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Fate
by
I hadn't had a drink for five years and four months so the first thing I did on leaving was to call in on 'The Falcon' for a pint of bitter and a good, solid lunch. The bar hadn't changed much. The old dartboard stood unused in the corner as it had in the past and the only activity was that of the young faces hustling over the pool table. The landlord didn't recognise me and it was only when I said 'Thanks Pete' when he served me that a smile of recognition dawned on his face.
"So, you're out then." he said. It was a statement and not a question. I nodded and took my place in the corner, across from the door, where in the old days I had kept a lookout for unwelcome listeners. That had been part of my job then. It was a role I had paid for dearly. I felt ten, not five years, older and my prospects looked pretty gloomy. It had been almost six years ago when I had sat in the same seat and had listened to, but not joined in, the plan. Four months later it had seen me jailed, as well as five others. I had been lucky. The judge had been lenient and had believed my role to be secondary to the killing of a security guard. Two others had been jailed for life and a third for twenty years. Tommy Chase and myself received five years apiece but he went to meet his maker a year before the sentence ran out. The judge had been fair and for him the colour of my skin had not counted against me, as it had with so many of my colleagues. I felt it could only count against me now and I knew ex-cons weren't the most employable breed. I sat alone with thoughts for company. There had been no- one to meet me and I wasn't that surprised. Five years is a long time and the men that had been my friends didn't have sympathy for those that had been caught. I drank my beer, nodded to the landlord and went in search of lodgings.
It was a windswept, rainy, chill variety of day. In between the raindrops the sun did its best to shine. I walked down Eastrye Street and turned into Falmouth Road. The old Bed and Breakfast that had served as my home in the past was still there. It seemed more battered than my memory had allowed for. With a shrug of the shoulders I walked up to the door, rang and walked in. The smell was still there. That much hadn't changed. I rang "THE BELL FOR SERVICE" and waited.
I had never seen the young man who answered. It seemed likely he was Charlie's son. I asked for a single room and greed lit up his eyes. Charlie's son. "How long for ?" he asked.
"Indefinitely."
He shrugged, motioned for me to follow him and went upstairs. Fate , or a cruel joke, placed me in my old room with my old view of the rail track and the factory chimneys that were scattered on its horizon. I lay on my bed, closed my eyes and dreamed.
Dreaming had come easy to me in Prison. For the first four months I wandered around in a haze in a failing attempt to protect myself from the harsh realities of prison life. After that I realised behaving myself was the best alternative. It wasn't that hard and after a short time I was rewarded with a post as prison librarian. It was then I discovered my passion for books and the tales that went with them. I would read for hours, from Hammond Innes to Shakepeare, from Graeme Greene to E.M Forster. It had been that job that had led on my release to being in possession of a note that read as follows.
"Ref: Robert Harland
Mr. Harland has served for the past four years as prison librarian. He showed a natural skill for all aspects of the job as well as a love for doing it. It is with great zest that I recommend him for any suitable vacancy in this line of work."
It wasn't much but the governor had signed it. Besides it was all I had.
The next morning, the weather much the same as it had been the day before, I wandered down to the small grey and largely unkept building that served as Whittbys Local library. I wore my best suit. Five years and my only suit. It was grey flannel and out of date, as much as grey flannel ever goes out of date, but it had brushed up quite well. I had shaved and washed and now sought a future. On asking the Assistant to see the Librarian I was ushered to a lifeless small room that served as an office and asked to wait. The Librarian, when he came was a large man, who carried with him an overrated sense of responsibility.
"How can I help you ?" he grinned.
"I'm looking for a job, as an assistant."
He nodded and asked for my references and experience. I took out a crumpled piece of paper that would either serve as my damnation or my future and handed it to him. He read silently and then assessed me with a look that if nothing else was at least curious. "Harland." he said. I nodded.
"I knew your father." He might have. Or not. It was hard to tell. He was quite for a moment, picked up some papers, rustled them and made up his mind. "You can begin on Monday. Assistant, not much, but a start. See Miss. Grant on your way out."
