If Jack remembered correctly, he had seen files containing bank statements behind his dad’s grand mahogany desk. He hurried over to the shelf and scanned along the handwritten labels until he found ‘Personal Banking June 30, 1974 - July 1, 1975’ on the edge of a box file. He took it down and began to rummage inside. As he had expected, the filing was meticulous. Jack removed the most recent bank statement in the box and ran his finger down the outgoings column. He didn’t have time to scrutinise each and every transaction, but there were no figures that struck him as abnormal. Switching his focus to the income column, he spotted it immediately. Two amounts came in that month: $400 and $5000. Jack traced his finger along the page to the source of the money—both were from two separate numbered accounts.
He guessed that the lower amount was for his dad’s wages. From where, then, did the higher—significantly higher—amount come?
Flicking through to the previous month, he found exactly the same two figures coming in. The same for the month before that.
Jack placed the file back on the shelf and pulled down the next one. He opened the box, then froze. He thought that he heard the sound of a car door slamming. He quickly returned the box to the shelf, hurried towards the door and peered out. Through the two narrow panes of glass in the door, Jack could see his dad, reaching up to place his key in the lock. There was no way he could get clear of this end of the hallway.
Jack rushed out of the study, pushed the door closed behind him and darted into the adjacent laundry room, tossed his t-shirt into the wash basket and then walked slowly out into the hallway.
‘Oh, hi,’ Jack greeted his dad.
His dad nodded, a note of suspicion in his cocked eyebrow. He stood as motionless as a mannequin, his hand frozen to his fedora hat, as he regarded Jack. ‘Hi.’
‘Just putting my shirt in the laundry,’ Jack said by way of explanation, as he took the stairs two at a time, grimacing as he went, hoping that he hadn’t aroused his dad’s suspicions.
He closed his bedroom door and threw himself onto the bed, knitting his fingers together behind his head. God, he hoped that he had put the files back correctly. His dad would certainly spot it if they were even half an inch out of place. Fiercely guarding his past life. Jack had absolutely no clue what was going on. Was it really such a big deal that he had been married before? Not to Jack, no. Divorce was just a normal part of life, nowadays. Maybe it wasn’t so common back then, he thought. Maybe embarrassment or shame had bred secrets which had perpetuated, lingered and slowly morphed into lies which had grown larger with each passing year. Was that it? But then why pretend that all your family is dead? He wished he had someone with whom to talk it over. He had Mr Chipman, of course, but he wasn’t really someone in whom Jack felt he could confide. If only Laura and Michael were still around. Or Alice. Yes, she would be good to discuss it with. Perhaps he could take a trip down to Boston sometime and see her.
It was strange because after Laura, Michael and Alice, the next person with whom Jack felt he wanted to talk was Margaret. He’d only known her for a week and here he was wanting to spill all of his family secrets to her. He guessed that meant that they’d had a connection.
Reaching into his bedside table, Jack took out some paper and a pen. Dear Margaret, I really hope you’re doing well. I know you won’t reply to my letters—maybe you’re not even getting them—but, in a way, that helps. You’re my silent friend! Life here is getting real strained. Since the vacation to England I’ve found out some stuff about my dad—not good stuff! I don’t really want to write it down, just in case… Let’s just say it’s from his past and that it isn’t great—even Mom doesn’t know about it.
‘Jack!’ his dad shouted from downstairs. ‘Jack!’
Jack quickly tucked the unfinished letter into his bedside table and opened his bedroom door. ‘Yeah?’ he called down, hoping that the wavering of guilt in that single word was indiscernible to his dad.
‘I’m running down to the store—do you want to come? Or do you need anything?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks. I’m just going to take a bath.’
‘Okay, I’ll be right back.’
Jack stood rigid, clutching the door, breathing lightly until he heard the roar of his dad’s car outside. Seconds later, the sound faded to nothing. Jack darted from his room, down the stairs and back along to his dad’s study, where his trembling fingers fumbled back through the paperwork that he had just seen.
Picking up the phone, Jack dialled a number.
The delay before the call was answered was short yet interminable.
‘Hello, Cape Cod Five Cents Savings Bank, this is Susie, how may I help you today?’
‘Good afternoon, this is Mr Jacklin,’ Jack said, before relaying his dad’s account number.
‘What can I do for you today, Mr Jacklin?’
‘Could I give you the details of an account that credits me every month, please?’
‘Sure, go ahead.’
Jack told
