Lynne Fox - Heads I Win Tails You Lose

Thinking things through after I’ve eaten, I ponder the likely scenario that Barry’s real surname is Howden and if the Edward Howden on the news is a relation, then it’s not surprising that Barry would want to change his name. I recall the entry in his personnel file stating foster parents as his next of kin and it seems a fair assumption that Mason is their name that he has taken. Could Edward Howden be Barry’s father? If so, it might explain the assault; God knows, he’d have reason enough.

I think back to the inscription in the book. It wasn’t your usual book-signing; it seemed far more personal than that. Intriguing; I wonder if its author, John Simpson, can shed any light.

I spend a couple of hours on the internet. John Simpson has a website and is quite well known in the Sheffield area for his books on local wildlife but particularly for his hand-drawn illustrations which are quite exceptional. Although now in his late sixties he gives talks at local venues once a month, the next being in two weeks’ time in the main library in Sheffield. It appears the talks are open to the general public – a ‘just turn up’ affair. I decide there and then to book some annual leave.

A couple of weeks later I’m on the road to Sheffield and am fortunate that the travelling goes smoothly so that I’m settled in a hotel close to the town centre in time to freshen up and have something to eat before attending Mr Simpson’s talk.

John Simpson is a dapper little man, dressed in a slightly dishevelled suit and waistcoat; he reminds me of Charlie Chaplin. His talk is engaging and, displayed larger than life on the screen by an overhead projector, his drawings are awe-inspiring in their detail. He richly deserves the applause he receives.

As people drift away I hang back, selecting one of the books he has on display. Rummaging in my purse, ‘Ah, I thought I had the correct money.’

I smile as I hand over the notes and congratulate him on a very enjoyable evening.

‘You’re most welcome, my dear.’ He has a lovely twinkle in his eye as he peers over the top of his half specs. Obviously such a trusting soul, so easy to deceive; it’s like dealing with a child.

‘I recently saw another of your books, written some time ago I believe. One of my students was showing it to me. He says he knows you.’

‘Really? What’s his name?’

‘Barry Mason.’ I say his surname without thinking.

‘Barry Mason? Mmm, can’t say I recall. Does he live in Sheffield?’

‘No, at least, not any more.’

‘’So he lived in Sheffield at one time, then? Still, can’t say I remember the name but then, my memory isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid.’

Mr Simpson emits a quiet sigh of acceptance.

‘There was an inscription in the book, I remember. I asked Barry about it but he just shrugged; you know how uncommunicative these young lads can be sometimes.’

‘Oh indeed, yes. Can you remember what it said?’

‘Yes, that’s why I queried it with Barry. It said “For Barry Howden. Happy memories, John Simpson.”

‘Barry Howden! Now that name I do remember. I didn’t realise he’d changed his name although, under the circumstances, I can understand why; such a terrible tragedy.’

‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me; what tragedy was that?’

‘It was in all the papers; caused quite a stir in the local community. Barry would have been about nine, I guess; terrible thing for a young lad to witness. It must have been about three years that they lived next door. He was a bright lad and things were fine unless his father was home. Long distance lorry driver I believe. Couldn’t handle the drink but couldn’t leave it alone either. The papers said Barry had hit his dad over the head with a poker and knocked him out, trying to defend his mother and then called the police but whatever the truth, the poor kid must have been terrified.’

I can sense Mr Simpson’s genuine dismay at the turn of events and smile reassuringly as he gazes into the middle distance, lost in his thoughts.

‘I think it was best they moved him away although I did miss him but better that he should have a fresh start. So, you teach him, do you?’

‘Only a secondary subject; his main interest is the Small Animal and Wildlife course. I believe he wants to get into conservation work eventually.’

‘That really pleases me,’ Mr Simpson beams, his delight evident, ‘I’m sure that lad will go far. Please, wish him well for me. You’ve made my day, young lady.’ He glances down at his watch, ‘Look at the time, I must be off; lovely to meet you.’

‘And you.’

I watch Mr Simpson as he leaves the library, the spring in his step causing me to smile as I muse on the fact that lies are not always bad. How very interesting our conversation was; so, given enough provocation, Barry is capable of violence, even at the tender age of nine; it seems that tendency is still with him.

I debate whether to just leave it here; I don’t think there’s any doubt that Edward Howden is Barry’s father and, after what I’ve heard on the news report and from Mr Simpson, I’m not surprised Barry assaulted his dad. I suppose I could do some internet research on the British Library’s newspaper collection site. It might be interesting to learn the details of the trial but I doubt it will throw up anything more useful than I already have. No, on balance, it’s more important to concentrate on moving things forward than back history.

Back at the hotel I pop into the bar for a bedtime brandy. It’s quite pleasant in here, a lot of dark oak panelling and deep crimson seats; a kind of settled, old world feel about it, yet I feel restless, a bit bored with my own company; I need a few hours distraction.

It’s very quiet although not that late. There’s a middle aged couple in the corner looking as though they both wished they were with someone else and a couple of reps leaning over their laptops, obviously trying to update in readiness for meetings the next day.

I settle back into my comfy seat and briefly close my eyes, savouring the taste of the brandy on my tongue.

‘May I join you?’

A slight exclamation of surprise escapes me as I open my eyes.

‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.’

A handsome man is standing directly in front of me, nursing a glass of red wine.

‘No, it’s OK. I’m afraid I’ve had rather a long day.’

He makes a small nod of his head and starts to turn away.

‘But please, do join me, some company would be nice.’

His smile widens as he draws up a chair, ‘Can I get you another drink?’ he indicates my glass.

‘Please, it’s brandy.’

I watch him as he strolls to the bar. Almost six feet tall with a toned athletic build he cuts an attractive figure. He’s smartly dressed in an expensive looking business suit, although he’s removed the tie as a small concession to an evening of relaxation. This is a man for whom appearance is paramount and who obviously appreciates quality. He hands me my brandy. ‘Are you on holiday?’

‘No, not really, just doing a bit of research into my family tree. It seems I once had some ancestors in this area but I’ve hit a bit of a dead end. I take it you’re here on business?’

‘The suit is a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?’ His smile is quite lovely. I can tell he’s a veritable charmer but what the hell, as long as I’m aware it doesn’t matter; I can play the seduction game as well as anyone else.

I glance at his beautifully manicured hands and note the absence of a wedding ring; not that that means anything.

Do I mind if he’s married? No, not really. It’s not up to me to be his moral conscience.

‘Will you be here tomorrow evening?’ he leans forward across the table.