The Challenge That is Tony

by Pedro

The Locked Bible

It's one of those afternoons when I go home with Tony after school. Normally we go to my house. It's nearer school and my mum is less formal than Tony's. We can have a cuppa and raid the biscuit tin without any of the teatime ritual his mother insists on — tea tray laid with proper cups and saucers, plates, teapot, milk jug — the full works. Mind you today it was well worth the palaver. Tony's mum had had visitors in the morning and had baked a coffee cake (my favourite!). There was some left, or at least there was before we got to it!

In spite of the tea ritual, after we finish our homework, we still have some time together before I have to go home. I'm just thinking of leaving when my phone pings with a text. It's from Mum.

"Your dad is going to be late. He's got to call at my sister's on the way home. Can you call at the Indian and pick up some snacks to keep us going until he gets home, pls?"

"Can a fish swim?" I mutter as I show the text to Tony. He laughs.

"I bet you were going to call there anyway. Your mum's just making sure she gets her share!"

"Yeah, well." I have to admit he's right.

"What did Aunt Doris want?" I ask Dad when we finally sit down to our meal. Mum has done a cottage pie, which she put in the oven once she knew Dad was on the way home.

"Your Aunt had managed to jam the lock on her back door." As usual, Dad's tone implies I am somehow responsible for her failings. It's become something of a running joke between us. I suppose it's because he can't win if he tries to blame her on Mum!

"I managed to get it out of the frame and I've brought it home." Dad continues. "You can help me repair it later."

Volunteered again!

After we've finished our meal Mum excuses us from the washing up to get on with mending the lock. So we repair to the garage and Dad's workbench.

He opens the casing with a screwdriver and points out all the various bits of the mechanism to me. He uses the key to demonstrate how it lifts the levers and throws the bolt. Or would if it was working properly.

"Hmm," he grunts as he examines the inside of the lock. "Judging by the muck, something might have worn down and need replacing." He pokes around with the screwdriver before using it to point at a part. "Ah, see there. One of the lever springs has broken. Where it is fitted on your aunt's door, it should still work by gravity but only after a good clean and oiling up. However I think I have a bit of spring strip somewhere to repair it."

He starts furtling around in his toolboxes and the little storage bins he has above the workbench.

"What if you haven't got any?" I ask.

"Your aunt will have to put her hand in her pocket and buy a new lock!"

He finds what he's looking for and I watch him fashion a new spring. Then I get the mucky job of cleaning and oiling all the various parts.

"Make sure you know what order the parts go back in the lock!" Dad instructs.

When we've finished and are walking back to the house, Dad stops at the car and opens it.

"You haven't got to go back and fit it tonight, have you?" I ask. "To secure the house?"

"Nah. There's a dead bolt on the door. She'll be safe enough tonight. If I put the lock in the car now, I won't forget it in the morning."

I'm sure Dad mumbled something else: querying why anyone would want to break in with Doris in the house. I won't mention it to Mum.

When I'm in my room I reflect on my day. On the whole it turned out well. I navigated school without incident, spent time with Tony, learnt something new with Dad and had three of my favourite foods — cottage pie, samosas and coffee cake!

Tony and I find ourselves sitting opposite Mel and Virginia in the school canteen at lunch. Virginia says we can relax, it's just a social call, she's not on official prefect business. However she still makes Tony nervous by blowing him a kiss across the table.

"What did your aunt want last night?" Tony asks me once we have settled in our seats and started eating.

I tell him about the broken lock and Dad getting me to help repair it.

"You never know when skills like that will come in handy," the ever-practical Mel remarks when I have finished my tale.

"You'll still be visiting her this weekend, won't you?" Tony knows that we have Sunday lunch at Mum's sister's nearly every other week.

"Probably. Why do you ask?"

"Because we're going to Grandma's to help her pack up her house. She's putting it on the market and moving into sheltered accommodation. She was discussing it with Mum and Dad when she was here over Easter."

That sounds like a lot of work. "How long do you expect to be away?" I ask. "It's half term next week and I was hoping we could do some things together."

"Never mind what you two were hoping to do together." Mel interrupts. "Clearing and cleaning the house will probably take longer than you expect, especially if she has lived there a long time. So it makes sense to do the work during the break and still give Tony time to recover before school starts again."

"She's been there ages. Dad says he was born there," Tony admits.

Tony's parents are lot older than mine, and the gap between our grands is greater still. A thought meanders through my mind. It makes me groan.

"What was that for?" Tony challenges.

"The attic! I was thinking how much stuff is in ours. If your grandma has been there that long, what's hers going to be like?"

It's Tony's turn to groan.

