Three Letters

by Josephine Cox

  ‘I tried once, but my foot slipped and I could hardly keep my balance, so I chickened out.’

  ‘That was very brave.’

  The boy gasped. ‘How could it be brave, when I chickened out?’

  ‘Because sometimes it’s better to admit that it’s too dangerous and stop, instead of going on when your instincts warn you not to.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes, really. It takes a wise man to admit when he’s made a wrong decision.’

  When Casey suddenly leaned his head on his father’s broad shoulder, it was a tender, deeply bonding moment in which each relived the awful situation that had brought him here.

  Eventually the child asked hesitantly, ‘She hates me, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Are we talking about your mam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Tom carefully considered his next words, because whatever he said, he could not deny that Ruth had caused a great deal of pain and confusion especially with her cruel revelation to himself.

  Casey’s next words only proved the damage Ruth had done. ‘I don’t want to stay with her. I want to be with you and Granddad.’

  ‘That’s fine, then, because that’s where we’re going.’

  Another awkward moment of silence before Casey needed to know, ‘Are you my daddy? Are you really my daddy?’

  Choking back the rush of emotion, Tom turned the boy round to face him. ‘I want you to listen to me, son. I want you to hear my every word and never forget it. Can you do that for me?’

  When Casey nodded, Tom held him tight before telling him softly, ‘In every way that matters, I truly am your daddy. Your name is Casey Denton, and you are the son of Thomas Denton … that’s me. I was there when you were born, and I was the first one to hold you, after the nurse. Then I placed you tenderly into your mammy’s arms, and the two of us loved you so much, we never wanted to let you go. So, you see, it’s always been the three of us.’

  ‘So, when I was born she held me. That means she must love me, eh?’

  Tom assured him that it was so.

  Casey was unsettled, however, his mind questioning everything that Tom said. ‘But if she loved me when I was born, why doesn’t she love me now?’

  It was a difficult question for Tom. On the day when Casey was born, Ruth had held him for less than a minute, her manner cold and hard as she returned the baby to him. ‘I don’t want it! Take it back.’ The vehemence in her voice had shaken him to the core.

  Unconcerned, the nurse had taken the baby from him and placed him tenderly into the prepared cot.

  Afterwards, when he was leaving, the nurse had urged Tom not to be upset by his wife’s words. ‘I promise you, your wife is not the first to reject her newborn. She’s had a very long, painful labour and an extremely difficult birth. Rejecting the baby in the first flush is not an unusual reaction. She’ll come round. They always do.’

  After a while, Ruth appeared to have accepted the boy, and no more was said.

  Through Casey’s formative years, however, there were occasions when Ruth had shown hostility towards her son. Tom had chosen to dismiss it, but tonight, when she claimed to hate the boy, the awful truth was driven home to him. Ruth really did harbour a sense of hatred towards her son.

  ‘I don’t think she loves me at all.’ Casey’s voice startled Tom out of his thoughts. ‘Why doesn’t she love me?’

  Taking that small face between the palms of his hands, Tom gently wiped away the tears. ‘In all honesty, I don’t know what to tell you, Casey, except that I’m sure she does have feelings for you. The thing is, do any of us know what love really means? Y’see, son, it can mean different things to different people.’ He felt totally out of his depth; wanting to comfort the boy, yet not wanting to lie to him. ‘As for myself, I believe that when you love someone, you have a deep urge to protect them. You want them always to be happy, and never to get hurt, and you’ll do anything to make them safe. That’s what I personally believe love means.’

  He paused to gather his thoughts, before going on. ‘But y’see, Casey, not everyone thinks of it in the same way. Someone else might think that love means moulding a person so that he or she can learn to protect themselves and be safe from harm. They want their loved ones to be strong enough to reach their potential in life. They believe that being hard and demanding to their loved ones is the right way to be, even though it could make them appear cruel.’

