Joel
I stand back from the frosted door of The Peacock, allowing a small group of youths to exit onto The Square.
‘You need to learn how to duck, mate,’ jibes one lanky strip of wind, as he passes me. I laugh along in good spirit.
As soon as the doorway is clear I enter the pub, which is buzzing for a lunchtime, to a second round of wise crack comments.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard them all before,’ I laugh, side stepping through the crowd towards the bar.
‘Merry Christmas,’ says Annie, a gentle smile blooming as she eyes my swollen face and surgical strapping.
‘Pint please.’ I point to my usual tap.
I casually nod to a few regulars, acquaintances from both sides of my life: personal and career. The shifty ones don’t like the local officers coming in whilst off-duty and the older generation feel safe keeping in with us boys in blue. A tricky balancing act between private and public roles, so far, I’m managing to succeed.
I hand over my money as Annie places the pint on the bar.
‘You’ll find your sparring partner by the fire,’ whispers Annie, nodding towards the far side. ‘Looks like she did a decent job.’
I attempt to act surprised at learning she’s here and turn as the crowd shifts and separates providing a quick glimpse of the young woman seated in the alcove.
‘I’ll warn you now – you can take round two outside, you understand?’ she chuckles.
‘There’ll be no rematch, Annie.’
I collect my change and make my way to the fireplace.
She looks out of place; wine glass in hand, auburn curls flowing over her shoulders and an anxious expression while watching the crowd swarm and chatter.
I’m mindful that I’m probably the last person she wants to see. If I’d accidently nutted a copper in the early hours of this morning, the last thing I’d want is to be faced with my handiwork.
Flora is looking the other way as I approach.
She looks different from last night; gone is the red dress in exchange for a more casual look, though it’s not surprising given that my vision had blurred within minutes of speaking to her.
‘Hello… can I join you?’
She jumps as I speak, her green eyes widen and a hand flies to her mouth on recognition. It is definitely the right woman.
‘Oh. My. God. I am so very sorry!’
‘Apparently, it looks worse from your side than it does mine,’ I laugh, pulling up a stool and settling myself at her table.
‘How shocking is that?’ she peers from behind her hands.
‘And better still, I believe you aren’t being charged,’ I laugh heartily, knowing the crowd are pretending not to watch us.
‘Apparently, though I am so sorry… you mentioned alcohol and I wanted to prove that I hadn’t touched a drop and then I realised I’d dropped something and… bang… we both moved and I… oh, what a mess I’ve made of your face.’
‘Nose actually… but still,’ the sentence dies as her eyes meet mine.
What makes green eyes so captivating and beautiful? Hazel brown are deep and smouldering, bright blue so entrancing but green, huh.
‘I’m Joel by the way, in case you were wondering who you’d damaged and I hear that you are Flora.’
‘News travels mighty fast around these parts,’ she giggles, her cheeks lifting high encasing her eyes.
‘You could say that.’ I lean forward across the table and whisper. ‘Every person in this bar knows the details and probably knew before me that you weren’t being charged with assault.’
Flora shakes her head causing her locks to dance around her chin.
‘In which case, they won’t be shy in coming forward as regards details to solve the mystery of my birth, will they?’
I grimace.
Introduction over. Boy, that was a swift transgression onto business.
‘That might be an issue.’
‘Really?’
I nod slowly, supping my pint, before reaching into my inside pocket to retrieve her folded clipping.
‘I believe this is yours.’ I pass her the yellowed piece of newspaper retrieved from my uniform pocket, her eyes widen.
‘Oh my God… I thought I’d lost it forever. Thank you so much.’
She carefully unfurls it, before reaching for her handbag and purse. The zipper action locks the clipping away from prying eyes.
Does she even suspect that I’ve read every word, several times over? I could recite it, if needs be. The newborn was found wrapped in a beige bath sheet on the steps of Doctor Fowler’s home in St Bede’s Mews by Darren Taylor, aged 15, whilst delivering the morning papers. ‘I was shocked, really stunned to find a baby on the doorstep of the middle house,’ he beamed. Darren’s cries for help were quickly answered by the Doctor and his young wife, who contacted the police and local ambulance service. The baby girl has been named Angela by nursing staff at St Bede’s hospital. Warwickshire police are eager to trace the mother as she may require medical assistance.
‘Everyone knows everyone in this village, there’s nothing they don’t remember about each other, its tight knit and yet, in all the time I’ve been here I’ve never heard anyone suggest a name regarding Baby Bede, not one.’
‘But someone must know… I didn’t just appear. I wasn’t delivered by a stork, you know.’
‘True, but it won’t be as easy as you think… they’re a proud lot around these parts. Traditional too in many respects so you digging up the past might not go down too well… so a word of caution from an outsider…’
‘You’re not local?’
