‘In a way. I leave my job at the county council in three weeks’ time. I’m trying to earn some money as a freelance while I get a new project off the ground.’
He nodded as he stared up at the soaring spires. ‘It took them a long time to build, I suppose.’
‘A hundred and fifty years, I think.’
‘A very long time. Generations. It must have taken an awful lot of commitment and patience. But they built it to last, didn’t they? Did you check up on me, Christopher?’ he asked. ‘I assumed you would. Are you satisfied now?’
I flushed instantly. ‘I’m satisfied there is such a person as Samuel Longden.’
‘I see.’
I knew I must have hurt him. I was throwing his approach back in his face. I had no idea how hard it might have been for him to make himself known after so many years of rejection and isolation. I couldn’t meet his eye. It seemed such a cruel thing to do to an old man who’d only sought out his friend’s grandchild in his last years.
‘It’s just a precaution,’ I said. ‘You know a lot about me, but I know nothing about you at all. I didn’t even know you existed until two days ago.’
‘I do understand. But I think I can put your mind at rest on all counts.’
‘Do you want to go inside and have some tea?’
‘Do you mind if we walk for a while?’
‘Not at all, if you’re sure you want to.’
‘Perhaps a slow perambulation around The Close?’
I soon discovered what a perambulation was. Our progress was slow, and Samuel wanted to pause often, to admire the cathedral from a different angle, or to study the buildings around The Close — the Bishop’s Palace, the Cathedral School, the Deanery. At other times, he seemed simply to want to rest, or gather his thoughts, as he began to tell his story.
He was eighty-three years old, born during the Great War, in which his father had fought and died, like so many others. When he left school, Samuel had gone to work for Seward’s, a small independent brewery at Sandfields on the Birmingham Road, which has long since disappeared. The Lichfield area was known for its brewing industry in those days, as its water supply was ideal for ale making.
Samuel proved a bright and capable boy, and he’d caught the eye of old Benjamin Seward, the brewery owner, who’d encouraged him to learn every aspect of the business. The Second World War had intervened, but on his return Samuel had become a manager and gained influence in the company, which expanded its chain of pubs and became very successful. Seward made him a partner, and when the old man died, he left Samuel in sole charge.
Many independents had been bought out by the larger brewery chains by then, but Samuel had decided to hang on. The Sandfields brewery and its small string of traditional pubs became more and more valuable, until in the late 1960s he finally sold to a national company based in Burton on Trent. Now the Lichfield water was pumped to Burton for the breweries. But the sale had left Samuel extremely well-off.
‘We used to move goods by canal at one time,’ he said. ‘Seward’s was built backing onto the Ogley and Huddlesford. Barley and hops came in by boat, and barrels of beer went out the same way. We switched to road transport, of course, because it was more efficient. That was my decision, in the late 1940s. I suppose we helped to hasten the end of the canal trade.’
‘What have you been doing since you sold out?’ I asked. ‘It’s a long time to be retired.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve never been a man to sit and stagnate. I’ve had several other projects. And I suppose I’ve been fortunate, in that I’ve been able to spend time with my family.’
‘Ah, you’re married?’
‘I was.’
I could see the pound signs retreating from me rapidly at this news. Of course, there was no reason why I should have imagined Samuel to be as alone as I was. No reason, except the gut recognition of a man losing the ability to communicate with the outside world.
‘And I suppose you have children,’ I said. ‘Grandchildren perhaps?’
He ignored me as if I hadn’t spoken. It seemed his mind was running along a different track entirely, which allowed no room for irrelevant small talk.
‘Christopher,’ he said, ‘there’s something I find very difficult to talk about. I hope you’ll understand and forgive this in an old man. It’s something you need to know, but it’s very hard for me to find the right way to tell you.’
‘To do with your family?’
He was peering at a figure of King Charles II in a stone alcove. It was Charles who ordered the restoration of Lichfield Cathedral in the seventeenth century, but time had eroded his face into a grotesque mask, unrecognisable as human.
‘To do with your grandfather,’ said Samuel.
Now it was my turn to stop. ‘George Buckley? Like I said, he died long before I was born.’
‘George was a good man, a clever man. Much cleverer than I ever was. We attended the same school, but he was older than me and a hero in my eyes. He went away to university while I was still at school. Then he married his wife, Mary, in 1938.’
‘My grandmother? I never knew her either.’
Samuel nodded, as if absorbed by his own recollections. ‘Yes, 1938,’ he said. ‘And your father was born just over a year later, at the start of the war. When George enlisted to fight the Nazis, he was a happily married man with a young son. When he returned, his life had been shattered.’
What did that mean? I had no idea what my grandfather had died of.
‘Shattered?’ I said. ‘By a war injury?’
‘No. His life was destroyed by what Mary did.’
I was so astonished I didn’t know what to say. When Samuel set off again, walking slowly towards the western end of The Close and Bird Street, my feet seemed frozen to the ground for a few moments before I could catch up with him.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said again, though I was starting to sound like an echo of myself. ‘Mary? You mean my grandmother? What did she do? I know nothing about any of this.’
‘I realise that. There are a great many other things you need to know too.’ Samuel looked at me sadly. ‘But you’re right. To understand, you have to know the story from the beginning. There has to be a start somewhere. But not there — not with Mary. That wasn’t the start of it at all.’
Some of the medieval buildings around The Close were distorted out of shape and bulging dangerously with age. They looked as warped and out of proportion as my life felt just then. Was it me, or had the world suddenly ceased to make any sense?
By the time we got to Bird Street, Samuel was starting to flag. I’d been watching him for signs of abnormal behaviour, but so far he’d seemed only harmlessly vague and rambling. To keep him like that, I tried persuading the old man to stop for a coffee.
‘Let me buy you lunch,’ he said.
I looked at his old coat and his creased trousers. ‘There’s no need. I’ll pay.’
‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘I may be many things, but I am not a poor man. Choose a place somewhere and I’ll treat you to lunch. I can afford it, I promise you.’
‘Well, okay.’
Samuel looked at the pedestrianised street and waved his stick at the ‘For Let’ signs over some of the shops.
‘I don’t get into the city too often,’ he said. ‘But Bird Street used to be a busy shopping area. Now it’s mainly pubs and restaurants.’
‘Since the Three Spires precinct opened, it’s on the wrong side of town.’
We settled on the White Hart, because Samuel thought the dishes chalked on the board outside looked plain and English, unlike some of the others. There was a dining area separate from the bar, but the place was busy and we had to wait a few minutes for a table. I bought a pint of Marston’s bitter for myself and a bottle of Guinness for Samuel.