  ‘But she is cruel. She never cuddles me. She likes to hurt me, and make me cry.’

  Tom was deeply saddened by the child’s words. ‘The thing is, Casey, people like your mother don’t know any other way. They think that cuddling and being soft is wrong, and that their way is best.’

  For what seemed an age, Casey remained silent. Then, looking Tom in the eye, he told him in a clear voice, ‘I don’t like her, and I don’t like that kind of love, and I don’t want her to be my mam any more.’

  ‘That’s your choice, son, and I respect that. You have every right to speak your mind. But you must never hate, because hatred is a terrible, destructive thing. It’s like I was saying, we’re all different, and we all deal differently with particular situations. I agree … some people’s kind of love is complicated. It isn’t for you and it isn’t for me either, but people can’t help the way they are, and though we might not care for their kind of love, we have to accept it. That’s just the way it is.’

  ‘So …’ in his young mind, Casey tried to make sense of it all, ‘… you’re telling me that my mam really does love me, only in a different way?’

  ‘Well, yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  ‘So, why did you take me away from her? Why did you say you never want me to live with her again?’

  Realising that Casey had heard more than he’d first thought, Tom gave him a simple explanation that he hoped would finish the conversation right there. ‘Well, the way I see it is this. You said yourself that you didn’t like her kind of love.’

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘OK. So, if you stayed with her, you would be unhappy, is that right?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And you might refuse to accept her kind of love and even fight against it, because you think she’s cruel and unkind. So, there might be arguments and fights and she would get angry and hit out. And the whole situation would escalate into a war between you. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want to live with her, because she’s too cruel. She tells lies, and she hit me with her fists, and she smashed up the guitar.’ Scrambling to his feet, he began to cry. ‘I don’t want her to love me any more. I’m glad you took me away because I don’t want her. I only want you and Granddad Bob.’

  ‘And that’s your final decision, is it?’ Tom was satisfied that his attempted interpretation of Ruth’s ‘love’ for Casey had somehow helped; making him realise that, his mother had proved herself to be more than capable of making his life a misery, and that it was all right for him to leave.

  It was a huge source of comfort to Tom that his boy would be out of harm’s reach, and safely settled with his granddad.

  ‘Come on then, son.’ Securing the guitar over Casey’s shoulder, he swung him into his arms. ‘We’d best go and tell Granddad Bob.’

  ‘Will you tell him how Mam smashed up your guitar?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll see that for himself.’

  ‘He won’t be pleased.’

  ‘You’re right. He won’t.’

  ‘What else will you tell him?’ Casey remembered the man who he heard in his mother’s bedroom, and the others who had been there before him.

  Suspecting the reasoning behind this question, Tom feigned a chuckle. ‘I’ll tell him he’s got two smelly lodgers from the Blakewater, and that we both need a hot bath.’

  ‘And that we’re cold and hungry, eh?’ Casey was excited.

  ‘OK, that too.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Casey was famished. ‘If Granddad’s made a meat and potato pie, there might be so
me left over.’

  With that in mind, they headed for the nearest bus stop, where they sat on the wooden bench to wait.

  When, some ten minutes later, the bus arrived, the two of them climbed aboard and seated themselves on the seat furthest from the doors. ‘We’ll be far enough away from the draught here,’ Tom decided.

  Tom bought two single tickets to Preston New Road. From there, they would walk down to Addison Street, where he was born and grew up.

  Realising how much was at stake following his decision, he was deeply apprehensive. So many things to think about. So much responsibility. Of late, he had been called upon to take the most important decisions of his life. Heart breaking decisions that would affect those he loved. He had never wished to be in this situation, but now that he was, he had to face it with hard determination, or be lost.

  There was too much to think about, too much that he did not understand. He was forced to act, and he did so after long deliberation, and with a sad heart. There was much regret and, more importantly, too much left unsaid.

  ‘Daddy!’

