The man who stole his own father.

It makes me laugh sometimes, this little experience we call life.
Little, you say? Little, when it's all we ever have, the sum of
everything we can achieve in the miserable short time we get to prove
ourselves? Yes, tiny. When I was young I never felt that way; I
reckoned that everything was possible, but with increasing age comes
the slow, sad realisation of just what insignificant creatures we are.
We strut around the surface of the globe as if we have the right to
dictate what happens upon it, shape it in our own image. Oh, a few
manage it for a while, but most of those are evil or demented: the most
dangerous are both.

And yet.. Maybe anyone, with luck, can achieve something that brings
them a measure of comfort; a sense of having done some genuine good
which stays with them until their own light flickers and fails. It may
not involve hardship or great endeavour, it may happen by some odd
quirk of fate. That's how it was for me, and I still recall that
meeting as if it was yesterday.

I've always lived in these parts, though you'll say that's obvious from
my accent: West Country through and through. And, it were nearly thirty
years ago ago now that we met. He wasn't a young man then - I say "he",
you understand, because I can tell you nothing else. I never knew his
first name.

It's the lake, see, that attracts the families. Every summer they
flocked down here in their shiny new Anglias and Cortinas. Weekends,
too, the place would be packed; as long as the weather was good. Harry
Jackson owned the campsite as well as the boats: hired them out for the
day, he did, mainly for fishing trips. Had done for donkey's
years.

It would have been on a Saturday evening, for that was the time I'd be
able to sneak off for a quiet pint in the "Wheatsheaf" while the missus
got on with the supper. Especially if I'd brought a rabbit back, she
wouldn't want me getting in her way 'til it was all ready. My mate
Billy wasn't in that night for some reason, and I was enjoying a pint
of mild by myself when this stranger walked in, all cagy like. I
remember he had this bag under his arm, and he never let go of it all
the time he was in there. For all the joking and Saturday night noise,
I couldn't stop looking at this bloke: there was something vaguely
familiar about him, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was
exactly. Looking round for a seat, he notices my table.

I introduced myself, and he shook my hand warmly enough, but he never
gave me his own name. I let that pass; it was none of my business, see.
We chatted over a couple of pints, about the weather and such, and, as
it got dark he slipped out. I left myself after the crowd had gone back
to Jackson's and went back for my supper. Nearly broke a tooth on a bit
o' buckshot, I remember, and my missus, she told me that I'd have
noticed it easy enough if I'd not been so puddle-headed. So it was my
fault! Funny what comes back, isn't it?

And that was another strange thing: it was getting dark, as it does in
late August, and I normally goes straight home. This particular night,
I'd walked round the lake. I still do that when the moon's bright, just
to clear my head, but that night a muffled splashing had caught my
attention. So I'd stopped and peered across towards the lights of
Jackson's campsite. I hadn't been dreaming, somebody had stolen one of
the boats.

I'd seen who it was, too, the silhouette had been unmistakeable.
Naturally, my first thought had been to raise the alarm. Then I'd
paused.. This chap, the stranger, was just headed out across the water,
and he must have known what he was doing. Something told me to leave
well alone. I didn't even let Mary in on the secret, though she asked
me what I was so quiet about. Had the blessed pub burned down, or what?
No, I said, clearing my plate, but I reckon I'd better go down and
check the boats in case some kids are fooling about again.

So, I went back to the jetty. Sure enough, I could just about make out
the shape of the returning boat. Making hardly any noise, he was, like
he was used to rowing. The stranger guided the boat back to its
mooring, tied it up carefully and strode, head down, back along the
jetty.

When he looked up and saw me watching him, he stopped dead. Had I told
anyone? That was his first question, and he seemed mighty relieved when
I shook my head. It was the date, he said; August the twentieth. It had
to be that day. 'Course, I had no idea what he was on about. First off,
I said that I wouldn't tell anyone about his trip. The boat was back
safe, wasn't it? Nobody but we two would ever know it had been
borrowed.

Before he went off to his car, he told me why the date was so special
to him: he'd often been to the lake as a child, but not since, not for
a long time. So, I realised, that was how I recognised him - he'd grown
up just like his dad. That first August had been the day he'd always
remember, he said; his dad had promised to teach him how to fish. That
memorable first afternoon, he'd caught one: just a tiddler, really, but
his dad had praised him and that apparently wasn't as common a thing as
it might have been. Quite carried away with his story, he was, and
clearly he'd had more education than I ever got. He took my hand again,
shaking it with an unusual firmness as if he was thanking me in some
way, and as he disappeared into the gathering gloom I suddenly noticed
that his bag was empty.

Something told me to keep the incident to myself. The next day,
however, I discovered more. Had I seen anyone prowling round the boats?
Jim the village copper asked as I walked into the "Wheatsheaf". Taken
aback, I played dumb. Jim didn't expect that I'd actually seen
anything, though, as nobody else had either and he reckoned this latest
message from his superiors made bugger-all sense. As usual.

What we got to do, he told the amused gathering in the bar, was to look
out for this thief. No ordinary thief, mind, this one's only gone and
stolen his own dad!

I laughed along with the rest, but with this awful chilly feeling
coming over me.

Stolen what? Tom Watkins shouts, and it's not often he takes notice of
anything Jim says.

Stolen his dad, Jim repeats. Of course, he was dead.

So he's dug him up, like? Tom says. Takes all sorts, don't it? That got
everyone laughing again, until Jim explained.

This bloke from up north, he says, used to come here a lot as a kid, he
turns up at his father's funeral. Nothing unusual, except that there's
this big family feud and he hasn't seen his dad and his brothers for
years. So, there's this nasty scene with him getting the cold shoulder
and all. Anyway, he turns up a week or so later, at his brother's
place, and vanishes with the urn - the one containing his dad's
ashes.

Nobody knows where this bloke's living now, but they reckon he might
well turn up here as he often mentioned the place and his dad used to
come back here fishing until quite recently. This brother thought that
he might try to scatter the ashes or something.

Well, the bar went real quiet after that. I'd damned near dropped my
pint, I can tell you, and that don't happen every day. Now I knew what
had been in that bag, and why he'd never let go of it. Jim never
bothered overmuch about the case, reckoning that it was much less
important than the occasional bout of poaching or drunken midnight
swimming.

I never forgot that night, though; never shared it with anyone neither.
So, it was a hell of a shock when the new gaffer of the "Wheatsheaf"
called me over last week. So, you're taking over from the Post Office,
are you? I asked as Dave hands me this package. Addressed to me, it is,
care of the pub. All correct, apart from having no postcode.

Inside was a box and an envelope: the box didn't weigh much, neither.
The letter was from somebody I'd never heard of, asking me to dispose
of the contents of the box in the appropriate place. And, if I could,
on the right day. His dad had left those cryptic instructions just
before his death and he was respecting his wishes.

I must have gone deathly white. I couldn't tell Dave much, and I never
intend to. It's my little secret. As you'll have guessed, I guarded
that box jealously until the twentieth of August. Then, on a bright
moonlit night, I borrowed a boat and did for him what he'd done for his
own father all those years ago. I thought, as I rowed back, why me? Why
not his son? It was obvious, really: his son had nothing to do with
that place, would probably never even set foot there. It was only me
who could make that missing connection.

Little links of coincidence and friendship, that's what life's made up
of. I'm getting on myself, and I sometimes wonder whether there's
anything in this religion business. I reckon not, but if there is maybe
I booked a ticket to the right place by that night's work. And, if I do
end up there, I know who'll be waiting to welcome me with a firm
handshake.