Taking the writing paper, together with three envelopes, a pot of ink and a fountain pen, Tom returned to the table.
For what seemed an age, he sat at the table with the articles before him. He had known for some time that he must write these letters, but now
that the occasion was actually here, he found it difficult to think straight. His mind was too scrambled. All he could hear was the grandmother clock in the hall, striking the half-hour.
He arranged the notepaper; unscrewed the lid of the ink bottle, and took the top from the fountain pen. What to say? He stared at the paper for a while, searching for the right words. Then he began.
‘My dearest
Son,’
When Ruth’s cruel words came into his mind, he viciously scrunched up the paper.
Distressed, he put the pen down and sat for a while going over her claim in his mind: ‘Casey is not your son … I’ve no idea who the father is, but I do know it’s not you … a dark alley … some stranger …’ Her voice echoed in his brain. ‘Casey is not your son …’
Picking up the pen, he started the letter once
more.
My dearest Casey,
I have things to tell you, some of which no man should ever have to say to his beloved son.
Since the moment you were born, you have brought me such pride and joy, and I have loved and protected you, with every breath in my body.
Throughout your life, and even when you are very old – God willing – please remember these words, for they’re spoken from the heart.
I have
to tell you something now, that will make you sad, and that is the last thing I would ever want to do.
By the time you get this letter, your granddad Bob will have spoken with you and explained the reasons why I did the awful thing I’m about to do. When you know the truth, I hope you will understand, and find it in your heart to forgive me.
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
After a while, Tom got up from the chair and paced the floor; his painful thoughts on the boy, whom he feared might never understand.
What if he thinks me a coward? What if he turns against my memory, he wondered.
He was certain of one thing: if he changed his mind now, his loved ones would suffer the most.
So many times he had agonised over his decision. If he went one way, he would be creating a physical and emotional burden, with no closure in sight.
If he kept to his original plan, there would still be the emotional burden,
but he hoped that would ease with time. But there would also be closure, which would be quick, decisive, and of his own choosing.
Returning to the table, he picked up the pen and set out a new sheet of notepaper. This time there were no tears. He felt only a peculiar sense of isolation, almost as though it was someone else sitting there, and not him.
His father loomed large in his mind. He had
always seen Bob Denton as a man of stature and consequence – everything he now believed himself not to be.
Casting all doubt aside, he remained true to his plan. There was no going back now.
Dear Dad,
Your instincts were right when you asked if I was hiding something from you.
The truth is, some time ago, after a short bout of illness which you may remember, I was obliged to go for a check-up,
and they discovered a disease of the bones, which though it might be treated, can never be cured.
Lately, the condition has got much worse, and I fear that very soon I will be unable to work, and eventually unable to walk without assistance. Consequently, I’ll need the use of a wheelchair.
My future is bleak. It means that my life as an able man who provides for his family will not only come
to an end, but the disability will also render me entirely dependent on my loved ones. And though I know you would accept the responsibility gracefully, I can’t let that happen.
You can be sure, Dad, that I have spent many hours thinking of a way to deal with this cruel situation.
I don’t want to suffer the ordeal of just biding my time before the inevitable happens. More often of late, I’ve
felt the disease creeping up on me, and it haunts my every waking thought. Not just because my own life will be changed for ever, but because it will affect the lives of those who love me.
I can’t accept the idea of the pain it will cause you and Casey to watch me deteriorate.
Constantly thinking about it proves how much it’s already beginning to shape my life. Sometimes at work, I’m so troubled
that my thoughts begin to drift away, and I’m not aware of what’s going on around me. Things will never be the same again. I’m frightened, Dad.
You are a proud and strong man, and you have always been a great inspiration to me. Sadly this time, there’s nothing you can do to help except to take care of my boy, as I know you will. And if you can find it in your heart to keep an eye on Ruth, even
if only from a distance, I would rest easy.
Ruth is a troubled woman, Dad. She’s impulsive, driven by anger and hatred, but I would not want her to come to a bad end. She is after all, Casey’s mother.
Please forgive me, Dad. Teach my son, the way you taught me, and tell him I’m so sorry. And that I love you both, always and for ever.
Your grateful and loving son,
Tom xx
There was a third,
and final letter.
This was for his wife, Ruth. It was a letter of reconciliation.
In many ways, this was the most difficult one to write because she had hurt him in the cruellest way possible by claiming he was not the father of this wonderful boy he had raised.
Even now, he found it hard to forgive her. He desperately wanted to write the letter, and yet at the same time, it was the last thing
he wanted to do.
He was still angry, and also concerned that, whatever he might say, it would be of no consequence to her. She was his wife, and he still felt a stirring of love for her. Yet for some time now she had been almost a stranger to him.
He pined for that long ago love, and for what might have been.
After a moment’s thought, he decided he must try to make the letter brief and to the
point. That was his intention, but emotions were a powerful force.
Dear Ruth,
Please, don’t disregard this letter. These words will be the last I ever say to you, and I have many things to tell you. First, how much I regret not being the husband you wanted. I regret many things: working too long and hard, and not keeping time aside for the two of us. I’m sorry for not being the man you could
confide in.
I have been lacking in trust, because I have never told you the truth. I have long been aware of your many affairs, but each time I tried to talk with you, the anger and distrust got in the way. I should have fought harder for your love, instead of giving up on you.
None of that matters now, because our life together is over.
There are important things I need to ask of you, Ruth,
for all our sakes.
By the time you get this letter, you will know the circumstances. I am truly sorry it had to come to this, because even after all that’s happened between us, I want you to know how I truly feel about you, Ruth. How I have always felt about you.
