by M J Lee
Annie went to the wardrobe and after a few seconds brought out an old Huntley and Palmers tin box. 'This one?'
'That's it. Her letters are on the bottom.'
Annie handed over a small stack of letters. The paper was a light cream with a dark ink that had changed into a deep maroon with age. Jayne opened the first one and began to read.
October 18, 1924.
My darling Emily,
Thank you for a year of perfect happiness. It's our anniversary today and, as I promised, I will write to you every year to celebrate our love.
I know I'm not good with words, I should be telling you how much I love you every day but I don't. The words stick in my mouth, dancing on my tongue and sometimes get swallowed up by my infernal shyness.
But I hope you can see by the way I look at you that I love you very much. The way your hair glistens in the light. The way you bite your bottom lip when you are thinking. The way you brush that lock of hair that I love to kiss, from the nape of your neck.
Sometimes, when we are together, I can't stop staring at you, counting my blessings of the day we met.
This time next year, with luck and the help of the Almighty, we will have a new addition to our happy family. A visible symbol of our love and our life together.
But today, on our anniversary, I just want to celebrate one person.
You.
Thank you for all the joy you have brought me. I was in a dark place and now all I can see is light.
I love you more than life itself.
Your husband,
Charles
The room was silent. Eventually, the old lady spoke. 'I often dreamed of having that sort of love with David. But it wasn't to be. The war took him away from me. Never met anybody the same again. I couldn't face having my heart broken.'
'I think we all dream of that kind of love,' said Jayne. 'Shall I read the next one?'
'Do, the baby has been born in the next one.'
Chapter Forty-Six
Bradford, Yorkshire. February 6, 1928.
Happiness, real happiness, never lasts.
And he had been happy, every day filled with the joy of living, working and being together. The arrival of their son had been the culmination, the visible proof of their love for each other.
He went into the hospital, Bradford Royal Infirmary, and found her lying in bed with a bundle of lacy clothes in her arms. Hidden in that bundle was the smallest, reddest face he could ever imagine. A button nose, the longest eyelashes and already his father's telltale smirk plastered across his face as if he were reimagining some joke that had been told to him in the womb.
'How are you?'
'Tired and sore. I don't think he wanted to come into the world at this moment.'
'Aye, he's like his dad, happy to sleep and do nothing, surrounded by you.'
She handed over the bundle of clothes to him. He took them carefully, afraid he might drop his new son on the carbolic soaked floor. The baby smiled up at him
'Look, he's smiling. He knows it's his da.'
'It's probably wind.'
'Shush, woman, he definitely knows it's his da.' A small hand had snaked out from beneath the clothes and encircled his thumb, holding on to it tightly. Then, the little face creased up and a long wail issued from a toothless mouth.
'He's hungry. Pass him over to me,' Emily said. 'I'll feed him, so you must go.'
'Can't I stay?'
'No, the nurses will be shocked. A man staying in the room while I am feeding the baby, they will be gossiping about the scandal from here to Haworth. How's the mill?'
'All's fine. Everyone sends their love and they can't wait to meet the young lad. We've started on the Yorkshire police contract. First delivery is on Wednesday.'
'Good, good.'
'I'll come back this evening.'
'I'll wait for you. We'll wait for you,' she corrected herself. 'And please bring some Fry's. I've a craving for chocolate for some reason.'
'I thought the cravings were supposed to stop now.'
'You know me, I never follow anybody else. I've my own way. And one other thing…'
'What's that?'
'I've been thinking…'
'Like you do when you've just had a baby.'
'I've been thinking, we should change the house. Get rid of all the old furniture and buy something new, more modern. With the baby, it's time for a change.'
'Well, we can afford it with the new contracts. Why not?'
She smiled. 'Why not? We can't live in the past all the time. Not with this little present.' She held the baby up. It opened its toothless mouth wide and a wail like a police siren echoed through the room.
He kissed her on the forehead. 'I'd better go before he brings the place down.'
The following years passed so quickly, it was like being in a race where the only other competitor was time. John, they had given the Christian name of her brother, had grown so quickly. Learning how to crawl and then walk as if he had known how to do them both for years. He began to speak at a young age, haltingly at first but then in a flood. New words and sentences gushed from his little mouth, not always in the right order but holding meaning for him, annoyance crossing his face when his mother or father was unable to decipher what he wanted.
The mill was doing well too. Their decision to concentrate on one just segment, the production of police uniforms, had paid off. As other factories were closing across the city, they were expanding, becoming the main supplier of uniforms to most of the forces in England.
It was a lucrative operation, with their mill the only one in the city operating round-the-clock. When everybody else was closing or laying off workers, the police forces all over the country were expanding. The terrible miner's strike of 1926 and its aftermath meant that their business grew even more as the numbers of police were increased to deal with the perceived threat to the established order.
