FOUND

      Karen kept her head down against the rain as it beat down. She was cycling home from Alness and her job at the video shop. Dull, dreary, depressing work, but all she could find for her year out before Uni.

      As she rounded the bend on the little highland road she suddenly saw the boot of a car, a blue BMW, sticking up at an odd angle half hanging over the ravine on the left of the road. Glass was spattered around, dark tyre marks burnt on the road. Most of the vehicle was pushed deep into the bushes at the top of the ravine.

      She stopped and dismounted. She crept closer, the car suddenly slipped downwards – she jumped, then to her horror it slid slowly down, gathering speed until she heard an enormous thump and then a ‘whump’ as an explosion burst upwards. Stunned she watched the bright orange flames burn with ferocity. She felt shock and horror.

      How long she stood there she did not know. She found herself looking around in the verge into the bushes. Perhaps the driver had crawled out.

Amongst the torn and mangled brambles and willows she found a black briefcase, a businessman’s case, quite fat looking, leather covered with brass handles.

      She picked it up, and still dazed, mounting her bike she cycled home carefully. She met no cars on the road – she seldom did. Her home was a small croft house set back from this minor road.

She cycled up the lane, putting her bike in the woodshed as usual. She left the briefcase there too.
She stumbled into the house. Mum and Dad were not home – they had gone to Auntie Jean’s – they wouldn’t be in till 8.00 p.m. She picked up the phone and dialled 999. She reported the accident;

“No”, she did not get the number. “Yes, blue BMW. “No”, she did not, could not, see anybody in it.

      An hour later her parents found her sitting at the kitchen table. She gabbled out the story about the car, the police – her mother could see she was in shock.
The police arrived at 10 o’clock. She was tired now. They quizzed her about the car, but she had little to add.

      That night, exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep only to wake with a dream of the car exploding.

The next day was Sunday. She got up late. There was never anything to do in this out of the way place anyway. Karen was desperate to get away. Her foster parents were OK but they smothered her somehow. Everything was boring here – except for the car crash. My God that was awesome!

      Then she remembered the briefcase – why had she taken it? Why not? She got into trouble before for taking stuff. Anyway, no-one’s asked for it. The driver probably won’t need it where he is. She felt bad in thinking it of him, but it was true.

      She got out of bed, got dressed and went out to the woodshed. There it was, tucked in behind a woodpile near the bike. Nice bag, worth a bit – what was in it?

It was heavy. Taking it on her knee she flicked open the catches – she gasped – neatly stacked piles of £20 notes filling the briefcase met her gaze. She shut it again and looked around.

      The woodshed door was out of sight of the house, but Karen was a past master at concealment. No-one was in the door frame – she opened it again, yes it was true. She closed it quickly and placed it further back.
The police might be looking for it. She’d wait.

 

Over a week went past. Then the paper reported that the car belonged to a drug dealer from Glasgow, but no foul play was suspected. What little remained of his body revealed a high drug content in the tissue. He’d overdosed then crashed and was burnt in the fire.

Karen realised that if anyone suspected or knew there was money they would assume it had burned in the fire – so no-one was looking for the money. Still she had better take no action for a while. She hadn't counted it, but it looked like thousands. She itched to spend it, but she knew she would come under suspicion if she suddenly started spending.
It had happened before – the time she nicked £15 from the children’s home – various shops in the village had told the houseparent she was spending freely - she was grounded for ages.

      No, she would have to think this out. She was used to going into a shell, cutting off. She’d learned that in care, not to give, in fear of losing something yet again.

 

She’d never known her father – her mother had died – “taken her own life,” the houseparent had said, and her elderly grandmother hadn’t been able to cope. When she died there was no-one left but the childrens' home. Then she’d been fostered, but she wasn’t open, ready to be loved. The bit of her that could have responded was deeply hidden – she protected it from hurt. Hiding the money was like that; it was easy to shut out its existence.

      She kept working at the video shop. Cycling home was difficult – each time she had to pass the tyre marks and the gash in the bushes and each time she thought of the explosion.

      Her foster parents found her morose, uncommunicative – well, more than usual, anyway. They put it down to the after effects of the crash.

      One day, while the video shop was quiet, a young policeman came in. He was looking for a video, “Gladiator” – she helped him, finding it on the shelves. She knew them inside out now. He said,

      “Aren’t you the girl from the crash? I interviewed you that night.”

      She genuinely couldn’t recognise his face.

      “It’s alright, you were in shock. I recognised that straight away – people often don’t remember things.”

