CHAPTER 72
“Who’s going to knock?” Mike asked, as we stared at the front door. We’d only landed a few hours ago and we were already standing outside Abe’s house in Chiswick.
I took a deep breath and tried to steady myself. “I’ll knock.” I reached out and rapped my knuckles against the wooden door. We stood there and waited as the door remained closed. We looked at each other nervously and both shrugged. I reached out and knocked again—a little harder, longer and louder, this time.
“Are we sure he lives here?” I asked Mike.
“Positive; I checked. He lives here with his granddaughter. I called her to say we were coming.”
I nodded. “Okay.” I knocked again and, this time, I heard movement in the house. I looked at Mike and smiled. “Hello,” I called out.
“Coming,” a small voice returned.
“This is it,” I whispered to Mike, feeling a strange combination of excitement and nerves. I pulled the bag of letters higher on to my shoulder and clutched it tightly. I saw the door handle move and I stared at it, willing it to open. When it finally did, I gasped.
There he was.
It was him. The man I’d been searching for and had traveled halfway across the world to find. It was a strange feeling to see him, like this. He was the same, but completely transformed. It was as if he’d used the face-aging app and posted a picture of himself. His hair was grey, his face was full of deep lines that criss-crossed the planes of his cheeks and forehead and pulled at the corners of his eyes. His body was frail, his fingers and knuckles swollen and crooked with arthritis, the backs of his hands dappled with liver spots, and his skin looked thin, like a piece of rice paper.
“Hi.” Mike stepped forward and held his hand out for him to take. “I’m Mike. I spoke to your granddaughter on the phone yesterday, about coming here and talking to you.”
“Yes?” the man, Abe, said. His voice sounded soft and old and tired.
“Do you know why we’re here?” Mike asked.
“Only that you have something for me,” he said slowly, and then looked over at us. “Your accents,” he said thoughtfully. “I haven’t heard an accent like that in a very, very long time.” He said that last part almost inaudibly.
“Yes, our accents,” I said.
“Where do you come from?” he asked, looking at us.
“Can we come in?” Mike asked. “Maybe we can do this when we’re all sitting down.”
At that, Abe perked up. “What do you think I’m going to do, son? Drop bloody dead in the doorway?” he said, standing up straighter than before.
Mike smiled at him and shook his head. “No, I don’t think that.”
“Well, damn right I’m not!” Abe declared loudly.
“I think what Mike means,” I said, “is that this is quite private; maybe doing it inside is better.”
Abe eyeballed us, as if trying to get a handle on us. He finally stepped aside and we followed him into a small sitting room and took a seat on a floral-patterned sofa.
“I would offer you tea, but my granddaughter says I am not allowed sugar anymore, and, let’s face it, tea tastes like milky water, without the sugar. That’s the best part.” He rolled his eyes.
“It’s okay, thanks. I’m fine,” I said quickly.
“Me too,” Mike said.
“So, out with whatever it is you’ve come here for.” Abe sat back in his chair; it almost dwarfed him. His frame was so small and fragile-looking, despite his fiery personality.
I reached for my bag and, without a word, I started pouring all the letters down on the table in front of us and I kept going until they were all out. There were so many that they spilled off the table and dropped to the floor, like leaves. I watched his face as he leaned forward in his chair. He reached out a crooked hand and took one of the letters. He looked at it briefly, and then, with his other hand, he grabbed his glasses off the table and put them on frantically. His hands were trembling as he raised the letter all the way up to his face.
I turned to Mike and we shared a quick, concerned look.
“Where . . . ? Where . . . ? Where did you get these?” Abe asked. I could hear his mouth had gone completely dry.
“My name is Michael Wooldridge,” Mike said. “I am Edith’s grandson and these are the letters that she wrote to you over the last seventy years.”
