Deeply moved, he looked into those lovely, tearful eyes. “Your mother should never have kept it from you,” he conceded gruffly. “I’ve always known she was wrong about that. I told her you had every right to know, that you were Barney’s child through and through. But she was afraid … always afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Mary gave a sigh of relief. At last she was getting nearer to the truth.
“I can’t tell.” He looked from her to Ben. “I made a promise. NO!” He shook his head. “I never did make that promise. I thought it would be wrong, d’you see? I told her, ‘Mary will have to know everything one day’ …” His words trailed away.
“Arthur?” The girl’s voice penetrated his deeper thoughts. “That day is here and now. And you’re right: I have to know, so tell me … please.”
Snatching his hand from her grip, Arthur scrambled out of the chair. He paced the floor awhile, then took a moment to stare out of the window at the night, but he said nothing for what seemed an age. Then he walked to the door, opened it and went out, and from the room they could see him standing at the foot of the stairs looking up. His lips were moving, but they could not hear what he was saying.
Mary went to get off the sofa, but Ben reached out and, with a gentle pressure of his hand, held her there. “Best to leave him,” he whispered. “Give him time.” And, knowing Ben was right, she remained still until the little fellow came back into the room.
Upstairs, Lucy thought she heard something. A voice. His voice. Half-asleep, her brain numbed by the sedative, she called out his name. “Barney!” Her voice, and her heart broke, and she could speak no more.
Restless as always, she turned. Forcing open her eyes against the powerful opiate in her veins, and summoning every last ounce of strength, she stretched out her hand, and felt the hard edge of the bedside drawer … Inching it open, she took out a long metal biscuit-box and drew it to her chest, where it lay while she caught her breath and recovered her strength.
A moment later she had opened the lid and dipping her fingers inside, she lifted out a photograph and a long envelope, yellow with age and worn at the corners from where she had opened it many times over the years.
Holding the photograph close to the halo of light from the bedside lamp, Lucy could hardly see it for the tears that stung from her eyes and ran unheeded down her face. “Oh Barney, dear Barney!” The sobbing was velvet-soft. No one heard. No one knew. No one ever knew.
For nearly twenty years, she had kept his face alive in her heart and soul, but now, as her senses swam from the effects of the sedative, when she saw him smiling up at her from the photograph, it was as though he was real: the slight film of moisture on his lips, the pinkness of his tongue, just visible behind those beautiful white teeth, and the eyes, soulfully blue, and so sad beneath the smile; yet the smile, and the eyes, were so alive they twinkled.
It was almost as though Barney was here in the room with her.
The sick woman took a moment to rest, before in a less emotional state, she studied the familiar and much-loved features: the shock of rich brown hair, those mesmerizing blue eyes—not lavender-blue like Mary’s, but darkest blue, like the ocean depths. And the mouth, with its full bottom lip. The wonderful smile was a reflection of Barney’s naturally joyful soul; through good times and bad, his smile was like a ray of sunshine.
As he smiled at her now, Lucy could hear him singing; Barney loved to sing when he worked. She could hear him so clearly, his voice lifted in song and carried on the breeze from the fields to her kitchen. He never sang any song in particular, and when he wasn’t singing, he would whistle.
Barney was one of those rare people who, without realizing it, could raise your spirits and make you feel good; even at your lowest ebb.
Lucy’s heart grew quiet. Times had come when Barney’s song was not so lilting nor his smile quite so convincing, and there had been other times, though they were few, when she had caught him sobbing his heart out. She knew then, that he was thinking of past events. And with every moment of anguish he suffered, she suffered it with him, and her love grew all the stronger.
Over their short time together, Barney became her very life. He was her and she was him. They were one. Together they would see it through, and nothing would ever tear them apart. But it did. Death claimed him much too soon!
And when she lost him, her own life too, would have been over but for Mary, and Mary was a part of Barney. She saw him every time Mary smiled or sang, or chided him.
And she loved that dear child with the same all-consuming love that she had felt for Barney. It was Mary who had been her savior; Mary who was like her daddy in so many ways; Mary who had brought her untold joy.
Arthur had long believed that Mary should be told about the events which took place before she was born. But Lucy thought differently. The little girl was an innocent and must be protected, and so she was never told.
But what of the other innocents? Dear God above!
WHAT OF THEM?
Weary now, she dropped her hands and the photograph fell on to the eiderdown. Too weak to raise her head, she felt about until it was safe in her grasp again, and then with slow, trembling fingers, she laid it down beside her.
Unfolding the letter from inside the envelope, she held it up where she could see it in the light from the bedside lamp. She remembered receiving this, one dark damp day in her little cottage up north, and knew that only the truth could put things right. She had read the letter so many times, she knew every word by heart. She whispered them now, the sentences etched in her soul for all time:
To Lucy Baker,
It pains us to put pen to paper, but we must. Word has come to us here that you are now living with our father and have a child by him. Because of what you have done, we feel only hatred toward you. Hatred and disgust! Lucy, you betrayed us! We thought you were our friend, our sister. We all trusted you, especially our mother, but you were a viper in our midst.
