GRANDDAD BOB was waiting at the window. These past hours, he had thought long and hard about what Tom had done. Slowly, he had come to see how tormented his son must have been, when learning the devastating news of his illness. He was deeply saddened, but he was also very angry.
‘Oh, Tom, lad … why couldn’t you have confided in your old father?’ Time and again he uttered those words. Time and again he tried to persuade himself that Tom had taken what he believed to be the best and only option. But it was bad, and so wrong, and it would take his father some long time to forgive him. But forgive him he would. When you love someone with all your heart, that precious love will endure through thick and thin, good times and bad. To the end of time, and maybe even beyond.
Several times he’d gone to the front door and looked out, hoping to see his grandson coming down the street, and each time he’d closed the door with a heavy heart.
In between, he’d paced up and down close to the window, and every other minute stopping to look out. But there was no sign of Casey. ‘Where are you, lad? Come ’ome to yer old granddad, eh?’ He had a yearning to wrap his arms about that little bundle of humanity. He needed to keep him safe, and talk with him about what his father had done, and why.
He cast a sorry gaze at the other two letters lying face up on the sideboard. He wondered about the letter addressed to Ruth, and he hoped that in the harsh words that must be said, there might be a small gesture of forgiveness for the part she had played in hurting the ones who loved her.
As for Casey, he knew every word in that letter would be like a knife to his heart; as his own letter had been to himself.
The pain of losing a son, and in such a way, was the most unbearable thing.
After what seemed endless pacing up and down, he saw the police car draw up at the house, and he rushed to the front door as fast as his old legs would carry him.
When Casey climbed out of the car and ran to him, the old man clasped him so tight to his chest, the boy could hardly breathe. ‘Oh, lad! I’ve been that worried. I didn’t know where you were, or whether you’d come back to me. Oh dear God, I’m so thankful you’re home.’ The tears he’d been holding back ran freely down his face. ‘Come inside, lad; come inside with yer old granddad, eh?’
Then the old man saw the police officer helping Dolly out of the car. ‘Who’s this, then?’ He was pleasantly surprised to see this woman, with her warm, reassuring smile and kindly manner.
‘She’s my friend.’ Breaking loose, Casey ran to Dolly and, taking her by the hand, he told his granddad, ‘She took care of me. Her name’s Dolly. I know the police told you … how she saw …’ he trailed off, unable to actually say it.
Nervously, Dolly stepped forward. ‘I found Casey on the bridge,’ she explained. ‘I took him home, and we talked a lot. Then he wanted you, his granddad Bob.’ She smiled. ‘I know he’ll be safe now, and I can rest easy.’
Behind her, the police officer stood by the open car door, waiting to take her home again. ‘Oh, no, thank you all the same,’ said Dolly, turning to him. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. You go about your business. I’ll go back on the bus.’
‘Are you sure? It’s no trouble for us to run you back.’
‘Yes, of course. To tell you the truth, I don’t feel comfortable riding in a police car.’ She smiled again. ‘You never know what the neighbours might think.’
Bob thought he had never seen such a lovely smile; it lit her pretty blue eyes and warmed his heart. ‘I wouldn’t even hear of you going back without a cup o’ tea and a kindly word. I’m grateful to you for looking out for my grandson.’ He gently ushered her along. ‘Come inside, won’t you?’
When Dolly hesitated, Casey took a firm hold of her hand. ‘I want you to come in,’ he told her. ‘I don’t want you to go yet. Please, Dolly?’
Secretly delighted, though feeling just a little jaded after everything that had happened, Dolly gave in to his request. ‘All right then, child. Being as you’ve asked, and your granddad’s offered, I’ll stay awhile longer, only if it’s all right with your granddad. I’m not one to make a nuisance of meself.’
She thought the boy’s granddad to be a pleasant and caring soul, although the depth of sorrow etched in his face was a pitiful thing to see. Maybe her staying on for a while might be a blessed thing for the old man. While he might not be able to open his mind to the boy, he’d perhaps feel easier talking to her.
Unwilling to let her go, Casey led Dolly through the door, and they both followed Granddad Bob along the passageway and into the back parlour.
The police officers drove away, their work done for now.
Inside the house, the three were at ease in each other’s company, although recent events were not yet mentioned. But there would be time enough to talk about that.
Before Casey could see the three letters, the old man covered them with his newspaper. ‘Right! I’ll mek us a drink and yer can talk me through everything.’ He was eager to know exactly what Dolly had seen on that bridge.
And afterwards, he thought, it would be only right to give the boy the letter his father had left for him.
A short time later, after Casey had finished off his glass of sarsaparilla, and his elders had drained their teacups, Dolly informed them of her fateful meeting with Tom on the bridge. She confessed how she felt guilty about not having suspected there was something wrong.
‘He smiled, but there was a kind of sadness in his face. It was as though, even when he spoke to me, his mind seemed far away … like he had something more important to think about.’
Not wishing to add to their grief, she kept the detail to a minimum.
