The Final Piece

By Alan Jones

A Half Remembered Song

Teacher Tom Ellison takes group of his pupils on a fishing holiday in Southern

Ireland. One of the boys disappears mysteriously and an extensive search, involving divers and helicopter, fails to find the boy. Blame Culture in The National

Press, and criticism at home, leave his reputation

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maple Publishers
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915996251

Alan Jones

Alan Jones was born in 1943 and grew up in Liverpool during the post-war years. He trained as a teacher at Chester College and pursued a career in Primary Education as a class teacher, headteacher, and university tutor. He is a Church of England Lay Reader Emeritus. Alan has published two other books, both of which are in the adult social history genre. They are, Don’t Wake Up George Brown! and Parishioners at War.

Book preview

The Final Piece

Author: Alan Jones

Copyright © Alan Jones (2023)

The right of Alan Jones to be identified as author of this work has been

asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First Edition 2023

ISBN 978-1-915996-24-4 (Paperback)

978-1-915996-25-1 (eBook)

Book Layout by:

White Magic Studios

www.whitemagicstudios.co.uk

Published by:

Maple Publishers

Fairbourne Drive, Atterbury,

Milton Keynes,

MK10 9RG, UK

www.maplepublishers.com

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or translated by any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my family and friends who have encouraged me to continue to write through difficult times.

Special thanks are due to Les Grafton for developing the cover design.

An Garda Síochána meaning the Guardian of the Peace and more commonly referred to as the Gardaí or Guardians, is the police force of The Irish An individual officer is called Garda and the service as a whole is called The Gardai (pronounced Gardee).

1

The sea mist that had gripped the ferry buildings overnight began to lift, as the engines of the ferry surged into action. He leaned over the rail and looked down on the boiling water below and reflected on the turmoil that had turned his life upside down. Gone was the despair that had taken a stranglehold on him, drawing him down into dark places, now replaced by the satisfaction that the missing boy’s mother might at last bury her son and find some kind of closure. Although the sadness remained, the resolution of the boy’s disappearance now encouraged him to think that he might begin to retrieve his reputation. A lot had happened in the last couple of years since the halcyon days of his teaching career were taken from him. He had a renewed determination to take back the thing that had given purpose to his life. He loved to help young people in the search for understanding of the world and their place within it. It had given him purpose and it remained within him still. Whatever the future holds, he is still a good teacher. Nothing could take that from him. Surely there must be something out there to channel his love of working with young people. The man taking in deep breaths of bracing sea air is the renewed Tom Ellison. Gone from his face was the grey pallor of days when his raison d’etre was lost, and drink had become the staple of his life. The glint of expectation in his pale blue eyes had been restored and he stands tall. This Tom Ellison is a man with a mission.

As the crossing to Liverpool continued, he moved into the bar that resonated with the loud, ribald jollification of a group of men returning from a trip to the rich fishing in Ireland. He smiled at the scene. These were his people. It is a community, of which he had been a member since childhood. He ordered a coffee and a sticky pastry, cocking a snook at the array of beers and spirits designed to tempt him. He moved to a seat by a window overlooking the sea as the ferry ploughed to its destination. He smiled at the welcoming sight of the tower of the Liver Building as it came into view.

The last leg of his journey to his house completed, he turned the key and entered in trepidation of what he would find within. He had only been away from the house for two weeks, but he prepared himself to face again the detritus from times before, when self-care had been abandoned. He opened the door to the living room and although his senses of smell and taste had been impaired by his recent lifestyle, the smell caused him to gag at the back of his throat. He took in deep breaths and faced the chaotic scene. Clutter would not adequately describe it. Unopened post, old newspapers, and books lay everywhere, resting randomly on every available surface. He opened the window wide to bring in fresh air and retreated to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge containing just a bottle of rancid milk, a box of butter and a cluster of tired looking vegetables. In the cupboard, he found three tins of tomato soup, an open packet of custard creams, and a single piece of sliced bread which was already curled at the corners. What a feast! he muttered ironically, then Note to self! Don’t forget to clean the sink! Upstairs, his bedroom was a similar scene of chaos. Having changed into an old pair of jeans, and an ancient paint-stained T shirt, he took the hoover and a roll of plastic bags from the cupboard under the stairs, to set about the task of restoring some semblance of order to the house.