The day we left, we vowed we would never be back, and that vow remains strong as ever. We just want you to know what you and our father have done to all of us; and to our mother most of all.
You helped to ruin our lives. You are a wicked, evil woman, and if there is any justice in the world, there will come a day when you will both pay for what you did. We pray with all our hearts for that day to come.
We don’t need to sign our names. You know them already.
We are Thomas, Ronald and Susan Davidson.
We are your conscience.
Lucy shakily folded the letter away. “Such hatred!” she sighed. Her heart ached for those young people … for them and their poor mother, because of all their suffering. But they didn’t know the truth. THEY DIDN’T KNOW! How could they?
Carefully, she replaced Barney’s photograph into the biscuit-box, then the letter into its envelope. “What am I to do, love?” she whispered. “You said they must never know, but I feel I must tell them, even if it will be too much for them to bear. It is time to put things right, if God will grant me the time I need.”
Then weariness closed in and the sedative claimed her. But the dreams remained. Awake or asleep, the dreams were never far away.
Arthur went over to the fireplace and stood there for a while, his arms reaching up to either side of the mantelpiece, and his head bowed. “I’m not sure if it’s my place to tell you,” he murmured.
Mary felt instinctively that she ought not to speak. If he was wrestling with his conscience, then she must not influence him either way. So she waited, and hoped, and in a while he turned round, looked at them both, and slowly made his way back to them. “I think Barney would want you to know,” he told Mary heavily. “I reckon you’re right, lass, the time is here.” The haunted look had finally left his eyes.
“So, will you tell me now?” Her mouth had gone dry, she could barely say the words.
He nodded.
“And will you tell me everything?”
Mary knew this was it. At long la
st she was to cross that threshold which, though it had never affected the deep love between herself and Lucy, had always been present between them. Excitement and fear mingled as she sensed the door opening to her, that secret door which had been too long closed, and she had no doubts that something wondrous waited beyond.
“I don’t know if I’m doing right or wrong, but I believe the truth is long overdue,” Arthur answered. “Though I may live to regret it, and Lucy may not thank me for going against her wishes, yes, I’ll tell you everything, sweetheart. I promise I won’t leave anything out.”
Ben hastily prepared to leave. “This is private family,” he said. “I have no right to be here.”
Neither Arthur nor Mary would hear of it. “Please, Ben, I want you to stay,” Mary told him, and Arthur gave a nod of approval. “I believe you should both hear what I have to tell,” he said.
The little man had a deep-down instinct that these two were made for each other. In the same inevitable way that Barney was woven into Mary’s past, Ben was destined to be part of her future. He had seen her look at Ben in the same way her mother had looked at Barney, and tonight in Ben, he had caught a glimpse of his dear friend. Something told him he was witnessing the start of another deep and special love, and he knew that Ben truly belonged here.
And so he settled in his chair and cast his mind back over the years. Drawing on his memory, he mentally relived the story; of Lucy and Barney, and of course the others who did not, and could not, see the truth of what was happening before their eyes.
But Arthur had seen, and it had scarred him forever. Just as it had scarred Lucy, and the others; though to this day, those others had not learned the truth of what happened, and maybe they never would. Maybe the hatred and the pain would always be paramount.
Arthur thought that was a sad thing, because the tragedy that had taken place all those years ago, had given birth to something glorious.
As the night thickened and the story unfolded, Mary and Ben were in turn shocked and uplifted, and the more they heard, the more they began to realize that their lives would never again be the same.
During the telling, Arthur was at times joyful, then tearful, and when he recalled the awful sacrifice Barney had made, his eyes filled with pain. But above all, he was proud to be telling Barney’s story.
Because, in his deepest heart, he believed it to be one of the most powerful love stories of all time.
PART TWO
Summer, 1930
Lucy’s Story
Six
The summer of 1930 was proving to be one of the most glorious on record, as if to offset the misery of mass unemployment on Merseyside. Today, May 25, the docklands were almost deserted but the narrow, meandering backstreets were as busy as ever. Young children played; scabby dogs lounged in cool, shadowy corners; floralpinnied women in turbans busied themselves white-stoning their front doorsteps, pausing only for a snippet of gossip as a neighbor passed by; and having emptied gallons of milk from churn to jug, the milkman was on his lazy way home, the wheels of his cart clattering a tune on the cobbles … clickety-clack, clickety clack, drink your milk and I’ll be back … the children made up the song and as he passed by, they ran after him chanting the words, skipping away once he’d turned the corner.
Back down in the docks, sailors disembarked, glad to come ashore after being at sea for many months. Placards everywhere gave out the news: British Aviator Amy Johnson flies from London to Australia in nineteen and a half days.
“There you go, boyo.” The tall, bony man with the unkempt beard had been at sea for too long, and now at last, he was done with it. “While we’ve been conquering the seven seas, that brave lady’s been conquering the skies.”
“Hmh!” The younger man was rough in looks and rough in nature. “I’d rather her than me, up there all alone. I never have been able to stand my own company.”
The older man laughed. “That’s because you’re a miserable bugger, and I should know, being the unfortunate that had the next bunk to you.”
