Page 225 of Feathers in the Wind
The man’s lips tighten. ‘What’s his name?’
I give him the details he needs to know and the metal cover closes with a clang. I return to the hard bench that passes for a bed and wait until I hear his footsteps returning. This time the door opens.
‘Listen, mate,’ the man says and I can see the concern in his face. ‘Your hunch was right. He’s taken a turn for the worse and he’s back in surgery.’
I sink back on the bench, my head in my hands and am surprised to feel his hand on my shoulder.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea and ring again in an hour. Hopefully in the morning that lawyer of yours can get you out of here.’
I nod, helpless to do anything else but agree… and pray.
* * *
As they led Nat into the meeting room where we’d assembled—our lawyer, the Colonel, Ms. Smith, another official from the Department of Immigration and me—my first thought was that he looked exhausted. A night in a police cell could do that to anyone, but there was more than just his unshaven chin and dark circles under his eyes. An air of desperation hung over him.
He caught my eye and ignoring everyone else in the room, asked, ‘How is he?’
I didn’t question how he knew that Christian’s condition had worsened during the night.
Mark had rung me to ask me to come in and I had sat in on the operation. I detected remorse in Mark’s attitude to me. With the realization that in punishing the boy’s father, he had also punished an innocent child, the fight had gone from him
‘Holding his own,’ I said. ‘We’re confident he’ll come through okay.’
Nat’s shoulders sagged and he rubbed a hand across his eyes as he sat on the chair beside our lawyer.
Ms. Smith looked from me to the lawyer. ‘Well?’
‘There has been a misunderstanding,’ the lawyer said. ‘Mr. Preston has been quite wrongly detained. He is a British citizen.’
‘With no birth certificate,’ Ms. Smith said with a curl of her lip.
I held Nat’s gaze, silently pleading with him to go along with what would follow.
‘Ah, but you’re wrong,’ the Colonel said. ‘Nathaniel Preston is my son, and here is his original birth certificate.’
He opened his wallet and produced a much folded piece of paper, which he handed to Ms. Smith, who carefully unfolded it, glanced at the paper and handed it to her assistant.
‘You will find it quite properly records the birth of my son, Nathaniel Edward Preston on the eighteenth of January, 1964 in Bechuanaland,’ The Colonel said
Ms. Smith retrieved the paper and sat staring at it.
‘If you doubt my bona fides,’ the Colonel continued, ‘I am willing to submit to a DNA test that will prove our relationship. Now, release the boy immediately and let’s not have any more of this nonsense.’
Ms. Smith frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. If indeed Mr. Preston is your son, how is it there are no other records?’
The Colonel sighed. ‘My wife and I were estranged when Nathaniel was young. My wife took up with hippies on the continent after she left me so it is not surprising there are no other records of Nathaniel’s life. I cannot answer as to where she took him or what life he has led. However, he contacted me not long ago and we have been in communication.’ He glanced at Nat. ‘However, we had not as yet met. This is the first time I have seen him in nearly thirty years.’
Ms. Smith turned to Nat. ‘Well, Mr. Preston, can you fill in how you have spent the last thirty years?’
Nat would have had no idea about hippies, but he was no fool. I could see from his face that he was trying to piece together a plausible explanation for his last thirty years of life.
I interposed. ‘I doubt he can. The reason Colonel Preston and his son did not affect a reunion before now is, somewhere on his way to meet with his father he was in an accident and is suffering amnesia. He has no recollection of anything beyond three weeks ago when I came across him and his son, and took them both in.’
‘Oh, really.’ Ms. Smith looked disgusted. ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ I didn’t.
Even to my ears it sounded trite. The convenient amnesia story? Couldn’t I have come up with something better?
I gave her the benefit of a small, professional smile. ‘I’m a doctor. Do you want a dissertation on amnesia? You have his birth certificate, you have Colonel Preston’s word and the offer of a DNA test. You can choose to believe us or not. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, Ms. Smith.’