Starting in the lounge, he filled the one bag with the litter and he put the rest in a drawer to be sorted later. The room had not seen the use of the hoover recently and he determined to give it a thorough going over. He went over the room twice before he was satisfied. He dusted surfaces and objects using an old vest, and pumped up the ancient sofa. He stood back in the doorway to admire his work.

That’s better! he muttered and he triggered long blasts of air freshener to all corners.

Leaving the kitchen for later, he moved upstairs and attacked the bedroom with similar vigour. In a flash of enthusiasm he decided to take the opportunity of throwing out unwanted clothes and he filled two plastic bags. In the bathroom he wiped down surfaces and took out outdated chemicals and potions and put them into a separate bag, to be disposed of later. He made a note of the damp showing between tiles over the bath, with one or two tiles hanging precariously. Another job to do!

By this time, he was feeling the effect of his labours, so he decided to make a coffee in the kitchen. He took a couple of the custard creams from the packet and, at the same time, wiped surfaces clean and put random crockery into cupboards. The sweet taste of the biscuits reminded him that he had only had the ferry pastry that day. He needed to pay a visit to Jaswinder’s Corner Shop to replenish food and household goods. The little shop provided all he needed and stayed open late.

He walked to the shop and had the feeling that folks were looking at him quizzically as he passed. Am I being paranoid? he asked himself, or was it the emblem under the paint stains on his shirt? It shouted MARGARET THATCHER OUT. Margaret Thatcher was in the process of neutralizing the trade unions, in particular the miners. His grandfather had been a miner all his life, and had been embroiled in the 1921 miner’s strike. His father had been a miner in his youth, before he became too ill for the job. Tom’s childhood had been full of tales of the deprivation to which miners had suffered.

As the bell above the door announced his presence, he was greeted by Balbir, Jaswinder’s son.

Hello sir! It was Balbir, who Tom had taught several years before.

Hello Balbir! he replied, warming to the welcome.

How are you sir? It was genuine concern. He had seen Tom Ellison at his lowest in the recent past..

I’m fine! Tom replied, believing it for the first time in a while. He took a basket and moved along the shelves, picking out his favourite products. Most of his purchases were tins or packets, to be stored in the fridge or cupboards, and mainly to be heated in a microwave. Tom Ellison was not a good cook! As he moved along the shelves, he added toilet rolls, soap, shampoo and washing up liquid, as well as bacon, eggs, and butter. From the freezer unit he picked two pizzas, a packet of chicken breasts, and a clutch of Yoghurt tubs. At the far end of the shop a colourful display of fruit and vegetables looked inviting. He picked out potatoes, apples, bananas and a variety of greens. He put them into separate brown paper bags, before weighing them at the checkout. Balbir tapped his calculator and Tom put purchases one by one into his carrier bag.

That’ll be eighteen thirty one! Balbir announced. The transaction was completed and, with two large plastic bags full. they exchange farewells and Tom Ellison left the shop, grateful for its proximity to his house. Shopping had never been a favourite activity.