  Casey’s raised voice startled him. ‘Ssh! Don’t be so loud, Casey. There are other people on this bus.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad, but I need to ask something.’

  ‘All right, I’m listening. What is it you want to say?’

  ‘I just wanted to know … if you were sad?’ The memory of that awful row between his parents had really unsettled him.

  Smiling assuredly, Tom answered, ‘Well, I might have been just a little bit sad, but I’m happy enough now. What about you?’

  ‘I’m really happy now, ’cause I’ll be with you and Granddad.’ Easier of heart, the boy resumed looking through the window; and while he counted the streetlamps as they flashed by, Tom turned his mind to other, burning issues.

  His thoughts were torn between his own dear father, and this darling boy whom he loved with a passion. They were his responsibility, and he could not help but be afraid for them.

  Ruth was a born survivor. With tooth and nail, she would always find a way. Surprisingly, even though she had caused him anguish over the years, Tom was still able to think of her in a kindly way.

  A long time ago he had stopped trying to fathom her sudden bouts of wicked temper and the spiteful manner in which she flew at the boy for any reason. Yet though her behaviour maddened him at times, he could find no lasting hatred in his heart towards her.

  Through the years, his love for her had been tested many times, but he could not deny the affection he felt towards her. Yes, she was a cheat, and yes, she could be cruel and violent at times. But even though the boy might have come from another man’s seed – though Tom hoped that was not the case – Ruth had still given him the best gift any woman could give her man. She had offered him a son to love and raise, and he had come to love the boy, heart and soul.

  Soon, though, young Casey would be sorely tested, and right now Tom prayed he had provided him with the right tools to deal with life. Because all too soon, it would be time for him to leave.

  When Tom looked up, Casey smiled at him, a trusting, innocent smile.

  Tom returned the smile, but behind it lay a great reservoir of loneliness, and a forlorn hope that he might be forgiven for what he soon must do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOR A MAN in his mid-sixties, Bob Denton was both strong and able, though, as was to be expected, he suffered the aches and pains of increasing age.

  A contented man, he considered himself to be fortunate in having married the girl he loved and fathered a wonderful son. He would have liked more children, but Tom was destined to be the only one. The joy he brought was immeasurable and he had been a huge comfort to his father when, some nine years ago, Tom’s mother had died of TB.

  That had been a desperately trying time for both Tom and his father, and, sharing the grief as best they could, they drew strength from each other.

  Tom had married Ruth about that time, and his marriage and the birth of his son had given him a degree of consolation. Bob, meanwhile, feverishly immersed himself in his work at the quarries, and when young Casey was born, the old man’s heart was happier than it had been for months. Seemingly gifted with a deep love and a joyful ability for music, the boy had given him another reason to keep going. Bob still missed his lovely woman – that would never change – but he tried to move on in life as best he could.

  The previous year, Bob had retired from work, so now all he had was his son and his grandson, two people he loved more than life itself. As for Ruth, he had tried many times to befriend her, but she was not an easy woman to get close to. In the end he had no choice but to give up trying, yet it was a situation he still fretted over.

  Like it or not, Ruth carried the name of Denton. She was his daughter-in-law, the wife of his only son, and the mother of his only grandchild, but because she had little time for him, he hardly knew her.

  He had always considered that to be a great pity.

  Having eaten his dinner and washed the dishes, Bob was now putting them away in the cupboard. Got to keep the place tidy, he thought. As my lovely woman used to say, ‘You never know when you might get visitors.’

  Like the rest of this lived-in kind of house, the kitchen was a homely place, not ‘posh’, and certainly not pristine. A well-worn, crinkled mat was at the door, and a row of pretty floral teacups decorated the shelves of the kitchen cabinet. More often than not, there was a used cup on the draining board, next to the tea caddy, and beside that was a barrel of biscuits.

