Chapter 3

'What the hell is all that on the table?' Claras' tone was enough to let John know that she was completely exasperated with him.

'Just a few things I picked up at an auction, love', He said it lightly, in the vain hope she might meet him half way on this one. The look on her face was enough to put him straight on that naive muse. He added feebly, 'It all came with a book I liked the look of, see?' He picked the bird book and handed it to her. She was still unimpressed and showed it with every tight, twanging sinew.

'Why didn't you dump the rest of this junk in a charity shop, or your bin. Why do you do this over and over again?' She swept a dramatic arm across the room, 'Why?'

'It's my life, my flat and it's my things. If you don't like it, you'll just have to lump it. I like it and that's all that matters to me.' He plonked himself down at the table and Clara attempted to follow suit, after clearing the other dining chair of stuff.

'Look dad, I know it's your life and home', she began to handle the things on the table, 'But I'm the one who has to clear up after you.'

'After I'm dead you mean,' He was teasing her, but she was too thick skinned to pick up on that, which he enjoyed.

She almost dropped the the pith helmet in shock. The helmet rocked gently to a standstill as she protested. He smiled at her, 'I was only joking you silly young girl'.

'Well, don't', was her curt retort.

John got up to make them both a cup coffee, Clara picked up the Canasta set and turned it over in her hands. She brushed the surface of the box with the side of her index finger as if wiping away tears. There was something about this collection of forlorn objects that held her. Opening the box, the cards were revealed, two sets with a divider between them. They looked old. Well used.

'Dad, how do you play Canasta?'

'I don't know, love', He yelled from his kitchen. 'I think it's a bit complicated. You know, like Bridge or something. It was all the rage amongst bridge players not long before you were born. Why, do you fancy taking that pack and learning?' He thanked God that she had returned to normal for a bit,

'I might just do that, sounds interesting.' She said as he came back into the cluttered space with two coffees in one hand and an already opened packet of biscuits in the other. 'Here, get yer laffin tackle around some o' these,' he laughed as he plopped the biscuits on top of the box of playing cards, right under her nose.

Clara looked through the other items as they chatted and drank their coffees. She eventually noticed the piece of tissue paper in the pearl box and pulled it out. As she unfurled it, John explained that he had found it last night, but could not read it. He was not sure why he had put it back into the box. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Clara held it up to the light, just as John had, the night before.

'That's interesting'. She muttered. John moved in closer, trying to see what she could see. 'It's in grey ink, or it was black and has faded. It's very beautiful paper. So ornate.'

'Yes, but what does it say?' begged John.

'It says, To Natasha, my beautiful daughter, on her eighteenth birthday. You are dearly loved by your Pappa xx'.

'Ah, that's very sweet', said John, acutely aware that he had never bought his daughter a gift so generous, nor expressed his love for her so eloquently. In fact, he realised, he had never told her he loved her. Men did not do that in his day. Well, most men did not, clearly this chap was the exception that proved the rule; what ever that meant. He looked at his daughter and could see the same thoughts playing across her countenance. 'Sorry', he said.

'What for?'

'For being such a shit dad, of course', there that wasn't so difficult was it, he thought to himself. And then, 'I do love you, you know. It's just that. Well. Um. Well, my generation, we didn't say those things. Not even to our wives, not once we were married. Sorry'.

Clara was astounded. That was the nearest her father had ever come to communicating with her in a normal manner. She did not know quite what to say. This was a new experience for her; a man expressing his love for her. 'Thank you', she replied, rather more stiffly than she had intended, adding, ' I love you too, Dad'. She reached over and took his hand. 'But it doesn't mean you can keep stockpiling stuff all the time', she gave his hand a little squeeze, 'Now does it?'

He withdrew his hand, ostensibly so that he could sip his coffee slowly. She sipped hers. Both were glad of the opportunity to end this spell bindingly tricky moment. They drank for a while in silence. Clara was the first to make her move.

'Well', she said, 'Before I go cook you a meal, let's have a really good rummage through this lot. Tomorrow, if you want me to, I take it to the charity shop for you. How does that sound?'

Patronising, he thought. 'Let's see, shall we?' is what he said.

Clara looked at the handkerchief. She was surprised at the quality of it. It was silk, in an ivory colour, very fine weave, with a delicate hand worked lace border. It looked as if it had barely been used. As if it was for something special. A wedding perhaps. Yes, that was it. This handkerchief once escorted a bride up the isle. If I ever have a civil ceremony, she thought, I'll use this hanky as part of my trousseau.

John watched her as she dreamily looked at he scrap of fabric. He could see she had drifted into a world of her own and wondered what she was thinking about. 'Penny for 'em', he said.

Clara put down the handkerchief, and smiled at him. She picked up the sheet music and it meant nothing to her. I'll you tube it later, she decided, silently, in her head. With her free hand she held the dice tumbler and wondered if it was part of the kit needed to play Canasta. It was quite a handsome piece that would look good in her little house. Perhaps the old man might give it to her as a token of his love. Not quite a pearl necklace, but beggars can't be choosers, she decided. She placed the dice shaker on top of the sheet music, as if it might blow away without the extra weight to hold it down and her gaze fell upon the pith helmet, once more.

