by Jane Jordan
Ravens Deep
By Jane Jordan
Prologue
There are those amongst us who seek unconditional love, an objective that could either be construed as wise or foolhardy. But regardless of individual perspective, many of us search for a like-minded being, someone to return our affection, capture our heart or comfort and encourage when all others may criticize or condemn.
A few relationships are to be considered unusual or diverse, but although cultural differences and personal preference may be argued, our unions typically onform to the rules and moral values that we make.
After all, most strange deviations in love can be explained. . . ordinarily.
Chapter One - The Invitation
Time had simply vanished, and it was almost midnight when I looked up at the clock. The constant drone of city life had long since diminished, and only an occasional car stereo or siren in the distance disturbed this warm summer’s night.
I rose from the table and moved across the room, leaning against the window frame, I stared out into the darkness. It felt as though I had a need to commit to memory as much detail as possible. The customary sight of the undulating rooftops and historic buildings were reassuring, and reminded me that I really did belong to this place.
London was a beautiful city with its hundreds of lights glistening in the darkness, it was hard to believe that in only a few hours from now this darkened multitude of shapes and figures would again become a seething mass of people rushing through their daily routines of business and pleasure in this urban playground. From the lure of the West End high life, to the charming, traditional markets and culture of the East End, it was easy to suppose that this city had something to entice everyone.
At its very core there is a persistent part of London, whether it is the fundamental structure or the Londoners themselves, which attaches itself and after a while that unfathomable something refuses to let go, it becomes a permanent imprint on the hearts of those that it has touched. I was one such person and perhaps that was why I was experiencing a sudden reluctance to leave, to simply turn my back and walk away.
I was caught up in the nostalgia of the moment and closed my eyes, but my feelings of uncertainly were not eased. I could imagine too vividly, even feel the pulsating beat in the exotic night clubs and fashionable bars, or someone playing a piano in a traditional East End pub. This culture was like no other, more importantly it was my life.
Tomorrow I would leave this city with all its noise and commotion far behind and I thought back to earlier in the day. I was still so unprepared as I thought about the empty suitcase and clothes strewn around the bedroom. I glanced back to the table and to my research notes spread out in a chaotic mess. Deep down it was more than the packing and clutter that troubled me, I still had to resolve the emotional conflict inside my head.
All evening I had tried to forget my earlier conversation with Charlie, but now alone in the semi darkness and stillness of the night I was forced to think again. I thought back to the few simple words he had spoken, words that had disturbed my insular world.
This afternoon had begun like any other, when Charlie arranged to meet me after work, and we had gone out to an early dinner. We chatted casually about the events of our respective days, but as the evening wore on and a few glasses of wine drunk, his conversation took on a more serious nature.
In hindsight, I should have known what he had been leading up to, but caught up in my thoughts, his question not only took me by surprise but it shook me completely.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
I had paused at first and then that hesitation had developed into an awkward silence. Charlie expected a favourable response, but I sat motionless, trying to shake myself free from the inexplicable panic I felt.
I finally did respond, not knowing the right words to say, I tried to be tactful and wished I was anywhere, but sitting in that particular restaurant with him. My reply came out hasty and dismissive. I told him I wasn’t ready and then side-tracked as I fought to find a better excuse. I told him that it was too soon in our relationship to think about marriage, but we both knew that this explanation was weak and not believable.
I saw obvious disappointment and he wore such a hurt expression, despite my reassurances that I just needed more time, but it was in that moment that I realized that I meant more to him than I imagined.
That knowledge abruptly shook me from a comfort level I had grown accustomed to. I had never assumed he would ask me that question and if the truth be told, the subject had not even crossed my mind. I assumed that like me, Charlie was happy the way things were, we had what I would describe as a casual relationship, it had lasted nearly two years, but there was nothing abnormal about that. I was too independent to be tied down. I did not want to commit to a serious involvement because I liked living alone, but more importantly marriage was not something I saw for myself. I needed freedom and during the previous two years I had not allowed our relationship to develop into more than I was ready for, carefully constructed my own safety zone, not allowing anyone to get too close, but now it seemed as though Charlie was trying to break down this barrier and I was struggling with the concept of that.
Why did he have to say anything? Today of all days.
It was not as if I was having second thoughts, but if I was honest with myself, I felt guilty at the way I had reacted. Charlie hadn’t deserved my bluntness or the lack of sensitivity to his proposal. In most people’s opinion he was a great catch, he was reliable and sincere with a secure future in store. He had worked in his father’s publishing company since leaving school and there was no doubt that he would take over the business entirely in a few years from now.
