The Serpent in the Glass (The Tale of Thomas Farrell) (3 page)

The past week at school hadn’t been easy, and seemed to have dragged on for at least a fortnight. Thomas’s class, and indeed the whole Year, was buzzing with talk about which secondary school each pupil would be going to in September. Jessica had told Thomas on Wednesday that Mr Westhrop had wanted to get them both into St Prudence-in-the-fields, but Thomas didn’t have much interest in the matter after Saturday’s events, though he did briefly wonder how the school received its name. Thomas had spent most of his lesson time daydreaming, even more than he normally did. He’d dreamed of going to the bank and opening a large box filled with photographs of his parents. He’d dreamed of finding a large chart displaying his family history clear back to the Norman Conquest. He’d dreamed of finding a note telling him that his father was still alive, living in a small cottage on the outskirts of Holten Layme, and that he was invited over for tea. He’d wondered what seemed like every moment of every day what might lay in that deposit box. Today he would find out.

Jessica sat quietly in the backseat, but she didn’t fool Thomas. He could tell from her eyes that she was bubbling with excitement. Neither of them had been to Scotland before. Why Mr Westhrop had arranged the trip with just a week’s notice, Thomas didn’t know, but he was glad they were going so soon. Well, if Mrs Westhrop ever finished checking the house that is.

As if summoned by Thomas’s thought, Mrs Westhrop appeared from behind the burgeoning mass of wisteria that clambered up the side of the house. Thomas heard Mr Westhrop give a sigh of relief as his wife got into the car, a look of satisfaction upon her thin face. Jonathan adjusted the rear-view mirror and started up the engine. After Mrs Westhrop had asked Jessica if she had her seat belt on, and asked Jessica to ask Thomas the same thing, they were pulling out of the drive of six Birch Tree Close and Thomas’s heart was beginning to race with the thought of what might await them at the end of their journey.

Thomas opened his eyes and rubbed an aching nose that had spent the last hour squashed against the arm of the door. He must have nodded off. Thomas had never known such a long car journey. His belly rumbled. They’d stopped off twice at the motorway services, but Mr Westhrop had only allowed them a small amount to eat each time because of what he said were ‘exorbitant prices’. Thomas wasn’t quite sure what ‘exorbitant’ meant, but he thought it might mean that Mr Westhrop didn’t like how much everything cost.

Jessica had a brochure in her hand. Poking from her bag were several others, all packed to sate her curiosity on the journey. The one she now had her face in had something to do with the history of Scotland. She’d grabbed it, along with the others, from the bookcase in the living room that — apart from various unread books on gardening, well-read books on tropical fish, and read-so-many-times-they-were-falling-apart books on frugal living — contained a vast array of Tourist Information booklets, leaflets, maps and brochures. The Westhrops had discovered early on in their married life that this literature was free. Over the years they’d built up several shelves of material detailing places to visit in Britain, from John o’ Groats to Land’s End.

Thomas looked out the window and squinted. The rain clouds had gone and the sun now rode high above. They were in the slow lane, which meant Mrs Westhrop must’ve been driving. She wasn’t a very good driver by her own admission, but Mr Westhrop needed a rest from being at the wheel, and stopping the car was out of the question. Time was money, after all. Mrs Westhrop made the odd sortie into the middle lane when she encountered a slower driver than herself, but farm vehicles were, fortunately, rarely encountered. In front of them at this precise moment, and for some time, loomed a large blue lorry, its back doors graphically announcing its cargo: frozen peas. Frozen garden peas. Thomas had a horrible image in his mind of what might happen if the lorry had to brake hard. He’d never liked peas, especially mushy ones. On his list of worst foods they were way up (or was that down?) there with Brussel sprouts and radishes. Mrs Westhrop drove very close behind other vehicles, a unique situation in that it was the only time her nerves were fine whilst Mr Westhrop’s were not; which is why the latter chose to close his eyes for as long as possible while his wife was at the wheel and then claim he’d been sleeping.

To Thomas and Jessica’s delight the slow lane, and the frozen peas, were left behind as Mr Westhrop — who remarkably awoke just at the right point — instructed his wife to turn off the motorway and onto an A road.

‘Thomas?’ Mr Westhrop called to the back of the car.

Thomas sat up. ‘Yes, Mr Westhrop?’

‘That sign up ahead, what does it say?’

