by Helen L Lowe
PROLOGUE
Wapping High Street, London
3:29 p.m. Friday 16 December 1966
(Sunset at 3:52 p.m.)
The Thames looked dark and menacing just before sunset and Ezra knew it kept bad secrets. Today it offered up something terrifying. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, his arms flaying out as if trying to fly . . . ‘don’t tell - don’t tell anyone’ . . . the last words screamed at him by the older boys echoed in his head . . . ‘don’t tell anyone or we’ll put you down the hole.’ The hole was under Execution Dock, where murderers and pirates were hanged hundreds of years ago and it still stank of death. He knew because that was his initiation into the gang.
He was halfway down Wapping High Street before he slowed down, trying to catch his breath before reaching the block of flats, and by the time he opened the flat door his breathing had calmed down but his scruffy appearance and red face gave him away.
‘Ezra - is that you?’ Papa called out. ‘Hurry my boy - it’s almost the Sabbath.’
Ezra rushed into his bedroom and ripped the muddy clothes from his body. To be late for the Sabbath was unthinkable, he had been told that often enough, but to be dressed in dirty clothes was worse.
‘Ezra - quickly now - it’s time.’
He entered the dining room just as Mama was lighting the candles, and he waited. He waited for Mama to recite the blessings. He waited for Papa to bless his daughter, Aliza, and his son, Ezra. He waited for the drinking of sweet wine and the breaking of challah and he fidgeted in his chair.
Papa ignored his impatience and spoke to Aliza about her piano lesson that day. ‘You’re coming on well, Aliza. I can hear a definite improvement.’ Finally he turned his attention to Ezra. ‘Ezra, my son, perhaps you’d like to tell us why you nearly missed the Sabbath tonight?’
Ezra swallowed a mouthful of bread whole and kept his eyes down on his plate.
‘No? Then perhaps you can tell us why your fingernails are caked with mud?’
Ezra glanced down at his hands and slid them off the table onto his lap.
‘He’s been playing on the mud flats again,’ Aliza said.
Ezra glared at her and tried his best to show, in that one look, how much he hated her but Papa gave him a look of disapproval and he sank lower into his chair.
‘I w-wasn’t d-doing anything wr-wrong.’ He always stammered when he was upset.
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
Ezra looked at Papa’s stern face. ‘If I t-tell you w-will you p-promise not to . . .’
‘No promises, my boy - but if you don’t use this opportunity to tell the truth and I find out later that you’ve been up to mischief, you will definitely be punished.’
There was a heavy pause.
‘We f-found something,’ Ezra burst out. ‘It was h-horrible - w-washed up - it was . . .’ he stopped as abruptly as he started. He was fighting back the tears, determined not to cry like a baby.
‘Really, Ezra, this is not a conversation for the Sabbath,’ Mama said.
Papa held his hand out towards her. ‘No, this may be important.’ He turned to Ezra again. ‘What did you find?’
Ezra blinked away fresh tears. ‘They said it w-was from y-years ago f-from executions done h-hundreds of y-years ago.’ He looked into Papa’s warm brown eyes, searching for some sign that he was not in trouble.
‘Go on, Ezra.’
‘It was f-floating in the river - we th-thought it was r-rubbish until we p-pulled it out.’
‘Now, Ezra, think carefully. Was it bones - like the dog bones we dug up in Grandfather’s garden?’
Ezra shook his head again and tears started to flow freely. ‘No, Papa - it was a b-body - I th-think but w-without arms and l-legs.’ He stared wide-eyed at Papa and said clearly without a hint of a stammer, ‘Papa - it had no head.’
CHAPTER 1
Queen Alexandra Hospital, Cosham, Hampshire
Saturday 24 December 1966
Telling someone that their child had died was the hardest part of Julian Hartmann’s job. How they died made little difference to the despair and pain in the parents’ eyes, and over the years he had tried to protect himself from their pain by creating an invisible defence screen. It worked quite well in his job at the hospital but did little to protect him from his own painful memories that had a nasty habit of resurfacing without warning.
On the morning of Christmas Eve when he was leaving the hospital after a hellish twenty-four hours on-call, he walked straight into Lizzie, an ex-girlfriend, at the doors of the hospital.
‘Julian - I don’t believe it - after all these years.’
He stared back at her, momentarily stunned.
‘How are you?’ she said.
‘I’m fine - and you?’
‘I’m well, thank you. It’s been a long time. How many years is it, sixteen - seventeen?’
Sixteen years, he thought, sixteen years and eight months - give or take a day.
Lizzie gave him a quizzical look. ‘You look very serious - aren’t you pleased to see me?’ She started to walk through the hospital reception area. ‘I’m sorry, I’m late - my husband is waiting for me to collect him from the ward. He’s being discharged today. Can you walk with me?’
He followed like a lamb to slaughter.
‘You’re looking well,’ she said. ‘You’ve filled out a bit - developed some muscles. You were always on the thin side.’
‘You look . . .’ his voice trailed off as he tried to think of something complimentary without making a fool of himself, ‘nice.’