He thought of the irony. Here he was, a man who had been ready to kill policemen in his youth, having to meet them each week to understand their needs and confirm their orders.
It meant he had to travel, of course, throughout Britain, seeing the country in its rage and despair, and also seeing its richness and beauty. How could both exist at the same time? He didn't have the answer. All he knew was that every time he travelled away, the absence of his wife and his son bit deep into his heart.
The arrival of their son had made their relationship even stronger as if here was a link that bound them tighter together like a steel chain. His absence didn't make the heart grow fonder, it made it grow weaker like a plant deprived of water, withering on the ground. He wanted to be with them both all the time, enjoying his new life and the life he had created.
He knew it couldn't last, of course. Such happiness never lasts.
The end when it came was as sudden as it was unexpected. He was on a business trip to Glasgow to sign a contract for the delivery of police uniforms. The trip had gone well but a sudden flurry of February snow had him stuck in the city for two days longer than he had wanted.
When he had finally managed to get a train to Bradford, nobody was waiting for him when he arrived at the station. Often, Emily brought little John to greet him as he descended from the train. It was one of the great joys of his life to see the boy run down the platform to meet his father, his little legs taking him closer and closer to his waiting arms.
But there was nobody this time. No car waiting. No Emily. No John.
He took a taxi home. As it pulled up to the front door of the house, he looked up and just one light was shining from a window. The rest of the house was in darkness. An immense wave of dread and foreboding washed through his body. Had something happened? Had the boy been injured? A fall?
He paid off the taxi and rushed to the door. Nobody came to greet him as he shouted his arrival. The house was in darkness as if mourning a terrible loss. Where were the servants? Why didn't they meet him when he came through the door?
He rushe
d into the living room to find Emily sat on the chair in front of the fire. The same chair she had sat in all those years ago when they first met.
She didn't look at him as he entered the room.
'Emily, what's going on? Where are the servants? Where's John?'
'I've sent them away.' Her voice was dull, a monotone as if coming from the depths of a black well.
'Why? What's happened? Has he been injured?'
She sat staring into the fire, before slowly turning her head towards him. He could see she had been crying. 'Why didn't you tell me, Charles? If that's your name...'
He tried to charm his way out of her question. 'Tell you what?' He stepped towards her. 'I don't know what you mean.'
'Stay where you are,' she commanded.
He stopped walking forwards. 'Emily, please tell me what's going on. There must be a terrible mistake.'
She turned back to stare into the fire. 'There has been a mistake and it's all mine. All my fault. I should have known it was too good to be true.'
He advanced towards her again. 'Emily, you're not making sense...'
She glared at him and he stopped moving towards her.
'While you were away in Glasgow, we had a visit from one of your old comrades in arms, Captain Forsythe. You do remember him, don't you?' The last sentence was delivered with a savage irony.
His shoulders slumped and he stood there.
'Obviously not. He was on leave from the Royal Kents in India and visiting his sister in Leeds. She was excited to tell him about an old comrade who had married and was living in Bradford. Imagine his surprise when he found out the name of this old friend.'
He just stood there, letting her words sink in, fear rising from the centre of his soul.
'He paid me a visit two days ago. Showed me a picture of the real Captain Trichot, the man who was killed in 1918. It only leaves me with one question. Who are you?'
Chapter Forty-Seven
Haworth, Yorkshire. November 20, 2015.
Jayne finished reading the third letter. 'He's begging her to forgive him.'
'He lied about his name, pretending to be that officer,' said Mary.
Jayne scanned the letter again. 'Here's the passage again.' She read out loud. 'My real name is Michael Dowling. I was a member of the Irish Volunteers and I was with your brother when he died. He asked me to pass his effects on to his family. That's why I came to visit you.'
Annie looked shocked, 'That means...'
'He was one of the people involved in the death of her brother. No wonder she couldn't bear to be with him anymore.'
'There's one more letter. You should read that next.'
Jayne picked up the last letter. She didn't really want to read it. It was like looking into somebody's private thoughts and secrets. She thought she had become used to that as a police detective but this was different. Too personal, too searing.
Despite herself, she pulled the yellowing sheet out of the envelope.
Dear Emily,
I hesitate to call you my wife anymore, because I know that our life together is over. I don't blame you at all. If I had experienced the same pain as I have given you, I would not forgive me either.
I understand your pain. I just wish it wasn't me who had given you so much hurt.
I know now you will never forgive me. As you said, how could you share your bed with a man who had killed your brother?
I know the wrong that I have done you. I wish I could go back in time and re-write that day. But I can't. What's done is done, and I must live with the consequences.
I have just one last favour to ask you. If you have an ounce of compassion left in your heart, please grant it to me.
I would like five minutes to say goodbye to our son, John. Just five minutes to give him one last kiss and say goodbye.
Please say that you agree.