Thomas looked up the road about four hundred yards to a blue sign with white lettering. ‘Welcome to Scotland.’

‘Good, good. Then we should be in Selkirk soon.’ Mr Westhrop turned up the radio slightly. It was a classical piece. Thomas had heard it many times at home on Mr Westhrop’s surround-sound audio system.

Jessica looked up from her brochure and glanced out the window. ‘Oh, it looks the same as England.’

Thomas looked around, half expecting to see a haggis shop or a bagpiper, but all that met his eyes were hills, grass and a few scattered trees. He briefly thought of haggis and frozen peas before Jessica spoke loudly in his ear.

‘We’re in the Cheviot Hills right now. They lie on the border of England and Scotland, you know.’

‘I do now,’ Thomas replied, yawning before breaking into a smile that Jessica returned. The hills were pretty though. He liked hills. Halten Layme could’ve done with more of them.

‘So what will you do if your dad has left you lots of money?’ Jessica suddenly asked.

Thomas frowned and then raised his eyebrows. Jessica had asked this question several times since Mr Bartholomew’s visit, but Thomas just said he didn’t know. He looked at Mr and Mrs Westhrop. The music was playing too loudly for them to hear. ‘Well, I think if there’s any money your dad wouldn’t let me spend it, at least not until I’m older.’

‘But if there was, and you could spend it?’ Jessica persisted.

Thomas thought hard. ‘I would buy myself a giant bag of marbles filled with every size and variety I could imagine. And I’d buy you some shoes and a giant bar of chocolate. I might even buy a new garden gnome for Mrs Westhrop!’

‘Oh Thomas, that’s so sweet!’ Jessica said. ‘But I think it would be fairer on the gnome if you let someone else buy it.’ Jessica made this last comment quite seriously before she reached into her bag and plucked out a new brochure entitled
Discovering the Scottish Borders
.

Thomas thought there might be money. It was a bank after all. But money wouldn’t answer his questions. It wouldn’t tell him who he was or who his parents were. Had his father just abandoned him after his mum had died? Did he have no grandparents or extended family anywhere? Was he alone in the world?

They drove into Selkirk not much later. It was a little more built up than Thomas had imagined. After finding a free car park, conveniently situated outside a supermarket, Mr Westhrop led the way quickly to Bay Barch Bank, guided by Mr Bartholomew’s map. Getting somewhere fast was an important life skill to Mr Westhrop; he’d little interest in stopping to smell the roses of life, so to speak. Needless to say, he’d become an excellent map reader, unlike Thomas whose map-reading skills were little better than his sense of direction. Thomas had managed to get lost no less than three times on the way home in his first two weeks of junior school.

‘Well, here we are,’ Mr Westhrop said with some pride at having found it so quickly.

There on the corner, stood an old-looking building with the words
Bay Barch Bank
engraved in stone over the door. Thomas thought it looked like a small mansion. They walked up the steps to the heavy, but thankfully open, metal-embossed doors. They were greeted by a very clean room with a polished marble floor and a smart wooden counter that ran the entire length of the room. Behind the glass of the counter many computer screens flickered. Most of the positions had big notices saying
Closed
. Only two other customers graced Bay Barch Bank that afternoon. One, an old man in a dark-grey raincoat, and the other, a ginger-bearded man deep in discussion with a bank clerk. The latter spoke fast in a thick Scottish accent. Thomas understood only the odd word or two.

Mr Westhrop led them over to a part of the counter behind which a young man sat. He seemed to be trying to find something in a drawer. Mr Westhrop coughed.

‘Uh, hello. How can I help you?’ he said in a less-thick accent than the ones Thomas had just heard. He shoved the drawer closed as if he never wanted to open it again.

‘My name’s Mr Westhrop. I’d like to make a withdrawal from a deposit box. It’s in the name of Thomas Farrell I believe. Here’s the key.’ Mr Westhrop pulled Thomas’s key from a small pocket in his light grey waistcoat and placed it on the counter. Although Thomas had been reluctant to give Mr Westhrop the key, he knew he’d be careful with it. Unlike his daughter, Mr Westhrop wasn’t prone to mislaying or forgetting things. Jessica, on the other hand, seemed to lose something every day.

The clerk seemed to eye the key as if it were some strange creature he’d never seen before. He didn’t touch it. ‘Excuse me, I’ll get someone who can show you to the box.’ He stood up and disappeared through a door behind him.