‘Local in that I live nearby but I’ll never be local… a lifetime won’t make me a local as I wasn’t born here.’
‘I see,’ she slowly looks around the pub. ‘Which means I qualify.’
‘Ackkk!’ I pull a face and reach for my pint.
‘I was definitely born here. It’s the only detail I’m certain of. Whether they want to admit it or not!’
I was about to give another polite warning as regards the locals when the pub door burst open sending the door chime into an airborne tither. A mountain of a guy dashes in, I recognise him from around the village. I know exactly who he is.
‘Annie, is she here?’ his voice silences the crowd as he lurches through the bodies towards the bar and then ploughs back through the crowd to land beside our fireside table.
His ginger curls frizz, his piggy eyes are filled with excitement while his enormous belly overspills his faded jeans. His inane teenage grin had greeted me earlier as I read the newspaper clipping in the locker room: two eyes staring from walrus fat cheeks, as he cradled a bundle wrapped in a fluffy blanket, not the beige towel I’ve heard of.
‘Flora?’
Her eyes grow wide and her startled expression doesn’t subside as he drops to his knees, grabbing her slender shoulders and bear hugging her roughly to his barrel chest. Her pretty face peers over his shoulder watching the silenced crowd.
‘I’m Darren Taylor, the newspaper boy who found you,’ he releases her for a split second, views her paling face and bear hugs her for the second time. ‘You don’t know how good this feels.’
‘Darren, excuse me… she might need some air,’ I interrupt, as Flora resembles a rag doll within his giant clutches.
‘Oh yeah, sorry… I never thought this day would come and yet, here I am looking at the baby I found!’
Once released, Flora straightens her top, runs a hand casually through her hair and sits back to stare at the man-mountain before her.
‘Can I get you a drink, Darren?’ I ask, feeling that someone needs to take charge.
‘A pint of Cattle Prod, please,’ he gasps, as he continues to stare at Flora. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
I disappear to the bar and collect another round of drinks. I shouldn’t really have another after the medication I’ve swallowed.
Annie can’t contain her smirking.
‘Cut it out Annie, I think she’s had enough excitement for one day… what’s this guy like? A crazy hot head or will his excitement die down in time?’
‘Darren’s like an overexcited Labrador… believe me, this is his dream come true,’ she laughs, pouring my drinks. ‘He’ll calm down in no time and if he doesn’t I’ll give his wife a call to come and collect him.’
*
‘You’ve grown,’ he splutters, once the initial buzz of seeing Flora wears off.
‘Just a touch,’ she laughs, as a blush colours her cheeks.
‘Aren’t you the local copper?’ he asks, starring at my blackened eyes and taped nose. ‘Looks nasty, that.’
I nod.
‘Fair play but this is a private conversation. I’ve waited a long time to talk to this lady.’ He turns from me and continues. ‘Seeing you takes me straight back to eighty-six – I was only fifteen, you know.’
‘I know. I have the newspaper cutting that shows you holding me.’
‘I’ve got that too… my mam framed it and it now hangs on our lounge wall at home, they’d called you Angela back then… so that’s what we’ve always called you.’
‘The nurses named me – it’s cute in some respects but hardly fits my nature.’
‘We named our eldest daughter Angela… after you,’ he adds, ‘I refused to consider any other name.’
Flora quickly apologises for the unplanned name change.
I want to belly laugh, as rude as it would appear, but the situation is surreal.
‘I carry the clipping with me everywhere,’ she says, trying to fill the growing silence. ‘I thought I’d lost it the other night but Joel has kindly returned it to me. That’s probably the longest I have been without it.’
‘My wife keeps asking when I’m going to take down my framed clipping and I kept telling her ‘never’ but this is amazing… seeing you… hearing you speak… it feels like I’m dreaming.’
I feel like a gooseberry. I sip my pint simply to give myself something to do. She doesn’t look comfortable chatting to this guy, so I can’t leave her.
‘Would you like a new photo of the two of you, an updated version?’ I ask, pleased with my initiative.
Darren’s face beams at my suggestion. Within seconds, after a flurry of activity and repositioning of bodies and drinks, I produce my mobile phone. Darren puts a large consuming arm round her slender shoulders, squeezing her tightly, while I snap the new improved version: Flora and Darren.
Even I wish he’d had a shave this morning.
‘My wife won’t believe it when I show her, we’ll need another photo frame for the lounge, that’s for sure,’ he announces, as we huddle and peer at the tiny screen.
‘Scribble down your email address or mobile number and I’ll send it to you,’ I instruct, passing Darren a cardboard beer mat on which to write his details. ‘Maybe your wife will prefer this version framed on the chimney breast.’ Your arms tightly wrapped around the shoulders of an attractive younger woman, a true beauty. Or maybe not depending whether she’s the jealous sort.
‘Darren, tell me what you remember?’ asks Flora, sipping her wine.