‘I blame myself,’ she confessed. ‘He told me he was waiting for a friend to arrive on the train, but deep down I don’t think I believed him. I should have talked with him a while longer. I should have asked if he was all right, but I just accepted what he told me. Oh dearie me, what an old fool I am …’ Taking a folded handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed at her tears. ‘I’ll never forgive myself for not staying with him.’
‘Don’t cry, Dolly.’ Running to sit on her knee, Casey squashed up against her, his small body trembling as he took hold of her hand and held it tight. ‘It’s not your fault.’ When his voice caught in a sob, he tried so hard to be brave, but he could not stop his sorrow from spilling over.
Dolly held him close, rocking back and forth with him, while the old man looked on, his face smudged and raw with the tears he too had shed since hearing the news. He glanced across to the side table where the letters lay under the newspaper, and shook his head forlornly. Like Dolly, he wondered what he could have done to prevent Tom from taking his own life.
Try as he might, he could not draw his attention away from the table. In his mind’s eye, he could see the three letters that lay hidden; one opened and the others waiting to be delivered.
He knew every heartbreaking word in the letter addressed to himself, and his fear grew at how that young lad might receive such a letter.
When his thoughts turned to Ruth, he felt a rush of hatred for the part she had played in Tom’s distress. He recalled how Tom had asked him not to turn against Ruth, but though he wanted to forgive her, he was not certain he ever could.
He shifted his gaze to Dolly and Casey. In a slow, rhythmic manner, she rocked back and forth, softly singing, eyes closed and her arms tight about the child. Comforted, the boy hid his face in her shoulder and quietly sobbed. It was a beautiful yet harrowing scene, one that the old man thought would stay in his heart and mind for ever.
He desperately needed to ease the boy’s pain, but then he reminded himself of the one thing he must do before the healing might begin.
‘Casey?’ In a gentle, broken voice, he called the boy’s attention. ‘Come ’ere to yer granddad, there’s a good lad.’ He wanted to collect the boy in his embrace, but when he tried to raise his arms, it was as though all the strength had gone from them.
Dolly released the boy, and watched him go to his granddad, her heart aching for them both.
When the boy came to him, the old man held him by the hands. ‘Listen to me, young Casey. There’s summat I need to tell yer,’ he informed him softly. ‘Summat that might hurt you all over again, but it’s important. D’yer hear what I’m saying?’
Casey nodded. ‘Yes, Granddad. What is it you need to tell me?’
‘Well … it’s summat yer dad wanted you and me to know, only he never did tell us. So far as I’m aware, he never told anyone, but now I know, and he wanted me to mek sure that you know as well.’
Taking a deep breath, he explained to the boy how his daddy was very ill, and that the illness would have got much worse because there was little the doctors could do.
‘… So y’see, lad, your daddy knew he might end up being unable to care for himself. He would not be able to work any more, or pay his way, and it would only have been a matter of time afore he ended up in a wheelchair.’
As his cutting words unfolded, he saw the light go from the boy’s eyes. He saw him physically cringe, and then the tears rose, to spill over.
Bob spoke softly, ‘Aw, lad, it grieves me to have to tell you these things, but I can’t imagine what terrible thoughts must have been going through your daddy’s head … knowing all that, and making the decision to take his own life. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life helpless. Nor did he want us to see him struck down like that. Not able to stride down the street, or pick you up and swing you round, or play football with you. And mebbe not even have the strength in his fingers to play his beloved guitar.’
He went on, ‘Yes, it’s true your daddy did a terrible thing, but it was his decision and however hard it might be, we have to do our best to respect that. And d’you know what, lad, I’ve asked myself how I might have dealt with such a terrible illness, and I can’t honestly say what I would have done in the circumstances.’
Drawing the boy closer, he explained. ‘I didn’t know about your daddy’s illness until this very morning. Y’see, when I woke up and your dad were gone, I found summat on the bedside cabinet. Summat very special. Summat yer dad left for us.’
Still reeling from what he’d been told, Casey remained silent.
‘Hey!’ The old man placed his fingers under the boy’s chin and lifted his face in such a way that he could not avoid looking up at him. ‘D’yer want to see what yer daddy left for you?’
‘No!’
‘Why’s that then? Is it ’cause yer angry? Is that it?’
‘I would have looked after him, I would. I really would!’
‘I know you would, and yer daddy knew full well that you would want to look after him – he knew we both would – and that’s the very reason why he did what he did. He had his pride and he did not want to become reliant on anyone to feed and clothe him, take him to the bathroom or clean his teeth. Oh, lad, try an’ understand if yer can. Because y’see, however hard it might be, we have to forgive what he did, because we love him.’
‘I … won’t ever forgive … him, I won’t!’ With his heart breaking, Casey clung to his granddad while, nearby, Dolly felt for these two darling people, but was powerless to ease their pain.
After a while, Casey asked tentatively, ‘What did my dad want me to have?’
The old man was greatly relieved. ‘He left you a letter. In fact, there were three letters in all. There was one for me, and there was one for you … and …’ He decided to leave the boy’s mother out of it for now.
‘What did the letters say?’
‘Well, o’ course it weren’t for me to open anyone’s letter but my own. In it, he told me about his illness, and how it were creeping up on him. He asked me to tell you before you read your letter, so it wouldn’t come as such a shock.’
