Love Letters From the Grave(62)

‘Hang on there a moment,’ I said, leaning forward to distract Luther from his fascinating tale.

We had sat by the lake, and then in my little square cabin, for the best part of nine hours as he’d related the histories of the people in the cabin next door, the ones he called his great aunt and uncle. I had seen them return to their grand lake house, laughing, flushed by the wind as they’d driven along in their open-air buggy. Luther had popped across to tell them where he was, and they’d waved to me briefly before heading into the house. Minutes later I’d heard the unmistakeable sound of logs being split as Charlie – or perhaps Molly – prepared the open fire for the evening.

It had grown dark without me noticing, so I took advantage of the break I’d created in the conversation to jump up and turn on the light. It glared uncompromisingly on the lids of the four beer bottles we’d managed to sink between us. It had been a long day, mind you, and we’d punctuated it with little meals from Luther’s backpack, stocked as it was with all varieties of snacks and goodies. Now I’d heard all about their growing and canning activities, I could guess where it was all from.

Luther smiled at me patiently. ‘You have a question?’

‘Questions, more like.’ I counted them out on my fingers. ‘So that couple next door, Henry Fonda and Katherine Hepburn.’ I could see Luther didn’t understand the Golden Pond reference, so I powered on. ‘They’re seventy years old?’

‘A little more, I think,’ replied Luther.

‘And they’ve been married for thirty odd years. And a bit more. But he was a bank robber who served time for two whole decades from the age of fifteen, and she was married to a gay sheriff who clearly died of Aids, followed by an impotent confirmed bachelor who contributed to both their divorces. Is that right?’

Luther frowned. ‘Well, he was only the driver at the bank robbery,’ he said carefully, as if to an idiot. His expression was along the lines of: ‘That was a fundamental point. How much more have you missed?’

‘And they were adopted into a large Amish community and, therefore have a massive family of people, none of whom are actually related to them?’

‘Precisely,’ said Luther, apparently satisfied that I’d learned my lesson well. He did a good Obe Wan Kenobi impression. ‘So those are really just repetitions of what I’ve just told you.’

‘Confirmations,’ I corrected him. ‘Important to get your facts straight in journalism.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay. Then what’s your actual question?’

Ha. Somehow this young man had a way of making me feel brainless. He’d be a good reporter – or maybe a politician – if he chose to go in that direction.

‘Well, your story has just come right up to date, to the barn-raising and the horse pulling the buggy, and you wanting to know if I like to drive fast. So I guess I’m wondering—?

‘Where do I fit in?’ Luther smiled knowingly, and I had the feeling that he’d been quite aware what my question was going to be from the second I stopped him. A lawyer, then. Maybe he’d be a lawyer. Maybe he already was a lawyer.

‘Exactly,’ I said.

‘Andrew is my father,’ he told me, waving a hand at the lakeside. ‘I’ve been coming here for holidays for as long as I can remember, and I’ve known Molly and Charlie all my life.’

‘Andrew? I don’t remember Andrew.’

There’d been a lot of names, to be fair, and my pen had run out after the Second World War section so most of this was being committed to a fast-fading memory.

‘There was a name starting with A, though. Amos,’ I remembered. ‘Amos! They remained friends and Charlie got him the job in the payroll office.’

Luther smiled again, as if I’d passed his test. ‘Yep. Amos was my grandfather, and Charlie was his brother. That’s why I call him Great Uncle Charlie.’

‘Amos was …’ I probed gently for fear of what he might have to say.

‘He died a couple of years ago,’ said Luther. ‘Aneurism. He always liked to say he had too many brains for one head.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did he stay at the factory like Charlie and Molly?’

‘He certainly did,’ said Luther proudly. ‘He became the company accountant in the end, and retired on a decent pension at the age of sixty-five. Got the gold watch and everything,’ he added, drawing back his sleeve so that I could see it on his arm. ‘Dad let me wear it so I could show it to Uncle Charlie. He’s been so busy since Amos died that he hadn’t seen it.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Extraordinary.’

It really was extraordinary – the whole story.

Then I remembered another question. ‘So why did you ask me if I like to drive fast?’

The moment I asked it, I realized I could have answered that particular query for myself.

‘It’s what Charlie asks all the young folks he gets to know,’ said Luther. ‘It’s what he asked me when I turned sixteen. Charlie was always a fast driver, always loved the open road and his foot to the floor, but he knew – he learned – that you have to keep it under control. And sometimes, when you’re fifteen or sixteen, you don’t know so much about keeping it under control.’