"How old is your grandma?" Virginia asks. Tony tells us.

"A good age then. Is she still wick?"

Tony looks blank. He can't know the local meaning of the word. Well, he is from away.

"I met her at Easter," I answer for him. "She still has all her marbles!"

"She does the right thing then! Moving while she is still in control," Virginia declares. "Too many old folk refuse to move from some old house until it becomes too much for them and they have a fall, or like you say, lose their marbles. Then they get dumped in some care home somewhere miles away."

Mel adds her two-penn'orth. "That happened to my great aunt. She fell down stairs and broke her hip. Social said her house wasn't safe for her on her own. So, when she came out of hospital, they put her in a home on the other side of the county. Even the best places are pretty soul-destroying, but this was the cheapest Social could find as they were commissioning the care and initially had to pick up the tab until funding was sorted. It was a right dump. Always smelt of pee…and worse."

Ugh. Gross!

"The old girl didn't last long. If she'd moved to sheltered accommodation, the support team there would have looked after her until she needed full nursing care. She'd probably have had a few more years with a decent quality of life."

How depressing. I think the 'rents and Grandad at least are sufficiently level-headed to recognise the need to move in time. Even Aunt Doris. I'm not so sure about Grandma though.

Tony and I keep in touch by text while he is away. Late one evening I get one saying they're home. Then he gets cryptic:

"…Are you in tomorrow morning? Can I come round? I've got something I need your help with."

I am monosyllabic with my reply.

"Yes, yes, what?"

"You'll see!"

Helpful much.

Mid-morning, I am at the kitchen sink, filling the kettle for a cuppa when I hear the thud of something heavy being dumped on the kitchen table behind me.

Before I can turn around, I hear Tony's dulcet tones.

"Are you making tea? Good, because I'm gagging. That thing weighs a ton and I've had to carry it here."

I switch the kettle on then turn to Tony. He is red faced from effort and I see why when I look at what he has dropped on the table. It is a large, thick book with a heavily embossed leather cover. It looks ancient. And expensive — the edges of the pages have been gilded.

"From Grandma's ? "

"Yeah, I found it in the attic. It was stuffed full, like you expected."

"How old is it?" I ask.

"Grandma says it came to her when they cleared her parents' house, but she thinks it was from her grandparents or even great grandparents. It certainly looks old enough."

"And what it is?"

"She thought it was a bible being handed down through the family. She said I should have it."

"Not your dad?"

"No, Grandma is Mum's side of the family. She thought it should come straight to me as she had no brothers or sons."

The kettle has boiled, so I make the tea then take it to the table where we can sit and study the book more.

Tony turns the book round and I can now see it has a lock keeping the covers closed. It is hinged where it is attached to the back cover, the front being the latching side. "We have a problem. We haven't found the key." He grins. "You know about locks. You can open it, can't you?"

I'm not sure if I should be flattered or if he is winding me up.

"Why on earth would you want a lock on a bible?"

"I asked Grandma that. She gave me funny look but said it was the sort of thing the Victorians did!"

I turn the book round again, inspecting it more carefully. There are some things that bother me. For starters, there is no title showing anywhere. I can't even see evidence of where it might have rubbed off. With the expensive looking cover and gilded pages, I would expect at least a gilt title on the spine. Especially for a bible.

Secondly, I don't know if there is a problem with the binding coming loose. I don't know that much about books, but the various page blocks — Tony tells me later that they are called signatures — look too distinct.

"Has your grandma ever seen inside?"

"No. Without the key, she never bothered trying."

When we have finished our tea, we take the book out to the garage. I know Dad has box full of old keys. While I don't expect any of them to open the lock, they might help me determine how it is constructed. If all else fails, I might be able to drift out the hinge pin using Dad's tools.

We soon eliminate most of the keys in Dad's tin as too big to fit the keyhole. Also the lock has a central spindle which means the key has to be hollow.

There is one key that looks promising but just won't fit over the spindle. I can push it on a little way but then it is too tight to turn. Maybe I can ease it out with a drill. I open the drawer where I know Dad keep his drills. One tin for imperial size, one for metric. Except the first tin I open isn't drills at all.

Tony is watching. "I know what they are. They're reamers. For enlarging pre-existing holes."

Surprised, I ask him how he knows. I didn't even know Dad had them, never mind what they are for.

"One evening, Dad was talking about having to ream someone at work earlier in the day. I guessed what he meant by the context but checked on- line later. These were illustrated for the main definition."

Now I have something to check later.

I find a reamer that fits the hole in the key. A few twists and I soon have widened the hole enough for the key to fit over the spindle in the lock. Tony reminds me to be a good boy scout and put the tool away where we found it. There are times when he can be annoying!

