The Paris Agent(16)
“An interview?”
“Your father will have received letters inviting him to participate in Professor Read’s archival program if he is of significance to the historic record.”
“No, I don’t think he has.” Surely Dad would have mentioned if he had.
“Well, the most likely explanation for that is that he is not of interest to Professor Read’s work. Thank you for your call—”
“Wait, don’t go,” I say hastily. “He doesn’t want to be interviewed—he just wants to find someone—”
“Professor Read is a very busy historian,” Mrs. White scoffs. “He’s not a missing persons expert.”
“Of course I appreciate that but we don’t really know how else to proceed without Professor Read’s help. This man we are seeking was probably an SOE agent and he saved my father’s life.”
“So this is an amateur history project?”
“I suppose you could say that?”
“Professor Read is too busy to help with amateur history projects.” She sounds exasperated now, and there’s instant heat on my cheeks. “He is a professional historian, for heaven’s sakes.”
“Mrs. White, I don’t mean to waste your time and I certainly don’t intend to waste Professor Read’s time but we don’t know where else to turn,” I say.
“There is a group of amateur historians who meet at St. Barnabas Church. It’s run by one of the professor’s former students—a very capable young man. That group may be a more appropriate resource for your father. Good day.”
The harsh click in my ear tells me that Mrs. White has already hung up. I hang up too, and stare at the receiver warily as I try to process the conversation. I didn’t necessarily expect that the professor or his staff would drop everything to assist us, but by the same token, I was not anticipating a flat refusal to even entertain a conversation with Dad.
I glance down at the folio on the desk and realize that I’ve been doodling as I spoke with her. I’ve written snippets from our conversation.
interview
oral history?
amateur history project?
St. Barnabas’ church
I reach for the phonebook and quickly find the number for the church in Manchester. A much more helpful receptionist there advises me that the history group is headed up by one Theo Sinclair. I hear the rustle of papers as she finds a copy of the parish timetable and informs me the group meets every second Thursday at 6:00 p.m. in the church hall.
It’s only thirty miles from Liverpool to Manchester. When my father arrives home from work Thursday afternoon, we climb into his periwinkle-blue Peugeot 404 and start the journey. It’s drizzling, and the sky above is depressingly heavy.
“I’m still a bit confused why the university sent us to a church history group,” Dad says. “You really think this is going to help us find this Remy?”
“Honestly, Dad, I have no idea.” I don’t want to discourage Dad, so I haven’t told him how unhelpful Professor Read’s secretary was. Hopefully, this group can help us and I won’t need to call her again.
We pass several other meetings in various rooms of the church—a choir; what looks a lot like a support group; three ministers sitting around a desk. When we finally reach the hall, we push open a door and step into an expansive but somewhat musty space, with thin red carpet on the floor and wood-paneled walls. No less than a dozen chairs are arranged in a semicircle, each one already occupied. I look down at my watch. We aren’t late, but the group has started anyway.
The man seated at the front of the room looks up at us expectantly. His silver-framed glasses sit slightly askew on his face. His checkered shirt is poorly ironed and covered by a knitted vest that has possibly been attacked by moths at some point. He gives a polite smile even as he greets us dismissively.
“Sorry, this is the family history group. Who were you looking for?”
I scan my gaze around the circle and hesitate. The young man in the vest is probably only in his late twenties, but everyone else appears to be at least forty or fifty years older. I count two walking sticks and one Zimmer frame.
“Family history group?” I repeat in confusion. I glance at Dad, who shrugs and gives me a bewildered look. “I suppose we’re in the right place. I thought it started at six o’clock?”
The young man blinks at me from behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“Well, no. Not anymore. It starts at five thirty now.”
The convener seems visibly flustered and confused—as am I—but he rises to his feet and begins to motion for the rest of the semicircle to expand. The group’s members all begin to shuffle, making way for two more chairs. We’re soon seated between the convener and a man at least twice his age who is clutching an aggressively large box of paperwork.
“Okay. Um,” the young man mumbles. He scrubs a hand through his unruly sandy hair and clears his throat. “I—yes. Well. Hello. I’m Theo Sinclair, I’m the group’s coordinator. Sorry—we don’t often have visitors to the group, that’s all. I’ll just allow Mrs. Lowe to finish telling us about her progress this week and then perhaps you can tell us why you’re here.”
It turns out family history meeting has moved the start time earlier because its membership has a lot to say and some tire early. Mrs. Lowe has now traced her family history back to 1723, when one of her ancestors was in the court of George I. This week, she spent a great deal of time at the library researching the cemetery where he was buried. Midway through her story, Mr. McTavish interrupts to give a tenuously linked but startlingly detailed account of the American Revolutionary War battle which cost his grandfather his life.