But, for me life with Charlie would be too reliable, too predictable. There was no
fire in him, no intensity, there was safety and security, and I know most people spend a life time searching for a partner with those qualities, but I yearned for a passionate belief in either something or someone to make me feel alive, to make me feel invincible and I didn’t feel passion when I thought of Charlie. In his world, by his side it felt as though I would be a bystander, even worse, I would be suffocating and screaming in silence, my own identity lost in a life I didn’t want. But despite these disturbing feelings I was now being forced to face an obvious question.
Was it really Charlie that I was reluctant to leave?
Yesterday I had been so certain of my direction. So why did a marriage proposal make
me question my feelings, and force me to reconsider the consequences of my answer. I shook
my head in despair at my confusion. I was normally decisive and logical, but I didn’t feel
that way right now. The voice in my head told me that it was no coincidence that Charlie
had picked this day, the eve of my departure, to make his intention known. It occurred to
me that this was his way of keeping me in London. If that really was the reason behind his
proposal then I had clearly made the right decision.
I had to exist on my own terms and refused to allow any other influences to change my mind. Besides that, I would only bring Charlie unhappiness and I refused be a witness to somebody else’s heartbreak, for I knew all too well what it was like to pay that ultimate price.
I had first-hand experience of the rise and fall of my own parents’ tragic lives. I still had memories of my mother, an accomplished artist, painting away hour after hour in the spare bedroom she had used as her studio, and during those final years she had watched my father’s once profitable and successful business decline deeper into debt. Always resourceful she had paid off many of the undesirable sources from whom my father had borrowed money. She had kept the bailiffs from our door
with the proceeds from, so I believed at the time, all of her most prized paintings and possessions.
Unfortunately even she could do nothing when the various bankers called in their debts and my father was finally forced into bankruptcy. Our family home was sold at auction, for a fraction of its market value and we found ourselves living in a two bed-roomed flat. It was then that my father’s downward spiral accelerated, dragging my mother with him. She by this time was too exhausted to paint, instead she could only watch helplessly as my father turned away from her and to a bottle for comfort.
Two years later, my father died from liver failure brought about by alcohol poisoning and my mother, seemingly unable to cope with the loss, lost interest in everything she had once loved, including life itself, almost a year later she died of unknown causes.
For me, the memories of finding her lifeless body lying peacefully on the bed were still vivid and only I knew that she had died of a broken heart, as I believed such things could happen. I had experienced initial horror and sadness, but that had turned quickly into anger. I failed to understand how she could have acted so selfishly, and her action only seemed to convey that I was not an important enough reason for her to remain living. Charlie had been my emotional strength and had given me the much needed comfort. He reminded me that I was important to him at least, and he helped me deal with the effects of such a tragic loss. It was because of that episode in our relationship that I did feel somewhat indebted to him and after today’s events I was suffering from a self induced guilt trip.
After my mother’s death, I discovered a cache of paintings in the attic of their rented flat. I could never be sure if these paintings had been concealed on purpose for me, as there was no other will or provisions made and it was quite by chance when I finally found the courage to return to that flat that I had even bothered to search the attic.
That had been nine months ago, since then I had used the proceeds from the sale of some of the paintings to buy the fashionable London flat in which I now lived. Several others of my mother’s paintings still adorned the walls, they were all I had left to remind me of her. Every time I looked at them, I still could not quite believe how valuable they
were, their worth having increased substantially with her death.
Because of these very paintings and the others that had sold, I didn’t need to rely on another’s good fortune as I now had my own means, which also meant that I wasn’t about to settle for anything or anyone other than a perfect match. My soul mate would be someone to intrigue me and capture my imagination, he would have passion and be someone who would inspire me to attain my dreams, but I also realized that person was not Charlie.
It was my good fortune that I had inherited some artistic talent, not with a brush, but a pen. My father could write and I had seen beautiful letters from him written to my mother before they were married and I also possessed the capability to transport a reader to another time and place.
Charlie was always second to my writing, he had called it a hobby, but to me that was an insult. It felt as though he simply didn’t’t understand me at all. I wondered again why I hesitated, tonight would have been the right time to break off the relationship.
I should have told him.
Resolutely I started packing up the papers laid out on the table, trying to dismiss the continuing thought that reminded me of my lack of courage. I reasoned that he would have been upset, even angry and although I had hurt him deeply, the thought of him hating me completely did not make me feel good about myself. Instead I had chosen the easy option and postponed that particular disclosure. When I got back I would tell him, I sighed.
But when would that be exactly?
Right now I had more important things to think about, like the journey on which I was about to embark. This new and uncertain course had occurred coincidently because of my writing. In recent months I had been fortunate enough to have several short stories published. With that small amount of success my confidence level increased considerably and now I felt that I was capable of a defining piece of work, I only needed the inspiration to create it. That encouragement had come about in the most unusual of circumstances. I thought back, astonished, only five weeks had passed, it really seemed much longer.