The key won't turn a full rotation in the lock, but I can feel the mechanism move as I try. Eventually, by tweaking the lock and top cover side to side with one hand and turning the key with the other, the lock pops open.

I push it back together. Not just to wind up Tony but to test how it closes. Good. It seems to be a simple spring catch.

We put all the other keys back in the box and then take the book and the key that opened it into the house. Up in my room, I tweak the lock open again. Then carefully turn over the front cover.

There is nothing printed on the flyleaf, but there is dedication and hand written list of names. Only one date though.

To Ebenezer Albert Charles Holey on occasion of his coming of age,

from Matthias Ebenezer Holey

Albert Stanley Holey KIA, 22April 1915.

Stanley Francis Holey

Curiously the last two entries are in the same handwriting although the ink colour changes immediately after the first of the two names.

I have to chuckle though. Tony asks me why.

"Some parents weren't thinking when they named their children. Look at the initials," I explain. "You've got 'each', 'arseholey' and 'meh!' starts it off!"

Tony grunts in disapproval and turns over the flyleaf.

It is his turn to laugh. For the book is clearly an early photo album, not a bible.

"No wonder Grandma gave me a funny look when I asked about the Victorians putting a lock on a bible. When I had questioned her earlier about the tome, I thought she said it was the 'holy book', meaning the bible. She must have meant the 'Holey' book. She must have some connection to the Holey family."

We start to turn pages of the album. These are actually made of thick card, which I see now is why I thought there was a problem with the binding of the signatures. The photos are inserted into position through a slot in the surface layer of the card.

The pictures are a mixture of subjects. Tony recognises the two portraits on the first page as Queen Victoria and Gladstone, her Prime Minister. (How does he know this stuff?) There are pictures that appear to be family members. Interspersed are scenes of places that must have had some significance to the purchaser.

I say purchaser because when we pull some of the photos out of the mounting, they are pasted on thin card with the name of the relevant professional studio printed on the back. Tony thinks that in addition to commissioned work, such as portraits, early professional photographers would have a portfolio of stock images they could hawk round from town to town. Looking at what we find, I think I agree.

As we work through the pages, the professional pictures pasted on card are supplemented then supplanted by more relaxed amateur shots. We guess this was as camera and film technology developed and became cheaper and easier to use.

Again, we pull some of these later photos out of the mounting boards. Most are still anonymous but a few have some cryptic clues: the name of a town, a street or person and on a rare occasion a date.

About three quarters of the way through the book, we come to a picture of a handsome young man wearing what we both recognise as First World War army uniform. Referring back to the fly-leaf, we realise KIA stand for 'killed in action' and decide the photo must be of Albert Stanley and have been taken between August 1914 and his death the following April.

We take a moment to reflect. I feel ashamed that I made a trite joke about his initials.

We go back to looking at the photos. Except the next two pages have been left blank.

The photos restart on a left hand page and are of very different subjects. Interestingly different!

These are youths and young men in pastoral scenes. Some are posed in imitation of classical Greek or Roman style, with naked torsos, olive leaf garlands or headbands.

I pull one of these photos out of the mount. One where the models are clothed. It has the imprint of a studio in Rome on the back. Tony tells me to take one with a naked subject out as well. I struggle with it until I realise there is more of the photo tucked behind the surface layer of the card, out of sight. When we finally get to see the whole picture, the model is fully nude. With plenty to see! However we agree the scene is titillating rather than porn. And it is from the same studio in Rome.

We turn the page to find two more sides in the same vein. The remaining pages are blank. Although sandwiched between the last two empty pages, we find an unmounted photo of two young men, who are so alike, they are probably twins. They are fully dressed as farm labourers.

There is a message written on the back. We can't read it. Apart from the handwriting being ornate and difficult to decipher, it isn't in English. Tony thinks it is in Italian. He types it as best he can into his phone and gets a translation.

My dear Francisco,

What fun we had with these two!

Our photographer friend was so pleased that you persuaded them to sit for him. He gave me a full set of prints from their session for free!

You will understand when I say that this is the only one I should send to you.

I do hope you will be able to visit Rome again soon, although I fear the situation is becoming less propitious, not just here, but across Europe.

In faith, hope and most especially love,

Msgr C…….

Monsignor? Even I know that means someone with status in the Catholic Church!

Tony and I look at each other. We are obviously thinking the same thing: Francis was gay.

"Moving on. I think we have a project for the rest of half term," Tony says. "Find out more about the people in the book."

"We?"

"Yes, you can help! Give you something to do to keep your mind ticking over until we go back to school."

Thanks, pal.