The plain and simple truth is, I still love you. And though he’ll be feeling bruised and frightened at the moment, Casey also loves
you.
Because of my actions, he’ll need you more than ever. You and his granddad are now the only people he has in the whole wide world.
I’ve convinced myself that the awful thing you said about a ‘stranger in the alley’ was just a wicked way of hurting me. Casey has always been my son, and always will be. And because of that, I ask – no, I’m begging you, Ruth – please don’t ever give the boy
a reason to doubt who he is. When it all comes down to it, you need him, far more than you yet realise. Like you, he has a strong and determined mind. I believe he’s destined for wonderful things; if not through music, then something else. He has a passion for life. He’s far-sighted, and caring. And he’s your flesh and blood. Please, Ruth, look out for each other.
Show him that you really do
love him, because I know you do. How can you not love him? He’s your son, after all.
I wish with all my heart that I could be there to make amends, and bring the family back together. But Fate has decreed that I should choose between the devil and the deep blue sea.
In the end I am following my instincts and choosing the only way that I believe and hope will lessen the pain for my loved ones.
In spite of all the rage inside you, Ruth, I know there is also goodness, if only you will stop fighting it.
I always wanted to see you content, and sadly all I saw was torment. Make peace with yourself, Ruth. For your own sake, and for Casey’s sake too. Help each other, because even if you don’t realise it, you need him, and he needs you. More now than ever. God bless, and please, my darling,
think about what I’m asking of you. I want this for you and Casey. I hope and pray that you will do the right thing.
And, Ruth, if only we had trusted each other, it could have been so very different. But it isn’t too late for you and Casey.
Remember the good times, and remember I loved you,
Tom xx
Tom carefully folded each letter and placed it in an envelope. He then wrote each recipient’s
name, together with the same instruction, ‘
This letter to be opened only by the person named below.
’
Agitated, he paced the floor, wondering where to put them. He had to place them so Casey would not find them, but where they could be easily found by his father. It was Tom’s intention that his son would be told the awful truth by his beloved grandfather, after he himself had learned of it. With
that in mind, he realised there was only one place he could safely leave the letters.
Just now, though, for some inexplicable reason, he had a sudden urge to sit in his father’s armchair. Nervously, he went across the room, and for a long moment he stood looking down on that much-loved and well-worn chair.
Now, as he sank into its cavernous depth, it was almost as though the chair wrapped itself
around him and held him there. With a sense of joy, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to be one with it. This old chair. His father’s chair. Something that was always there, like the walls of the house or the ground beneath his feet, calm and welcoming, even while chaos reigned all about.
A great sadness came over him, and then he was overwhelmed with all manner of emotions: joy and reassurance,
because he felt closer to that wonderful man; pride, because that man was his own father, and grandfather to Casey.
There was a sense of grief too because of the awful thing he was about to do, and the pain he would surely leave in his wake.
Sitting there in that big, squashy chair, he was aware of the normal, familiar sounds in this homely little house: the insistent ticking of the clock; the
soft rush of air forced through a gap between the top of the door and the framework – a fault his father had long meant to put right, but never did.
When Tom offered to do it, Bob would have none of it. ‘That’s my job, lad!’ That was his pride talking. So Tom never offered again, and the draught got worse. But in the end, in the greater scheme of things, what did it matter?
Just now, his father’s
snoring gentled into his thoughts. Outside, the night air was disturbed by many high-pitched whines as the neighbourhood cats hunted for mates. Comforting, familiar sounds that he would never hear again.
In this house where he grew up, everything was exactly the same. Now, though, for him, everything was changed.
Changed for ever more.
Taking the three letters, he went up the narrow staircase.
On the landing he trod carefully, so as to avoid the creaking floorboards. Going first to his son, he entered the room silently.
Kneeling down beside the sleeping child, he tenderly kissed the boy’s forehead. ‘I could tell you a million times that I love you. And still, you would never know how much.’
He made his way along the landing to his father’s room, where he silently inched open the door.
He could see his father’s bulky figure, lying flat on his back, mouth wide open, sending out a series of tuneful snores. It made Tom smile.
Going quietly to the bedside, Tom watched his father for a while, then, with his father’s letter uppermost, he put all three letters down on the bedside cabinet. He made sure they were well positioned, so that on waking his father would see his own letter
first.
Tom’s whispered goodbye was tearful. ‘Look after our boy, will you, Dad?’ he murmured. ‘And please forgive me, if you can.’
He then made his way downstairs, and along the passage to the front door, where he collected his coat from the peg.
Shrugging it on, he took a moment to fasten the buttons, then gave one last, lingering glance up to where his loved ones were sleeping.
‘Take care
of them, Lord’
. When the tears threatened, he choked them back.
Taking a deep, sobering breath, he went softly from the house, making sure the door was secured behind him.
Shivering in the night air, Tom drew the lapels of his coat together and hurried down Addison Street. His mind was alive with all manner of memories from his childhood: of the way he used to laugh and shout as he raced with
friends down this steep path; of the visiting funfair at Easter, with all the noise and merriment.
And how could he not remember the Blackpool trips with his parents, eating ice cream on the beach, and the first donkey ride he ever had? Once, when the donkey ran off with him, his dad caught up and saved him from a fall.
He recalled his and Ruth’s wedding day, when his father wore a proper shirt
and tie for the first and last time ever. He recalled the wonder they had all felt when Casey was born, and the proud moments when each of them first held little Casey in their arms.