      She asked innocently about drug dealers. He told her how it was getting harder for them these days. He explained how banks were alerted to look out for people depositing large cash sums and how banks made it harder for people to open new accounts without clear I/Ds. “No,” he wasn’t in the drug squad; he was on traffic, he said. He paid for his video and left.

      Karen realised that to get any serious benefit from this money was not going to be easy. Sure, she could spend a little here and there, but £200,000! Big chunks spent would show up.

      It was a month after the crash and she was in the video shop idly reading a woman’s magazine. “Trace your ancestors – full service, find out where you came from.” For Karen this struck a chord.

She desperately needed to find out about her father and her mother, she
didn’t know who she was. £200 it said. That shouldn’t arouse any suspicion. The address was an office in Inverness.

      That Saturday she told her mum she was going into Inverness to do a little shopping. She took the bus in from the road end. It took an hour as it stopped and started for the passengers. In Inverness she quickly found the office – one floor up. “Ancestor Search” it said on the glass door. Pushing in she found a youngish woman at a computer. The room was pleasant and smelt of beeswax. Books lined the shelves behind her.

The young woman introduced herself.

 

“I’m Fiona Matheson,” she said. “How can I help?”

Karen explained what she wanted. Miss Matheson’s response was businesslike.

 

“Tracing your mother’s family will probably be easy – your father – well, that will involve getting in touch with Social Work, but you have the right now to find out.”

 

Karen’s heart sank, Social Work, would she ever be shot of them – but the drive to find out was strong and overcame any negative feelings she had.

      Miss Matheson said she needed the £200 now because some of the searches cost money and there were expenses such as telephone and photo-copying. Karen handed over the notes. Miss Matheson made no comment at notes rather than a cheque and popped the money into a drawer.

 "How long does it take."

     “It varies”, said Miss Matheson. “Sometimes weeks, sometimes months. Ring me at the end of next week to check on progress.”

      Karen left and headed for a nearby coffee bar – the tension that had built up because of the money, because she was tackling something big in her life, had drained away gradually in Miss Matheson’s office – she had seemed so professional, didn’t ask nosy questions about her or her money. Sure, she needed her name, date of birth, what she knew of her mother and other details like that, but not questions loaded with emotion, just factual.
Karen felt a sense of power, something was happening and she had initiated it. She felt a little high.

      Miss Matheson was good. By the end of week one she’d mapped out her mother’s family tree; MacAskills, from Skye originally, with MacDonalds, and MacLeans marrying into crofters/fishermen and, like many highland families, they had drifted to the town - in this case Inverness. Her grandfather had been a joiner and her grandmother a cook. She hadn’t known that.

      Her father’s side had taken longer - all the faffing about with Social Work. Three weeks later Miss Matheson called her at the video shop and asked her to come in next Saturday. In her office Miss Matheson explained the trouble she’d had getting the information.

      “It appears your father was not Scottish.” She said tantalisingly. “He was Spanish. His name was Francisco Escudero Marquez. He was a merchant seaman on a small cargo ship that for a time called in regularly to Inverness.”

Karen sat quietly, stunned but excited.

“I’ve only got as far as identifying the shipping line he worked for – to go further will cost more.”

Karen nodded. Of course she would pay more,

 

“Another £200?”
    “Yes.” said Miss Matheson. Karen had anticipated this and had brought the money with her.

      Again Miss Matheson popped the notes into the desk drawer. She handed Karen copies of the information she had researched to date. It included a birth certificate.

 

“I’ll phone you at work when I find out more.”

      Karen was slotting videos away in the shop two weeks later when the phone rang. Miss Matheson had tracked down her father to an address in El Puerto de Santa Maria, a small port on the Costa De La Luz – he still worked for the same shipping company in Cadiz.

      In Miss Matheson’s office the following Saturday, Miss Matheson warned her not to get her hopes too high.

 

“He may not want to know you. He could be a drunk, a wife beater, you don’t know, so don’t be too starry eyed – I’ve seen this go wrong before” she said. She gave Karen the details.

There was no question. She was going to Spain to find this father of hers. Flights were so cheap now that it was within the bounds of financial possibility that she had saved enough, so when she told her foster parents she planned to go on holiday with a friend to Spain they saw it in a positive light - lots of young people did it - but just who was she going to go with? Then she had an idea.

      The next Saturday she visited Miss Matheson and put it to her. Would she come with her? Karen explained that she trusted her and valued her experience. She also explained that she would pay for the fares and expenses. That swung it. Rarely had Miss Matheson been able to follow through an enquiry to this point – and never abroad. She would, she argued to herself, be able to give Karen the support she needed.