I do see a problem though. I turn back to the front fly-leaf and point to the last name.

"You'll have to be careful questioning your grandma. She might not know about Francisco!"

Before Tony can reply there is a shout from downstairs. It's Mum.

"Lunch time, boys!"

Good, we could do with a break.

Mum has made us cheese and ham toasties.

"What are you two going to do this afternoon?" she asks when we have got our mouths full. "The forecast is for rain for the rest of the day."

We look out of the window and see it has already started.

"Probably do some research on-line," I reply once I have swallowed my mouthful.

"Will I have to look in occasionally to make sure it's not porn?"

"MUM!"

I know she's joking but sometimes she does go a bit far!

Tony giggles and assures her that it will be to do with his family history.

After lunch we work through the album again. This time I take all the photos out of their mounts, in turn. Meanwhile Tony makes a spreadsheet describing each picture and listing any relevant information we can glean from the backs or by comparing family likenesses in the portraits. Using the internet, we are able to identify nearly all the public buildings and with some guess work we get a lot of the private ones as well.

By the time we have finished, we have a rough idea of who's who in the family pictures, although we don't have all the names. We also know some towns where the family might have lived at various times during the period covered.

Tony sends his spreadsheet to my printer.

"Will your grandma know any of the family history?" I ask as he puts the print in his pocket.

"She must know some. She knew the book was a family heirloom of some kind."

"Are you going to show it to her, now we've got it open?"

He thinks about that for a while before replying.

"No, not with that final section. I don't think I want Mom and Dad seeing it either."

We decide that Tony will leave the album with me to see what else I can find out. I might get something by searching on the various photo studios. Meanwhile, next time he sees her, he will talk to his grandma about her family, but without mentioning what we have discovered. He will be seeing her again this weekend.

School restarts on the Monday.

Tony comes round to my house after lessons. We have homework to do. We also have to swap notes about Tony's family project. Tea and biscuits come first though!

Homework done, I tell Tony what additional information I have been able to glean.

First I tell him about the studio in Rome. The proprietor claimed to be a follower of a German photographer working in Sicily early in the 1900s making similar mannered studies of nudes and pastoral scenes. However, the Rome business appears to have dealt in more pornographic images as well. This would, presumably, explain why the Monsignor wouldn't supply Francisco with a full set of prints.

Most of the other stuff I found confirmed what we already knew or had guessed.

However, I did find out something important when I researched the date of Albert Stanley's death.

"It was the date of the second battle of Ypres," I tell Tony. "The battle was the first mass use of poison gas on the western front by the German forces. The gas used was chlorine."

"Grandma told me Albert was her grandfather and that he was killed at Ypres —Wipers she called it — but she didn't say anything about the gas. What a horrible way to go."

"So was it Grandma's father or mother that was a Holey?"

"Mother. And she was born in the autumn after Albert was killed. So the male line passed to Albert's younger brother, Francis…"

I interrupt. "Which would explain the last two entries in the book being written by the same person, presumably their father, Ebenezer. And his father was Matthias."

"Yes, that would fit. Now Francis seems to be have been an interesting character. He was seven or eight years younger than his brother so did not fight in the war. Grandma was a bit sketchy on detail but the story in the family is that the war affected him and he became religious and converted to Catholicism while at university. He had met a rich friend there whose father had been a follower of Newman and the Oxford movement. He paid for Francis to go to Rome and train for the priesthood."

That's more reading I'll have to do: Newman and Oxford. I pretend to know what Tony means.

"Francis was never ordained, but he stayed in Rome apparently working for a succession of wealthy patrons until the early nineteen thirties. I did some research: Fascist Mussolini was rewriting the Italian penal code about then and fascist movements were on the rise in Spain and Germany. He probably no longer felt safe in Italy.

"Returning to Britain, he continued to enjoy the patronage of wealthy men. Apparently he had some scrapes with the law, but Grandma couldn't give details, except to say his friends always successfully arranged his defence."

"It sounds like Francis was the one who was a bit sketchy," I joke. Tony gives me the 'stupid boy' look.

"Grandma went on to say that because he was fluent in Italian and had lived over there, he was recruited into something hush-hush during the Second World War. He died in suspicious circumstances about five years after the war, while Grandma was still young. She doesn't remember ever meeting him and her mother would never mention him to her. Most of what she knows is from overhearing snippets of her parents' conversations with her grandmother when she was still alive."

"So was Francis gay?"

"I asked Grandma if she thought he was. Do you know what she said? 'Of course, dear. Queer as a coot!' "

Tony closes and locks the heavy album. He doesn't take it home with him, though. I can take it next time Dad gives me a lift over to his house.

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