When he opened the front door, the heady smell of air freshener greeted him, and he savoured the odour of freshly cut flowers. That’s better! he thought, as he surveyed the scene, allowing himself credit for a job well done. The rooms were restored to something like their condition when he first moved in. The little house, formerly a farm worker’s cottage, had been his since he began teaching, and he had seen enjoyable times but some very dark times. By now he felt very hungry. It was time for his signature dish. Egg, bacon and beans had never tasted so good, and it was complimented by his favourite rhubarb yogurt, to be consumed at the tiny table in the kitchen. Washing up completed, he lounged full length on the sofa and turned on some lifeless television. Before too long he fell asleep.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright, his eyes wide open. That face! The boy’s face! Glenn! Glenn Wallace! It is the face that had haunted him daily, and was the epicentre of the events that had derailed his career. It had inhabited his daily life ever since, even in sleep. He felt the sweat dribbling down the side of his face, as his brain ran the episode at speed. It ran its course up to the moment when he had realised that the boy had disappeared. Even now he found it difficult to accept that he was to blame for the boy’s death. Surely that responsibility lay firmly at the feet of members of the IRA! Any claim they made that it had been an accident, was a hollow excuse and could not absolve them from blame.

From the start, with a myriad of interviews, often at the side of the boy’s grieving mother, and with newspaper articles in the vitriolic English Press crying for his head, he was doomed. Headmaster Meade and school governors had wilted under the pressure, claiming that his continued presence in the school would be a distraction and an embarrassment. He had accepted that his return to the school would be difficult at first, but he was prepared to face that. However, as the battle of words dragged on, he began to feel ostracised in the school. With little meaningful support from his union, he had reluctantly agreed to accept a lump sum for the termination of his contract. His union had wanted the case to go away, at a time when they were at loggerheads with the Thatcher government over working hours and extracurricular activities. It pained him to do it, but he had been exhausted and worn down. Despite the compromise, the story played out in the papers, culminating in the front page of the Daily Express. DISGRACED TEACHER SACKED. It went on to call on schools not to employ him, or his like, in future. He had laughed at the thought that he had become a category, or even a species! Afterwards, in one tabloid, with a tiny paragraph on page 8 expressing shallow remorse for any offence it might have caused, was a poor response. It could not remove the stain. The appellation had stuck. In most of the subsequent articles he was known as the sacked teacher. It was the main reason that had taken him into dark places. He blessed the day that the postcard, with its cryptic message, had come through the post.

Ask Mary McMahon about the boy, it read. Its starkness had shaken him out of his gloom and was to lead him on his quest back to Ireland, in search of the solution to the boy’s disappearance. But all of that was then and he was sitting in the now. His immediate plan was to find a source of income; any job for the moment. However, the need to reclaim his good name remained paramount.

Despite aching arms and blocked sinuses, he spent time to sort out his references and considered what job area would best make use of his skills and qualifications. However, realism dictated that he should not be so naïve as to think that it was going to be easy to find a job.

2

Over breakfast Tom Ellison poured over the Vacancies section of an old copy of his local newspaper, looking for a job. Would schools see past the saga of his recent past? He placed a job in teaching at the top of his wish list. Fingering through the pages of the paper, he looked for any teaching posts in local schools. He found a Catholic Junior School looking for a part time teacher to work in Reception. Instantly he assumed his agnostic tendencies would preclude him from that post. Besides, his hope was to find work with older pupils and, it being in mid-term, he wasn’t surprised that there was nothing suitable in the locality. He made a few notes on a part time job in the nearby library and one for a local printer looking for a book editor. Possible! But he knew that the major resource in his search would be The Times Educational Supplement, the lexicon of all matters educational, with comprehensive list of teaching posts in this country and abroad.

He decided to make a trip down to the public library, where he would find copies of the TES to peruse. At the same time he might find out more details of the library post. He made himself a cup of coffee and planned the order of his activities for the day. He decided he would go to the library after lunch and, allowing for a lengthy session amongst books, he reckoned it would be in time for an early meal at his favourite restaurant The Taj Mahal, just round the corner from the library.