‘Where is it then, Granddad? Where’s my letter? I want to read it, please, Granddad.’
The old man had dreaded this moment.
Dolly was desperately sad, ‘Might it be best if I leave now?’ she whispered.
His answer was a vigorous shake of the head, which told her exactly what she wanted to hear: that she was needed; that they had accepted her.
Having collected the letters from the side table, he then went to sit on the sofa. Patting the area beside him, he told Casey, ‘You can sit ’atween me an’ Dolly while yer read the letter.’ He beckoned Dolly to the sofa, and she was more than willing to do as he asked.
On catching sight of Ruth’s letter, Casey asked angrily, ‘Why is there a letter for her?’ Grabbing it from the old man’s fingers, he threw it across the sofa.
‘That’s not for us to question, is it, lad?’
From what Tom had written in his father’s letter, he obviously favoured a reconciliation between Ruth and Casey but, to the old fella’s way of thinking, it was not a good idea. Recovering Ruth’s letter, he laid it on the side table. ‘It’s best if you don’t concern yourself as to why your dad left your mam a letter. I’m sure he had his own good reasons.’
Taking hold of the boy under the armpits, the old man hoisted him onto the sofa, where Casey busily opened the envelope.
‘What does it say, Granddad?’
‘All kinda things. But look, lad, why don’t yer let me or Dolly read it out loud for yer?’
Clutching his letter tight, Casey shook his head. ‘No. I want to read it myself. I can. I’m good at reading.’
‘I already know that. So go on then! Get on with it.’ He laid a cautionary hand on the boy’s arm. ‘It’s a hard letter for a boy to read, mind. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I read it quietly to yer?’
The boy was adamant. ‘No, Granddad! It’s my letter, and I want to read it by myself.’
And so, he did; silently and with his expression slowly changing as he read through the painful words at the end:
My love will always be with you, son, and if it’s possible, I will be ever by your side, watching and guiding you. When you’re worried and sad of heart, you might hear the softest rush of sound about you. It will be me, come to encourage and help you.
Be brave, my son. Follow your heart, and know always that I love you.
Dad xx
Suddenly, Casey was up on his feet. Throwing the letter across the sofa, he ran out of the room, through the scullery and down the outer steps to the cellar.
A few minutes later, that was where Granddad Bob found him, hunched in a dark corner, sobbing his heart out.
‘Hey, lad … Oh, come on now.’ With great difficulty, he slid down beside Casey. He did not put his arm about him, nor did he say anything more. Instead, he sat there with the boy, the two of them close together, side by side, while Casey sobbed as though his heart would break.
‘I’ve got summat for you, lad.’ Bob opened his hand to reveal a photograph. ‘It’s a picture of you with yer mam and dad. It were your first birthday, and I took this picture with my old Brownie camera. Keep it in your pocket, lad. Whenever you feel sad, look at it and remember the good times. It’s not a brilliant photo, but it’s the only photo we have of you with yer mam and daddy.’ Tenderly, he closed the photo into the boy’s hand.
Upstairs, Dolly had gone into the scullery and, after realising that the two of them were in the cellar, she took it on herself to fill the kettle from the cold water tap and pop it onto the hob. Locating a small box of matches on the shelf above, she struck one alight and set it to the gas ring. Next, she set about preparing teapot and cups, and afterwards searched the cupboard to find suitable ingredients to make some cheese sandwiches. She knew it could be hard to deal with things on an empty stomach.
A short time later, with the kettle merrily boiling, and the sandwiches set out on the plate, she turned down the gas, cleared up the mess she’d made, and patiently waited.
Minutes passed, then it was a quarter of an hour. Then it was half an hour, and still there was no sign of them. I expect they’re talking things through, she thought. I’ll not go down – it’s not my place to do that – but I’ll be here when they come up, an’ no mistake. Her mind was made up: she was going nowhere until she knew they were safe and well. So she waited. First she paced the scullery, then she paced the parlour, and now she was halfway down the steps, then she was back up in the scullery again.
Dolly, however, was wrong in her assumption that the old man and the boy were ‘talking things through’, because three-quarters of an hour after Bob had given him the photo, not another word had been spoken in the cellar. Instead, Casey sobbed until he could sob no more, and the old man remained beside him, silently keeping him warm.
After what seemed an age, Casey snuggled closer still to the old man. ‘I don’t hate my dad.’
‘I know you don’t, lad.’
‘Where is he now, Granddad? Is he in Heaven?’
‘I’m not really sure, but I should think he’s safe enough, wherever he might be now. I don’t believe he’ll come to any harm. Your daddy is a good man, d’yer see? And they do say that, while we can’t see them, they can still see us.’
‘Oh!’ Casey’s eyes grew bigger. ‘D’you think Dad’s here, in the cellar, with us?’
‘He might be. Who knows?’ The old man gave a dry little chuckle. ‘Mind you, if he is down ’ere with us, I hope he’s not sitting on this damp floor, ’cause I can feel the cold right through me trousers.’ He gave a groan, ‘D’yer know what, lad?’
