The Healing of Broken Souls

Chapter 15

My murderous thoughts from the previous evening were still with me the next morning. I lay in bed remembering how, as a teenager, I had fantasized about killing my father. But, of course, I never summoned up the courage to do it, and it was the same now. I knew I wasn't capable of murder. I opened a mental strongbox and locked away those notions, wondering if, deep down, I was a wicked person.

My father said he felt okay so, over breakfast, we discussed our next gameplan. I was beginning to think that the Andalusian Hemipode might now be extinct in my area of Spain and that we were wasting our time, but my father was keen to carry on with our quest. The next logical step was to drive to the south coast. I knew of several nature reserves in Andalucia where, in theory, hemipodes might still thrive, but it was a long way. I estimated it would take us about ten hours in the Landy, and it would be an uncomfortable journey with no guarantee of success. In the end, my father made the decision. We would stick close to home. If it was meant to be, we'd see a hemipode. If not, he'd just have to accept failure.

We gathered our equipment together and drove southeast, towards the coast. According to Birds of Britain and Europe, hemipodes were partial to sugarbeet fields and a quick internet search told me there was a sugarbeet farm on the edge of the Albufera wetlands to the south of the city. It was already daylight by the time we found the farm. The road alongside the beet field was too narrow to park the Landy so we had to find a suitable pull-in and walk back. At least the road was flat so my father had no difficulty. We set up the hide on a narrow verge between the road and a ditch, hoping no articulated lorries or tractors would come thundering past.

I scanned the field and noticed several pheasants rooting around among the plants, but nothing resembling a hemipode. My father grabbed my arm.

"Look at that raptor, hovering above the field," he whispered.

I swept my binoculars upward and focussed on a harrier, doubtlessly scrutinizing the field for harvest mice. But It was unlike any harrier I'd seen before.

"Do you recognize it?" I whispered back.

"I think it's a Montagu's, it's certainly not a Marsh Harrier."

I was thrilled. Montagu's Harriers were extremely rare and I'd never seen one before. I watched it change position and begin searching a different part of the field. Eventually, it flew off into the distance, seeking a more rewarding location.

"That's a new one for me to tick off," I said with satisfaction. "Let's celebrate with a cup of tea."

"Good idea, and I'll tell you the next part of my story," he suggested.

#

"It was the winter of 1967 when we had to move out of Clara's flat. We had to find somewhere to live quickly. Magdalen College had a noticeboard advertising student accommodation so we took a room in a shared house. Neither of us had much in the way of possessions so we spent Christmas there, and it was fine because all the other students went home for the holiday and we had the place to ourselves. But we still wanted a proper home of our own, so we decided to try for a council house again. I didn't want to go back to the council offices in Oxford in case anyone remembered me, so we caught a train to another town and applied there. Everything went well. It was a very cold day and Clara was wearing gloves, so the clerk couldn't see that she had no wedding ring. Because our names were the same he assumed we were married. But then he said that, before the agreement could be formalized, the council would need proof of a regular income. Of course, neither of us could provide that."

"It sounds like you were stymied at every turn," I remarked.

"That's what it felt like. One stumbling block after another. I had no option but to take the first job I could find. I knew I would have to drop out of my degree course anyway, because I paid my tuition fees out of my allowance, and that had disappeared. So, we left the council offices and bought a local newspaper. Then we sat in a coffee bar and I went through the situations' vacant pages. A factory had just opened nearby, making electrical insulators, and they needed workers urgently. It was an immediate start and no experience was required. So that's how I went from being an undergraduate at Oxford, with a golden future, to a machinist making insulators for electricity pylons."

I sat and contemplated what I'd just heard. I couldn't square my father's devotion to Clara with what happened later. He had given up everything for her but it had all ended so violently. I was beginning to suspect there may have been a good reason for his actions. Could my mother have had an affair? Or have humiliated him in some other way? After all he'd done, I could imagine he'd have taken any betrayal badly, but surely not badly enough to kill her. And the overriding question was, how the hell had he gotten away with it? 

After a few minutes, I broke the silence.

"That must have been one heck of a culture shock, going from a mansion and the hallowed halls of academia to a sweatshop full of wage slaves and a house on a dreary council estate."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you, Michael? But, the fact was, we were happy in that little house. Clara made it a home and our neighbours were good people. I made friends at the factory and, although the work was tedious, it gave me a sense of satisfaction to produce something useful. I was proud of my work. If I had to spend my life making insulators I wanted my insulators to be better than anyone else's. Meeting Clara had shown me you could do a humble, low-paid job and still be worthy of respect."

"So, what happened next?" I urged.

"We got on with our lives," he shrugged. "Clara's health improved once she stopped working. She was able to take things easy. She liked to read and paint. Other Trinidadians were living on the estate so she spent time with them. We made the most of what we had but made plans for our future. We were both young and had our whole lives in front of us. I dreamt of going back to university and completing my law degree, but we never seemed to have the spare cash for that. And then, a few years later, in 1975, Clara went to the hospital for one of her regular check-ups and we were given some surprising news that changed our lives again."

"Not more bad luck, surely?" I said, thinking that if life was a prize fight my parents were always sucker punched.

"Not bad luck this time, Michael. Clara was told she was pregnant ... with you."