The Serpent in the Glass (The Tale of Thomas Farrell) (2 page)

Thomas heard a scraper clatter to the ground. He looked up to see Jessica smiling through clenched teeth at the door to the patio. The net curtains had been drawn back and Mr Westhrop stood looking at them both. Thomas swallowed hard. He would probably be told off for not going fast enough, and then told off some more because Jessica was helping.

Mr Westhrop opened the patio door, and the children awaited their fate. ‘Thomas, you forgot to remind me it was your birthday today.’

Thomas looked across at Jessica, and she looked back as confused as him.

Mr Westhrop looked down at the patio as if he wanted to say something about it, but then he shook his head and looked up at them. ‘Go and get cleaned up. You want to be presentable for your party later on.’

Jessica raised his eyebrows. ‘Party?’

‘Yes, it’s lucky your mother reminded me,’ Mr Westhrop added. Thomas and Jessica looked at each other in compounded disbelief.

‘It starts at six o’clock sharp. So both of you upstairs and wash your hands. And don’t forget to put on your best clothes!’

‘What’s going on?’ Thomas asked Jessica once they were up the stairs and out of earshot.

‘I don’t know, but there’s no way Mum reminded him about your birthday. Still, a party Thomas! A party!’ Jessica disappeared into the bathroom with a smile.

The ‘friends’ Mr Westhrop had mentioned turned out to be Jessica’s school friends. Jessica had the gift of making friends. Thomas had managed to get through his entire junior school without any.

From their conversation, the girls seemed to be under the impression that Jessica was having a late birthday party. Thomas felt glad they’d not had time to buy presents, or he might have ended up with a doll or a hairbrush. Mr Westhrop hung around the front door for some reason. Mrs Westhrop, judging by the noise of plates and glasses, was busy in the kitchen, either that or she’d put the crockery in the washing machine by mistake again.

The guests ate their salad without a word to Thomas, preferring to talk to Jessica about shoes and clothes. Thomas salted a piece of celery and bit off the end with a crunch just as the lights went out.

One of the girls asked Jessica if her parents had paid the electricity bill, but before she could answer, Mrs Westhrop’s off-key falsetto filled the room.

‘Happy Birthday to You! Happy Birthday to You! Happy…’

Thomas cringed. The girls joined in, but even Jessica’s enthusiastic addition to the chorus wasn’t enough to drown out Mrs Westhrop’s contribution. When the song got to Thomas’s name, the girls had to correct themselves when they realized it wasn’t Jessica’s birthday after all. Thomas reddened. He disliked the song. It made everyone stare at him.

Eleven candles stuck haphazardly into a chocolate cake floated toward the table. It was just like the one Jessica had drawn on his card, except smaller. Mrs Westhrop told Jessica to tell Thomas to blow the candles out and make a wish, though he doubted it would come true; after all, what were the chances of everyone forgetting the Happy Birthday to You song before his next birthday?

The doorbell rang just as the lights came back on. At first Thomas thought it must be another one of Jessica’s friends, but before he could get so much as a peek at the visitor, Mr Westhrop had whisked the newcomer into his office, no doubt to show them his tropical fish — a fate to which many a visitor had been subjected. The office door opened just as Thomas finished his slice of cake. It was their first birthday cake since Jessica had turned eight.

Mr Westhrop appeared at the doorway. Behind him stood a tall man, perhaps in his mid thirties, wearing the sharpest suit that Thomas had ever seen. The man’s brown hair had a hint of ginger at the temples.

‘Thomas,’ Mr Westhrop began in an uncharacteristically pleasant tone, ‘this is Mr Bartholomew.’

‘As you can see,’ Mr Westhrop said, turning to the well-dressed man, ‘Thomas is just finishing his birthday party with his friends.’

The girls glanced at Thomas as if they’d just realized he was there.

‘Ah, popular with the girls I see!’ Mr Bartholomew joked in a Scottish accent.

Thomas’s face reddened.

‘Have you had enough of that big chocolate cake, Thomas?’ Mr Westhrop asked, his lips lengthening in an attempt at a smile.

Thomas thought about saying no, and telling him it was far from big, but before he could say anything Mr Westhrop carried right on.

‘Well, Thomas, would you join Mr Bartholomew and myself in my office?’

‘Yes, Mr Westhrop,’ Thomas said, as he stood up and wiped his mouth. At least he’d be away from the girls. Some of them were now giving him menacing looks.

‘Good. Say goodbye to your friends,’ he said, as he turned back to Mr Bartholomew. ‘My wife will see to them. She’s very good with children.’ The two men walked back into the office.

