His phone rang, the screen facing uppermost on the table where he placed it displaying the name of the caller. Unfortunately, Albert couldn’t read it because he didn’t have his reading glasses on. Even holding it at arm’s length and squinting, the caller’s name refused to swim into focus. With a sigh, he accepted defeat and thumbed the green answer button.
‘Albert Smith.’
‘Dad, it’s Gary. The train is just pulling into the station. I’ll be on the platform in about a minute. Are you nearby?’
Two minutes later, Albert spotted his first-born son making his way along the platform. Gary wasn’t tall, not by twenty-first century standards, but he wasn’t short either at six feet two inches and that made him easy to pick out from the press of people making their way through the turnstyle at the end of the platform. Always happy to see the man who had once, long ago, been the tiny boy who filled his heart with joy, Albert couldn’t, and saw no reason to, stop the broad smile spreading across his face.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Gary shook his father’s hand. He had a backpack over his left shoulder with all the things he felt he would need for a two-night stay in York.
Gripping his son’s hand tightly, Albert replied, ‘Hello, son. Thank you for coming.’ Albert’s suitcase and backpack were already at the bed and breakfast his daughter Selina had booked for them many weeks ago. Originally, it was only booked for Albert and Rex, but Gary was added at his insistence just a week ago. Albert’s three children were taking it in turns to babysit him through the misguided belief that he might get into trouble without them. He could have felt insulted, but in truth, he chose to embrace the imposition because it meant he got to spend time with his children.
He felt especially glad to have Gary along because he had a subject to discuss with him. He’d already sent him a message about it when he was on the train from Biggleswade last night.
Setting off, back toward the exit from the station, Gary fell into step beside his father. ‘Are we still off to the Yorkshire pudding competition tomorrow?’ he asked. Gary wanted to avoid the daft subject his father was undoubtedly going to raise sooner or later. The message he got last night made him question if his father really was going senile now. The old man had asked about any cases of chefs or restauranteurs going missing, or of food being stolen in bulk. Not just ordinary food though, speciality foods. His father was harbouring some crazy idea about a master criminal like he was living in a James Bond movie or something.
Albert fielded his son’s question. ‘We certainly are, Gary. There’s all manner of attraction to tempt us. There’s an attempt at the world’s largest Yorkshire pudding and I read that this year’s best Yorkshire pudding champion will win a big cash prize and get a shot at having their recipe taken on by Bentley Brothers supermarket chain.’ He fell silent for a moment, then remembered to say, ‘Would you believe I ate a Yorkshire pudding filled with cream and covered with chocolate sauce just before you arrived?’
Gary pulled a face of disgust. ‘That sounds horrible,’ he managed around a grimace.
Albert chuckled at his son’s expression. ‘I know what you are saying, but it was really quite nice. They used the pudding instead of choux pastry.’
‘Why?’
Gary’s question only got a shrug in response.
The two men and Rex the dog were walking along Queen Street close to the city wall trail. It was a cool, but pleasant day and little conversation was required as they meandered through York taking in the sights. They turned left along Nunnery Lane, keeping the ancient city wall to their left. At a sign erected to inform visitors and tourists about the wall, they paused to read, discovering the fortifications were mostly built by the Romans more than a thousand years ago.
‘That’s workmanship for you,’ commented Gary. ‘Modern builders wouldn’t build a wall that would last a thousand years.’
Albert pursed his lips, considering his son’s statement. ‘I’m sure you are right, Gary. However, builders now are not considering invading hordes as they draw up their plans.’
Gary conceded the point and they moved on. After a minute or so of walking, Gary spotted a sign to the Yorkshire Pudding Museum. ‘Is that where we are heading?’ he asked with a head nod at the brown tourist sign.
‘Indeed. Your sister booked us a B&B a couple of streets over from it. We can drop your bag there first if you like.’
They followed the sign, which led them through Victoria Bar Gate, one of the original gateways into the city. Albert marvelled that a thousand years ago, guards of some kind must have stood on the exact same flag stones his feet were now passing over. What stories the ancient wall could tell.
Their bed and breakfast was a pleasant enough place. It was owned and run by a couple in their sixties. Boasting just three rooms, Albert and Gary had two of them at the rear of the house. Mrs Morton greeted Albert and Rex at the door, looking around Albert at the man standing behind him.
‘This must be your son,’ she guessed, knowing he would be arriving today after a chat with Albert over breakfast.
With his bag dropped and most of the afternoon to fill, the trio set off again. Albert was
