John Simpson - Change of Course

‘River diversions are always hit or miss, a gamble,’ I said. ‘They are expensive and you never know what you’ll get out of them until you start producing. Your description of the riverbed doesn’t sound very promising, though. Maybe we should forget that production bonus.’

‘Some gamble,’ said Thys. ‘It seems to me that it’s one that Geoff didn’t expect to lose, and he looks like a bad loser to me.’

Morgan seemed to have sorted his thoughts out and was strutting purposefully back towards us. ‘We need to get back,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to talk to Lodge.’ He moved towards the Land Rover then stopped abruptly. ‘We’ll need to run a test on the diversion material, David. Fix it for tomorrow morning.’ It was not a good time for a discussion so I called Armando over immediately and told him that he should start preparing for an ore test as soon as he came on shift the following morning.

We drove the short distance back to the helipad where the pilot was asleep in the shade of the fuselage. Morgan rambled on about the diversion and concluded that Lodge must have been lucky in the past as he had certainly screwed up this time. ‘David, I want you to run the test tomorrow, personally, and I’m going to make sure Lodge is there with you to see his fuck-up.’

***

The story felt real and fresh as though it had happened yesterday – my notes had done a good job. The faces, the places, the voices and even the smells seemed real, as though I was there again. I was hooked – I wanted to read on, but I was also frightened: there had to be a reason why I had chosen to forget. I knew that the more I read the greater would be the danger of digging up what I wanted to remain buried. I risked a few more pages then I skim-read the press cuttings before going up to bed.

My mind continued to churn as I tried to sleep, linking the past and the present. I’d never said much about my time in Angola, not even to Rachel, but now I was awakened to the massive influence it had been on my career, and Lodge was a key part of that Angolan experience.

Chapter 2

The storm had blown itself out by morning, albeit with a trail of debris left in its wake. Yet more rubbish littered the garden and broken branches were scattered around. It was a beautiful day, though, and I found myself smiling at the prospect of seeing Sophie again. I went to the office of Flourish, the charity where I worked, but spent little more than an hour there as I was unable to concentrate. I made the excuse of travel fatigue and skived off long before lunch.

I arrived home, intending to do more reading but my confidence deserted me. I saw my notes as a pathway to an unmapped minefield, so, instead of reading, I passed the time by dusting, polishing and tidying up. I was eager to make a good second impression. Time slowed as the appointed hour approached and I kept looking out of the front window every few minutes, hoping she would be early.

I started thinking about the previous day’s brief encounter, analysing every word and action. Why had it taken thirty years for her to land on my doorstep and why was everything so urgent all of a sudden? It was also strange that she knew next to nothing about her father. Surely her mother would have told her something. But then she hadn’t known where her hair colour had come from. Maybe she hadn’t known her mother either. She was as much a mystery to me as her father was to her.

I spotted someone approaching in the distance, hair shining like a beacon in the sun – Lodge’s colour – it could only be her. The baggy, shapeless clothes she’d been wearing when we first met had been replaced by figure-hugging jeans and a sweater. I had the door open before she had the chance to knock and I couldn’t help staring in admiration as she stepped past me into the kitchen. There was fire in her green eyes and her smile was warm. She oozed good humour and zest for life; an irresistible combination.

She set about inspecting the kitchen, nodding approvingly at its transformation from yesterday’s chaos to something approaching order. Then she checked the kettle for water, switched it on and took a carton of milk from her shoulder bag. ‘I came prepared.’ It was the first thing either of us said.

I pulled a cafetière and a couple of mugs down from a shelf and found the coffee. We talked about the storm of the previous night while we waited for the kettle, carefully avoiding any mention of Lodge. When we were ready, I led her through to the lightest room, the lounge, which had a south-facing French window and we sat facing one another over the coffee table.

‘Where should we begin?’ I asked.

‘Maybe I owe you an explanation first,’ she offered. ‘I have rather dumped myself on you. I don’t even know if I’m welcome.’

I assured her I was pleased she had come but I secretly wondered if I would feel that way in an hour or so. I was keen to hear her story though. ‘All right, ladies first then.’

‘Okay, from the beginning; my beginning. I was born in June 1985. My parents lived in Durham, so I always assumed that was where I was born. I never questioned it … I had no reason to.’

Sophie told me how Michael and Margaret Addison brought her up as if they were her biological parents. Michael was a school headmaster and Margaret an English teacher. Sophie’s childhood was happy, and she loved her parents. She had excelled at school, favouring the arts, and had won a place at Cambridge to read Modern Languages when she was only seventeen. It was at the end of her first year, on her eighteenth birthday, when her parents told her that she was adopted, and she saw her birth certificate and the adoption papers for the first time.

‘That must’ve been a hell of a shock, especially if you never suspected,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine how I’d have reacted – with anger, probably – but it’s not something I’ve ever had to think about.’

‘Yeah; shocked and stunned would be understating it. My life, who I was, my genes, everything; all that changed in an instant. I just stared at mum and dad, expecting them to have some explanation, but they didn’t. I realised what unconditional love was that day. I tried really hard to hate them, but I couldn’t; I still loved them – that hadn’t changed. They’d always stood by me when I needed them, so I decided very quickly that they were still my mum and dad. They were the only parents I knew, and I had enough friends from broken homes to know that they were as good as I had any right to expect. Dad gave me the key to a drawer in his desk, which was always locked. He told me there was a file in there that contained everything they knew about my biological parents. I tried to give it straight back, but he wouldn’t take it. I promised myself that I wouldn’t look at the file until … well, anyway. But back then, I was at university and I didn’t want to be distracted from my studies.’

‘Weren’t you curious though? That must have been a dozen years ago or more.’

‘Of course, I wouldn’t be human otherwise. But I always keep my promises, even those I only make to myself.’

‘But you’re here now. That must mean …’ I looked away, realising I was probing into what was a deeply personal and painful subject.

‘… that mum and dad are dead, yes.’ She braced herself then said. ‘I really miss them. I’ve only just started getting my life back together again.’ She told me that they had been driving back to Durham after visiting her in Cambridge, where she had remained after her studies, and had been involved in an accident near Newark. They had both died from their injuries. That had been four months ago. She said that her world had fallen apart for a while and that she still felt guilty. ‘I know it’s stupid …’ She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, ‘… but if they hadn’t visited me that weekend, they’d still be alive. I was devastated. I wanted someone else to blame: another car, another driver. I even went to Newark, to the spot where it happened. I got witness names from the press and spoke to them all. It was a one-car accident. Just as well there wasn’t anyone else; the way I felt I don’t know what I’d have done.’