Cowards Die Many Times

by Peter Hey

  Guy’s face was pale and fixed in concentration ‘Shame we don’t have this incriminating letter itself.’

  ‘Indeed. I went to an archive in Oxford, but it wasn’t there. We just have to accept the minister’s summary. His widow edited the memoirs after his death. She appears to have had some kind of reservation, but I suspect that was just because she didn’t want Thomas’s family to be dragged through the dirt. But they weren’t named and I’m not sure they’d ever even know the book had been published.’

  Polly was smiling again as she gave her assessment. ‘This Thomas was a total, utter monster. And to think, liefie,’ The endearment was laden more with sarcasm than affection, ‘his genes are your genes.’

  ‘Along with lots of others’,’ countered Jane. ‘But interestingly, he’s described as an unusually gifted child – and his education was really just limited to Sunday school. The minister actually questions whether such intelligence is a benefit or a curse for an ordinary working man. He thought he was better than those around him, wanted more than his status would allow. Perhaps that’s what corrupted him. Either way, Guy has obviously inherited his brains but I’m sure not his character.’

  ‘So what happened to the sod?’ asked Guy, colour now returning to his cheeks.

  ‘We’re not 100% sure of the sequence of events. His third wife appears to have paid him off and she and her family took the business to even greater heights. We thought he was buried in upstate New York, but that was another red herring. My colleague found him back in England.’

  Guy raised his eyebrows. ‘So he never returned to America?’

  ‘He definitely sailed back after that first visit. He’s on a ship’s manifest arriving in New York. We can’t find a record of a second voyage across to England, but we’ve found him living here in 1911, on his own in a small terraced house in a rough part of Manchester. He was still calling himself Ramsden, but we’re pretty certain it’s him because in that year’s census you actually see people’s own handwriting. His is very distinctive, beautifully so, and he says he’s a retired photographer.’

  Guy jabbed his finger in the air as if driving home an idea. ‘Didn’t my great-grandfather – Thomas’s son – set up his medical practice in Manchester?’

  ‘Yes, albeit in a rather more affluent suburb,’ confirmed Jane. ‘The obvious question is whether they were in contact somehow. I’ve found nothing to suggest they were. It was a big city, of course, and George wouldn’t have remembered his father from growing up.’

  ‘Thomas would have been...’ Guy took a breath as he did the sum. ‘...into his seventies by then. He couldn’t have lived much longer. Hopefully he succumbed to something nasty.’

  ‘If we were looking for final confirmation of the nature of the man, maybe this it. It made the local paper.’ Jane handed over a printed facsimile of a short news article whose typeface and layout confirmed its age. ‘He was found savagely beaten on a back street. Died in hospital the next day. It was an unsolved crime, but there was no sign of robbery. He could have been an innocent victim, but it’s hard not to think he was keeping unpleasant company and it caught up with him. ’

  ‘And got what he deserved,’ said Polly triumphantly.

  ‘He was taken to Ancoats Hospital,’ continued Jane. ‘Here’s his death certificate.’

  Guy took the document and began reading out loud. ‘Thomas Ramsden, blah, blah, blah. Depressed fracture of cranial vault – skull smashed in, basically. Signed by one Herbert Evelyn Farquharson MD. There’s a name to conjure with.’

  ‘Better than Ramsbottom,’ butted in Polly

  Guy ignored his wife’s contribution once again. ‘Jane, what can I say? It’s not exactly what I was expecting, but it’s quite a story. I’m sure I’ll dine out on it. Rather the devil than the bland, eh?’

  Jane spent 45 minutes filling in more details of Guy’s family tree, but the main event had already played out. She was, however, able to offer a more positive footnote. She had found the noble blood Guy had hoped for through a DNA link on his mother’s side, her ancestors having made their way into the venerable tomes of Irish landed gentry and baronetcies. Polly had wandered off, leaving Guy to express his gratitude and satisfaction at Jane’s efforts.

  As she made her way back to her car, a nagging sense of unease began to intrude on Jane’s mood of success and closure. Had she painted a fair, objective picture of long-dead Thomas Ramsbottom, or had she let herself be swayed by her own prejudices, egged on by Polly’s cynicism? Thomas had left more trace of his complicated life than most people of his era, but what sort of man was he really? How could Jane ever know? Had he wilfully charted his own course through life or drifted on the currents and tides of circumstance? Much depended on the Baptist minister’s assessment. But he was intent on conveying a religious lesson, a parable. Perhaps he twisted the character of the unnamed man in his story to support the message he wanted to impart?

  One thing appeared certain: Thomas had deserted his family. Jane knew that was his real crime in her heart. Was this what the psychologists call transference? Did she need to blacken his name in personal revenge? And what of her own father, the man who had walked out on her and was now eavesdropping on her life? Was there part of her that would happily see him meet a similar, violent end?

  The gas lamp

  It was a bitterly cold evening, but at least the rain had stopped and the tall buildings blocked the worst of the wind. Thomas Ramsden was alone, as always, walking through the poor backstreets of a wealthy city. He had turned up the black fur collar of a heavy woollen coat that was looking as tired and worn as the old man within. It had been bought to announce him as person of status and success. Now it spoke of decline and hard times. Thomas was gradually eating his way through dwindling funds.

