Between the lines

Public speaking was never really a fear of mine, I was always confident in my ability to communicate but as I stood there in my pressed black suit, before the pews of family and friends, with my grandfather’s casket to my side, the dryness in my throat and sweat in the palms of my hands told a different story.

It was the kind of fear you have when you hope you won’t do something you know you want to. Like having just one more drink before driving home. If you're offered one you just know you’ll say yes, you'll make your excuses later. That fear that you’ll make a bad choice, again, because there is a part of you that just doesn’t care.

“Harris David Leagrave was a strong man, a proud man who would be proud to have you all here with us today.” As I spoke of what little virtue I could find in the man, I choked back the truth into the pit of my stomach. I barely knew him, he was cold and distant, he lived only across the street from my parents growing up and he’d just stare at us occasionally from his drive. Not a hug, not a Christmas present, not a nothing. It wasn’t easy to stand in front of those people and pretend to know or care about the man, most knew I didn’t but it was what my mother wanted, it was the right thing to do.

Once the funeral was over, I didn’t linger long. I made sure every hug and handshake of condolence took me one step closer to the exit.

As I got into my car, I loosened my tie and took off my jacket, trying to shake the weight of the day off of me, but it was stuck to me there was little I could do about that. On the passenger seat was my inheritance from the old man, one last 'F You' for the road. A small black journal bound in a leather strap, worn, the edges frayed but I could tell it probably meant more to him than any of us did. I picked it up and thought to myself I’ll see if I can throw it in that bin as I drive by. At that moment, I couldn’t help but remember what my mother had said to me at the entrance of the church that morning. “Remember, today isn’t about you or your sister or me, it's about him, lets just face it with dignity together.” It's funny how a gentle wind can calm a raging fire. I untied the binding and peeled open the cover, on the inside were the words “If you want to know more”. I turned the page and there was an address with a telephone number and the name Miles Harris. Underneath and across several lines were a series of numbers 24.32.18.20.38.11 etc. I turned the page and at the top another set of initials and another series of numbers but this time no contact information. Page after page the same. I threw the book down, confused, frustrated, why would he send me this bullshit!? What was I supposed to do with it?

As I pulled up outside my mother’s house, I could see my aunts and uncles carrying plates of food into the house. My cousin Alice turned to wave with her usual joyfully innocent smile, before catching herself in the moment and dimming the brightness of it to fit the somber occasion. I hated the ceremony, all the false emotion I didn’t want any part of it. I turned off the engine and sat there for a moment just watching, I reached onto the passenger’s seat for my phone and saw the journal once more. I looked up at my mother’s house and in that instant decided. If today was going to be about him then let it be about him. I turned on the engine, put the address into the map on my phone, and pulled off.

As I stood at the door, journal in hand, of what seemed like a council house, on a council estate, all I could think was who would he know that lives here. My grandfather wasn’t a rich man but he was well off, I never thought he’d spend more than five minutes with someone he thought was below his station. My parents would be exhibit A as proof of that. I knock and the tension fills my body I don’t really know why I’m here or what I’m going to say but there’s no turning back now. An elderly man opens the door, he’s about my grandfather’s age. His light brown freckled skin, makes him look as though his face was carved from oak. His grey beard spread across his chin like thin tufts of cotton, his hair, all but gone. He’s got the frame of a man in his 70’s but has the presence of a man made of stone. “Damn it! Oh well, you best come in.” As he turns and walks into the dim hallway behind him, I can’t help but wonder if he thinks I’m some sort of door-to-door salesman, stood at his door in my suit. Maybe he simply doesn’t have the fight in him anymore so he just lets canvassers in for the company if nothing else.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m sorry but are you, Miles Harris?”

“Yes boy, that’s me, you're in the right place, don’t worry. You’ve cost me a hundred pounds you know, ha, your grandfather knew you well didn’t he.”

The more he spoke the more confused I was becoming and clearly, it showed on my face.

“Listen, son, take a seat.

