Elisabeth Jones - Gold Beach

The trunk my mother kept in the attic was my favourite game until it became my big obsession and the greatest discovery of my life. What would have become of us if I hadn’t found out what was hidden inside? Although even now I still regret the adventure I undertook, I always thought that my mother deserved to be happy.

When I was a child I always believed that I had to protect it because there was a great treasure inside, and in a certain way there was. On days when the winter cold stopped me from playing in the garden, I would pass my time in the attic fighting against an imaginary army to defend it, with the wooden sword that my father had made me. During my childhood years I never asked my mother what was kept inside, because my own fantasy made me believe that it was full of jewels, but when I grew up and asked her to show me the fortune I had been protecting in my games, she only told me that there was nothing but old clothes and she never found the right moment to open the mysterious trunk before me. If her words were true why did she lock it? Some years later I went from being its ardent defender to becoming its most obsessive looter. I tried to open it in a thousand different ways to no avail. If my mother had learned about my futile attempts, she certainly would have been pleased that her secret was safe, but most of all to see my total lack of talent as a thief. Nor could I find out where she was keeping the key to open it. The only choice I had left was to break the lock, but if I didn't want to get a good telling off I had to pretend that something had fallen onto the trunk and broken it. I didn't need to carry out my ingenious plan, though. I think I had been chosen by fate to change the course of our lives.

My mother's permanently melancholy look, her black hardback notebook, from which she was inseparable, where she said she wrote recipes that she never put into practice, her early morning visits to the attic when she thought I was sleeping and that trunk which seemed to have a life of its own, had become a big mystery which I needed to unravel. Something inside me urged me to open it.

At first I thought that her sorrow was because of my father's death, but then I began to remember what she was like while he was still alive. If I was to pinpoint one characteristic feature it would be the way she seemed at moments to be absent with a lost and faraway look.

My father, John McCoolant, had been Moffat's doctor all his life, so it was easy for him to diagnose the condition that ended his life. One of the advantages of his profession was that, from the first moment, you could establish, with some margin of error, the time you would have left. He spent it settling our futures. When two years later I asked my mother the cause of his death, her answer only sowed the doubt that would lead me to uncover her big secret. No one dies of sadness.

I recall the five years that life allowed me to enjoy my father's company as the best time of my childhood. It seems hard to believe that age hasn’t erased my memories of my time with him. His patients were his life and the two of us were his passion. When his hours of practice were over, he would leave his coat on the chair, loosen his tie and run up the stairs to find me and play for a bit with me while my mother prepared dinner. After eating, they tidied the kitchen together, made two cups of tea and we went into the living room to relax and watch some TV. We always sat on the sofa in the same way. He used to sit at the corner because he always had something to read under the light of the table lamp. My mother would lie down with her legs resting on a pair of cushions and her head on my father's leg and I would curl up on his lap until I fell asleep. Although it seemed a dream, I was always aware of how tenderly he used to tuck me into bed and kiss me goodnight.

If I had to pick three days out of those five years I wouldn't have a single doubt as to which I would choose. The first one would be the day my father held my hand and took me to the porch to make my sword. We sanded down the wood, his hands over mine, after he cut it with a handsaw, until we got it smooth and splinterless. We gave it several layers of varnish to get it gleaming and shiny and we left it to dry until next morning. That year, Father Christmas brought me a pirate hat, a patch for my eye and a belt to sheathe my sword.

The second day would be the first time he took me fishing. My mother prepared us a basket with sandwiches and biscuits, a flask with tea for him and another one with milk for me. Despite the brilliant sun that shone on that Sunday morning, she stayed at home. As we set out for the river she waved us goodbye and smiled happily. On my part I felt as if I was already a big boy, but when I saw the first fish that fought to get back to its natural environment, I got so afraid that I took refuge behind my father's back so I wouldn't see that agonizing dance. I think he threw it back into the river figuring that I wouldn't be able to eat it later. I suppose he thought that in time I would end appreciate his greatest hobby.

And the third day, when I said goodbye to him.

Two days before his death, my mother asked me to go into his bedroom to say goodnight. His slow heavy breathing was a constant agony. I remember perfectly how pale his face was and how much older he looked. The perpetual smile that was drawn on his lips couldn't hide his sorrow nor his pain. He embraced me and covered me with kisses with the little strength he had left. He was actually saying goodbye to me. Although it was hard for him to talk, he pulled out strength he didn't have to tell me a few things that have been etched in my mind ever since.

‘Are you sick, dad?’ I asked him worriedly.

‘No, I just have a little cold, that's why I have to rest. But before I go to sleep I need you to promise me something.’

‘Whatever you want, dad,’ I told him and I got closer as if he was going to tell me a secret in my ear.

‘Promise me you'll take care of your mother and you'll do what it takes to make her happy, no matter what.’

At my tender age it was almost impossible that I would have known what he meant, but those words made me feel a big boy again, so I promised him without hesitation and unaware that I had just taken on the first mission of my life.

‘I promise you, Dad,’ I told him as I crossed my heart with my thumb and sealed my promise with a kiss on my finger just as he had taught me.

‘Good boy. And one last thing, my son. Promise me you'll never forget how much I love you and how happy you've made me.’

I promised him without knowing what all that was about. My mother embraced me and she needed a moment to recover her voice choked by weeping.

‘I'll see that he never forgets you, John. Come on, Philip, kiss Dad goodnight.’

As I got closer to him I saw some restrained tears rolling down his face. I kissed him and waved goodbye as I left the room.

The night my father died, my mother had put me to bed early but his moaning kept me from getting to sleep. I got up and walked barefoot to their room. When I got there, I stood at the doorway unnoticed. Death was something unknown to me so far, so when I saw my father lying on the bed with his eyes closed I thought that he was just sleeping. My mother was on her knees beside the bed. She was holding his hand and her face rested close to his chest. She was sobbing and kept repeating over and over again, ‘Forgive me.’ Some years later I would understand what she meant. My father's chest rose with a death rattle as if he was about to draw his last breath at any moment. Suddenly he opened his eyes and turned his head towards me as if it had fallen on that side. I was afraid but when I saw him smiling at me, I relaxed. My father's chest fell slowly and never rose again.