Secrets and Lies

I do come across some interesting things in the course of my day to day work.

These are mostly to do with bits of buildings, perhaps an old foundation stone just peeking out of the ground below quite an ordinary property but definitely pilfered from some grand structure in the local area or a strange configuration of brickwork denoting that there used to be something else attached at some time in history.

In my home city of Hull where there was very widespread bomb damage in the blitz years I still come across inscriptions in roof spaces put there by those working to repair the shattered houses in the peace.

I have also found graffiti left by Free French soldiers in rooms where they were billeted whilst exiled from their own country. This was quite a poignant find, quite far detached from another discovery where whole walls were  inscribed with the rants and mad thoughts of an unknown individual.I didn't hang about there for any longer than necessary in case he/she/it returned to improve the grammar and punctuation which for all of the eloquence and emotion was terrible.

Attic treasures, long forgotten by the occupiers or just left there by previous residents have also been found including bottles of vintage wine, fascia signage letters, a classic racing bike with cane wheels and bits of body, or rather parts of an old shop mannequin.

Rooting about in an eaves space of a house,whilst trying to see where the roof was leaking down to a bedroom ceiling, I came across a small leather pouch evidently hidden rather than being simply misplaced or having fallen out of a packing case.

I gave the pouch with its documents to the couple who were clearing out the rooms after a bereavement and in readiness to sell the place.

They were initially excited as they took out the contents of a few black and white photographs of family groups and a journal or diary. Names and places were forthcoming from deep in their memories with mention of an Uncle John, an Auntie Phyllis, Cousin Gerald, a couple who had been neighbours but their names had been long since forgotten, distant relatives from somewhere in East Anglia and that idyllic seaside holiday at Bognor Regis back in the post war years.

I lingered around just enjoying, but not in a voyeuristic or intrusive way, the happiness and nostalgia that the pictures had brought about at what was, after all, quite a sad time of a house clearance.

Upon opening the journal and at first reading out aloud the entries I noticed a distinct change in the sentiment and tone of voice of the couple.

The woman, the main orator of the text, stopped abruptly after a narration, at first chatty and friendly became increasingly personal and intimate in its phrasing.

I could not help but feel that the journal was not someone's scribble pad, day to day diary or shopping list but an expression of love for a person.

Rosey cheeks on the couple from the exertions of shifting heavy traditional furniture and sorting through dusty piles of books and papers in a cold house took on a pale, insipid pallour.

The revelations in writing were obviously quite a shock.

Family members involved in the affair, and an affair it did seem to me to represent, must have now seemed like complete strangers in their behaviour, in a way living a lie.

I was not to know and did not pry into the facts of the matter and anyway it was time for me to finish up and leave.

In some ways, looking back to that day I regret bringing the photos and journal to the attention of those present. It would have been easy for me to just replace the items in their hiding place and as they say "let sleeping dogs lie". Lives that may have been complicated enough at that stage or may have attained a peaceful plateau in advanced age would have had no thoughts or anticipation of anything earth shattering to come out of the woodwork of that house.

I often think on what may have happened to the dynamic of that family in the hours, days, weeks and possibly years after my misguided disclosure of that secret and private information.