“Generous,” I said, putting the clipping down on the desk. “I never had him down as a philanthropist.”
“If he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart, he wouldn’t have done it so publicly. It was free advertising.”
“Free to the tune of ten grand,” I replied, rolling my eyes at his cynicism. “Did you find a key to the safe?”
He put the papers down and started looking around the top of the desk as though it may have magically appeared there since I last asked. “Nope. Oh well. Coffee?”
I gave him a nod and he headed to the kitchen as I reached for another box to sort through. More old paperwork. Most of it needed to be burned. I’d organised a pile of files to take to the office but the majority of what we were finding was junk of no particular importance that he’d held onto for years. I slumped down at the desk needing a break, kicking the box that Lee was supposed to be sorting through out of the way as I did.
As it shifted, I noticed a pile of papers inside unlike any I’d seen so far and I spread them across the desk in front of me to examine them. Various maps sat before me, old, torn and faded with various scribbles on them. In the corner of one he’d written a name, ‘Ellie', with a map reference underneath it and the date ‘1962’. An old girlfriend, perhaps? It was dated three years before he married my mother so I was at least able to rule out an affair. It didn’t matter now, anyway, I supposed.
I piled the papers together again to put them back in the box but as I opened the lid to dump them inside a glint of silver caught my eye. A key. I quickly moved over to the safe and sat down on my knees to test it out. It took some wiggling but the safe made a clicking sound and the door propped forward stiffly, just enough for me to work my fingers in and pull it open.
I couldn't see inside without leaning my head down to floor level so I reached a hand in and felt around. My fingers grazed against something firm and I pulled it out for a closer inspection. It appeared to be a journal of some kind, leather-bound with a little ribbon that kept it tied shut. I set it down beside me and reached back inside to be sure I hadn’t missed anything. Tucked in the back corner I found a silver-looking ring.
It didn't look particularly valuable. It was actually sort of tacky, a bit oversized, and the metal dull looking. At its centre sat a red gemstone. Could have been ruby, could have been plastic. I didn’t really know enough about jewellery to be able to tell. I slipped it on my finger and then raised it to my face for a better look. In the centre of the stone was a little flaw just underneath the surface, a tiny pinpoint that was just a bit darker than the rest of the stone with what looked like little shards or cracks shooting out away from it. Costume jewellery, probably.
I gathered the book from the floor and returned to the desk to look it over. The black leather cover was peeling at the corners and the pages inside looked worn and yellowed. The handwriting belonged to my father, there was no mistaking that. Black and cursive and neat to a fault. The words, though, were unfamiliar to me. Definitely not English. Welsh, perhaps?
He’d been born in Wales shortly before the war but was raised in Cambridge after his parents died in an air raid. I had no idea he could speak or write the language, though. He never spoke about his childhood and didn’t have even a slight accent so it was never something that was discussed. I felt quite impressed, though, like I’d just found out he had a secret talent that none of us knew about.
At the top of the first page was what I assumed to be a date. ‘14 Hydref 1958’. Dad would have been around 23 when he’d written it. I flicked forward a few pages and came across one in English:
27 April 1959
I’m grateful to Mr Wallace for providing board and a place to work, but I don’t think I shall ever get used to the city. It’s loud and obscene and the filthy air hurts my lungs. I long for somewhere more familiar. Still, it is better to be busy and amongst people, than to continue feeling sorry for myself. I should never have visited. What was I expecting? Still, a hard lesson makes for a hard man.
I must remember to ask about an advance on my wages. My trip to Hastings is approaching and I want to arrive looking like I’ve made something of myself. She’ll like that.
There were a few more pages written in English but before I could settle on one to read Lee came back to the study carrying two mugs of coffee.
“What’s that?” he asked, setting the drinks down on the desk.
“A diary, I guess. It was in the safe.” I held it out for him to take a look. “Did you know dad could speak Welsh?”
“He barely spoke to me in English,” he replied, tossing the book back onto the desk, uninterested. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll go to a bar instead. Pre-birthday drinks. What do you say?”
“It's not our birthday for a fortnight. Besides, we should really finish up here,” I said, looking around the room at the mess we’d made.
“Come on, brother. Live a little.”
I considered my options as he grinned at me, his eyes pleading with me to say yes. I knew I should stay and do what was asked of me but I was sick of being the reliable one. I wanted to be reckless for a change. I chose fun.
“Ok, let’s do it,” I said, a nervous smile breaking onto my face as I rose to my feet. He gave me an excited slap on the arm and dashed out the door as I grabbed the journal from the desk and slipped it inside my jacket. “But I’m only having one.”