‘How can we do that?’ He looked up at Tom with wide eyes, the tearful words tumbling one over the other. ‘It’s all busted, and the strings have jumped out, and … it’s no good any more.’
Tom gathered him into his arms. ‘Trust me, son,’ he murmured, ‘it can be mended.’
‘But, it’s all in bits.’ Casey’s tears spilled over. ‘It can’t ever be mended. Never, never!’
‘Hey!’ Tom wagged a finger. ‘Have I ever promised to do something that can’t be done?’
The child shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Right! So trust me now. Tears and tantrums won’t mend anything. But, there must be a man out there who can mend whatever needs mending; even a guitar with “jumped-out” strings, and bits of wood missing.’
‘Where is he, then?’
‘Well, I can’t be really sure, not yet, but there must be someone out there. I mean, there are clockmakers to mend clocks; tailors to repair clothes, and mechanics to mend broken engines. So I reckon that means there must be someone who mends guitars. Isn’t that so?’
Tom was rewarded with a bright, happy smile. ‘Yeah! And we’ll find him, won’t we, Dad?’
Relieved that the boy’s spirits were up again, Tom gave an encouraging nod. ‘Now close your eyes and go to sleep.’
‘Dad?’
‘What now?’
‘Will you tell me that story, about when you were a little boy, and Granddad used to take you to Mill Hill bridge, where you watched the trains running underneath, and all the steam blew up into your faces?’ He grinned at the thought. ‘You said you felt invisible.’
‘That’s right, son. Oh, but they were wonderful times. I was a very lucky boy to have those adventures.’ Just now, when Casey mentioned the railway bridge at Mill Hill, Tom’s heart had almost stopped, because that particular place from his childhood had played heavily on his mind lately.
Now, though, because of the boy’s curiosity, he was made to revisit Mill Hill bridge in his mind once more. The thought of his father and himself walking under that picturesque viaduct and onwards, up the bank and along the curve of the bridge itself, was one of Tom’s most precious memories.
When other, darker thoughts clouded his troubled mind, he smiled at the irony. ‘Are you sure you want that particular story, son?’
‘Yes, please.’
With mixed emotions, Tom told the story about the days when he and Granddad Bob had regularly stood on the bridge for hours, watching the trains as they made their noisy way beneath, sending clouds of steam upwards and outwards. There was always much laughter when the steam enveloped the two of them, before quickly evaporating in the air.
While Casey laughed aloud, Tom blinked away stinging tears. ‘Soon the next train would come along,’ he went on, ‘and sometimes we’d lean over the bridge wall, with your granddad Bob hanging onto my pants to stop me from falling headfirst onto the railway lines below. The steam was everywhere. When we finally came away, my hair would feel really damp to the touch. Then Granddad Bob would always threaten to turn me upside down when we got home.’
‘Why would he turn you upside down?’
‘So’s he could wash the kitchen floor with my damp hair … or at least that’s what he said.’
Casey laughed out loud. ‘He wouldn’t really do that, would he?’
‘No, it was just his idea of a joke.’
Having been persuaded to tell the tale for the umpteenth time, Tom’s heart was heavy.
Nevertheless, he told it as promised, right to the end; by which time Casey was fast asleep.
Tom stayed with him for a while. He held his hand, and watched him sleeping. His tearful eyes roved over that small, familiar face, and for a precious time he lay beside him, oddly content just to watch him sleep.
In those precious moments of quiet, he could almost hear the boy’s heartbeat, as regular as a clock counting away the minutes.
Tom closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. ‘Dear Lord above, please help me to be strong, and forgive me if you can. And it would give me some peace if you could find your way to making Casey’s wishes come true. Could you show him the way to become a fine musician? It isn’t much to ask, is it, not when he’s already losing so much in his turbulent young life?’ He felt guilty and so very sad.
When, a few moments later, Tom found himself falling asleep, he clambered off the bed and, after making sure Casey was resting easy, made his way downstairs.
His father was sitting in the armchair beside a warm, crackling fire.
‘Oh, ’ere you are, Tom. I were beginning to think you’d gone to bed, an’ all,’ he remarked cheerily. ‘Mind you, I nearly nodded off meself a minute or two back. I’ll not be long afore I make my own way up them stairs, I can tell you.’