His car was housed in a garage at the back of his house. The ancient Morris Traveller, he called ‘Walt’, after the American poet Walt Whitman was an old faithful. He had left Walt at home during his trip to Ireland, for fear of it breaking down and possibly ending up in a scrap yard in Ireland. He had nurtured the car over years with the help of his friend, Noah Martindale. Over time, Noah had replaced or repaired most of the engine parts, so that the outer shell was all that remained of Tom’s first and only car. It had become the route map to his adult life. Today a frown creased his forehead at the thought that the motor would not reply to his call. Starting had begun to be a problem before he went to Ireland, and he hoped that Noah would have sorted out the trouble in the meantime. He lifted the up-and- over door to the garage. As the light penetrated the gloom he saw a piece of cardboard trapped beneath the wiper blade of the car. It was taken from the packaging of a fan belt. On it, boldly printed, was the slogan PARTS AND LABOUR £20.

You gem Noah! he said out loud. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he sat back and prepared himself for the moment. He gingerly pulled out the choke, making sure not to flood the engine. Taking in a deep breath in anticipation, he turned the key. The engine coughed a couple of times before it broke into full throttle. Well done Noah! Tom believed in the magic of Noah Martindale.

*

He had decided to get his hair cut first, at ‘Francesco’s’ barber’s shop. Francesco, the owner, regularly regaled his customers with tales of his brother’s fight against the Mafia. He was a stocky chunk of a man, with hair cleaved to either side of a central parting, and a tiny moustache below an aquiline nose.

Longa time no see! Francesco said, with a flourish of his scissors, as Tom put his coat on one of the hooks by the door.

Hi Frank! he replied. It was an abbreviation used by regulars. The tiny shop was full and he had time to peruse all the newspapers on hand. When his turn came, he was sorry that he was summoned to a chair by a young barber he had not seen before. Not surprising, as he had not had a haircut for a long time. Tom apologised to the fragile looking youth for the need to plough through so much unwanted hair. Progress seemed agonisingly slow, as tiny amounts of hair were removed. It seemed as if the hairdresser’s manual was being played out meticulously on his head. Eventually, he was prompted to look into a mirror at a Tom Ellison that he had not seen for some time. He was pleased with the result. He handed over twice the normal price to the grateful tonsorial trainee. Frank stopped working on a customer and offered his hand, which Tom took and shook vigorously.

Keepa safe! It was always Frank’s farewell.

You too! Tom answered warmly.

He doubted that he would find a nearer place for his car, so he left it outside Francesco’s shop and set to walking through the beautifully manicured park and gardens, which were at the heart of the town, and the object of much community pride. The library, close by, had its feet set in Victorian times with a Grecian style colonnade on its outer facade. To the side, a modern wing had been tastefully added.

Tom entered through the revolving doors into the foyer and beyond, into a light-filled Lending section. Sitting at a desk, a pretty young woman, with striking copper hair, greeted him with a broad smile.

Can I help you? she said.

I wonder if I could look at recent copies of the TES?

Of course! She smiled and moved from behind the desk. Without a noticeable sign for him to follow, she made her way down between shelves of books and turned into an area with two large tables with large cupboards beneath, from which she produced a huge leather-bound folder and placed it on the table top.

That’s got all the copies of The Times Educational Supplement for the last five years, she said. Tom thanked her, and settled down to search through the most recent issue of the publication. He looked for jobs which related to his specialist subject and to be within reasonable distance of his home. His first troll through yielded just two, which in some degree or other met his criteria.

The one he found most interesting involved Head of English in a large inner city school. It would mean an hour long car journey from his house, or alternatively a move to new accommodation closer by. The size was greater than his previous school and it gave him pause for thought. The second was for a Teacher of English in a school which he knew had a poor reputation. Do I need a struggle? He thought. The advert suggested a basic post with no special responsibility; effectively a reduction in status and pay. Who can be so choosey? he asked himself. He took down the details, with little conviction that he would take it further. Having gone through the Appointments section, he scrutinised the notes he had taken. It didn’t amount to much, but then what else could he expect, at that time in the school year? How long might the jobs have been open for? Why might the school have had difficulty in finding someone already?