It was good to be amongst books again, even if I didn't have time to read them. Much of my job centred around re-filing and re-shelving. Not interesting jobs, but like the man said, "a start." I had been there four months and had saved some money, enough for a deposit on a small, cramped flat, when he came in. I knew him. But I didn't know who he was. He was older and now he walked with a stoop and needed a walking stick to lean and rest. At first I thought he was a friend of my fathers and I was happy with that explanation. I would have left it at that except his visits became regular and curiosity took hold of me. He used to sit at one of the oak tables left aside for those wanting to read in peace and quiet. Often it was frequented by men of his age whiling there days away, losing themselves in the realms of myth and fiction. But he was different. His whole attitude said he was anticipating a discovery. Despite his frailness and often his pained expression, his hand that clasped his chest at regular intervals, he was well motivated. He had a task in hand and seemed determined to fulfil it.
What was this man doing surrounded by books, some older, some younger than himself. I began to take an interest and it wasn't very difficult to find out what books he was reading. He spent almost a month reading of Roundheads and Cavaliers, of Charles I and Cromwell. Some fiction but most of it from history books, huge tomes that told of the splendour, the pain and the tragedies of civil war. After the first month he seemed satisfied with himself and he moved on. It was his next subject which reminded me who and what he was.
His name was George Hawkes and indeed he had been friends with my father. He had been a good man, but a man who broke the law. His crimes were never violent and though he stole in a way it was never directly. He saw himself as a professional. It was an early Monday morning when he came. He carried with him an old brown, leather bag in which he carried his pen and his notebook and which remained at his side every time I saw him. That day was different. He moved his desk over to the hobbies and craft section. The book he took from the shelf was by J.W.Woods. It was entitled "The history of Writing and Calligraphy." George Hawkes was a forger.
I remembered his story at once and the features on his face took on the familiarity of one I had used to say 'hello' to in the street. Carpentry was his legal trade, though there wasn't much call for it, and he owned a shop in Westbourne street, repairing furniture and the like. He had always been skilled with his hands. He had been jailed once on a fraud charge, served his time and then set up his shop. He was at least sixty five and judging by what I had seen of him not in good health. I guessed at the time, and was proved right within a few months that George Hawkes was planning his final con. I never found out how he did it, nor never will, because his secret died with him, but it was I who carried out the last stage of his plan.
After another month of research George stopped coming to the Library, and although I thought of him from time to time, I carried on, by and large, happy in my work. One morning, shortly after opening he came in. He surprised me. It had been quiet and, leaning on a shelf for support I guess, he knocked a few books from their place. I went over to help him and led him to a seat. He muttered his thanks sat down and for the next few hours began a frantic search among the books. What he was looking for I'll never know. Some misplaced fact to make his plan perfect seemed the likely answer. It was a little time after lunch when I heard a crash and turned to see George fall to the floor. He died from a heart attack. The ambulance came and took him away. Miss Grant said it was a shame, he had always been a quiet, kind man and life returned to normal. Except George had left his worn, brown and old leather bag and with it some of his secrets.
The plan was laid out in his notebook in a pencilled scrawl that was messy but legible. In the light of a table lamp I sat in my flat that evening and read. George, by luck or merit, had found what he was convinced was a perfect ageing technique for documents and paper. He never described how or when but simply that he had done so and aimed to use it to his own benefit. In the bag lay a large scrapbook and it was there that I found the musty smelling, worn and delicate looking letter.
I took it to London, had it valued and then on to Christies to settle on an auction price. They took there cut but I settled for the £30,000 and the promise they would describe me as an anonymous, but trustworthy seller. I bought George's old furniture shop, which had been on sale since his death and refurbished the place. It cost a bob or two but was well worth it. Then I turned to my old friend : books. I began collecting old books and manuscripts. All legal of course. It took almost twenty years to establish myself as an expert. My shop grew as did my reputation and I moved premises to London where I was surrounded by Antiques dealers, who had equal reputations to my own in their own special fields. But if it was books or manuscripts people wanted to see or buy they came to me.
Just last week I was carrying out my usual task of scanning the catalogues for new finds when an old friend of the business came in. "Harland," he said " I've just had that load in from the Huntingdon Manor Estate and I think there is something that might interest you." He handed me a see through plastic wallet which contained a yellowed, old document. I looked closely and spent a few moments considering it. A t last, noting his anticipation I said "Its a fake. Most definitely a fake. Look here at Cromwells signature, its all wrong. And the phraseology is wrong too. Its an execution order for a king. The wording would be more formal. Besides," I grinned " the original was sold at Christies for a fortune, about twenty years ago."