I had been working part-time as a hotel receptionist, people were friendly and interesting and I enjoyed my job, but an added bonus of working part-time was the freedom to write. On one particular afternoon, just as I had been getting ready to leave for the day, one of the hotel staff informed me that collected guest magazines had been delivered to the lounge. Hotel guests invariably left magazines in their rooms, and we often selected the ones in like-new-condition for other guests or staff. This information had prompted me to visit the lounge before I left the hotel that evening, as I had often acquired research materials for varied writing projects in this manner. I looked through the pile and saw that they were the usual kind of publications, mainly fashion and various business periodicals, but one, Ancestry, Your Link to the Past, did catch my attention.
I retrieved it from the pile and took it with me. That had been it, a simple thing like picking up somebody else’s unwanted magazine had altered my course in destiny.
That same evening, I sat down to continue my research on an article that I was currently writing, not feeling particularly creative I eventually laid it to one side. I poured myself a glass of wine and picked up the magazine.
As I began to thumb through its pages, the inspiration for a story started to unfold in my mind as I absorbed as many details as possible on how to research a family tree. My interest grew considerably as I read more interesting facts, although I was more than a little curious and intrigued by the readers’ letters. Many were from people that were trying to find connections to their lineage and I found them to be sad, amusing or even bizarre. It seemed one individual was looking for his royal connection as he was certain he was of blue blood. That particular letter made me smile and I wondered why some people were always desperate to find a connection to royalty. But my musings aside, it was when I read the letter from a gentleman named Mr. Chambers, that my heart skipped a beat. His letter indicated that he was looking for a connection to the surname ‘Shaw’ in the West Country, Exmoor to be precise. My father's family had resided in the West Country and our family name was Shaw. I re-read the brief letter.
To whom this may concern,
I am searching for any living relatives relating to the name James Shaw. They resided in the West Country near the village of Beaconmayes, Exmoor. I have expansive research that encompasses the Shaw Ancestry Line.
Contact address: 27 Parson Place, London SW3
Sincerely,
Mr. Chambers.
The letter was short and to the point, there was no e-mail address or telephone number, but I found myself drawn to its content. I re-read the letter several times and felt as though I had to get in touch with this, Mr. Chambers. It was the strangest thing, the whole plot for a story had suddenly hit me like a bolt of lightning and I felt a sudden burning desire to make this connection and to use the research. It would become the foundation for this work of fiction that was now racing through my head. I also felt certain that it would be a great opportunity to make a connection to any existing family. I needed to find out how to search back through ancestral blood lines in order to complete a family tree for this dark tale that was taking shape, and now I could not think of a better way to educate myself than to delve into my own family history.
I took out a pen and paper and began to write a response to the letter. A deep rooted feeling told me that this had to be a genuine connection for I had heard the name Beaconmayes somewhere in my past, I was certain of it, and the facts staring me in the face were obvious. The region of England known as the West Country was where all my father’s ancestors had resided and both he and his father had shared the same name, James Shaw. It felt from that moment that the story I had spinning around my head would be my defining piece of work --
my first novel.
I posted my letter that same day, and each day after I had checked the mail hoping for a reply from Mr. Chambers. Twelve days later it arrived.
That was the beginning of the strange correspondence and relationship between me and the mysterious Mr. Chambers. I will call it a relationship for although I had never met him he was like no other person I had ever conversed with, even if it were only through paper and ink. In the weeks that followed and led up to this present moment, he had given me a rare insight into his life and in return I responded with revelations of my own past.
To an onlooker it might have been seen as a risky undertaking, giving a complete stranger personal details and information, but the truth of the matter was, Mr. Chambers did not ever appear to pose any type of threat, he never asked any leading or uncomfortable questions, instead he had the reverse effect, he made me feel comforted by his words and he seemed genuinely interested in my thoughts and views. He asked for nothing more than that.
Our frequent writings mirrored fascinating glimpses into our lives, although mine seemed hardly engrossing, instead it was somewhat dull in comparison with his. Mr. Chamber’s letters were beautiful, almost poetic, yet he wrote in the manner of a much older time, a bygone era which seemed both old fashioned and charming in today’s modern world. Although he never divulged his age I estimated that he had to be at least in his eighties.
I deduced this fact because he had knowledge of so many places and experiences.
But he recalled that he had not travelled for many years, instead he preferred to shut himself away from the world. I could only guess that this was brought about by his age and his indication that he had some kind of illness. My own good manners, and my wish to remain tactful with my mature friend meant that I did not delve into what exactly was wrong with him, for I also sensed from his words that he had no desire to discuss this matter.