He spent time looking through books on employment law. He photocopied some material. He thought he would ask at the desk for details of the job in the library. At that moment he was aware of a tall, elegant woman in a colourful dress and pure white blouse coming towards him. She was carrying an armful of books. She reached the table and, with a smile placed the books opposite him.

You’ve been busy, he said, pointing to the pile of books in front of her.

A week’s worth, she said, without boast. He read the spine of the book on top of the pile.

The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Interesting!" he said, pointing to the books.

It’s for my degree, she responded.

Open University? he asked. At once he realised that he might have made an unfortunate judgement, but she ignored his clumsiness.

No! I’m in my second year English Literature at Liverpool. I did my first degree in English Literature at Bristol. It was said without any sense of boast.

I did my degree there! Tom said and they both smiled at the coincidence.

I loved Bristol. My digs were near St. Margaret’s Park in Baptist Mills, she explained.

I know the area well, he said warming to the exchange. I did teaching practice there, and I did a project in the Junior School about the floods that decimated the slum area in the eighteen hundreds. After a moment’s silence, they both broke into laughter at what they both recognised had become a mini version of television’s talk shows.

The exchange had created a warm atmosphere in the formal atmosphere of the library. As they spoke, Tom became aware of the beauty of the woman opposite. Her skin had a remarkable silky look, and her platinum hair was stylishly cut to frame her elfin face. Her high cheekbones and firm jaw line reminded him of the sculptured heads he’d seen in Rome.

A hissing sound emanated from the counter, where the Head Librarian, a gaunt skeletal woman in funeral black, held her finger to her lips.

They’ll have the police in next, she whispered mischievously.

I’ve already got three points on my licence, Tom joked. They contained the temptation to laugh out loud. They exchanged more pleasantries while they sorted the books to be returned to the shelves. Tom picked up her books, as well as his own. He took them to the counter and put them down in front of the Head librarian and stepped back. Arthritic fingers prised each book open and stamped them.

Would you like to go for a coffee? the stranger asked. She was bucking convention, but there was a naturalness in the invitation, which Tom found disarming.

Love to! he replied. They left the library section and made for the adjacent coffee shop to take up a table next to a large window, which looked over the children’s play area.

Coffee and a cake? Tom asked.

Just coffee please! she replied.

As he ordered the coffees Tom looked around the shop, which was new to him, and admired the subtle décor and clean lines. He gathered two coffees, milk pots and sugar sachets on to a tray and carried them to the table. He placed a cup in front of his companion and sat down opposite her. By the way. I’m Tom, he said.

I’m Anne. They shook hands.

Forgive me for asking Tom, but I have a feeling we have met before. He was sure he would have remembered such an impressive woman.

Sorry Anne! he replied. I’m sure I would have remembered you. It was a truth, wrapped up in a compliment, such as he would have made to a pretty girl in his youth.

Do you work in the town? Anne asked, seeking common ground.

Not anymore! he responded. He hoped it would satisfy for the time being. The recent down-turn in his fortunes was never far away from his thoughts and he tried to avoid it becoming the centre of the conversation. Anne recognised a momentary awkwardness and moved quickly to help.

I work part time in Waterstone’s bookshop on the High Street.

I know it! Tom said. He poured some milk into his coffee, which had been too hot.

Before that I worked in publishing for fifteen years, Anne added. Tom felt he was being drawn into some kind of profiling test, the sort of thing he had been avoiding recently. And yet, that brittle feeling that he had experienced before, did not seem to apply in the case of Anne, whose surname he did not yet know. He heard himself saying.

I was a teacher.

Oh lovely! I toyed with the idea of becoming a teacher myself, back in the day, but I didn’t think I had the patience for it. Did you enjoy it? she asked.

I loved it! he enthused. I was at my best when I was dealing with the kids. It was a pleasure to go to work every day. Anne could see the way Tom’s face had lit up at the thought.

You don’t teach now? she asked, seeing