‘I remember it was foggy, so thick I could hardly see where I was going on my BMX bike, I’d stuck plastic cards into the wheel spokes so they’d make a cool clicking noise as I rode. It was all the rage back then.’
Flora smiles politely as he speaks.
‘Anyway, I collected my papers from the newsagents, it’s still there on the High Street if you want to visit, then I started my deliveries. St Bede’s Mews was fairly near the beginning of my route; I used to pedal along the High Street, turn into The Square and up towards the church, deliver to the Mews before ducking through the archway heading towards the big housing estate. Well, that morning I never got any further than the Mews… the paper shop had loads of complaints that day…’ he pauses to sip his pint and looks at the silent crowd. ‘Look… the whole damned pub is listening to my story, again.’
‘Speak up, Darren,’ calls Annie. ‘We can’t quite hear at the bar over the noise of the fruit machine.’
I cringe as Darren gives a glowing smile to the appreciative audience, Flora gives an embarrassed nod.
‘When did everyone tune in?’ Flora asks me, her neck and throat begin to redden.
‘The minute you were arrested for accidently socking me one,’ I laugh. ‘But still, carry on Darren.’
‘Anyway, I always dropped my BMX bike on the kerb by the phone box, delivered to the first house – they always had The Mirror, The Telegraph went to the next house, but Doctor Fowler always had The Guardian. I did my usual three folds as I walked the length of the path but as soon as I reached the steps… there you were… wrapped in a towel.’
‘And?’ asks Flora, leaning forward, her hand trying to hide the glow creeping up her throat.
‘I didn’t know what to do. At first, I thought it was a joke… I knew the doctor and his wife didn’t have any children so it wasn’t a doll left out after playing the night before. Us kids used to leave our bikes, scooters and prams outside back then when parents called us in for the night. It was nothing to see three or four bikes left out on a lawn – sometimes they weren’t even yours but your friends from up the street, dropped down before running in. Kids couldn’t do that nowadays, could they?’
The cheeky sod stares at me after his last remark, as if policing is solely my responsibility.
‘I honestly didn’t know what to do… I bent down, took my heavy delivery bag off my shoulders and touched your waving hand… to see if you were real and… yep, you were.’
As he speaks I can see that he’s reliving that tiny arm free from the towelling waving in the morning mist, surrounded by grey concrete and those two ugly stone lions which guard Dr Fowler’s front door.
A lump forms in my throat. I cough before sipping my pint.
‘You were real!’
‘Was I crying?’
‘Oh no, just lying there totally silent – amazing, as you must have been cold.’
‘Was there a note?’ I ask instantly. That’s more like it – never off duty.
‘I didn’t think of looking for one, I didn’t know this sort of thing could happen. It was just you and the wrapped towel, nothing else.’
Flora hangs on his every word. Her green eyes dance around his unshaven features absorbing every detail.
‘Sorry, if you were told otherwise but there wasn’t a letter,’ he adds.
‘No, I only know what was written in the article, anything else is a bonus for me,’ she assures him.
He continues to explain how he rang the doorbell, the surprise of Mrs Fowler and shock of Dr Fowler and their panic at calling an ambulance. Within no time their doorstep was flooded by police officers and newspaper reporters.
‘It was front page news, wasn’t it?’ she asks.
‘For weeks…’ he explains, ‘but nothing came of it. Your mother never came forward, did she?’
I watch as Flora lowers her chin, a downcast look of rejection creeps into her posture.
‘But hey, happy days could be just around the corner,’ I add, trying to lift her spirit.
‘Thanks Joel, I appreciate the optimism,’ says Flora, reaching forward and patting my forearm.
Shouldn’t it be me reassuring her?
‘What’s the plan?’ he asks, draining his pint in that lager lout swallow the side of the glass kind of manner.
Flora shrugs.
‘Who knows. I rolled in last night on a whim, totally unprepared for this… and yet, this happens.’ She looks round the sea of faces, some still riveted by the details, others losing interest and returning to their own chatter.
‘May I suggest you sleep on it and think about what you want to do – hearing this from Darren might be enough for you… or it might not!’ I say, standing to collect the three empty glasses. ‘Either way it’s your choice. I think the locals will help you answer more questions if you choose to venture there but whether you find the answer you want, will be something else.’
‘Thanks, I need to mull it over.’
‘I’ll leave my mobile number if you want… just call if you want to chat,’ says Darren abruptly standing and replacing his chair under the table. ‘My wife’s not going to believe this has happened. Boy, what a great start to Christmas!’
‘You already know where to find me,’ I laugh, taking the prompt to leave. ‘The large building along the High Street, panda cars parked in front.’
‘Your phone number is easy to find too,’ Flora laughs, her green eyes sparkle and dance.
Good girl, she can still laugh after everything she’s been through, maybe this Christmas won’t be as sombre after all.