  Many things were naturally reused. Every morning Bob would scrunch up yesterday’s newspaper and spread it beneath the wood and coal in the fire grate. Later when he slumped in his favourite armchair to smoke his pipe and read his paper he would light the fire, and enjoy the evening warming his toes, and eating his hot stew. If there was any stew left over he’d always take it down to the butcher, who would be very grateful. ‘I’ll give it to the pigs,’ he would say. ‘Mek the meat taste that much richer, eh?’ Bob told him he didn’t want that information, thank you. It was enough to know that the leftovers were of a use to him.

  This little house was Bob’s castle. It had known much love and laughter – a house adorned with mementoes of good times – and when you went inside it was like a pair of strong arms wrapping themselves about you, covering you with warmth and love, which over the years had steeped into the walls for all time.

  Arranged on the sitting-room walls were many beautiful sketches of local landscapes, each and every one lovingly created by Bob’s talented wife, Anne.

  With much love and a true painter’s eye, she had sketched the green, meandering fields around Pleasington: the town hall on a sunny day; the canal with its colourful barges; even a painting of Addison Street, with its loaf-shaped cobbles and tall iron streetlamps, which lit the way home at night, and provided the supports for children’s swings during the day.

  It was said that once you’d enjoyed the unique experience of Addison Street, you would never forget it. If you approached the street from the bottom, you had to lean your body forward at a sharp angle, in order to climb to the top.

  But if you approached Addison Street from Preston New Road at the top, you would need to be feet first and leaning backwards, in the opposite direction.

  Negotiating the street from top to bottom was either foolhardy, or an act of sheer bravery, the locals claimed. It was so impossibly steep that you could never adopt a leisurely pace, though with legs slightly bent and your whole body leaning backwards for balance, you might start off with that intention. The first few steps might give you the confidence to accelerate slightly, but unless you had a desire to be catapulted into Never Never Land, you would be well advised to take it slowly; though that might be harder than you envisaged.

  Inevitably you would find yourself increasing pace, going faster and faster, until you started running; by that point, in an uncontrollable and terrifying manner. With your best hat flown away, and hair standing on end,
your last resort would be to pray you might get to the bottom without injury.

  Once there, with shattered nerves and a fast-beating heart, you’d be anxious to resume your journey on level ground, promising yourself that never again would you be so careless of life and limb.

  Some wary adults learned to negotiate the street by walking sideways with their backs to the wall as they edged along; others were known to hang onto the door handles as they inched their way down. And a few staunch heroes might brave the ordeal with a forced smile on their faces.

  Most adults dreaded the ordeal of negotiating Addison Street, but chidren would happily throw caution to the winds as they ran from top to bottom, whooping and hollering. When it seemed they might take off and launch themselves into the wild blue yonder, they would catch hold of a passing lamppost and swing round and round until they fell in a dizzy heap on the pavement.

  Some said it was better than a free funfair, while Granddad Bob claimed it was his beloved Addison Street that kept him ‘fit for owt’.

  Having just tidied the kitchen, Bob planned to amble his way to the back parlour, where he would settle down with pipe and paper, and choose a likely winning horse from the racing page.

  As he went into the passageway, he was surprised and slightly irritated by a determined knock on the door.

  He opened the front door, delighted to see Tom and Casey.

  ‘Well, I never!’ Opening his arms, he took the boy into his embrace before inviting him to, ‘Get yer coat off an’ help yourself to a ginger biscuit from the barrel in the kitchen cabinet. Oh, and by the way, your comics are still in the drawer, if you’re wondering.’

  Curious, he glanced at the mantelpiece clock. It was almost 8 p.m. At this time of evening, the boy should be at home, getting ready for his bed. And when Tom hung his coat up, the old fella noticed that he was still in his working clothes. That was odd, he thought worriedly. ‘Come through, lad. Looks to me like we need to talk, eh?’

  Leaving the boy to his biscuits and comic, Bob led his son to the back parlour, where Tom stood with his back to the fireplace, while his father sat himself in the big old armchair.