Family Business Read online

  He gestured to a row of six screens on a raised dais to his right. A man and a woman, both well into their sixties, were at chairs in front of two of them, concentrating hard on the information on the screens. The woman scribbled a note on a pad beside her.

  ‘Computers!’ Alarm filled the face of the old man, as if a ghastly fate had just been revealed to him. ‘I’m no good at computers.’

  That could make it tricky.

  ‘I’m afraid everything is done through the computers. There’ll usually be somebody at hand to help you when you get stuck, but you’ll have to do most of it on your own.’

  ‘Can’t you sit and do it with me?’

  The question carried the air of a plea. It was easy to forget that not everyone was hooked to the internet for substantial chunks of their life.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to do that. We’re here to direct you but that’s it.’

  The old man looked lost.

  ‘Perhaps there is someone you know, a younger relative maybe, who would be able to help you on the computer side of things?’

  ‘Aye, maybe. There’s my niece. She’s always playing about on her phone, you know, like they all do these days. She’ll know.’

  Graham’s attention was caught by an interaction on the other side of the central counter.

  ‘Excuse me a second, Mr Smith.’

  He called to where another member of staff was fielding a question from another customer.

  ‘Nadeen!’

  The colleague and the customer both looked towards him.

  ‘Is this about box five?’

  Graham recognised the man in the baggy blue sweater as the person he had fielded a query from earlier and had told he would retrieve the documents he wanted within a half-hour because he was dealing with a request from another customer first. That was about ten minutes ago.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the baggy blue sweater.

  ‘I will bring it up for you, sir, very shortly. I haven’t been able to see to it yet.’

  ‘Oh, that’s OK. No hurry.’ With a wave of a baggy blue sleeve, the man returned to pawing over the day’s newspapers.

  ‘Sorry about that, Mr Smith.’ His attention was back with the old man, who still appeared to be wrestling with the concern that he had got himself into something far more onerous than he had envisaged.

  ‘The advice we give to people like yourself who are looking to build their family tree from scratch is to start with what you do know. Put together a list of names of people from the previous generation, like your parents and their brothers and sisters, and then see if you can add names for their parents as well – your grandparents and their siblings. It’s also a really good idea that you talk to other older members of your extended family, like cousins, and ask them if they have any stories about your shared ancestors. If anybody has any documents – birth certificates, marriage certificates, that sort of thing – they can be a big help as well. Do you know much about your parents and where they came from?’

  The old man pondered.

  ‘My dad’s family were all from around here, I think, but my mum’s family were Welsh. I’m sure she was born in Wales.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Do you recall her maiden name?’

  ‘Jones.’

  Ah!

  ‘What about old family stories? Do you know of any of those? People who fought in the World Wars? Unusual family legends?’

  ‘Well,’ the old man’s thoughts were drifting to the darkest recesses of his memory. ‘I remember my mum telling me about her Uncle Gareth. He was a miner in Wales and a great big bloke. You know, huge.’

  He held out his hands to give an estimated width of an unspecified part of great-uncle Gareth’s considerable anatomy.

  ‘She said there was this one time when a little boy got into bother in the hills because he’d slipped and fallen over the edge and had come to rest on a narrow ledge 20 feet down with a sheer drop below him.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘Anyway, the men were sent for and came up from the valleys to rescue him and it was my mum’s Uncle Gareth who volunteered to be lowered by a rope around his waist to the ledge with, you know, the other men at the top holding on.’

  ‘Very brave.’

  ‘Aye, it was. He reached the ledge and tied the rope around the boy for the others to pull the lad to safety. They’d just got him clear when the ledge gave way under Uncle Gareth’s weight and he fell all the way down the side of the cliff – and do you know what?’

  The old man raised his finger, poised to deliver the denouement to this thrilling family tale of great heroism.

  ‘I bet you’re going to tell me he survived the fall with barely a scratch and was back at work down the mines the next day.’

  ‘What?’ The old man’s expression changed to bemused disbelief.

  ‘Don’t be daft. He was killed stone dead. Broke every bone in his body, I should think.’

  Graham realised it was time he got on with something more pressing.

  ‘Lovely talking to you, Mr Smith, and, as I said, chat to as many people as you can to put together some background information and then I’m sure you’ll be able to find out a lot more about your ancestors like Uncle Gareth. I must warn you that starting out with surnames like Smith and Jones means you might not find it as straightforward as some folks with more, shall we say, distinctive surnames, but I’m sure we can still get you there.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Mr Smith appeared unwilling to take the hint and close the conversation.

  ‘Have you done your family tree then?’

  Graham sighed internally and smiled.

  ‘I have. I’ve been able to trace my family back to the 17th century so far.’

  ‘What’s your second name then?’

  Here we go. Graham braced himself.

  ‘Hasselhoff.’

  The information rattled around the old man’s brain for a second or two. He appeared pained as he wrestled to reconcile it with the big bell of recognition it had rung.