Your grandpa and I had been friends longer than you’ve been alive. I was there when we wet your mother's head and I was there when he buried your grandmother. I know you don’t know why you’re here so let me tell you, son your grandpa was a drug dealer”

“Ha! I mean, ha! What are you talking about? That’s just not…”

As I struggled to find the words to respond, he lifts a duffel bag from under the coffee table and drops it onto the disheveled mahogany wooden tabletop.

“The man was buried today son, this isn’t the time for jokes. You have the journal in your hand, open it!”

I place the journal on the coffee table and open the first page like a nervous child.

“What’s the last number in the sequence under my name?”

“20”

He proceeds to take out wad after wad of cash one after the other until the bag is empty.

“17, 18, 19, 20. There you go there’s a thousand in each one, you think it’s a coincidence I have exactly 20 thousand pounds sitting here waiting for you?”

“Why are you giving this to me? This isn’t mine, this is nothing to do with me!”

“Don’t worry boy this doesn’t make you a gangster, this is your grandpa’s money and now he’s gone by rights it’s yours, your inheritance. You can take it and that’s the end of it. You never have to come back here again.”

I reach over and pick a handful of cash from the pile, almost as if to examine if it is real.

“Why? Why are you giving me this, you could have said anything and just kept it?”

“Phil was a good man you know, I know you don’t think that but it’s true, you think he kept his distance because he didn’t care but he stayed away because he loved you.”

I could feel it, the anger and bitterness starting to claw at me, desperate not to hear any more, fully aware of the pitfalls that lay down this road to truth. But I had to hear it, I didn’t have a choice.

“What does that even mean!”

“Your mother knew what he did, she found out just after you were born, she was scared, the poor thing, women usually are the ones who can’t handle it. She told him to stay away, you were too young to remember but he tried to stay in your lives but after a while, I think he thought she was right, that you were better off without him around.”

“No way she would have said”

“What? Sorry son, you don’t have a grandad because he’s a drug dealer and I told him to stay away, now eat your sugar puffs, there’s a good boy”

“No, but...”

“Life is complicated kid, it's not a load of yes and no answers”

“Why didn’t he just stop, he could have just quit he chose this over us, that's no my mum's fault.”

“Yeah, he could but like I said he was a good man. You asked me why I’m sitting here willing to give you 20k, it’s because your grandpa has helped me feed my family for 30 years. He kept me out of jail more than once, he provided, he knew if he just walked away, we’d be done for.

He thought about it mine you, have no doubt about that, we begged him not to, we knew we wouldn’t last a month without him. So he stayed. He’d make sure he'd be in his drive every now and again as you were going to school or playing out front, just so he could watch you for a while.”

It was too much; it was all just too much, I didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to think. Did this even change anything? Was he still the cold heartless man I always thought or was none of it even his fault?

“Look in the book son, on each page is another person just like me who’ll hand you a bag, I can give you the address for each of them. And they’ll give you the money just like me because they know what he did for them and he knew he could trust each of them. He told all of us if you don’t come within a month, they can keep it. He’s not who you thought he was son, ha, who is eh?”

“I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what to do!”

Miles begins to re-fill the bag with the cash, swiping his arm across the table, pilling the money back in. He picks it up and stands.

“First, don’t be a twat and put it all in the bank at once.”

As I stand instinctively he hands me the bag, starring at this stranger who in only minutes has taken my life in his hands and spun it around like a Rubik’s cube. I'm still dazed and overwhelmed as we walk to the front door, as I’m leaving he taps my shoulder.

“Now don’t blame your mother, she did what she thought was right, ok. If you want the rest you let me know and we’ll take care of it and if you want to know more about him, you know where to come.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harris, I appreciate this, really.”

“Oh, I forgot”

He reached into his back pocket and hands me a hundred pounds in twenties.

“What’s this?”

“I bet your grandpa you wouldn’t turn up, he bet me twenty you’d turn up today.”

THE END