After that, I will vanish from both your lives, never to see either of you again. That is my promise.
Please, I beg you from the bottom of my heart, grant me this time with my son.
Yours
Michael Dowling
Chapter Forty-Eight
Bradford, Yorkshire. February 27, 1928.
The servant showed him into the sitting room. She hadn't said anything to him as she opened the door, gesturing for him to go in. He had followed her as she led him through the old house to a back room they never used.
'I'll bring the boy,' she said coldly.
'Is Emily here?' He hoped to see her one last time, to try to explain, to hope against hope that she would listen to him and forgive him.
'The mistress has gone out. Shall I bring the boy?'
He nodded. That evening when he had returned from Glasgow seemed so long ago but it was only two weeks. He had told her everything. The truth had come gushing out of him like oil from a well. Once he had started talking, it seemed he would never stop. All the time she was just sitting there, watching him with her sad, blue eyes.
When he had finished, she had simply turned to him and said, 'You must leave here. Leave John and me. Never return.' That was all. No tearing of hair. No anger. No screaming and kicking and punching. Perhaps, if she had done any of these things, it would have been easier for them both. It was the way the anger and the disappointment were bottled up in her that killed them both, leaving him with no hope at all.
The maid returned a minute later and pushed the boy into the room, closing the door behind him, leaving them alone.
John stood near the door for a few seconds before he recognised his father and ran to greet him.
Michael opened his arms and the boy ran into them. He picked him up and swung him around. 'You're getting heavy, little feller.'
'I've got a train set now, Mrs Gayle lets me play with it if I eat all my dinner.'
Michael placed him gently back down to the ground. 'You must eat everything if you want to grow big and strong, John.'
'Like you, Daddy?'
'Yes, as big and strong as me.' He let his son feel his biceps. It was something the child loved to do.
Then, Michael held the boy close, wrapping his arms around the small body, feeling the ribs sticking through the chest and the little heart beating wildly in the chest.
'Daddy, you're hurting me,' said a small voice.
'Sorry, John, Daddy doesn't know his own strength sometimes.' He took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult. He had practised what he was going to say many times but still wasn't sure he could do it.
He took another breath and held the child at arm's length. 'Listen, John. Daddy has to go away for a long while.' He paused to let his words sink in.
Eventually, John replied. 'Does that mean you won't be able to play anymore?'
He nodded his head. 'I'm afraid it does, John. I have to go, you understand. Daddy doesn't want to, but he has to go. Do you understand?'
John nodded his head slowly.
'Before I go I want to give you two gifts.'
The boy's eyes brightened. 'Are they toys?'
'Not really, but you must keep them safe wherever you are. Promise?'
The young boy pointed to his heart. 'Cross my heart and hope to die.'
Michael took a book from his pocket. 'A long time ago a good friend gave me this book as a present to remember him. I'm giving it to you today so you will be able to remember me.'
'But I can't read yet, Daddy. Sometimes, Mrs Gayle reads to me. I like it when she does that.'
'Don't worry, you can read it when you are old enough.' He remembered the day Fitz had given it to him all those years ago when they were young and innocent, still studying at UCD.
'You can have it, Michael,' he had said, 'haven't I just won a treble at the races. I can buy a whole library if I wanted.'
The inscription was still there, written in the bright ink Fitz loved, slightly faded now as time had eaten into the words.
He closed the book and handed it over to his son. 'Keep it safe, John. Take it with you wherever you go.
'
'I promise, Daddy.'
'The next gift is something you can wear.' Michael produced the cap badge of the Dublin Brigade from his pocket. As he held the small bronze button in his hands, he thought back to those days in the GPO. The smell of smoke and oil and cordite came into his nostrils and the image of the dead child's hand clutching the ribbon, the same age as his son, leapt into his mind.
He pinned the badge on the lapel of John's coat. 'A very brave man gave me this.'
'Did he die in a war like Mommy's brother?'
'He did, John. He died in a war. So when I'm not here, you must be a brave little man and look after your mammy.' He took the boy by the shoulders. 'Look after her, won't you, John?'
'I will, Daddy.'
Michael felt a film of tears form over his eyes. His vision was beginning to blur but he couldn't let the lad see him crying. He couldn't do that to his son.
He pulled the boy close to him and hugged him tightly. One last time. One last hug. Just the one. Holding on as if he would never let him go.
'You're hurting me, Daddy.'
He let go and stood up. Trying not to look at his son, hoping the little boy wouldn't see the tears in his eyes.
He walked to the door and took one last look behind him. The boy, his son, was standing in front of the fire, holding the book to his chest and looking straight at him.
'Goodbye, John.'
'Goodbye, Daddy,' were the last words he heard as he closed the door.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Haworth, Yorkshire. November 20, 2015.
Jayne finished reading the letters.
'Do you think she allowed him to see his son again?'