  ‘You mean like that actor fella? Are you related?’

  If he had a pound for every time someone had asked him that question, Graham reckoned he would be able to afford to line the swimming pool at his theoretical villa in the Canaries with real gold.

  ‘No. No relation at all.’

  ‘Oh!’ The old man still appeared reluctant to end the discourse. Years of working at the library had more than adequately prepared Graham for dealing with people who had far too much spare time on their hands and had lost all sense of recognition that other people had jobs to get on with. He had natural depths of patience but it was tempting sometimes to want to tell customers to shut up and go away. He never had.

  ‘Funny surname, though. Where’s that from?’

  ‘It’s German but my family on my dad’s side came from a small town on the Netherlands side of the German border, so they were all Dutch.’

  ‘Very exotic.’

  Graham gave him a tolerant smile. ‘They weren’t really. All I’ve found is generation after generation of peasant farmers who grew up, farmed and died within a few miles of the same small town. They were even largely unaffected by two World Wars. It wasn’t until my dad moved to England in the 1950s that anybody really did anything different. My mum’s family were mostly miners and, going a bit further back, farm labourers, so they were a pretty dull bunch as well.’

  The old man stared blankly back. ‘Aye, well, I can’t stand around here chatting all day, I’ve got things to do. I’ll do what you said about making a list and talking to folk and I’ll see you soon.’

  With that, he turned and walked towards the exit.

  ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ Graham called after him, without too much irony in his tone.

  He shook his head. Where was I? Box five.

  He was intercepted on his way to the file storage room by his colleague, Nadeen.

  She often bore the demeanour of one who was carrying the problems of the wo
rld on her shoulders and now was no exception.

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ she asked in the hushed tones of a conspirator who did not want to arouse undue suspicion as she pulled her cardigan tightly around her slim waist.

  There had been rumours of redundancies. Again. More council funding cuts.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything. Have you?’

  She shook her head, anxiously.

  ‘As I said, I can’t see them cutting anybody else here. We’re already down to the bare minimum. If they lost another job here, the library wouldn’t be able to run properly and who would see to all these customers? That has to count for something, surely?’

  Nadeen did not look reassured. She had not been sleeping very well since the latest rumours began circulating. How could she keep up the rent on the flat and take care of the cats if she didn’t have her job?

  ‘Try not to worry. They’re only rumours.’

  She nodded but not convincingly. Graham touched her upper arm and she moved away, still clutching on to herself through her cardigan pockets.

  He watched her walk busily away. He knew how she felt. All the talk was very unsettling and he didn’t believe for a minute that the library service was untouchable. The council needed to save more money and something had to give. They were a soft option.

  He attempted to dismiss the thought again. What was I doing?

  A man in a baggy blue sweater rose expectantly.

  Box five.

  2

  He crouched behind the cover of a large pine tree and watched as the security guard completed a rudimentary check of the open yard then lowered himself wearily back behind the wheel of his patrol van.

  The April night cold had long since seeped through his layers of dark clothing to stiffen his joints as he tried to stay low to the damp ground in the only spot where it was possible to keep out of sight and yet still be able to overlook the whole yard from beyond the perimeter fence. It was crucial to make sure nobody was still around when it was time to make his move. He wanted to be sure it was done without detection. Clinical. Like a commando. Quick strike and go. For that, he had to stay patient and wait until the time was right.

  The van did not move. The guard was clearly in no hurry to get to the next place on his list.

  It had been a relief to see the van turn up so early. You could never be sure what their timings would be. It had to be random or it would be too easy to beat the system. The only way to do this was to get in place as soon as it turned dark and wait. Stay patient. A few more minutes won’t hurt.

  Finally, he heard the sound of the engine fire. He withdrew a little further into the shadows as the red rear lights pierced the pale white of the yard arc lamps and the van moved slowly, reluctantly, towards the exit gates. He watched until the luminous yellow flashes on the side of the van could no longer be seen and listened until the sound of the engine, shifting through the gears, could no longer be heard. Then he waited a little more.

  It was time.

  He knew where it was easiest to get over the fence, out of view of the cameras, and picked up the grey plastic jerry can by his side, then pulled down the black balaclava to cover his face, leaving only his dark eyes exposed. He eased down the grass bank, still careful not to make an unnecessary sound. Just in case. He moved deliberately, rigidly, towards the metal security fence, trying to ease the chill from his joints for the next part of the exercise.

  The tree was at the bottom of the slope and he gazed up towards the sturdy overhanging branch he had identified on one of his reconnaissance missions, then looked across to the top of the rusting shipping container on the other side of the fence. A gap of about a metre and a half. Slightly higher on the tree side. He fancied he could cover the distance in one leap without snaring himself on the jagged tops of the fence posts but it wouldn’t be easy.

  He stretched out the muscles of his legs and hips to dispel the chill from the parts the adrenaline had not yet reached and, gripping the jerry can in his left hand, took a firm grip on one of the lower branches with his right to begin to haul his burly frame up the tree, using whatever purchase he could find from his robust boots to scale higher until he was able to swing his feet on to the overhanging branch where it met the trunk of the tree.