‘What, Granddad?’
‘I reckon if I sit ’ere much longer, I’ll never be able to get up, ever again!’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, ’cause me ol’ bones will ’ave set so ’ard, they’ll be stiff as chair legs, that’s why.’
‘Do they hurt, Granddad?’
‘Not yet, but I’m sure they will, soonever I try an’ move.’
‘D’you want me to help you up?’
‘Aye, go on then.’ The old man held out his hand. ‘One big tug should do it.’
There followed a deal of grunting and groaning, and quiet cursing too, but after a bit of a struggle, the old man was on his feet and carefully limbering up, ready for the long journey up the steps and into the scullery.
First, though, he drew the boy to the small basement window, where he examined the scars of grief streaked across his pale little face. ‘I’m so sorry, lad.’ His old heart was deeply pained. ‘I’d ’ave given anything for your dad not to have left us like that.’
The boy looked up at the lovable, weathered old face, and those blue eyes that usually twinkled and smiled, and which were now so quiet and sad. ‘Me too, Granddad.’ He didn’t know what else to say.
‘Come on then, m’boy.’ The old man forced a smile. ‘Your friend Dolly will think we’ve deserted her.’
‘She’s your friend too, Granddad … isn’t she?’
The old man smiled properly then. ‘Aye, I reckon she is, an’ all.’
Dolly was greatly relieved to see the two of them coming steadily up the steps. ‘I thought you’d set up home down there,’ she chided light-heartedly. ‘Look at the pair of you. Good Lord! You must be frozen to the bone.’
Hobbling into the scullery, the old man was cheered by the kettle boiling on the hob, and, there on the kitchenette, a plate of sandwiches. ‘By! That looks grand!’ He spread his hands out to the flickering light beneath the kettle. ‘Come ’ere, lad, warm yersel’ afore we sit down again.’
When Casey went to him, Bob gathered his small hands into his, rubbing them to pass on the warmth he’d gathered from the stove. ‘There! That’s better, isn’t it, eh?’
Casey looked up at his granddad’s smiling face and, for the first time since losing his dad, he felt safe, with this darling old man and also with Dolly, who had already shown herself to be a true friend. ‘I love you, Granddad.’ He turned to smile at Dolly. ‘I love you too.’
‘And I love you back.’ Dolly felt the tears prick her eyes.
‘And, do you love Granddad Bob?’
Surprised by his innocent question, Dolly felt embarrassed. She looked at the old man, at the bright, sincere eyes and that way he had of smiling right into your heart, and she gave her answer.
‘How could I love you, and not love your granddad Bob?’ It was said light-heartedly, but she meant it, because something had happened to her here in this homely little place, with these two very special people. Something she did not yet understand. Something surprising, that brought a spring to her step and a warm blush to her heart. And that had not happened to her in a very long time.
On arriving here, she had wanted to be quickly gone, yet now, the thought of leaving these two and going back to her lonely little house was a prospect she did not care to think about. But go she must, and soon.
The policeman was thorough as he questioned the neighbour in Henry Street. ‘And you say you heard rows and arguments, is that so, Mrs Kettle?’
‘Yes. It was shocking. Look, I’ve already told you people how Mr Denton went after the boy, leaving Mrs Denton on the floor, yelling and screaming. Oh, and the language was awful!’
‘And you say she went out later on?’
‘She did, yes. Left the door wide open, she did, with nobody there to look after the house. When she’d gone, my husband went along and pulled the door to. Oh, and she looked a right sorry mess as she flounced away down the street. No coat, and her hair uncombed. If you ask me, she wants locking away. The way she treats that boy, it’s a disgrace!’
‘What are you saying – that she beats him? Abuses him?’
‘I’m saying she screams at him. Oh, and she has men back to the house. We’ve seen them sneaking out the back door. Shameful, that’s what it is … shameful!’
‘So, when she left, she didn’t by any chance say where she was going, did she?’
‘Not to us, no. Well, she wouldn’t, would she? I mean, we try not to have anything to do with her. Mind you, young Mr Denton is a different sort altogether. Nice man. Hard-working, and a positive angel to put up with her goings-on. My husband asked her if she was all right, but she just swore at him. I told him not to speak to her. We all know what she’s like. Gives the street a bad name, she does.’
‘I see. And is there another neighbour who might know where she’s gone?’
She shook her head. ‘No. As far as I know, they don’t have any truck with her, and who can blame them?’
Before he satisfied himself that the Dentons’ house was secure, the officer reminded her, ‘If she returns, would you please ask Mrs Denton to contact the police station? It’s very important.’
‘I see.’ Curiosity got the better of Sylvia. ‘Is it to do with her husband? Because he hasn’t come back, and nor has the boy. I expect they might be at Tom’s father’s house. The two of them often go round to see the old man. Happen she’s gone there to follow up on the row and cause even more aggravation. She’s never satisfied, that’s her trouble.’
‘Mrs Denton is not at her father-in-law’s house. We’ve been there. We’ve spoken to the boy, and also to Mr Denton senior. They haven’t seen or heard from her.’
