2Just before he left Dr. Bailey shared a few quiet words with Norris. Mr. Dawes seemed fine physically but a bit too alone with his thoughts. Did he get out much or have visitors? Norris replied that Mr. Dawes lunched with his brother once a month and often called his daughter overseas. Miss Lavnia would be coming to visit in six weeks. The house would be busy then with people in and out. Mr. Dawes was already planning on at least one dinner and maybe a party during her stay.
Yes, said Dr. Bailey, that all sounded good. But if Norris could encourage the old gentleman to socialize more it would be better, maybe invite some friends over or encourage him to go to his club. Dr. Bailey hesitated. Norris had been with his employer for over 50 years. He might have a better idea about what was bothering Mr. Dawes. He cleared his throat.
"Mr. Dawes seems concerned about something that happened in the past with his younger son. Do you know what that might be?"
Norris looked sad, as if remembering something painful. "Yes, I do. But if that's what's bothering him there's very little we can do to help."
After Dr. Bailey left Mr. Dawes sat in the library looking at the umbrella propped against the bookcase. So far it hadn't uttered a single word. "Why are you here?" he asked. "I've read the books. I know you can talk if you want to. What is it I'm supposed to be doing?"
In frustration Mr. Dawes looked around the library. His eyes rested on the library table where he had stacked his daughter's books and the ones he had brought from the attic. Mr. Dawes opened Bertie's sketchbook on top and paged though it until he came to a picture of a little frog playing a guitar. It was so winsome and different from the other sketches. And though it was fantastical Mr. Dawes could almost feel the heat of the summer day and hear the hum of insect wings as the little fellow played his song. Tears pricked his eyes but he pushed them back. The past was the past. He had to push on, he had to keep going forward. He closed the sketchbook and reached for the third volume of his daughter's books.
On the cover was a picture of three children flying a kite. Mr. Dawes paused a moment and looked at the picture. He had always liked flying kites. It seemed as it you could put all your cares on the wings of a kite and send them soaring away into the air. The morning after his father died Mr. Dawes had taken his kite to the park and sent it flying into the sky. With it had gone his grief and he had been comforted by the knowledge that his father had lived a full life and had died happy. With the kite securely gliding through the air currents Mr. Dawes had looked around and to his surprise had seen George Banks. George was also flying a kite. After the previous night the man's life should have been shattered, but there he was flying a kite with his wife and children as if nothing was wrong. What a lucky man thought Mr. Dawes, realizing that he was just a bit jealous of Banks' family.
Asking Banks to return had been a spontaneous decision that he had never regretted. There were too many "yes" men in the organization, too many that had stood in awe of his father to express their own opinions. The bank needed men who could speak up and say what they thought. Over the years he came to rely on George as a colleague and a friend. George Banks would never have dreamed of offering Mr. Dawes personal advice, but his own happiness had finally made Mr. Dawes admit to what was missing in his own life. The day Mr. Dawes realized that Michael was the same age as his grandson he knew what he had to do.
It had taken Mr. Dawes a long time to find Lavinia's address but he had written. When her reply finally arrived he was so apprehensive about its contents he didn't open it for several days. The letter was brief, containing the birth dates of his grandchildren (there were three of them now) and a short account of their lives since Christopher's birth. Despite its reserved and formal tone it was far more gracious than he deserved.
They began a tentative correspondence. He sent presents at birthdays and Christmas which were answered by polite thank you notes and formal pictures of three children looking stiffly at the camera. Then one day Julie, the youngest, sent him an exuberant picture of an elephant drawn in red crayon. Mr. Dawes had gone to the stationer and purchased a box of crayons. He wrote his grand daughter a thank you note in bright green and sent it off in the mail. After that the ice was broken and things got better. The letters increased in number, the stiff photographs were now candid snapshots taken with Lavinia's Kodak and eventually she brought the children to visit, determined not to stand in his way if he really wanted to know them. The following year he traveled to New York and met her husband.
Gerald Kelly was not so bad considering he was Irish, and Mr. Dawes had to admit that he made Lavinia happy. America had been good to the enterprising young man and Lavinia, though not as wealthy as she would have been with William, was far from destitute. Gerald understood the arcane world of stocks and bonds and the two men, who had dreaded meeting, found much in common.
The family corresponded weekly during the war, both sides agreeing that they wouldn't risk crossing the Atlantic again until it was over. All that time Mr. Dawes watched George's children and talked to them so that he could gauge what his grandchildren would be interested in or what they might be learning in school. He asked their advice about toys and books and one year took Winifred and Jane shopping for Julie. There was so much that he owed George Banks and his family. Looking once more at the children on the cover Mr. Dawes opened the book and started to read.
Several hours later he sat the book aside with a troubled feeling. Lavinia had introduced a new character, Cousin Willie. What a loathsome child, thought Mr. Dawes. Was the real William this horrible? Julia had never really liked him, but she was never able to explain why. She always felt a little guilty and tried especially hard to be nice to William when he visited. Lavinia, however, had never evinced the slightest regret about leaving William at the alter. Once when Mr. Dawes had remarked that William had never married she had sniffed and said that she wasn't surprised. At least her actions had enabled William to live with the person he loved best.
William seemed to specialize in getting his cousins into trouble without actually doing anything wrong himself. Why were the adults unable to see what he was up to wondered Mr. Dawes and then remembered he had never noticed this behavior either. Just as he had never looked beyond the surface with his own children, Mr. Dawes had taken William at face value. He had always been so polite and well behaved. And he was a Dawes, his own sister's grandson.
He had assumed that William stood for the values the family had always espoused, duty, honor, precision and order. The Dawes family was not warm and friendly but they were scrupulously honest. Mr. Dawes Sr. liked to say that the trust of their customers had built the Fidelity Fiduciary Bank, but the bank had earned it. They had made many investments in railways, canals and bridges, but Mr. Dawes Jr. had been particularly proud of the small loans and mortgages the bank had given. It was an investment in the true fabric of England, allowing a man to own his own home or business. Unlike many other institutions, they worked closely with their clients to make sure they could make their payments. Their foreclosure rate was the lowest in London.
Mr. Dawes wished he could rid himself of the nagging doubt about leaving William in charge of the bank that had grown stronger as he read the book.
"Children grow up." he said out loud to no one in particular. "People change. Maybe William isn't as bad as he was when he was younger."
"Humph!" said a voice in the room. It was definitely a voice, not his imagination. The parrot umbrella was staring beadily at him from across the library. "Did you say something?" asked Mr. Dawes. But the parrot did not respond.
Mr. Dawes walked over to the umbrella, picked it up and gave it a good shake. "Speak why don't you?" he said. "You can if you want to. They can't shut you up in the books. If you have something to say just say it!" In disgust he threw the still silent umbrella on the floor.
"What am I doing?" he muttered. "Anyone walking in would think I'd gone loony talking to an umbrella." He turned to leave the room.
A groan from the floor stopped him. The umbrella had its eyes closed and was shaking its head as if to clear it. "Too late for that," said the parrot. "Your nephew's already told everyone you're crazy."