Less than a minute later an older man, dressed somewhat like Mr Bartholomew, appeared on their side of the counter. ‘Hello, Mr Westhrop?’ He greeted them with a surprisingly warm smile. ‘You’ve a safety deposit box key I believe? May I see it?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Mr Westhrop handed him the key from the counter.

The man examined the key. ‘Ah, yes. One of the old boxes.’

‘If you’ll follow me, please?’ the gentleman said, leading them further into the bank. He took them through a door and then a corridor that ended at a large desk behind which stood a secure-looking door.

‘Excuse me one moment,’ he said as he pressed a few keys on a small computer that sat on the desk. He looked up. ‘Thomas Farrell?’

‘That’s me,’ Thomas said.

The clerk dropped his eyes to look at Thomas with one eyebrow slightly raised. ‘Oh, I see. Do you have some identity, young man?’

Thomas looked back at Mr Westhrop.

‘Here you are,’ Mr Westhrop replied for Thomas, pulling what looked like a letter and certificate from his jacket pocket. Thomas caught the words
Adoption Papers
at the top of the letter. He’d seen them before, when he was six if he remembered correctly. Mr Westhrop had got them out to provide evidence to Thomas that he wasn’t their son. It had been something Mr Westhrop had done with great care — care in the sense that he wanted there to be no misunderstanding on the facts of the matter.

The clerk scanned the documents and gave them back to Mr Westhrop. ‘Well, let’s proceed.’

He moved over to the door and, ignoring the security guard, punched in a few buttons on the keypad next to the handle. The door opened and Thomas and the Westhrops were ushered through to a room lined with small metal panels, each with its own keyhole. The clerk searched the panels and before long found what he’d been looking for.

‘Here it is,’ the clerk said ‘safety deposit box two-hundred and six.’ He inserted the key into the box and turned it. It clicked and the clerk pulled open the small door.

Thomas was just tall enough to see inside. It lay empty except for a brown envelope and a small cloth-wrapped bundle. The clerk stepped aside, still holding the door, and indicated to Thomas to remove the contents. Thomas reached in and pulled out the fist-sized bundle with one hand and the envelope with the other. The cloth was tattered and dirty and the object inside round and hard. The envelope bore similar words as the one that had held the key. It read:

To Master Thomas Farrell
.

But it was, to Thomas’s surprise, not written in the same hand. He could tell. He had studied the other envelope’s words, followed their curves and lines with his eyes every night since Mr Bartholomew’s visit, until sleep had taken him.

Mr Westhrop, looking somewhat disappointed, thanked the clerk, as did Mrs Westhrop. Jessica, however, didn’t thank anyone because she was too busy staring at the bundle in Thomas’s hand, no doubt trying to imagine what it could be.

As soon as they’d left the bank Mr Westhrop took the bundle and envelope from Thomas, telling him he’d keep them safe. Once back in the car, Mr Westhrop handed the bundle and envelope back to Thomas. Thomas held them, one in each hand, while Mr Westhrop continued to look at him. ‘Well, let’s not be all day about it.’

Thomas nodded and put the envelope on his lap. He would’ve liked to open them in private, but it seemed Mr Westhrop wasn’t going to permit that. He was lucky Mr Westhrop allowed him to open them at all. But he hesitated to unwrap the bundle, though he didn’t know why. Dismissing his unfounded fears, he quickly removed the layers of old cloth from the object within — and promptly dropped the latter when he saw what it was.

‘Careful, it might be valuable!’ Mr Westhrop barked.

A glass sphere, a little larger in size than a golf ball, now rested on the backseat of the car between Jessica and Thomas. But it was what it contained that had made Thomas drop it, for suspended in its centre hung a snake, or something that looked very much like one.

Jonathan Westhrop held out his hand. ‘Give it here.’

Thomas picked it up gingerly and handed it over.

‘Hmph,’ Mr Westhrop grunted, examining the snake-like creature within, ‘nothing more than some family heirloom I’d guess. Probably worthless.’

Mrs Westhrop eyed it with a look of disgust as her husband dropped it back into Thomas’s hand. ‘Open the envelope then.’

After hurriedly putting the glass orb back in the cloth, Thomas put it down between his legs and opened the envelope. Inside he found two sheets of paper. Jessica’s eyes played upon them, clearly as eager as Thomas to know their contents.

Mr Westhrop tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Well, what does it say?’