‘So, what’s going on? Why are you searching for her? Huh! Don’t tell me she’s got herself into even more hot water?’
Avoiding her question, the officer tipped his hat. ‘Thanks for your help, and as I say, if she does turn up, do please ask her to get in touch with the police station.’ With that he promptly left.
In no time at all, Mrs Kettle was inside, informing her husband of what had been said.
‘There’s summat strange going on,’ she told William. ‘They’re still looking for her. They’ve even been round to old Mr Denton’s, and from what I can make out, the boy is there with him, but there was no mention of either Tom or Ruth. Strange, don’t you think?’
Her husband shook his head. ‘It’s nowt to do with us.’
He had his own suspicions about young Tom Denton’s whereabouts.
Earlier today, when he went to the pub for a pint, there was talk of a suicide last night on Mill Hill bridge. And though William hoped he was wrong, he still couldn’t help but wonder, especially as Tom Denton had not been seen since. And now the police were desperate to get hold of his wife, who was probably in some stranger’s arms in a seedy little room at the back of some pub or other.
He felt a deal of sympathy for Tom Denton, because while he appeared to be unaware of his wife’s carrying-on, everyone else knew of her tainted reputation.
At that very moment, Ruth was at the other end of town, curled up in an alleyway on a back doorstep.
Dazed, dishevelled, and unaware of her surroundings, she tried to gather her thoughts. Where had she spent the night, and who with? And where was she now?
She gave a shiver as the cold bit through her flimsy clothes. He’s left me … him and the kid! It was all coming back now. They’ve buggered off and left me! She didn’t know what to do, or where to go. The idea of going home to that empty house was more than she could bear. I’ll find Tom. I’ll tell him I’m sorry and then he’ll come home, she decided. The old man can keep the brat, though.
Just then the door was flung open. ‘What the devil …?’ The man was surprised to see what had looked like a sack of rags on his doorstep.
Startled, Ruth scrambled up and accidentally tripped forward, hitting her head on the wall as she fell.
Shocked at her dishevelled appearance, the man helped her up. When she struggled, he held her tight. ‘Hey! There’s no need to be frightened o’ me. But what in God’s name are you doing out here? It’s a bitter cold morning, and you haven’t even got a coat to your back.’ He was alarmed at the trickle of blood running down her forehead. ‘You’d best come inside and clean up. I’m sure the missus can find an old coat to keep you warm. Where d’you live? Once we’ve got you warm and seen to that cut on your forehead, I’d best run you home … if that’s what you want?’
Disorientated and angry, Ruth stared at him. It was all coming back to her now. She remembered being in some backstreet pub, making merry, when a good-looking fella paid attention to her. She was flattered when he began flirting with her; then he bought her a few drinks over the bar, and the more she drank, the merrier she got. After a while, he offered to take her home, and she was more than willing to go with him.
When they got to his place, she was surprised to see what a filthy tip it was, yet even then she was so angry at Tom leaving her, and so full of booze, that she brushed aside all the warning signals.
The man turned out to be a monster, who viciously took what he wanted and smacked her about before throwing her out on the streets.
She felt oddly humiliated because that had never happened before. It had always been a matter of enjoying herself with the men she took up with until now.
This time, though, dazed and hurt, she wandered about, walking the streets until, too weary to walk further, she fell asleep in this doorway.
Now, allowing herself to be led inside by this man who appeared to be kind and considerate, she asked him groggily, ‘Where am I? What street is this?’
‘You’re on Preston New Road, and you appeared to have fallen asleep on my doorstep.’ His smile was genuinely friendly. ‘I’m Jim Ellis.’ A retired pub owner, he was a small man in his late sixties, with balding head and pert manner. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a fall and cut your head. My missus will take a look at the cut … if that’s all right with you?’
He could smell the streets on her clothes, and it was not pleasant. Also, he suspected from the look of her that she’d been knocked about quite a bit. Certainly the fall outside could not be blamed for the bruises on her neck and arms.
They entered a room off the hallway. Well furnished, with deep armchairs and a sofa of wide proportions, it contained a handsome old display cabinet, crammed full of all manner of pretty china artefacts.
Covering most of the far wall was a beautiful fireplace with high mantelpiece, and red velvet-fringed runner stretching from one end to the other. Standing centre of the mantelpiece was a clock of immense proportions, with two moulded figurines flanking either side of the face.
Ruth imagined this place to be the home of people who, though maybe not wealthy, had no financial worries.
Just as he’d promised, the man’s wife treated the cut on Ruth’s forehead. Then she was given tea and cakes, and an old coat to fend off the cold, though, unlike her husband, the wife was not kindly of manner.
‘What were you doing, sleeping on our doorstep? Have you no home to go to?’
‘I got lost, that’s all.’
‘Drunk, were you?’ The smell of booze lingered in the air.
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Irritated by the woman’s questions, Ruth lashed out. ‘So, what if I were drunk? What’s it got to do with you?’
Sensing trouble, the woman’s husband warned her, ‘Leave it, Judith. I’m sure when our visitor is fed and feeling warm again, she’ll be in a hurry to get home.’