Thomas looked at Jessica and she shrugged. What would anyone want with him? Was he in trouble? ‘A party with no music?’ Thomas heard one girl say to another just as he slipped out, leaving Jessica and Mrs Westhrop to say goodbye and see them on their way.

Mr Westhrop already sat at his desk when Thomas walked into the office, and Mr Bartholomew opposite. A briefcase stood on the floor beside the latter’s well-shod feet.

Once the door was shut, Mr Westhrop continued, the forced smile still upon his face. ‘Mr Bartholomew’s a solicitor, Thomas. He works for Bartholomew & Runfast.’

Thomas nodded awkwardly. What did this have to do with him?

‘Bartholomew & Runfast dealt with your placement in the orphanage under the direction of your father, Mr Farrell,’ Mr Westhrop explained.

Thomas suddenly felt very strange. Did this Mr Bartholomew know something about his father? Yet despite the mounting questions, and an increasing heart rate, he stood there silent.

A look of distress came over Mr Westhrop’s face, as if he’d suddenly remembered something very important. ‘I’m sorry Mr Bartholomew, I forgot to ask if you’d like a drink or something to eat?’

‘Thank you, I wouldn’t say no to a cold drink.’ The Scottish solicitor smiled as Mr Westhrop got up and left the room. Mr Bartholomew turned to study the aquarium. ‘You’ve a nice home here, Thomas.’

This was Thomas’s chance. ‘Did you know my father, sir?’

Mr Bartholomew looked a little taken aback. ‘Mr Runfast dealt with Mr Farrell. I’m afraid your father never returned after leaving you with us. We don’t even have his first name or address. He must have been well off though. He paid in gold, you know.’

‘Gold?’ Thomas wondered if Mr Westhrop knew that.

Mr Bartholomew nodded. ‘Yes, and very generously too, according to Mr Runfast’s record of the transaction.’

Thomas took a step closer. ‘Maybe Mr Runfast could tell me more? What he looked like. That sort of thing?’

Mr Bartholomew gave Thomas a thoughtful look as he stood up. ‘Mr Runfast unfortunately died a couple of years ago — run over by a bus, a tragic and most ironic death.’

Thomas nodded. ‘And my mother? I know she died, but —’

Mr Bartholomew put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, lad. She passed away before you were brought to us. That’s all we know. Perhaps some answers may lie in my briefcase.’

Just then Mr Westhrop came back with drinks. He eyed Thomas suspiciously. Mr Bartholomew thanked him, sipped his orange juice, and resumed his seat. There were ice cubes in his glass. The Westhrops had pulled out all the stops. Thomas wondered why. But more than that he wondered what Mr Bartholomew had in his briefcase.

Mr Westhrop took his position behind the desk again. ‘My wife will be but a moment. Perhaps you might like to see my Egyptian Mouthbreeder —’

‘Ah, Mrs Westhrop,’ Mr Bartholomew said, standing up as she entered the room. Mr Westhrop frowned hard, abandoning his own advice to never do so.

Mrs Westhrop smiled, shook hands with Mr Bartholomew, and sat down next to a rather large Yucca plant. Mr Westhrop looked at her and then at the plant and, erasing the look of concern that had spread across his face, turned back to the solicitor. ‘Yes, anyway, perhaps you should proceed, Mr Bartholomew?’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ the solicitor said.

The front door closed and Jessica’s footsteps came to a stop outside the office door. Thomas looked around. No one else seemed to have heard the eavesdropper.

‘Well,’ Mr Bartholomew began in his rich Scottish voice, ‘this is something that all three of you will be interested in I’m sure.’

Four, Thomas thought, as he glanced at the door.

‘Thomas, on the day your father brought you to us he left a certain item in our care.’ Mr Bartholomew pulled his red leather briefcase up onto his lap. It opened with a couple of clicks and the solicitor pulled out a white envelope. ‘He left instructions that this should be placed into your hands on your eleventh birthday.’

Thomas tried to read what it said on the envelope, but before he had a chance the solicitor whipped out a piece of paper.

‘I’ll need this signed by Thomas and by one guardian. It’s just to say I’ve delivered the item.’ Mr Bartholomew placed the paper on the desk.

Mr Westhrop read it carefully, signed it, and then pushed it toward Thomas. ‘Well, your turn.’ Mr Westhrop held out his gold Swivet, Stibbard & Waverly pen.