“What d’you mean? We got on all right, didn’t we?”
“That’s true—but only because when you’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean, you’ve either to get on with your shipmates, or jump off the ship. And I for one didn’t fancy being the sharks’ next meal.”
“So where are you off to now?”
“Home to South Wales, thank God. What about you? Where might you be headed?”
A crafty smile flickered over the younger man’s features. “I’ve a woman to see.”
“A woman, eh?” The other man knew of Frankie Trent’s liking for the ladies, because he’d witnessed it many a time in port. “So, she’s another one you left behind, is she?”
“Whether I left her behind or not, she’ll still be waiting for me.”
“You’re an arrogant devil, I’ll give you that.”
“I might stay this time … make an honest woman of her,” Trent boasted.
The older man laughed out loud at the idea. “Never!”
“Ah, but this one’s different. She’s full of fun, a real stunner. Moreover, she’ll do anything for me.” He preened himself. “A man could do worse than settle down with a woman like Lucy Baker.”
“Well, good luck to you then, boyo. As for me, I’m away to my beloved Wales. No more sailing the world’s oceans for me. I’m finished with all that.”
“So, what will you do? There’s mass unemployment, you know. It may not be much of a picnic in your part of the world, matey.”
“That won’t bother me.” The older man took a deep, gratifying breath, and when he released it, the answer came with it. “I’ve not made up my mind yet, but what I do know is this: I’ll spend my days as I please, tending my bit of land and fishing, and not be driven by money and command. I’ve worked hard and saved my wages, and God willing, you’ll not see me again.” With that he threw his kitbag over his shoulder and strode off, with never a look back.
Watching him go, the other man laughed under his breath. “That’s what they all say,” he sneered, “and you’re no different from the rest.” Dark-haired, dark-eyed and with a heart to match, Frank Trent was a regular Jack the Lad who fancied he should please every woman he came across, and he had done just that, in every port across the world.
We’re both going fishing, he thought as he walked on. I’ll leave you to catch the ones with the tails, Taffy Evans, while I settle for the others—the ones that pretend to fight you off when all they really want is for you to catch ’em and show ’em a good time.
As he left the docks and headed toward the nearest lodging-house, he had only one woman on his mind; a young and spritely thing, with long flowing hair and a smile that could melt a man’s heart from a mile off. “You’re a lucky girl, Lucy Baker!” he chuckled. He hoped she’d kept her looks and taken care of herself, because Frankie boy was on his way!
He called her up in his mind and smiled. Even after two years away and countless other women, he’d still got a soft spot for her. She’d been a virgin when they’d met, a hardworking shop girl, still living with her parents, and she’d fallen for him hook, line and sinker. Who knows, if she treated him right, he might even consider putting a ring on her finger. Somehow, she had got to him, where the others hadn’t. Maybe it was her innocence and loyalty—things in short supply among the women he usually had dealings with.
He squared his shoulders and marched on. That doesn’t mean to say I’ll be staying for sure, he thought. Oh no! Like the man said, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and half the fun is catching them, then throwing them back for another day.
An hour and a half later, he had drunk a pint, had a strip-down wash and bedded the landlord’s daughter, twice. And now he was on a bus, headed for Kitchener Street, a mile or so from the docklands—number 14. He checked his notebook and scanned the many names there. Yes, that was it—Lucy Baker at number 14, Kitchener Street, Liverpool.
“Will that be a return ticket, or one way?”
The conductor had his ticket-machine at the ready.
“I might be coming back, or I might not.” Frankie liked to hedge his bets, especially as he didn’t quite know what awaited him. “I’ll have a return ticket, if you please.”
“Return it is.” Turning the handle on his machine, the conductor ran the ticket off. “That’ll be tuppence ha’penny.”
Twenty minutes later, the arrogant young seaman was strolling down Kitchener Street, checking the door numbers as he went. “Here we are!” He had remembered the street as being long, with every house looking the same; narrow doors and white-stoned steps, and netted curtains up at the windows. But yes, this was the one—halfway down and looking exactly as he remembered. He rapped hard with the knocker.
After a couple of minutes, a plump, red-faced woman flung open the door. “What the devil d’you think you’re playing at?” she demanded angrily. “I’m not deaf but I will be if you keep rattling the door like that?”
“I’m looking for Lucy Baker.” He’d forgotten that familiar lilt of the Liverpudlian tongue; it was a comforting sound to a man who had travelled a hostile world.
“The Bakers don’t live here no more.” Leaning forward, the red-faced woman looked up and down the street. Content that she would not be overheard, she confided, “There was a bit of a to-do in the family, if you know what I mean.” And seeing that he did not know, she went on, “Ted Baker—Lucy’s father—he took another woman to his bed, d’yer see? Then his poor missus chucked him out, and rightly so if you ask me!”
“I don’t need to know all the ins and outs,” he told her irritably. “I just need to find Lucy.”
“I’m coming to that. When Lucy’s dad was thrown out, he moved in with his new woman—went to live on York Street, they did—and good riddance to ’em! This house became vacant, and me an’ my Eric moved in. Been here a while now.”
The Journey Page 7