Having recovered somewhat from her earlier ordeal, Ruth changed her tone. ‘I’m not in a hurry. What have I got to go home for? My husband’s cleared off and left me. Mind you, he took the little bastard with him, so good shuts to the pair of ’em, that’s what I say!’
‘I’m sorry for your troubles,’ Judith Ellis said, refusing to be drawn further into this woman’s confidence. ‘If you’re feeling better now, you might want to go into the bathroom and clean up. Afterwards, I think it best if you make your way home.’
‘Hmm!’ Swigging the dregs of her tea, Ruth replaced the teacup into the saucer. ‘Where’s the bathroom then?’
Jim stood up. ‘I’ll show you.’
She followed him down the passageway and when she went into the bathroom, her benefactor returned to his wife, who was already regretting their charity.
‘I wish you hadn’t brought her into our home,’ she said, flustered. ‘There’s something about her … I’ve seen her before somewhere, but for the life of me, I can’t think where.’
‘Don’t worry, dear. At least we’ve done our duty and helped a poor soul in need. Soon, she’ll be away from here, and you’ll never see her again.’
‘I hope not!’ Sometimes, her husband was too kind and far too trusting, and it was a real source of worry to her.
A few moments later, Ruth appeared, looking and feeling more like her old self. ‘I could really get used to this place.’
The man quietly took stock of Ruth. With the grime of the streets now stripped away, and having raked a comb through her hair, the woman looked almost human; handsome, even, Jim thought. But there was something else … The more he looked at her, the more familiar she looked.
‘I know you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re Ruth Denton. You used to visit our establishment, the Rose and Crown, on King Street.’
Ruth laughed out loud. ‘Well, bugger me! I didn’t recognise you. By, you’ve not aged well, either of you. The Rose and Crown, eh? Good grief! That seems a lifetime ago.’
‘Ruth Denton, of course!’ The woman was shocked. ‘What’s happened to you? How in God’s name could you bring yourself to go out drinking, wandering the streets and sleeping in doorways? Have you lost all sense of decency? You should be at home, looking after your child. It’s shameful, especially at a time like this.’ She gave a loud tut. ‘Does your poor husband’s memory mean nothing to you?’
‘What the hell are you going on about?’ Ruth stared at her, angry and confused. ‘My “poor husband’s memory” – what kinda talk is that? Just ’cause I told you he’d buggered off and left me, doesn’t give you the right to say a thing like that!’
Shocked, the woman looked to her husband, who stepped forward. ‘I’m sure nobody meant to be disrespectful, least of all us. Only—’
‘Only … what?’ Panic rose up in Ruth. ‘What’s going on ’ere? What the devil’s she talking about, my “poor husband’s memory”? ANSWER ME, DAMMIT! WHAT DOES SHE MEAN BY THAT?’
‘All right, calm yourself.’ Taking her by the shoulders, Jim adopted a sympathetic voice. ‘I imagine from your reaction that you haven’t been home for some time. But … have you heard what’s being said? Have you had a chance to look at the papers?’
Ruth began to imagine all manner of things. ‘What are you trying to say? Tell me. Has something happened that I should know about?’
‘Just a minute, please.’ Jim went to the sideboard and took out the late edition of the day’s newspaper, which he placed on the table for her to see. ‘I think you should prepare yourself, my dear. They’re not altogether sure of the facts yet … but there’s a lot of speculation regarding your husband, Tom Denton. I’m sorry.’
Ruth quickly read the article about the young man who had committed suicide. The name Thomas Denton was mentioned more than once.
‘No … no, it can’t be Tom.’ The blood drained from her face. ‘It can’t be …’
When the man stepped forward to comfort her, she pushed him away. ‘Leave me alone! It’s not him. I know it’s not him … it can’t be!’ Then she was running; down the passageway and out of the front door.
When she was clear of the house, she fell against the wall and sobbed bitterly. ‘It can’t be Tom … he would never do a thing like that.’ But then she remembered that shocking row, and the hateful things that were done, and she was disgusted, with herself, but mostly with him.
‘Tom Denton, you cowardly bastard!’ She thumped the wall with her bare fists. ‘How could you do that to me? How will I manage now, eh? How am I supposed to keep a roof over my head?’
After a while, when the shock had run its course, she walked down the street, cursing and blaming him, and wondering what would happen to her now. You can’t have loved me. If you did, you would never have abandoned me … and in such a way. What made you do it, Tom? What possessed you?
An overwhelming sense of pain rose above her anger. She blamed herself, and regretted she had not done right by him. Right from the start, she had pretended to love him; pretended to cherish their every moment together, when all the while she felt nothing for him. Instead she had leaned on him, and when it suited her she had given herself to other men. Hard and selfish, she had leaned on Tom like no woman should ever lean on her man, and when she lay with strangers, she never gave her long-suffering husband a moment’s thought.
From the day he put a ring on her finger and even before then, she had no love in her heart for him. And in all the difficult years that followed, there had never been any love for him.
Time and again over the years, she had heaped humiliation on that good man. She had taken his hard-earned money; she had given thanks because he had raised the brat in the belief that he was the father. And she had gladly taken his money, and when that was spent, she had taken other men – even his friends – into her bed.