Thomas signed it as best he could. He hadn’t perfected his signature yet. Each time he wrote it out it looked different. Thomas handed the piece of paper back to Mr Bartholomew, and would have given him the pen too if it had not been deftly intercepted by Mr Westhrop.

Mr Bartholomew placed the envelope into Thomas’s hand. Thomas lifted it up and saw that Mr and Mrs Westhrop were eyeing it every bit as keenly as him, especially Mr Westhrop. Upon it in black flowing ink were written the words:

Master Thomas Farrell

Was this his father’s handwriting? Thomas looked upon it in awe. ‘Well, Thomas,’ Mr Westhrop said. ‘Mr Bartholomew doesn’t have all day. Open it!’

Thomas opened the envelope cautiously and tipped the contents into his hand. There in his palm lay a card and a gold key. Thomas checked the envelope to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. It was empty. Thomas turned the card over in his palm. Upon it an address had been written:

Bay Barch Bank, Selkirk, TD7

‘Ah, yes I know that bank. Selkirk’s where we have our office. Looks like you’ve a key to one of its deposit boxes,’ Mr Bartholomew said. ‘Your father must have left something there for you before he —’ the solicitor paused ‘— before he went away. Perhaps some more of that gold, eh?’ He winked at Thomas.

‘Bank? Gold?’ Mr Westhrop said, his eyebrows raised. ‘Deposit box you say?’

‘Yes, it’s the oldest bank in town. Driven past it plenty of times.’ Mr Bartholomew stood, briefcase in hand, and straightened his already-straight tie. ‘Well, I must be off. It’s a long journey. Thank you for the drink.’

‘Mr Bartholomew?’ Mr Westhrop asked. ‘I wonder if, before you go, you might give me directions to this bank?’

‘Certainly, Mr Westhrop. I’d be delighted. Do you have some paper?’

‘Of course,’ Mr Westhrop said, grabbing a pad of paper from a shelf by his aquarium and almost knocking the fish food into the water.

Thomas held the envelope tightly in his hand as he stood in the doorway and watched the solicitor drive away. Mr Westhrop stood next to him, the map Mr Bartholomew had drawn clutched equally as tightly in his own hand. Somehow Thomas regretted the goodbye, as if a link between him and his father had just been severed. He gripped the envelope a little tighter. There was just the key now. All rested on that. It was his gift from his father, his birthday key. Once that box was opened perhaps he’d know who his parents were and why his father had placed him in an orphanage. Perhaps he’d know, for the first time in his life, who he really was; and that filled him with a strange mix of excitement and anxiety, like a hundred Christmas Eves at once, but with no certainty that, come morning, there would be any presents under the tree.

‘Well, we shall go to this bank just as soon as possible,’ Mr Westhrop said as he closed the door, but Thomas had the impression that Mr Westhrop didn’t even know he was standing next to him.

— CHAPTER TWO —

An Heirloom and an Invitation

Outside, the overcast sky drizzled down its rain all over Mr Westhrop’s small pallid-green, and recently washed, Morris Minor. It was no storm, just one of those token showers Mother Nature teased people with, perhaps in the hope of catching as many as possible by surprise when the real cloudburst struck. The humid, sticky air remained much as it had since last Saturday.

Thomas sat in the back of the car with Jessica, while Mrs Westhrop made a final check around the house to ensure all the windows were closed, doors locked, electrical equipment unplugged, and the oven turned off. She always double-checked everything before she left the house. Mr Westhrop bore this quietly as he sat in the Morris Minor tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. They’d been waiting for ten minutes and there was still no sign of her. She sometimes took twenty minutes to give the house a good check, and once — in Thomas’s memory at least — Mrs Westhrop had entirely forgotten they were all waiting for her and Mr Westhrop had returned to the house to find her making banana bread. That was unlikely to happen this time; Mr Westhrop had repeatedly told his wife over the last seven days about the journey and the importance of it.

Mr Westhrop had attended to the planning of the trip with an eagerness that had surprised Thomas. Jonathan Westhrop seemed as keen as Thomas to get to Bay Barch Bank. Soon after Mr Bartholomew’s departure, Mr Westhrop had asked for the key Thomas had received. Just in case Thomas ‘misplaced’ it, he’d said. Thomas had reluctantly agreed and hadn’t so much as seen the key since. He still had the envelope though. It now lay in his ‘treasure box’ along with the slip of paper summing up all he knew about himself and his adoption. He’d spent many hours that week staring at the writing on that envelope. His father’s writing. To know that, to see it, to possess it, made Thomas feel he at last had something, however small, that linked him with his parents.