‘What if she doesn’t like me?’ Tom began to fret again.
Harry gave the boy a loving glance, observing the eager eyes and the endless mop of brown hair, and the little face that could never be described as handsome, but was honest
and giving. In that moment, he saw the mother in the child, and the pride was like a flame burning his chest.
‘Will you stop worrying!’ he said fondly. ‘She’ll love you to bits!’
‘She’s not my mammy though.’ A familiar little frown crumpled the boy’s forehead. ‘You have to tell her.’
‘I will, of course I will, but she already knows that. Look, son, trust me. Kathleen would never try to take
your mammy’s place. But she is a kind and wonderful person who is sure to want your happiness, every bit as much as I do.’
‘Is she young and pretty, like Mammy?’
Harry shook his head. ‘No, she’s not young. But as I recall, she did have a pretty face … kind of warm and smiley.’
‘Is she very old?’
He laughed. ‘Old enough, I suppose.’
‘Grandad was old, wasn’t he?’
‘I don’t know that he would
have agreed, but yes, I dare say he was.’
‘Are
you
old, Daddy?’
Harry thought on that for a moment. ‘Well, thirty-six isn’t really
meant to be old,’ he had been shaken by the realisation of how short life could be, ‘but yes, today, I
do
feel old.’
‘Am I old?’
Harry laughed at his innocence. ‘God, yes! You’re as old as Methuselah.’
‘Who’s Musoothella?’
Chuckling, Harry settled the boy into
the back of the car. ‘He was a very wise person.’
‘Am
I
a wise person?’
His father gazed on him tenderly for a moment. ‘You know what?’
‘What?’
Harry gave a wistful smile. ‘I think you’re probably the wisest person in the whole wide world.’
‘Wise as Kathleen?’
‘Well, nobody’s as wise as Kathleen, but near enough, I reckon.’
Harry gave an involuntary shiver. Today had been a typical late-summer
day, with long spells of bright sunshine and a warm, gentle breeze. Now though, with the onset of evening, the clouds hung menacingly low, and there was a sudden nip in the air. ‘We might just get there before dark,’ he muttered, covering Tom with the tartan travelling rug and pressing Loppy into his arms.
He then gazed back a moment to where they had been. Only the fleetest of moments, but he
held it safe in his mind for all time.
Quickly now, he climbed into the driving seat and glanced in the mirror, to see the boy’s head lolling to one side. ‘That’s right, son,’ he murmured. ‘You get some sleep.’
Before starting the engine he glanced at the sleepy boy, ‘Aw, child! You give me so much joy … and I have nothing to give you in return.’
Driving away, he wondered what lay in store
for them both. In the wake of recent events, he had made a hasty decision. Now with every mile that took them closer, the doubts grew stronger.
He had been a youth of eighteen when he left Fisher’s Hill. He didn’t altogether leave because he wanted to; war was in the air, and joining up seemed like the right thing at the time. He had left his home under a cloud, trailing with him a deal of heartache
and regrets, with the intention of returning.
In the eighteen years between, he had never forgotten the place that he loved so much. He moved away, travelling far and wide, and eventually settled after the war in Weymouth, with his new
sweetheart, Sara, but Fisher’s Hill and Judy remained a part of him, with the bad memories always overshadowing the good.
Even now, it was hard to believe that
he was just a heartbeat away from Fisher’s Hill.
When he had first contacted Kathleen after Sara’s funeral, he was amazed and reassured to find that she was still alive, still the same lovely, homely person, and that she would welcome him and young Tom with open arms.
In his grief, he had needed something familiar and comforting, and it did his heart good just to see her familiar handwriting.
How many of his old mates might still be living there? He was thinking especially of Phil Saunders. Had he stayed? Had
any
of them gone back after the war – if they got through intact – and if they had, would they welcome him with open arms, or would they reject him, as he had rejected them all those years ago …
And what of his old sweetheart, Judy? Was she still there? Had she met someone –
and if so, were they happy, or like himself, had she been badly scarred by what happened back then? He hoped not. Oh, he truly hoped not.
Aching with regrets, he slowed the car into the side of the road, where he remained for what seemed an age; thinking, remembering. Hurting all over again.
