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 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 is probably the only person who had ever really loved him.
‘W
HERE IS SHE
then?’ Casey blamed himself. ‘Has she run away? Was it my fault?’
‘No, lad. If she
has
run away – and we don’t know that for sure – then it wouldn’t be your fault, or anyone else’s. Yer mam has a mind of ’er own, we all know that.’
‘But when we went round to give her Daddy’s letter, Mrs Kettle said that Mam gave her the keys, and asked her to give them to the landlord.
That means she’s not coming back.’ The tears welled up in Casey’s eyes. ‘It’s all my fault. I made her mad, and then Daddy got angry, and now she’s run away, and Daddy’s … Daddy’s …’ Choked with emotion, he threw his arms around Bob’s neck. ‘It is my fault! It is!’
‘No, lad, it isn’t.’ Holding the boy for a moment, he then eased him away to look him in the eye. ‘You believe your old granddad,
don’t yer?’
Casey nodded, his face lined with grief.
‘So, if I tell you that it isn’t your fault – that it’s nobody’s fault – then you really should believe me … isn’t that right?’
Again, the boy nodded, his voice trembling as he asked, ‘Why’s she gone away then?’ He recalled his father’s letter, and how he had asked him to ‘forgive’. But he didn’t know how to. All he knew was that both his
parents had gone away, leaving him and Granddad all alone.
The old man was saddened by the boy’s suffering. ‘Look! I’ll be honest with you, lad. I truly don’t know why your mam’s gone away, and I certainly don’t know why she’s handed in her house keys. Mebbe she just needs to get away and think about things.’
The old man had been haunted by the very same questions, and now his voice was almost
inaudible, almost as though he was speaking to himself. ‘Mebbe she can’t handle what’s happened. Who can get inside anybody else’s head and know what they’re thinking, eh?’
It was painfully obvious to him that Ruth Denton had no intention of returning to the house on Henry Street.
He turned the boy to face him again. ‘Casey?’
‘Yes, Granddad?’
‘I want you to promise me that you’ll stop thinking
any of this is your fault, because it really isn’t.’
When the child gave no answer, he gave him a gentle shake. ‘Casey! Do yer understand what I’m saying?’
The boy nodded.
‘It’s not your fault, and it isn’t anybody else’s fault either. Whether we like it or not, folks will do what they mean to do, and nobody ever knows the real truth of it. D’yer see what I’m telling yer, lad?’
‘Yes, Granddad.’
For a moment or so, the old man held his grandson close. ‘It’s just me an’ you now, lad. So we need to look after each other, don’t we, eh? We need to help each other through these next few days especially, ’cause it’s gonna be real hard to go to that church and say goodbye to yer daddy. I reckon it’ll be one of the hardest things we’ve ever had to do.’
When he felt the tears rising, he decided
it was time to change the subject and try something new. ‘Hey, d’yer know what I reckon, lad?’
‘What, Granddad?’ Casey could sense a new determination about the old man, and it was comforting.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking we should tek a look at that guitar, see if it’s repairable. What d’yer say?’
‘Oh, yes, please, Granddad!’ The boy’s eyes it up. ‘Daddy would like that. He was really sad when
Mam broke it …’
‘Aye, well. Let’s not think too much about the bad things. Let’s just think right now about what yer dad would want us to do.’ He gave a wag of his finger. ‘Mind you, if you do happen to think about the bad things, I don’t want you to think about ’em on yer own. You an’ me can talk, and sometimes when yer talk, it does help, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, Granddad. Thank you.’ Casey thought
his granddad was very special. Whenever he was around, it felt safe, as though nobody in the whole wide world could ever hurt them again.
‘Aw, lad …’ The child’s open gratitude caught the old man in the heart. ‘There’s no need to thank me. I only want to help … like you want to help me when I’m sad. ’Cause when all’s said an’ done, you really are all I’ve got left now.’
‘I know, Granddad, and
you’re all I’ve got left, and I love you lots.’ He smiled eagerly. ‘Please, Granddad … can I fetch the guitar now?’
‘Aye, but there’s summat else we need to get clear first. Then we’ll set about that guitar.’
The boy listened while the old man tried to prepare him for the ordeal in the next couple of days.
‘When we go into that church, we’ll be together, you and me. There’ll no doubt be some
of yer dad’s workmates and a smattering of good neighbours, an’ happen yer mam might even turn up. If she does, we’ll be kind to ’er, won’t we?’ He recalled what Tom had said in his letter, and it had touched a chord with him.
When the boy gave no answer he went on, ‘If she does turn up, we’ll ask what her plans are, and whether you and me have any place in them. And we’ll do what yer daddy asked,
and try to forget about all the rows and the cruel words spoken in the heat of the moment … Casey, lad?’
When the boy still remained silent, Bob persisted, ‘I know it will be hard, lad. But if yer mam turns up, we should try and be kind to her like yer daddy would want. Oh, I know she can be a bad ’un, and I know she lashes out for no reason, and whatever punishment she might get, it would serve
her right. But we mustn’t forget she’s your mammy after all, and she’s been hurt as well. She’s lost her husband, just like you’ve lost your daddy, and while you’ve got me, she has to start her life all over again, on her own. Oh, I know that’s mebbe what she wants, but we really should try and be a bit easy on her … if we can.’