“In time, you’ll find it – time in the hole.”
Dracup stiffened. Was this just coincidental rambling, or perhaps –?
“Dracup, Dracup.” Churchill leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Theodore Dracup –”
Dracup’s heart lurched. “That’s it, George. My grandfather. Your friend. Theodore.” He held his breath but the old man seemed to have gone somewhere else in his mind. He lay back in the wheelchair, smiling, eyelids fluttering. Dracup swallowed and bit his bottom lip in frustration. Sara signalled patience.
“A shame, shame. What they did. Lali, lali. We found it –” Churchill’s eyes shot open and he leaned forward. The vacant look on his face had been replaced with one of urgency. “You’re a Dracup? Well, yes, you look a bit like him –”
Dracup moved back in alarm. The change in Churchill was disconcerting. “I’m Theodore’s grandson, George. But I don’t understand what you mean.” He looked around but the matron and care assistant had left them to it. Mrs Mayfield was talking to a newcomer, a young man with cropped hair, dressed in black with a starched white collar. The service was about to begin. “I need to know where, George – Theodore needs to know,” he added desperately. “Where did you find it?”
“He’s left it for you, he told me. In time you’ll find it.” Churchill fell back, exhausted.
The care assistant was at Dracup’s elbow. “I think he’s had enough for the moment. He’ll fall asleep during the service, you’ll see. Pull your chairs round and you can sit with him.”
Dracup heard little of the service. The words of the hymns floated around him, rising and falling in the fragile pitch of tired, worn voices. His mind was racing. There was something left, some residue of experience in Churchill’s mind. Somewhere in that frail cranium lay the secrets that could save his daughter. But how to access them? Dracup racked his own brains, playing with keywords that might help the old man remember. He realized that the service had ended only when a portly female care assistant came in with a tea trolley, causing the young minister to conclude his closing prayer with, it seemed to Dracup, irreverent abruptness.
“Tea time all. What’ll it be, Doreen?” She began to move around the room taking orders.
Dracup turned to Sara. “You try. You seem to have the touch.”
Churchill had his eyes closed again but the muscles in his thin face worked beneath the yellowed, parchment-like skin.
“Come on, George,” Sara said, cheerily. “We have to go soon. Tell me about Dracup. About what he wrote in his diary.”
“Diary? All the time he wrote. Did some drawing for me.”
“That’s it, George.” Dracup felt a glimmer of hope. “Fascinating drawings. And he wrote in cuneiform. Do you remember?”
“Best that way,” Churchill muttered as if to himself. “Can’t tell anyone.”
“You can tell us, George,” Sara replied softly. “Mr Dracup is family.”
Churchill looked up and studied Sara intently. Dracup felt as if some spark of recognition had ignited briefly, then been extinguished. “Are you?” Churchill said quietly. “I don’t know you. You look like one of them.”
Dracup’s patience was nearing its end. “What does it mean, George? ‘In time you will find the whole.’ It’s very important. A matter of life and death. My daughter – Theodore’s great grand-daughter –”
Churchill threw back his head and laughed, a harsh cracking sound. Some of the residents turned around and stared in alarm. “Life and death. Yes. From the beginning. And they want to change it.” He put a scrawny arm out and grabbed Dracup’s wrist. “Be careful. It’s not for us to change.”
Dracup shook his head in bewilderment. Great, more riddles. That’s all we need.
“Reverend Burton is leaving now,” Mrs Mayfield announced from the centre of the room. “One last hymn before he goes?” She beamed at the assembled ranks. “What’s that, Maisie? All things bright and … yes, number 243 on your hymn sheets.”
“This is going nowhere,” Dracup said to Sara, who returned a brief, sympathetic smile.
“You’re right. It might be worth coming back later. He’s too distracted – too much going on.” Sara patted Churchill on the shoulder. “Cheerio, old fellow. We’ll pop in another time.”
Dracup looked back as they made a tactful departure. Churchill was sitting erect in the chair. He grinned as he sang: “The ripe fruits in the garden, He made them every one...”