My father

I googled the name on the birth certificate Alun had given me.

 

There were a few people with that name, but most of them were the wrong age, or from the wrong country.

 

After a few hours’ work I’d whittled it down to just one possible candidate.

 

He was the right age.

 

He had the right name, including the unusual middle name.

 

He lived on the mainland coast, not far from Happy Island.

 

And …

 

And …

 

And …

 

He was a council official who had regular dealings with the island, so it was obvious how he and my mother had met.

 

I’d spoken to him many times, oblivious to his identity.

 

I’d met him – he’d been here lots of times; to collect taxes, to deliver memos. To cause trouble.

 

Or maybe he was just making up all of the nonsense council business as an excuse to come and see my mother. Maybe council officials aren’t really as bad as I’d always supposed.

 

I didn’t sleep at all that night. When the internet connection died I stared at the dead screen for a long time.

 

Early the next morning I tried again. Now I knew who he was I was able to find a multitude of material about him, mostly news stories in the mainland newspapers. Stories about council business;

 

• Council official breaks world record for the longest memo
• Council official honours local goldfish who solved 43 year old murder mystery
• Council officials in 24 hour meeting to discuss Bill to promote work-life balance
• Council official raises £27.13 in charity tug of peace
• Council official to retire after 43 years loyal service
• Council official prevents alien invasion.

 

Wait a minute.

 

‘After 43 years loyal service to the mainland council, a respected official is to retire. A celebration is being held at Mainland Council Hall on 7th June in honour of all he has done in service to the mainland.’

 

Typical, all he’s done in service to the mainland, us off-mainlanders never once featured in his thoughts.

 

I was already awake when Alun called at 6.30. The boatman had brought mail, two letters addressed to myself and Alun. Both unmistakably from the council – they were in brown envelopes and both our names had been misspelt.

 

We opened the envelopes together. Their contents were identical: official invitation cards to the celebration. Only the names on the invitation cards were different, and both of these were illegible.

 

“These cards are a total waste of money,” Alun didn’t say. “It’s no wonder the mainland council tax is so high, when they squander money on invitations like these. This is thick card, and imitation gold lettering – that sort of things costs money. It could all have been done by email.”

 

Alun said none of this. Which meant he knew. He must have known all along, how many years?

 

“Are you going?” is what he said.

 

“It’s the mainland,” I said.

 

“You can’t go through your whole life without visiting the mainland,” he said.

 

I nodded. Alun was right.  Now that my father was retiring he’d never visit here on official business again. I wouldn’t even get those pointless emails and memos he sent out on a regular basis. If I didn’t go to the celebration I’d never get to see him.

 

What if the world had ended yesterday, when it was supposed to? If it had I’d never have known who my father was, never have known he was still alive, never have had one last chance to meet him. And of course, the world could end any time, there were prophecies covering pretty much every day for the next ten years at least. What if one of them were true?

 

“We should go,” I said.

 

 “I’ll fill in the invitation cards,” Alun said, “bloody waste of money though. They could just have easily have sent us an email. No wonder the mainland taxes are so high.”