He recalled little of the days that followed, he wandered in a daze. Fortunately Gran ascribed it to teenage moodiness and was as sharp with him as ever. As for the others, Dad included, they paid him the same attention as usual, none. Each evening he retrieved the box from under the bed, looked at the photos, read the letters and pondered their meaning. What did it all add up to? Dad wasn't Dad at all? Was this other guy his Dad? Was he the one Dad wouldn't talk about? The thoughts ran round and round his head till it buzzed and he shook with frustration, why couldn't he just ask? He lay back on the bed, how would he start that conversation? "Hey Dad you remember that parcel I got? Well it turns out it's full of Mum's old stuff and it looks like you're not my Dad after all, some blond guy is" Yeah he could just see that happening! But how did he explain it, the guy in the picture could have been his double? He needed some proof, something to tell this Foz guy he was barking up the wrong tree, he sat bolt upright, he needed something official, his birth certificate!
He waited till it was a busy evening, Gran and Steph run off their feet downstairs, Dad on an away match with the darts team. He ducked helping out downstairs, collecting glasses, claiming a surfeit of homework and too many deadlines. When he was sure he wasn't likely to be caught he ventured into the foreign territory that was Dad's bedroom. He flicked on the light and sighed, the room looked as if they'd just been burgled, clothes, papers, empty cans strewn around in disarray. He glanced behind him then walked further in, where would Dad keep anything important to him?
He tried the bedside drawers first but he found only dust and paracetemol. He tried the wardrobe and drew a blank, nothing resembling papers either in it or on it. He sat down on the bed, pondering his next move. He swung his legs back and forth as he sat there till felt the base of the bed give against his heels. He dropped to the floor and pulled the duvet out of the way. Pushed further under the bed by heels was a black concertina type file. He pulled it out and swept it clear of dust balls, it fastened with a clasp that locked, holding his breath he tried it and with a tiny click it flipped open. Inside the various compartments were stuffed with papers, he picked it up from the floor and carried it through to the privacy of his bedroom. The first few were old bills, mostly red reminders. He discarded those and carried on working through each compartment methodically. The next contained old photos, Mum and Dad at their wedding with Gran and Grandpa Jack, all of them holding glasses and toasting the unknown photographer. He stroked Grandpa Jack's face absently, he missed him at training, his voice booming encouragement and support across the park. The rest seemed to be of Dad's long departed mates, nobody he recognised from Dad's current drinking cronies.
He stuffed them back and turned his attention to the next compartment, pulling out what appeared to be plans for a garden with a list pinned to it of plants and prices. The paper was so old the ink had faded. Charlie sighed, Gran had told him Dad had had a great career ahead of him until… at that point she always broke off and sighed. Charlie thought she'd meant the drink but now he was beginning to wonder if it was his own parentage that had caused the problems. He placed them back inside, so far this fishing expedition had revealed little, most of the other compartments were empty, which just about summed dad up he thought. It was with little optimism he checked the last one, pulling from it an old brown envelope. He turned it over and his heart skipped a beat, it was addressed to Rebecca Dean.