Ricky was indignant. ‘I’ve seen more of the world than I ever wanted to in the last few days!’
Jack smiled. ‘You’re just scratching the surface, son.’
They cruised down the far side of the hill, and the GPS warned them that they were three hundred yards from their destination.
‘Thanks, Grampa,’ Ricky said suddenly.
Jack cocked an eyebrow, distracted from where they were going by his surprise. ‘What for?’
‘For making me go on this trip with you.’
Jack laughed, in spite of himself. ‘That’s not what you were saying three days ago.’
But Ricky’s face was a study of reflection. ‘I never knew it, but it was like I was in hibernation or something. Just waiting to wake up. It’s...’ he glanced across the car again, ‘... it’s been one hell of an experience, Grampa. I just wish you’d tell me what happened last night. I’m a big boy now, honest.’
But Jack was spared from responding by Mrs Thatcher. She said, ‘You have reached your destination.’
And Jack looked around, surprised. They had arrived at a small roundabout at the foot of the hill. He was looking for a house. Number 147. But on their left was open parkland behind a mesh fence, and on their left wrought-iron gates on stone pillars leading to an area of mature trees and manicured lawns. He’d missed the sign, but Ricky hadn’t.
The boy’s voice was hushed. He knew immediately what it meant. ‘New Southgate Cemetery and Crematorium,’ he read.
And Jack’s heart went dead.
He’d had no idea what to expect, or how it might have been to face a Rachel in her mid-sixties all these years later. And maybe somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind he had known she was already gone. Really gone.
Ricky pulled in to park the Mercedes outside the gate, and they stepped out into the sunshine of this breezy spring afternoon to see a man selling flowers from a cart just inside the cemetery.
Ricky glanced awkwardly at his grandfather. ‘She’s dead?’
Jack nodded. ‘I should have known it was the only way Maurie would have given away her secret.’
Ricky slipped an arm through his. ‘Come on, then. You’d better go and say goodbye to her.’
Once inside, the size and extent of this old cemetery became only too painfully clear to them. It was enormous, with paths turning in concentric circles, linked by spokes, and a chapel half hidden by trees at their centre. Undulating land was divided and subdivided into countless plots. A population of the dead so huge that they had built special white-stone walls to accommodate coffins four deep. From the distance they looked like miniature blocks of flats.
Ricky was bewildered. ‘How will we ever find her?’
But Jack had spotted the tiny sign planted in the grass. White letters on a black background and an arrow pointing the way: Hendon Reform Synagogue Cemetery.
With Ricky on one arm, and his stick in his free hand, he followed the signs round to their left. They passed a grave festooned with colourful plastic butterflies and big-petalled flowers, another hung with a heart. The words at the centre of it read, I love you, Daddy. The names here had their origins in many far-flung places. Italy, Greece, Russia, China. A cosmopolitan community of the dead. No prejudice against immigrants here.
The cemetery of the Hendon Reform Synagogue stood opposite the chapel, a small plot of Jews screened off from the sea of Christian crosses that surrounded them by dilapidated wooden fencing that had collapsed in places.
Jack told Ricky to wait, and went in on his own. A small brick building bore a legend in Hebrew above the door, and one exterior wall was given over to niches where ashes could be stored. Those that were occupied were closed off by grey plaques engraved with gold lettering. In Loving Memory of John Hans Schuck, dearly loved husband and father, 1919–2002.
The plot itself was small, on a downhill slope, gravel with cement paths, and it was filled almost to capacity. Plain marble headstones set above concrete plinths.
A middle-aged woman stood on her own halfway down. Lean once, but carrying now a little of the weight that comes with age. She had dark hair drawn back from a strong face, and looked up from the grave she was standing over as Jack approached.
He glanced down at the headstone. Rachel Stahl. 1949–2013. So she had never married, or at least had kept her maiden name. And died just two years ago. Jack felt a wave of melancholy weaken his legs and he supported himself heavily on his stick.
When he looked up, he found the woman gazing at him with puzzled curiosity.
‘Are you the man Uncle Maurie said would meet me here?’
Jack nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
‘You’re a friend of his?’
‘Since we were boys.’
She took some moments to digest this. ‘I never met him until he came out of prison,’ she said. And, then, as if fearing this was an indiscretion, added quickly, ‘I suppose you must have known about that?’
Jack nodded, and she seemed relieved.
‘He did it for me and my mother, you know. She said it was the only reason he took that money from the client account. When we were really on our uppers.’ She paused. ‘He said you could tell me about my mother.’ She had her mother’s eyes. So dark, and yet so full of light.
Jack found his courage. ‘I think you can probably tell me much more about her than I ever could.’ He paused. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’
She shook her head, and there was a sadness in her voice. ‘I was an only child.’ Then she brightened. ‘But I have three of my own.’ And her curiosity returned. She frowned. ‘Who are you?’
Jack’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak. ‘I believe I’m your father.’