She smiled. ‘Ah, how I’ve missed that charm. How are your parents?’
‘They’re dead.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It was years ago - how are yours?’
‘They’re fine.’ She looked at his white coat. ‘You’re a doctor?’
‘Yes – in paediatrics.’
‘I’m pleased for you. It’s what you always wanted to do.’
‘And you?’
‘I was a nurse before the children came along.’
‘You used to talk about being a doctor.’
‘Yes – well - things didn’t quite work out that way.’ She stopped at the main lifts. ‘It’s been nice seeing you again – bizarre - but nice.’
He watched her step into the lift while the voice inside his head was screaming . . . don’t let her walk away you idiot, do something - for Christ’s sake, do something. He put his hand out to stop the lift door from closing and stepped inside.
‘Perhaps I could give you my number, in case,’ he fumbled in his pockets and found a scrap of paper and a pen and scribbled his number down, ‘in case you want to talk or for anything, anything at all - just in case.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him a smile that made his knees go weak.
The lift doors opened and Lizzie stepped out. ‘It really has been great seeing you again.’
‘And you,’ he said, as the lift door started to slide across between them.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she called out. ‘I hope you’re spending it with someone you love and not working.’
The lift door closed in front of his face before he could reply and embarrass himself further. He made his way back to the main entrance with his head swimming . . . so why are you alone again during the festive season? You’ve had plenty of girlfriends over the years, lots of chances to settle down. I’ll tell you why, because if you can’t have her you’d rather be alone . . . you sad bastard. As usual, he had volunteered to work over Christmas and New Year because keeping busy prevented melancholy from sneak
ing up on him while his back was turned.
Out of the hospital he was hit with a blast of cold air. It was like nectar after the stuffy hospital heating. He stood by the doors breathing it in and tried hard to ignore the voice in his head, but during his slow walk home it had a field day . . . so she leaves and sixteen years later she walks straight back in. No apology. No explanation - and you’re supposed to have a civilised conversation as if you’d been just mere acquaintances. And what are you going to do about it? What you always do, of course - drown yourself in self-pity and whisky.
He went to the boxing club in Portsmouth later that day hoping to deter the inevitable nose-dive into alcoholic oblivion. Boxing and jujitsu, both physically and mentally demanding, had kept him sane over the years. After punching hell out of a bag for over an hour, one of the trainers insisted he went into the ring with someone who could hit back. Julian was knocked out in the second round. The whisky came later.
* * *
9:30 a.m. Friday 13 January 1967
Just over two weeks later after another night on-call, he left the hospital and walked to the house he shared with three other doctors. They were busy in outpatient clinics and he had the house to himself so he was looking forward to a long sleep. Three hours later, the phone in the hall rang persistently. He lay in bed praying for it to stop and it did but only to ring again five minutes later. He staggered down the stairs.
‘Is that you, Julian?’
His heart missed a beat. ‘Lizzie?’
‘You sound tired - have I woken you up?’
‘I was working last night.’
‘Sorry - do you want me to call back?’
‘No, it’s fine. Are you ok?’
‘Yes, I just need to talk to you about something. Can you meet up with me tomorrow?’
‘Meet up? Yes, of course. I’m on-call until nine tomorrow morning - can we make it around four?’
‘Thank you. That would be great. Shall we meet up on the hill?’
‘Ok.’
‘Just like old times.’
He replaced the receiver and stood by the phone in a state of shock. After sixteen years of no contact he had spoken to Lizzie twice in as many days. He thought of his pathetic excuse to give her his phone number and how many bouts in the boxing ring and bottles of whisky it had taken to get him back on an even keel. He couldn’t imagine what she needed to say to him. What could have waited all these years and be so urgent that they had to meet the next day?
* * *
Portsdown Hill, Portsmouth
3:55 p.m. Saturday 14 January
Lizzie pulled into the carpark on Portsdown Hill and parked in the row of cars facing the panoramic view over Portsmouth. It was a cold day but the sky was clear and soon they would be treated to a beautiful sunset. This was a place she used to meet Julian. She thought back to their chance meeting on Christmas Eve. His obvious shock at seeing her brought home how much he had been hurt. She saw the pain in his eyes and his lack of composure as he struggled to speak. It reminded her of the young Julian, when at times his eyes revealed something dark from the past. She was able to ease his pain with her love then and now what she longed to do was tell him that she still loved him.
One minute before four, a red mini pulled into the carpark. She watched as it drove slowly past the row of cars. It occurred to her that Julian wouldn’t know her car just as she didn’t know his, but as the mini came closer she recognised his dark hair and the strong hands on the steering wheel. He stopped the car directly behind her and reversed into the next space. When he climbed into the passenger seat beside her she instinctively started to smile but stopped when she saw his serious face.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hello.’ He turned to face her, his right arm resting on the back of the seat.
When she turned to face him she felt her stomach flutter with excitement and she avoided looking into his clear ice-blue eyes. ‘Julian, something has happened and it involves you - it’s connected to something that happened when we were together.’