‘What’s wrong, Daddy?’ Opening his eyes, Tom peered at him through the mirror.
‘Nothing’s wrong, son.’
‘Why aren’t we moving?’
‘I just need a minute,’ he replied. ‘A minute, that’s all … to get my thoughts together.’
Collecting a comic book from the passenger seat, he handed it back to Tom, watching in the mirror as the child began to quietly look at it and read a few words to himself.
‘Judy might not be there,’ Harry muttered under his breath. ‘I didn’t want to ask about her, and Kathleen never
volunteered any information.’ He hoped that was a good sign. ‘I expect she’s moved on … made a new life for herself.’
The man that Sara had moulded ached for his wife.
The boy inside the man longed for the one called Judy
.
After all these years Harry could still see how heartless he had been. In spite of what had happened, he had truly loved her, back then, when he was just a youth.
Now though,
he was a man with a man’s responsibilities. He had lost the woman he loved and married, and he had a child to care
for. He had no right to fret about the past because right now, at this moment in time, he was only concerned with building a new life for himself and Tom. That was his priority. He had to keep reminding himself of that!
At the junction he saw the sign, and his heart lurched:
Fisher’s
Hill – 2 Miles
He wondered if it would be wise to ring Kathleen and say he had changed his mind, that he was not coming back after all, but that he would keep in touch.
Then he was ashamed to himself. What’s the matter with you? he thought. So you want to turn tail and run, is that it? It wouldn’t be the first time, he admitted to himself, shamefacedly.
No! The choice was made. He had to go
on. Kathleen was waiting, looking forward to seeing him and Tom. She was the only one who had stood by him, the only one who believed in him.
Thankful that Tom had drifted back to sleep, he realised how fortunate he was to have a friend like Kathleen.
Kathleen would give Tom a woman’s love and comfort, he knew. He believed that beyond a shadow of doubt, because hadn’t she done that for him?
She had always been there for him. It was Kathleen who had seen him through that dreadful time with Judy, and she had never once judged him.
When his father took off with another woman and his mother turned to drink, he had felt so alone, but as always, Kathleen gave him comfort.
Some months later, drunk and violent, his father came back, pleading that he was ready to try again. That night,
while Harry was out with his mates, his parents got into a fight and somehow a fire started – ‘from a lit cigarette on the bedclothes’ the investigators said.
Witnesses claimed that the fire exploded into a raging inferno. The emergency services arrived within minutes, but it was too late. ‘A tragic accident’ was the verdict.
That same night, Kathleen took him in and brought him through the
nightmare of losing both his parents.
Through each and every crisis in his colourful, rebellious youth, Kathleen had been his only salvation; a tower of strength.
During the war, and his proud time of serving with the Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire Regiment, she was like a mother to him, keeping him safe, he felt, with her parcels and prayers.
More than one thousand men were killed from the
regiment, but Corporal, then Sergeant Harry Blake was not one of them. And now, when he had turned to her yet again, after years of deserting her and all that reminded him of his time at Fisher’s Hill, she had welcomed him with open arms.
Stronger of heart, he drove on. Tom half-opened his eyes. ‘Are we there yet, Daddy?’
‘Not yet, Tom, no. Go back to sleep if you’re tired.’ He saw how the boy
was still drowsy. Since Sara was taken, neither he nor Tom had slept through the night.
Minutes later, he pulled off the main road and drove very slowly up the lane leading to Fisher’s Hill.
He had come this far and now, whatever the outcome, there was no way back.
Returning here, to the place of his youth, to his family roots, his first sweetheart and the tragedy of losing his parents, was
the worst feeling. Yet coming back had always seemed inevitable, somehow. It was something he had needed to do, unfinished business, and when Sara was lost to him, turning to Kathleen seemed the most natural thing in the world.
As he drew closer, his heart was clenched like a fist, his throat so dry he could hardly swallow. He felt much like a man might feel on his way to the gallows. It was
right that he should suffer, he thought cynically.
A kind of penance for his sins
.
One glance at the sleeping child in the back made him ashamed. It was Tom who mattered; not him.