 

      By the time they got to Cadiz they were both exhausted with the travelling and the excitement of what they were undertaking, yet Karen insisted they look at the harbour.

      The port was a busy commercial one – huge container ships and tankers were tied up at massive jetties – cranes, trucks and forklifts busied to and fro.

Karen was suddenly hit with the knowledge that this was her father’s work – these ships and docks. He had been a fantasy, then a little bit of veil had been lifted now some of his reality was here.

      They took a taxi to El Puerto, smaller and quieter just up the coast.
Here in the Hotel Porto Sherry, overlooking, the bay, Miss Matheson quickly found the number of Francisco’s shipping offices from the barman, who spoke English well. She told him they were relatives of Francisco Escudero Marquez and that they wanted to meet him.

      The barman laughed.

 

  “He always has luck with the ladies!” He explained. “Look – sure I know him – he comes in here quite often. I will ring him now to meet you, say, for 7 o’clock, OK?”

 

After the call the barman told them a little about Francisco. He was about forty. He was ashore now, a manager in the shipping line, he’d been at sea for about twenty years – got up to Captain. Was he well off? Well, yes and no – he had a big pay, but he spent it all on his boat.

 

“You can see it out in the bay.” A large white motor yacht lay anchored there. “The Hidalgo – she’s a beauty.”

      “Is he married?” said Miss Matheson suddenly, a professional question, no doubt.

      “Well”, said the barman, “he was, but it broke up. He was away at sea too much.”

      “Children? persisted Miss Matheson.

      “No. He regrets that very much.” replied the barman. “It has made him a little, how you say, morose.”

      As the clock approached 7.00 pm they sat in the hotel lobby trying not to look anxious or curious. At each entrance they both swivelled their heads to the door.

A dark haired well dressed bearded man of medium build approached them from within the hotel.

 

“Ladies, you are expecting me?”

      Karen found her lips dry, words wouldn’t come out. Miss Matheson took over. She invited him to join them for dinner and he accepted.

      It was there that Miss Matheson explained why they had come to see him. Bewilderment, then astonishment, then disbelief.

 

“Are you sure?” Then reassured, joy swept over his face. He took Karen’s hands in his. “A daughter!” he exclaimed. There were many questions from Karen and from Enrico.

      Enrico insisted they come out that night to see his yacht. It was certainly grand and spotless, with spacious cabins, ensuite showers and a Jacuzzi. Karen could see it was his pride and joy.

      “But”, said Enrico, he was thinking of selling. “It has been very expensive getting it to this standard and I owe the bank a lot. My idea was to take people on paid trips up the coast, catering for them – a sort of luxury holiday.”

      Karen’s mind had been on a roller coaster all day, but with clarity she saw how she could help her father.

      He insisted they stay on the boat for the week they had planned. As the days went by she realised she loved the sea, the boat. Did her father care for her? She was sure of it. He was interested in everything about her, her past, her present. He confessed to her his love of the boat was great – so great it had wrecked his marriage – he’d learnt from that. He told them that while the boat was important, it was not everything.

 

He asked her to come and live with him on the boat – she was overcome. Somehow the boat seemed secure, protective.
She asked to see him alone on deck. Miss Matheson said she understood and stayed below watching television.

      Karen explained that she had money - quite a lot of money - nobody knew about it except her. She wanted him to have it to pay off the boat, but she said they would become partners – legal partners.

Karen said he’d have to understand that trust was difficult for her as she’d always had to look after herself – he was not to be insulted. He looked at his daughter – he understood – it’s what he would have proposed anyway – even families can fall out.

      Sometime after Karen and Miss Matheson got back, a sleek motor yacht moored in Inverness Harbour. With Miss Matheson’s help Karen had explained to her foster parents the ancestral research that had led to the discovery of Karen’s real father. Karen’s decision to go and live with her father was discussed at length, but eventually accepted. She was eighteen; she could do as she wanted.

 

They were somewhat relieved – she’d not been an easy girl – it was like sitting on a volcano – not quite knowing when it might explode.

      Karen insisted on carrying her own bags on board and stowing them below. As the boat pulled out she waved goodbye to Miss Matheson and her foster parents.

 

When they were well out to sea she went below, opened the holdall that held the money, and looked at it for a moment. She zipped the bag shut and then went on deck. She edged close to her father at the wheel as he began explaining how to steer the ship.

Impressum

Texte: alastair macleod
Bildmaterialien: alastair macleod ;
Lektorat: alastair macleod
Übersetzung: title typeset in courilike
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.01.2013

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Widmung:
first published in the short story collection "Strip of Light" in 2005