He smiled nervously. ‘Well, you’ve got my attention.’
‘You know I left university in mid-term?’
A missed beat.
‘Yes - I hadn’t forgotten.’
She felt tears in her eyes and fought to hold them back. ‘I didn’t leave because I wanted to get away from you and I didn’t go to Paris to stay with my sister.’
‘So where did you go?’
‘I had to leave to have our baby.’
The last two words hung in the air between them while Julian’s face drained of colour.
‘I’m sorry - I couldn’t tell you because I was rushed away to stay with relatives in Scotland.’
‘Why didn’t you phone or send a letter? I could have helped you – supported you.’
‘My father wouldn’t let me tell you. He was frightened you would persuade me to keep the baby.’
‘But it wasn’t his decision to make - he had no right.’ Colour had returned to his face; a sense of injustice replacing the shock.
‘I’m so sorry, Julian. I didn’t have any choice.’ She was openly crying now and searching her bag for a tissue that wasn’t there.
Julian gave her his handkerchief. ‘Please, stop crying. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean - it’s not your fault, you’ve done nothing to be sorry for.’
They sat in silence while Lizzie tried to stem her tears.
‘Was it a boy or girl?’
‘A boy – he was adopted.’
A long silence.
‘Lizzie, I’m sorry but I have to ask – what made you decide to tell me now?’
‘Because he came looking for me – his adoptive mother died of cancer a few months ago but before she died she gave him his birth certificate and told him that she thought I lived in Portsmouth. He searched through the phone book and called all the people whose surname was “Sharp”. My maiden name was on the birth certificate. We moved into my parents’ house when they bought a cottage in Devon but in the phone book we’re still listed as “Sharp”. I was the eighth person he called.’
‘So if he hadn’t turned up you would never have told me?’
‘Probably not.’
Another long silence.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I arranged for him to stay in a hotel in Southsea. He wants to meet you.’
Julian stared at her with a startled expression. ‘Meet me?’
‘Yes, you’re his father - it’s only natural.’
‘I know what you’re saying is perfectly reasonable but you’ve had a lot longer to think about this - to me, it’s a shock. Christ, I need some air.’ He opened the car door and got out.
A few minutes later, he came back with two hot drinks in disposable cups and they drank while they stared at the sunset.
Julian was the first to break the silence. ‘When you suddenly left in mid-term everyone thought I’d done something terrible to hurt you. I thought that too - I just couldn’t work out what it was. Didn’t you ever think of contacting me - not once in all those years?’
‘Yes, I did think about it. I thought about it a lot but having a baby changed things - changed me. All the things that I thought were important in my life, that I was so passionate about, seemed to lose their hold over me. The person you knew wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t want to go back to university to be a student again. I had been to hell and back and it changed me forever. I couldn’t go back, not even for you.’
‘So that’s why you didn’t train as a doctor?’
‘Partly – but when I was in hospital after the birth I saw things from the patients’ point of view. The doctors were busy making the decisions but it was the nurses who the patients looked to for their care. It was then that I decided to go into nursing.’
‘So you’re happy now?’
Lizzie saw tears in his eyes. ‘Happy? Yes. I have two beautiful children that I live for and Peter, my husband. What about you?’
‘Stil
l single.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘No-one special.’
‘A thirty four-year-old bachelor - I bet the nurses are queuing up,’ she said, trying to make light of it but she saw the pain in his eyes and her heart went out to him.
‘So what’s he like?’
‘He’s like you, dark brown hair, blue eyes - gorgeous eyes - not quite as tall as you yet but already six feet. His name is Sam.’
Julian’s eyes lit up. ‘Is that a name you gave him?’
She nodded. ‘I remembered it was your middle name – it was my one request when he went for adoption. It was the only thing I could give him . . .’ she stopped talking as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
Julian took her hands in both of his and held them firmly, as if trying to give her some of his strength. ‘No, it wasn’t - it wasn’t the only thing you gave him - you gave him life.’
Lizzie smiled through her tears. ‘Thank you. I hadn’t thought of it like that.’
* * *
Southsea Common
10:25 a.m. Sunday 15 January
Julian’s meeting with Sam was arranged for 10 a.m. the following day by the roller-skating park in the middle of Southsea Common. After thirty minutes in the freezing cold he had lost all feeling in his hands and feet and decided to walk around the circular structure. It was open for business despite the freezing conditions and the shrieks from the skaters, the heavy beat of the Mersey sound and the drone of roller-skates created a crazy but happy atmosphere. When he had nearly completed the full circle he saw a tall youth leaning against a tree with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of a thin jacket. They stared at each other for a few seconds, feet rooted to the ground, before the youth started walking towards him.
‘Hello - you must be Sam.’
He nodded in reply.
‘You’re just as your mother described you.’
He gave Julian a shy smile and shivered.
‘Come on, you must be freezing - we can talk when we’re warm.’
They sat in the Still & West pub in Old Portsmouth with drinks in their hands and looked out onto Portsmouth Harbour. Sam seemed content to sit in silence but Julian felt compelled to strike up a conversation.
