Velda ran back the way that she had come—faster than she could remember ever running before in her life—all the way home.
She didn’t want to waste a single second in writing a letter to Joseph. Her Joseph.
Chapter Eight
15th March 1976, Lothrop Hill Cemetery, Barnstable, Massachusetts, USA
Jack was out of breath. He slumped down with his back to the gnarled trunk of an eastern white pine and drank the last mouthful of water from his bottle. His work was done for the day. All around him were great ugly pyres of giant hogweed roots and a host of other pernicious weeds which had consumed the cemetery. From the cleared scrubland had emerged gravestones with hand-chiselled names which had not seen the light of day for several years. Hinkley. Sturgis. Chipman. Lothrop. The early settlers who had helped create and shape the town and county.
Jack was pleased with his achievements. He and he alone had now cleared three quarters of the cemetery. Mr Chipman would pop by every so often and praise his efforts, usually delighting in some freshly uncovered headstone, but it had been he who had been responsible for returning some semblance of life to the place.
He watched as a cardinal glided down from the tree above him, landing on a nearby headstone. Jack watched the bright red bird, embracing the peace and satisfaction which he had craved whilst working at Rory’s Store. There really was no comparison between the two jobs.
The cardinal flew away with a chipping cry.
‘What’s this—slacking on the job?’
Jack laughed, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun that loomed directly behind Mr Chipman’s head.
‘You’ve done well, Jack,’ he praised. ‘Good job. Now time to pack up for the weekend.’
‘Thanks, I’m done in—ready for a nice hot bath,’ Jack replied, standing and stretching. He began to gather up his tools.
‘I’ll get these piles burnt tomorrow then there’s not much more to do before you start phase two.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Jack said. Phase two was to clean and transcribe each and every headstone. Phase three, which he was looking forward to most of all, was to trawl the town and state archives, searching out information on these founding settlers.
‘Here you go,’ Mr Chipman said, fishing in his trouser pockets. ‘Your wages for the week.’ He handed Jack a bunch of notes.
‘Thank you,’ Jack said, removing a twenty-dollar bill and passing it back over to Mr Chipman. ‘For the box.’
It took a second for Mr Chipman to register and reach out for the money. ‘Oh, yeah, the box.’
When Jack had lamented to Mr Chipman that his dad had sold a box of old family memorabilia, he had driven Jack directly to the antique store and purchased them back again for three hundred dollars. The box was now in storage in Mr Chipman’s garage and Jack was paying him back weekly.
‘Jack,’ Mr Chipman began, fiddling with the tip of his beard.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve had an initial report back, you know, into what I said I would find out for you. I’m afraid there’s no record anywhere of your family in Boston.’
Jack nodded, his expectations confirmed.
‘Your parents only appear on voter lists for Cape Cod from 1953 onwards.’
‘Really?’ Jack questioned. ‘You’re sure?’
Mr Chipman nodded. ‘And another thing: your dad’s two brothers. One of them—John—was killed in the war but the other one—David—was not.’
‘I don’t understand…’
‘My acquaintances are still looking into it for you…but these things take time—it’s not easy.’
‘I know—and I really do appreciate your helping me. So one of my uncles is still alive?’
‘Well, I didn’t say that. I said that he didn’t die in the Second World War—there’s a difference.’
‘But he might be alive.’
‘Maybe.’ Mr Chipman reached out and touched Jack’s arm. ‘Jack, may I ask you a question?’
‘Sure—go ahead.’
‘How is it that your parents live where they do? I mean, they’re neighbors with the Kennedys and yet your father runs a car lot.’
The question—so obvious, yet one that he had never considered in depth before—threw him. His parents had certainly never been ones to splash money around and yet, yes, they did live in one of the nicest areas on Cape Cod. ‘I don’t know.’ Jack looked blankly to Mr Chipman. Clearly he had some idea.
‘I don’t know either, it’s just something that has always puzzled me, but it’s been none of my business to ask. I always assumed there was some inherited wealth involved, which is why I do feel it’s appropriate to ask now. Maybe there’s a connection to your father’s past life?’
‘Maybe,’ Jack said absentmindedly. The way that Mr Chipman had said ‘past life’ sent a chill through Jack’s bones. The implication was clear: his father had not simply relocated from one part of the country to another; he had existed as a different person in a different place. Jack saw it now as a kind of reincarnation of sorts. And the evidence was growing.
Jack entered the house, kicked off his boots and hung up his coat. ‘Hello?’ he yelled, although he knew from the absence of their cars on the front drive that his parents were not yet home. ‘Hello? Mom? Dad?’ he called, moving slowly along the hallway.
The house replied with silence.
The hallway clock told him that they were due back at any moment.
The place was empty, yet still he trod lightly, as though he were creeping over a frozen lake. He reached his dad’s study—tucked away at the end of the hallway beside the laundry room. The door was always kept shut and visitors were not readily admitted.
Jack opened the door and stepped inside. A couple of years ago, he and Alice had speculated at the secretive nature of
