Dying to Know by Keith McCarthy Read Free Book Online

try.’
    He grunted, but whether it was with acquiescence or defiance I couldn’t tell. I had to leave at that point, no nearer a solution to the problem of my father and the Lightollers.
    And so, I repeated to Jane, ‘Absolutely nothing.’
    I saw more reassurance on her face than I felt in my heart.
    As it turned out, I was right to remain uncertain.

SEVEN
    M y midday calls weren’t too arduous, thank goodness, so that I managed to stumble through them without too much mayhem and without, as far as I was able to judge, doing anything that might cause the General Medical Council to come knocking. My last call was in Strathyre Avenue, quite close to where Dad had said Lightoller’s shop was, and so, when I drove back down the London Road, I looked for it. I didn’t spot it, though, so turned left on to Warwick Road, parked the car a little way down and walked back.
    That stretch of the London Road is not particularly prepossessing. To the north lie the leafier glades of Norbury, to the south the interesting example of suburban culture that is The Pond, a large roundabout in Thornton Heath surrounded by pubs, shops, a bingo hall and a small exhibition hall where the Horticultural Society show off its produce twice a year.
    On foot, I found the shop easily. It was snuggling between a baker’s and a grocery shop, but looking rather like their poor cousin. The sign above the grocer’s read Parrish’s Family Shop and, even more interestingly, the sign above the bakery read S.J.M. Hocking, Master Baker . Not for the first time I wondered what a master baker did that an ordinary one could not.
    Despite the fact that it was early afternoon, there was a ‘closed’ sign hanging in the door of the Lightollers’ shop, which I thought was rather odd. I peered in and, at first sight, it appeared to be quite tidy but this impression – which was gained from the relatively uncluttered display in the front window – did not survive inspection of the inner recesses. These were difficult to make out because it was intensely gloomy, but the more I looked, the more I realized how disorganized, almost chaotic, things were. There were piles of books on the floor, heaps of papers on chairs, boxes and crates half-emptied everywhere. Ornaments lay scattered on the tops and shelves of items of furniture, mannequins were dotted around, and there was even a suit of armour. I remember thinking that Dad was right, that this was little more than a junk shop.
    More detailed perusal, though, showed that there were a few jewels amongst the pebbles. In the double front of the shop, framed by peeling, in places rotting, painted wood, were various items of dirty brass, a staggering array of pottery and porcelain, a military standard, a pair of duelling pistols in the tatty box, services of cutlery, a backgammon set, a pack of ornate Tarot cards, a teddy bear (both eyes but no nose), a china doll (no eyes but a nose) and a stained hobby-horse (neither eyes nor nose). Further back, I could make out in the dim fluorescent lighting, that this was only a small collection of the delights on offer, and that there were innumerable items of furniture, carpets, musical instruments and three brass telescopes of varying size.
    At this point a woman, dressed in a sort of housecoat of fine, light-blue check over which was a cream-coloured apron, came out of the grocer’s and stood looking around, presumably for customers. I thought at the time that she was quite attractive in an exhausted sort of a way, that with time and care and a bit of money she could make something of herself. She was blonde with a small nose and pale lips that supported a lit cigarette. She caught sight of me and stared for a while, as if affronted that I should be showing interest in Lightoller’s retail establishment and not hers. I glanced across at her and smiled, but received nothing similar by way of response and looked away, back