Standing there all alone in that empty street, she saw herself as she really was. And when the weight of her treachery threatened to overwhelm her, she reluctantly headed for Henry Street.
As she hurried there, dark rage rippled through her. She blamed Tom for not being man enough to see what she was like. She blamed him for putting up with her all these years. She blamed him for not realising that the brat was not his, but came from the loins of another man; a man he never knew and never would. A man she had never forgotten. A man who had taken her love and betrayed her, in the same callous way she had betrayed Tom.
Thinking about it all now, she was filled with hatred. The world was an ugly place and she did not fit in any more. Penniless and alone, she now had some very hard decisions to make.
One thing was certain: the brat needn’t think he could rely on her. If she hadn’t wanted him when Tom was here, why would she want him now? In fact, he was the one to blame, because he was at the root of all the heartache. That was why, if she never again clapped eyes on him, it would not bother her.
It seemed an age before she arrived at her front door. For a long, reflective moment, she stood on the pavement, her eyes sweeping the house, as she recalled memories of the years she had spent behind that closed door. Like a film, the scenes rolled through her tortured mind.
In her mind’s eye she saw the time when, as his bride, Tom carried her over the threshold. He was so happy then; loving her like any man loved his new wife. He was proud to have his arms around her; proud when she told him she was carrying his child. And even then, he never knew how much she wished she was not there; weighed down with a shiny new wedding ring on her finger, and the strong arms about her body were like a chain choking the life from her.
Tom’s arms were not the arms she needed about her.
From that first night as man and wife, and through all the hard years afterwards, her heart and soul slowly began to die, until after a while she felt nothing for Tom, and gave nothing to him. And she knew that for the rest of her life she would always feel like that.
On that first day as her husband, and on the days and weeks following, Tom never knew how much she resented him. She had never loved him; though at first she did try, but there was no love in her heart; not for Tom, and not for the life form she carried inside her. In those first few, unbearable months, all her efforts to be rid of the unborn came to nothing.
It was as though she were being punished, and even before the child was born she felt no motherly love for it. When she first looked down on the child’s face, she was shocked. He had a look of his father. He was a constant reminder of how that man had deceived and abandoned her; just like Tom had abandoned her now.
‘Mrs Denton, are you all right?’ Mrs Kettle had seen Ruth arrive and was puzzled by the way she just stood there, staring at the door. But then, after the awful business of her husband’s suicide, who could blame her for acting strangely?
‘We’re so sorry to hear about your husband … I mean … oh, but what a shocking thing. Is there anything we can do? Would you like to come inside …? I’ve got the teapot freshly warmed …’
With her memories shattered, Ruth shook her head. ‘No … thank you all the same.’ That woman was the last person she would ever sit down with.
Quickly climbing the steps she went inside the house. She didn’t even notice that the front door was unlocked.
Closing the door behind her, she stood still for a moment, her back to the door and her eyes scouring the way before her. She looked along that seemingly endless passageway, then her gaze travelled up the stairs, and now she was climbing the stairs until she was at the top, looking down, unaware that the tears were rolling down her face.
In her confused and twisted mind, she imagined Tom standing on the Mill Hill bridge. She imagined him waiting for the train and then leaping to his death.
Wasn’t that what it said in the paper? How he had seemingly jumped from the bridge into the path of a train. They could not be sure at this stage, but because of an eye-witness account, they were currently treating it as a suicide.
She knew the truth, though. She knew in her heart and soul that Tom had ended his life because, at long last, he had given up on her.
Slowly, but with purpose, she went into the bedroom. Her gaze fell on the bed and she realised with shame the bad things she had done there; with Tom’s workmates, and even with strangers that she’d found in the pubs and dives.
She had done all that, and even now, she needed to blame Tom. ‘It was all your fault, Tom. You should never have loved me. I didn’t want you to love me,’ she murmured brokenly. ‘You should have left me long ago. You should have taken the boy and gone away from me. Maybe then we might all have had a chance at happiness.’
She knelt down at the side of the bed, where she lifted the hem of the eiderdown and threw it up over the bed. She then reached under and drew out a small, plain brown package tied with string. There was nothing to indicate what it was, but it was a precious thing all the same; far more precious than Tom, or the boy, or even herself.
With the package in her hands, she sat on the bed and gazed at the package, then she turned it over. After a while she held it against her face in a loving manner. Rocking back and forth, eyes closed, she softly murmured to herself, ‘See what’s happened to me? See what you’ve done?’
Eventually she laid the package on the bed, took hold of the ends of the string and, very gingerly, opened up the package.
Taking out the items one by one, she laid them out on the bed. There was a dried rosebud, picked one summer evening and given to her, she thought, with love. There was a pretty floral handkerchief still in its box; a memento from a wonderful day in Blackpool, in the height of summer, many years ago.
When the tears started again, she rammed the items back into the package; all but one: a black-and-white photograph of herself and a man, holding hands. Smiling and content, they were seated on a bench in the park.
There was no denying that he was the boy’s father because it was clear to see; in their strong, handsome features; the same thick, wild mop of hair, and that same beautiful, heart-breaking smile.