  He checked the yard to make sure there was still no-one around and then surveyed the gap to the shipping container. It appeared further than it did from the ground but it was still achievable, as long as he got his leap right. Find a solid base for your feet and jump with conviction. Trust your athleticism.

  The branch felt solid but he squatted and raised himself rapidly, several times, until the whole tree shook, to reassure himself it was able to bear the stress of his leap. If it gave way, he could be hurt and the mission would fail. Best to make sure. The branch passed the test.

  One more check of the yard. Clear. Go for it. He gripped the trunk of the tree with his right hand and the jerry can in his left, focused on his landing area and rocked forward one, two, three before propelling himself off his right foot into the night air, flying momentarily like a heavy black shadow until he landed with a dull thud on top of the shipping container.

  He crouched, unmoving and silent, to be certain no-one had heard the noise and had been alerted by it. All was quiet. All was still. Good.

  There was room between the shipping container and the fence for him to lower his frame to the ground. Three wooden pallets had been dumped there. He spotted them and piled two of them next to the container, then propped up the third against it, on top of the others. That would help him climb back up after he had done the job. Do the job, climb back up, jump over the fence on to the soft ground beside the tree and disappear into the night before the alarm was raised.

  Peering from the side of the container, he surveyed the yard again and gazed towards his target. A pile of pallets stacked a metre high, four pallets long and three deep, holding a load of thick plastic sheeting ready to be loaded by the forklifts for shipping out early in the morning. They must do the same run just about every day because the plastic sheets had been left in the same place every night, ready for the morning, every time he had checked. Ready for loading on to the lorry.

  Not this load.

  Stealthily, keeping low, he quickly covered the short distance between the container and the pallets. Taking a knife from his pocket, he ripped at the thin clear film which protected the load from the weather and then opened the jerry can, trying not to spill any of the petrol on his gloves or his clothes as he poured its contents, liberally and evenly, over the exposed wooden frames and their cargo.

  He retracted the blade and put the knife back in his pocket, taking out a green plastic disposable lighter. The flame danced in the gentle breeze of the night. He kept his thumb against the wheel of the lighter until the flame touched the petrol-soaked wood and caught hold. The fire spread quickly across the surface and then seeped deep into the pile of pallets. He backed off to watch until he was sure the job was done properly and then scampered back towards the shipping container.

  The damage would not be great but that was not the intention. This was just a warning. They would do well to heed it.

  Stick to your business. Don’t try to move in on our ground. We are not to be messed with. Next time, the damage will be a lot worse.

  **********

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The fat middle-aged man loomed over the kneeling frame and folded his arms. The person beneath him carried on with what he was doing, his thinning crown of greying hair bobbing as he replenished the stock of chrome-effect round internal door knobs on the bottom shelf and occasionally picked out an aluminium-effect round internal door knob which had been put back in the wrong space by a careless customer, then relocated it to where it should be.

  The fat man glared impatiently.

  ‘I said “excuse me”.’

  This time the rummaging stopped. The flustered man in his mid-fifties strained to ease himself off his creaking knees and
rose to his full height, pushing the frame of his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He wore a black polo shirt and black trousers which gave stark contrast to a bright yellow apron, upon which was pinned a black name badge with yellow lettering which said ‘Graham’.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t realise you were there. How can I help?’

  He arched his back, relishing the simple joy of being able to stand up straight again.

  There was no joy in the face of the fat man.

  ‘How come I can never find one of your lot every time I come to this place? Nothing’s ever where it should be and you can never find anybody who actually works here to help you. Where do you all hide?’

  Graham tried not to allow his shoulders to sag. He didn’t think he had encountered as many rude and fractious customers in the whole of the rest of his working life as he had in the last five months.

  ‘Sorry about that. There are always members of staff around but it is a very large depot.’

  The shelves of aisle 31: Door Knobs and Handles rose high above them and, higher still, the echoing white noise words of a smooth-talking company DJ were drifting indecipherably, bouncing back off the metal roof. It was a vast, soulless, purely functional building and Graham hated it. It sapped his spirit every time he stepped through its doors.

  ‘What can I help you with today?’

  ‘I need a white 13-amp single pole switched double socket.’ The arms remained folded. The words were delivered more like a challenge than a request.

  Electrical. Aisle 33: Switches, Dimmers and Sockets. He was beginning to know the place like the back of his hand. Hardware, then Electrical, Tools and the Building Yard.

  ‘They would be on aisle 33, sir. I’ll show you.’

  Graham walked briskly off and the fat man followed, still bristling with disdain.

  ‘I’ve just walked up and down that aisle. They’re not there.’

  Ignoring the comment, Graham strode around a third of the way up the aisle and his hand hovered over the range of plug sockets until he spotted and snatched at the right one, on one of the middle shelves.