Determined to concentrate on what lay ahead, he inched the car forward, his anxious gaze drawn towards the houses. As far as he could see, nothing had changed; every little detail was exactly as he remembered it. The
brown-bricked houses were still there, strong and sturdy snuggled up side by side, with their little front walls and concrete paths, tidy well-kept gardens and net curtains at the windows; many of them twitching as folks peered through to take a look at the Hillman Minx moving at a snail’s pace up the hill.
His troubled gaze went to the house on the corner. Number 12 – there it was on the door
in large brass numbers just as he remembered.
He wondered if he was being watched. Was Judy there, still living at home? Was she hiding behind the curtains, her sorry eyes trained on him in that very moment? Or had she really gone for ever, from the house, this street, and his life?
He had no way of knowing, because in the many recent telephone
conversations between them, Kathleen had never
once mentioned Judy, and neither had he. It was for the best, he thought.
In spite of himself, and even when he had met and married his lovely Sara, Judy had lingered, in the boy, and in the man; and the questions never went away. After he was gone, did she realise how he had had no choice but to do what he had done … for
both
their sakes? Or had she despised him to this day, and found contentment
with someone more deserving?
‘Let it go, Harry,’ he told himself firmly. ‘It was a lifetime ago.’
But he couldn’t let it go. Against his better instincts, his quiet gaze lingered on the house. In his mind’s eye he could see himself and Judy, laughing at silly, childish things; dancing to music on the wireless or just curled up on the sofa. He pictured them both running down the path, hand-in-hand,
incredibly young and blissfully happy. Then he remembered the bombshell that ruined it all. If only he’d known! But he had never even suspected. So why then, should he feel so guilty?
He closed his eyes, the memories too painful. ‘I did love you, Judy,’ he told that young girl. ‘Don’t ever doubt that.’
Braking, and putting the car into neutral, he turned to look at the sleeping child. ‘Your
mammy knew what I had done,’ he whispered. ‘I told her everything, yet she took me into her life without question, accepting me as I was. She gave me a new start … taught me how to love again.’
The tears burned his eyes. ‘I’m sorry you lost her, Tom,’ he murmured. ‘So sorry.’ Leaning over, he stroked the child’s soft hair. ‘Your darling mammy was a wonderful woman and I loved her with every fibre
of my being. You’ll always miss her, and so will I, but I promise you … whatever life throws at us, we’ll face it full on. You need have no worries, because I’ll always be here for you.’
He raised his eyes to the shifting skies. ‘Oh, Sara! I know you believed I should come back here, but now that I’m only a short distance away from where it all happened, I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing the
right thing. Did you think that I might find the forgiveness I crave? Or was your intention that I should settle the past once and for all, whatever the consequences?’
He closed his eyes, but the chaos in his mind was rampant, until he turned yet again to gaze on his son. Sara had entrusted him to take care of the boy and, for now, that was all that mattered.
For a moment he dwelled on all that
was good in his life, and he felt at peace. ‘I’ll take good care of him, Sara, my love,’ he vowed. ‘With all that’s in me, I give you my word.’
Composing himself, he put the car into gear and drove on up towards Kathleen’s house. As he drew closer, the street enveloped him. It was as if he had never been away.
Kathleen O’Leary had been keeping vigil at the window. When she saw the car approach,
she pressed close to the pane, her anxious gaze searching for the young man she had known all those years ago. When she recognised him, her heart leaped.
Flinging open her front door, she ran down the path to greet him; a small round woman with a mop of wild auburn hair and a crinkly, homely face that made you smile. ‘Harry, me darlin’! I’ve been watching out for youse both …’ Her Irish lilt
was music to his ears. ‘Sure I was worried you might change your mind, but now look, here you are at long last!’ He had not changed, she thought. He was taller, wider of shoulder, and life had etched itself in his face, but it was him – Harry Boy – the lad she had cared for all those years ago. Her surrogate son.
She grabbed Harry as he got out of the car, and for a long time, they clung to each
other. He had not realised just how desperately he needed to see that familiar, welcoming face and to feel those chubby comforting arms about him. The bright eyes were the same, and the wide, ready smile, filled with such kindliness.