Over the years, whenever the boy smiled, it cut Ruth’s heart to shreds. She had learned to ease the pain by closing her heart to him.
Over these past few years, she had quickly come to realise that the boy’s love of music came from his true father. He was part of a band playing at the Palais that fateful night, when she’d gone there with a friend.
She brought her gaze once more to the photograph in her hand. She recalled the very day – indeed, the very moment – of this photograph. They had paused to sit on the bench and had asked a passer-by to take the picture.
On that day, their love shone out for all to see, and Ruth thought her world could not be more perfect.
They arranged to meet that same night, to make plans for the future.
The next morning he was gone, and she never heard from him again. She tried every which way to find him, but then she learned that the band had left town and she didn’t know where they’d gone.
Saddened, she now kissed her fingertips, and placed the kiss on the man’s mouth. ‘I loved you then, and even though you deserted me, I still love you … fool that I am!’ Her heart was his and always would be, that was why she could never love Tom.
The whisper of a smile crossed her features. There was no feeling of hatred. No more regrets. It was as though she had been burned out from the inside, and now she was empty. Only anger and a sense of self-destruction remained. The same self-destruction that had crippled her all these years. The same self-destruction that stopped her from loving, and took away her joy.
Tearful now, she snatched up the photograph and tore it into the tiniest particles, until soon it was just a heap of rubbish on the bed.
Collecting the shredded pile, along with the package and its contents, she carried them to the fireplace, where she placed them very carefully into the grate.
Reaching for the box of matches on the mantelpiece, she then set fire to the items.
Seated cross-legged on the rug, she watched the flames flicker and dance, and when the papers were reduced to ashes, she buried her head in her hands, and sobbed as though her heart would break.
After a while, she clambered up and calmly made the bed and tidied round. That done, she went downstairs and satisfied herself that the house was presentable. Taking a notepad and pencil from the dresser, she wrote a letter for the next-door neighbour, asking that she might, please, ‘return these house keys to the landlord’.
She then addressed an envelope to her neighbour Mrs Kettle, she then placed the note and keys inside, and sealed it.
Another moment of quiet contemplation, then she went to stand at the door. Looking down that familiar street, she felt a pang of loneliness at leaving this place that had been her home for so long; but then some driving instinct urged her to leave quickly. She’d be lonelier still if she stayed.
Momentarily closing her eyes, she gave a deep replenishing sigh. A few moments later, after dropping the envelope through her neighbour’s letter box, she took a moment to think about the enormity of what she was doing.
With head held high, she then hurried away, leaving Henry Street behind for ever.
She took no luggage, no mementoes, and not a single item of clothing or belongings. She left just as she had arrived some years ago: with empty pockets and an empty heart. The day of her wedding to Tom had been the start of what felt like a lifetime of punishment.
Willingly, deliberately, she had committed one wicked act after another. First, she had employed every effort to end the pregnancy; then, when that was unsuccessful, she had trapped her man and foisted the unborn child onto him. From then on, her whole life was a lie, and through it all, she felt no love for the boy or for her husband, nor did she feel any sense of guilt or regret. Instead, she felt used and lonely, and enraged with the circumstances that had brought her to this lonely moment in time.
These past eight years or so had been unbearable.
Every day she was made to look at the boy and realise what she had lost. And every night she was made to lie in the arms of a man she did not love.
Her life had been intolerable, but now, with Tom having taken his own life, she was free at last.
As for the boy, she could only assume that he was with Tom’s father.
Right now, she had no idea where she was headed. All she knew was that her life here was done. She must get far away from these parts. Away from the bad memories. Away from where it all went wrong, for her, and for Tom, and in many ways, for the boy.
Next door, Mrs Kettle looked out of the window, the open letter clutched in her hand. Seeing Ruth linger a moment before heading off, she was sorely tempted to run out and ask where she was going, and had she heard anything more about her poor husband’s death.
But she thought twice and decided it was not worth the aggravation she would get in return. Even at the best of times, she had thought Ruth Denton to be mentally unhinged.
When for the briefest moment Ruth turned to look at her, she swiftly dodged back behind the curtain.
Yes, of course she would give the landord the keys, as requested in the note. And she hoped that was the last she might see of Ruth Denton, although there would be less to complain about with her gone.
All the same, she wouldn’t want Ruth Denton to discover she’d been spreading gossip about her, though she felt cheated that Ruth Denton had not found the common decency to confide in her about why she was handing in the keys, and where she was headed. And wasn’t it peculiar that she had neither bag nor portmanteau with her?
Moreover, what about the furniture, which Tom Denton had worked hard to provide? And where was the boy?
What had she done with the boy, who was never seen to enjoy a kiss or a cuddle, or even a kind word, from his mother? He was certainly not with her just now.
If he wasn’t with her – and he was certainly not with his father – then he must be with his granddad Bob.
Growing irritated, she went off to get herself a cup of tea. If young Casey really were with his granddad Bob, then she’d be thankful for that much at least. Especially when, apart from his daddy, that darling old man was probably the only person who had ever really loved him.