  He’d hoped to rebuild his career as a photographer, to leave a small, anonymous legacy for his grandchildren, but Kodak’s Brownie camera had changed everything and Thomas was too weary to adapt. The workhouse surely beckoned and beyond that lay worse, the great uncertainty. He had long ago shrugged away the faith of his youth, like he had abandoned his own name and identity. He desperately wanted to believe there was no forever after, only sleep and dust, but the promises and threats seeded in his childhood mind still haunted him. He had sought to punish himself in life. He knew it could never be enough.

  Thomas turned into a dimly lit alley. A single gas lamp hissed ineffectually halfway down its length, and shadowed beneath was a large man shouting angrily in a manner that suggested he had been fighting the cold with contents of the bottle he was waving in the air. The object of his rage was woman with a thick shawl over her head and shoulders. Suddenly the man lashed out and struck the woman, knocking her to the floor. The man stood over her, continuing his tirade of abuse.

  Thomas’s instinct was to retrace his steps, to walk away. Even as a young man, he would have been no match for such a drunken brute.

  ‘You there! Stop that!’ shouted a voice that was Thomas’s own yet felt like it belonged to another. And he began striding down the alley with his cane raised high.

  As he walked and accelerated, his life began to process through his mind, scene by scene. In truth, it was always there, constantly analysed and replayed, snapshots now sufficient to cue the detail and depth of decades.

  It was a life of cowardice. That was, and always had been, his fundamental flaw. From dark bullying schoolroom, to dark bullying miners, jealous and resentful of the gifted, handsomely blond boy who was sensitive and different, he had always backed down and cowered. And they always came back for more. He had started to run and could never stop.

  He saw himself trembling at the thought of Sarah’s father discovering his daughter was with child. Nearly two decades later, that history repeated, with a different daughter in a different world.

  And then the memories grew darker. He was in the mill engine house, a quick learner digesting the intricacies of steam and pressure, cranks and cylinders. He had escaped t
he mine and was desperate not to return. The engineer was a hopeless alcoholic whose hands quivered unless steadied by liquor. Thomas had seen the tendency to error and lapse, but had kept silent, fearful of reproach, afraid for his job. Had he known the consequences, the terrible explosion and the death of his first-born son, his own image in looks if not in character, he would surely have spoken out. But to his eternal shame he did not. He blamed himself, as did his only confidant, his wife, Sarah. She would never forgive him and sought solace in the affections of a gruff farm labourer, one of those who had tormented Thomas at school.

  Again, a better man would have fought for his wife, but Thomas ran away, to America, vainly hoping to make his fortune and somehow buy back her respect. And there, weakened by illness, he had met an Irish girl: beautiful, sad Mary, as weak and flawed as he was, still mourning the loss of her young husband. And they had sought comfort in each others’ arms and nature’s chance had caught them out. Thomas the coward had lied and he continued to lie, adding bigamy to his list of misdeeds.

  And God had seemed to punish him, and his poor innocent bride, by darkening her moods, making her question her own worthiness as a mother, so she passed her nights without sleep and her days in tears. And when she had finally rallied, the malaise seemingly lifted, Thomas, the craven sickening coward, had sought to ease his own guilt by offering her the truth. He had justified it to himself as an act of love, but it had been the worst of his many crimes.

  Mary, the broken angel, had left in the early hours, travelled across the city and flung herself into the cold sea within sight of their first meeting. Her fragile body was dragged out by the savage currents and she was lost. And Thomas knew he had killed her, just as surely as if he had plunged her into the icy water himself.

  There was one who had overheard Thomas’s confession and threatened to compromise him: his daughter’s Germanic nurse, hard and plain as Mary had been gentle and fair. And Thomas bought her silence through another act of bigamy. This time he had a willing, knowing partner to the sin. He did not care for the soul of his new wife and his own was already lost. He banished God from his life and sought to chastise himself through the unhappiness of a loveless union. But he also lost the one thing he had left to cherish. The daughter who had been a mirror of her mother became twisted to her step-mother’s will. And Thomas had another ruined life on his conscience.

  These thoughts passed through Thomas’s mind in the time it took to cover a few paces in distance and were replaced by a single, simple notion: now and today he would be the coward no more.

  ‘Leave that poor woman alone!’ he shouted and aimed his stick at the man’s shoulders.

  It was over quickly. The man threw his bottle and it knocked Thomas off-balance and into a damp, windowless brick wall, shattering as it did so. Thomas was hauled up and hit hard with a clenched fist. And then again. His legs crumpled and he fell, his skull cracking against a stone kerb. His body lay motionless and blood flowed from his head, mingling with the rainwater still trickling down the gutter.

  Thomas’s assailant looked down, shocked by the outcome of his violence. The woman grabbed him by the arm and began dragging him away. Her cries had been muffled when she had been the target of his fury, now she shrieked her anguish and fear. It was her duty to protect her husband. The couple, reconciled in danger, ran.

