probably the biggest cafe on the Rue Saint Servan. It was busy too. Here however, I met with stony resistance. For a cafe which employed English workers it was remarkably laconic in producing any English phrases. If they had employed English people once it didn't seem to be true today. And if they did know anything they definitely weren't saying. But what I did know from my madame at 'Jardin des Fleurs' was that 'Cafe Papillons' was once called 'Le Parc Vert'. I would do some digging, look up old newspapers. It was all on microfiche these days. I wanted to look for anything to do with the old 'Le Parc Vert'.

* * * * * *

Search engines are a great help nowadays. What did people do without them ? I keyed in the name of the old cafe and put in the years 1969 and 1970, as it was then I thought this Johnny Dunbar must have been here. Something came up - it was an article, I was in luck. September 20th 1970 there was a report, front page, about Le Parc Vert. The cafe had been linked to some kind of fraud and money laundering scam. As I read on I found that police had discovered counterfeiting equipment and were looking for two Englishmen who took the money to England, dispersed it and exchanged it for English pounds. One of the men was Johnny Dunbar. So that was it, Johnny Dunbar was a criminal, but did this mean my Dad was really him and had taken us all in. Had Mum known the truth ? Presumably if it was Dad he had taken the name Macklow to cover his tracks, arrived back in Sunderland saying he had lived in Bedford, when in fact he had grown up in Washington all the time. To put the k in the name Maclow would be Dad's sense of humour - the k meaning thousands, of course. But really the more I thought of it the more I thought that Dad had wanted to be found out one day. It was as if he had left a series of clues leading to the truth about the past, starting with the name Maclow.

* * * * * *

On the boat back from San Malo I felt slightly sad. All I'd found out was something rather sordid and now Dad was dead anyway. I'd never be able to confront him with it. As I walked along the promenade on my way back to the hotel I stopped awhile and leant over the railings. I could see a small boy of about ten playing with his younger brother. They were placing international flags on a sandcastle, just as I'd done so many years ago. To think I'd had no idea Dad was revisiting some kind of old stomping ground using an assumed name and meeting up with old comrades, who had come especially from San Malo. Maybe they were still doing business, who knows ? The holiday was over anyway. I packed my bags and told the madame I was leaving in the morning. Before I retired I bumped into the Greenacres again. "Did you find out about that welsh monk ?" they asked me. "Oh yes," I said, "I found out about him." I went to bed feeling downhearted and crestfallen. The next morning as I passed by the sea-shore again before I left for Cherbourg, I could see the remains of the sandcastle partly washed away by the sea, a crumbling wreck with the flags scattered around the beach: the red, white and blue of France miles from the Union Jack and the flags of Spain, Belgium and Italy. Soon they would all be in the sea.

* * * * * *

It was breezy on the ferry so I stepped inside to have a drink. I had just ordered my drink when an older man of about seventy came over to me. "I see you've been digging."
"Sorry," I replied.
"About your Dad, just leave it son. He wasn't a bad man. He just made some mistakes when he was young - we all do. I was a friend of his at San Malo. Maybe you remember me from your holidays."
I looked deep into his eyes. I knew then I'd seen him before, but time had clouded my memory.
"I've been following you ever since you arrived in San Malo. I was at the archives ofice, I saw you looking for information. Just leave it. No good can come from raking over the past."
"Dad's dead."
"Yes, I know. I know Tom Hansen in Silvermeadow Street. He rang and told me."
"Oh Tom, yes, he was a friend of Dad's. One thing I don't know , did Mum know ?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. You'd have to ask her yourself."
With that he got up and moved away. As I thought it over, I knew he was right. Nothing good could come of raking over the past. But I would have to ask Mum just what she knew. I'd found out Dad's secret, but I couldn't bring myself to tell the world. It just didn't seem right.

* * * * * *

I went out onto the deck again, the breeze was fresh but warm. I was arriving back in England knowing a lot more than when I had first set out. But I was going to let sleeping dogs lie. As for Mum, maybe I should spare her if she was oblivious to it all, and if she did know, well it would just be embarrassing. I had a lot to think over. I thought of the funeral again and then I thought of Mum. Hadn't Tom Hansen from Silvermeadow Street put his hand over Mum's sharing a very knowing and intimate moment. I decided then I would say nothing. I was moving out soon to be with Naomi. My life in Golden Sun Walk would soon be over. I put the roof back over the sports car, ready for English weather. As we neared into Poole Harbour the rain started, like a thin mist clouding our vision, covering the past with its web of mystery and deceit. I just wanted the rain to clear and feel the sun on my face, free from the past and ready to face a new future. But I wondered eerily and uneasily, if I would ever be punished for the sins of the past, the sins of the father.