It had been the first thing that she had picked up and handled, and it was to be the last before she set about creating Johns evening meal. Perhaps, she should eat with him tonight. After all, he had an almost clear dining table and chairs, and he loved her. A double whammy of new experiences, so why not make it a hat trick? 'I might stay and eat with you tonight? That's if you don't mind?'

John did not mind. He was surprised and pleased. She had never wanted to stay and eat in the past, even when he had asked her to. Perhaps the box of things was a bringer of joy, he thought.

Clara in the meantime had spotted the greasy label stitched into the head band. 'Hey, that's odd. Look at this Dad'. She turned around the helmet so that her father could see inside.

'Yeh, it's a label. We all did that in the past. Our mums would embroider them and stitch them into our socks, and pants, everything. It was PT that was the problem, all us kids used to loose the run of our clothes the minute we got out of them. We'd come back, in our shorts, vests and daps and half our things would be gone. Some snotty nosed little bugger would've nicked 'em. Bastards',

'No dad', she was smiling at his anecdote, It's the name, here, it's mums dads name. Grand dads' name'. John looked blank. 'Your father in law was called Simon Simpson. Come on Dad, it's such a silly name, you can't of forgotten?'

'Simon? This is Simons' hat? How can that be? I mean, who had it? No, it doesn't make sense. We were his only family'. John was clearly stunned.

'Well if it was his hat, he wasn't the man we thought he was. This hat would fit a huge person. He wasn't huge, was he? Of course, it might not be anything to do with him. It could be a coincidence.' Clara was hoping to settle John who she could tell was ruffled.

'Hell of a coincidence, the same name and Simon was in India and Africa and wore a Topi some of the time. We've got photos here somewhere.' He got up from the table and made his way over to his bookshelves, stepping over boxes and piles of magazines. Clara watched him. He was old, bent, doddery. If she didn't know him, she wouldn't register him if they passed in the street. He was a non-person, like all decrepit wrinklies. 'Here we are,' John muttered, head down at the bottom of his groaning bookshelf, feverishly moving boxes out of the way, 'I've got it,' He called out to Clara. He's going deaf, too, she thought with a surprisingly tender smile.

John grunted as he hauled himself up to his full height, with a rusting biscuit tin in one hand. 'This will have what we want in it.' He struggled back to the table and sat down heavily. He teased the lid from the tin to reveal a muddle of old photographs. The bloody smell of rust mingled in the air and lingered, complimenting the foxy smell of the photographic mounts. This, thought Clara is the smell of the past, liberated from the tin after decades in the dark.

John had already tipped out the pictures and was busy spreading them around the table. Black and white shots, formal poses, holiday memories, mixed freely with sepia prints of carefully arranged people in carefully selected outfits.

'Can't see what I'm looking for here. That's odd. Come on love, help turn all the pictures the right way up. He's in here somewhere, wearing his colonial clothes. Should be a couple of pictures of him.'

Clara began turning over any pictures that were the wrong way round and spreading out as many as she could. The table top was filling up. 'There's a lot here, Dad. Where have these all come from? I've never seen the tin before, let alone these fab piccys.' Clara was gripped by a fascination. So many pictures of her past relatives and yet none she had ever seen. 'You know I've been dabbling in our family history for the last year or so? John nodded and added a bit of a grunt, 'Well, Dad, how is it you've never shown all this to me before. It's fantastic. We'll have to go through it and put a name to as many as we can some time.'

John put down the photograph he was holding and looked at his daughter, 'You're the end of the line. This branch of the family will die out unless you have children and I have a feeling you're not planning to, are you?' Clara shook her head, 'If only life was that simple, Dad.' She smiled at him and got back to sorting through the photographs.

'Eureka!' John yelled, making Clara jump wildly.'Got it!' he yelled, just a little quieter. He handed the photograph to his daughter. She studied it closely. 'Hmm, his head does look big in that hat. Or at least, it looks like a big hat. Nothing about it sets it apart though. No badges, no marks,' She was now tilting the picture and peering at it very closely, hoping to see a clue that would tether the hat in the picture to the one in the box. 'Nothing,' she said. 'Could be his hat, but then again, might not be. Ahh, now that's interesting. Pass us the hat Dad.' She said, somewhat distractedly.

John reached down into the box, which was beside him and lifted out the hat. 'Here it is, our tip top topi. What do you want to know?'

'Well Dad, on this photo, I reckon there's a bit of damage about the left eyebrow area of the hat. Can you see anything on the hat?' He had a look at the name label and used this to orientate the hat. He then held up the pith helmet to his daughter so that she could inspect the area in question. 'Oh my God. Dad. Wow, it's here. Its got a repair right where the damage is on the picture. Look,' John looked at the hat and ran his fingers over the area, it helped him to 'see'. He agreed with Clara, there was some kind of anomaly there. Clara double checked the damage on the photograph and the repair on the hat and they definitely tallied. This was the hat in the picture. This hat had once belonged to her grand dad, Johns father in law. Some how it had found its' way home.

The question was, where had it been since Simon Simpson died?