  Dr George Ramsbottom was in danger of being late. He pushed his way through the persistent drizzle and the soggy masses that crowded Mill Street, raising his umbrella high to avoid gouging the eyes of his fellow pedestrians. His day ahead would be busy enough as it was. The weather was dampening his spirits and he was beginning to think his wife was right. He should focus on his private practice, tending to ailments of the wealthy middle classes, and leave the suffering of the great unwashed to other, fresher men, physicians whose altruism had not yet been blunted by daily exposure to society’s injustice.

  He walked through the gothic arch of the main entrance, left his wet things with the doorman and went in search of the house surgeon. He found him cleaning his hands in one of the consulting rooms. A nurse was applying a bandage to the head of an old man lying motionless on a treatment table.

  ‘Good morning, Evelyn. Busy night?’ said George as he walked in.

  ‘Ah, George, you’re just in time to watch this fellah die,’ replied his colleague as he reached for a towel. His South African accent had softened little during his years at medical school in England.

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked George, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Found in the street, cracked skull, rather messy. Looks like he’d been in some kind of fracas. Stank of alcohol until he was cleaned up. These people are worse than kaffirs. The sooner I get home the better. And it wouldn’t rain all the time either.’ Evelyn Farquharson was nearly a decade younger than George, but cynicism had found him at an early age.

  George looked across at the patient. ‘You don’t hold out much hope, I mean for our friend here?’

  ‘No, he’s on his last legs. He drifted in and out of consciousness and rambled on at the nurse for a while, but he’s getting weaker and weaker. “Totsiens” as they say in Afrikaans. Goodbye and adieu.’

  George moved further into the room. ‘You know, I think I recognise him. I’ve seen him on the streets hereabouts. He engaged me in conversation once on the tram. Took an interest in my family.’

  Evelyn huffed his disapproval. ‘I’d have told him to mind his own business. Not that I’d be seen dead on a tram. They ought to keep these people separate.’

  George responded while studying the dying man’s bearded face. ‘He was surprisingly well spoken – well, there was something unusual about his accent. Oh I remember. He said he’d spent time in America. A travelled man, not uneducated. I recall thinking there was something familiar about him but couldn’t place it. Do we know who he is?’

  Evelyn pointed over to a desk. ‘He didn’t seem sure of his name, but we found that stuff in his pockets.’

  George picked up the articles one by one. There was a chainless silver pocket watch inscribed, ‘Thomas, with all my love, Mary.’ A folded letter was addressed to a Mr Thos Ramsden and within it were two slightly battered photographs, both mounted on card. The first showed a beautiful young woman, with dark hair and pale eyes, holding an infant girl, perhaps two years old. She was equally attractive, but there was something odd about the pose and the expression of the woman, presumably the mother. She looked ill at ease, uncomfortable holding the child, almost resentful. George moved the second picture to the front and his expression slipped from contemplation to shock.

  It was a picture he had grown up with.

  It had lived in drawer in his childhood home, only brought out when his late mother had guests. And there she was, frozen in time before he was born, and surrounded by his own youthful brothers and sisters, a family from which he was now estranged thanks to his success and their resentment. And there was another figure in the photograph, someone George had never known, but felt he knew nonetheless, his own father.

  George looked again at the hollow, barely breathing face lying in the centre of the room. He took away the unkempt whiskers and ravages of time and poverty. It was the same man.

  Epilogue

  It came to her in a dream.

  At least she assumed that was how it had arrived into her head. The image was certainly there when she was brushing her teeth that morning. She couldn’t be sure of its truth, but when she checked her horoscope over breakfast it advised taking prompt action on her intuitions. She got dressed and headed for the door.

  Two hours and three buses later, Betty Ramsbottom was back in Blackwell Holme. She suspected the journey would have much quicker in the days of steam branch lines and electric tramways. But progress and economics had long ago lifted the rails, and she now stood at what had been the old tram terminus by the village school. Looking back down the winding road, there was evidence of widening and corners being rounded so that the
single track could climb through the ribbon of terraces and mills. From here onwards, the contours steepened and would have halted the engineers in their advance. In this, at least, rubber tyres and diesel engines had the edge, and Betty turned to watch the brightly coloured single-decker she had arrived on disappear over a grey-green moorland crest.

  The pause was brief and Betty made her way towards the old chapel at her most rapid pace, impatient to see if the expedition had been a foolish mistake. She walked past the house-like building with its oddly positioned windows towards the burial ground at its rear, and started up the cobbled, cambered path until she reached the Ramsbottom family grave with its ornate classical pediment. But it was not that memorial she had come to see, and she kept going.

  Jane had emailed the final results of her investigation: the full story of Thomas and his return from America still living under his new name. And as she read it in print, an earlier, misty sense of recognition sharpened. She was near certain she had seen that name before. And it was definitely seen, not heard. She just couldn’t place where. Then the picture came to her in the night: the other black marble gravestone, particularly plain and modest, tucked by the wall in the furthest corner of the cemetery. She had looked at it years before, when she had first hunted for the Ramsbottoms along the grassy rows. It had caught her eye because of the similarity in surname and she had dwelt trying to decipher the enigmatic inscription.