‘It was a while before Casey closed his eyes,’ Tom explained. ‘He had so many questions. His main worry was how to get the guitar mended, after Ruth smashed it to pieces.’
The old man tutted angrily. ‘Smashed it to pieces, eh? Shame on the woman! That was a terrible, wicked thing to do, even for her!’
Tom, too, had been astonished at the violent way in which she’d smashed the guitar into the wall; almost as though she was taking her rage out on a living thing … a person, maybe.
Bob went on thoughtfully, ‘Don’t say anything to the lad just yet in case it comes to nothing, but I recall somebody talking in the pub last week. They’re thinking of having a piano player of a Sat’day night, and it seems there’s a fella round these parts who knows a great deal about musical instruments and such. Mebbe he can rebuild that guitar?’
The idea gave Tom a deal of contentment before the feeling of sadness took hold again. He closed his eyes and thought of Ruth, and he regretted with all his heart the pain she had caused that young boy.
His own pain was of no importance compared to other issues, but he felt really hurt for Casey, who had his whole life ahead of him, with all its unexpected twists and turns.
The old man had seen the change in his son’s manner. ‘You look like somebody lost,’ he said. ‘Sit yersel’ down, lad. I’ve poured you a drop o’ gin. It’ll help wash your troubles away.’ He gestured to the tumbler on the small table. ‘Get it down you, lad. It’ll do you a world o’ good.’
Making a smile, Tom took the glass and settled in the opposite armchair beside the fire. Being closer now, he observed the rosy glow in his dad’s weathered old face, but it was the twinkle in his eye that gave him away. ‘Looks to me like you’ve started without me,’ Tom laughed. ‘Not that I blame you, because we both need a tipple after what’s happened.’
The old man nodded. ‘There’s nowt wrong wi’ a drop o’ the good stuff now and then, so long as you don’t let it become a habit. Everything in moderation – isn’t that what they say? A little drop occasionally, that’s the trick. Enough for you to celebrate when you’re on the up, and lift your spirits when you’re down.’
Tom agreed. ‘So, where are we now, up or down?’
‘Well, with you having to leave your wife, I’d say we were down a while ago, but now that you and my grandson are ’ere with me, safe and well, I reckon we must be on the up. So, to my mind, that calls for another little tipple.’ He held out his empty glass. ‘Not too much, mind. We’ve things to talk through, and I need a clear ’ead on me shoulders.’
So, they had a second little tipple, and talked into the late hours. Tom explained how Ruth had been sleeping with one of his workmates, and that she’d entertained him in their own house, in their own bed, and worse, ‘Young Casey was right there, outside the bedroom. He actually heard the man’s voice from inside, and when he felt the need to tell me, she started on him. Like a wild thing she was.’
The old man was shocked. ‘Aye, well, there’s no accounting for some folks, and if you ask me, you did right in leaving. I’m glad you brought the boy ’ere. I’d have done exactly the same!’
A moment later, having knocked back his tipple, he got out of his chair and gave
a long stretch. ‘I’m off to me bed, son, afore I drop off in the chair. See you in the morning, eh?’
Tom gave a little nod. ‘Good night, Dad.’ He watched his father amble across the room. ‘Sleep well, and thanks again. If it hadn’t been for you taking us in, I don’t know what might have happened.’
The old man turned round. ‘It’s what any man would do for them as he loves.’
His kind words struck a deep chord with Tom. On a sudden impulse he went across the room and, taking his father into a deep hug, he told him, ‘All my life you’ve been an example to me. I hope I’ve done the same for my boy.’
Surprised by Tom’s fierce display of affection, the old man held him at arm’s length. ‘I know you’re upset about everything, but you’re not to worry, son. As for being a good father to your own son, nobody could have done better. I promise we’ll be fine, all three of us. One way or another we’ll sort it out and, like you, I’m determined young Casey will get his chance.’ He smiled sincerely. ‘Even if it means me trying to mend that guitar meself. Trust me, son, that little lad will have his time.’
Patting Tom on the back, he confided, ‘It’s you I’m worried about. You look like you’ve been through the wringer. I noticed straight off, from seeing you last week, you’ve lost weight. Oh, I can understand how this business with Ruth would bring you down … bring any man down, I’m sure!’
He lowered his voice. ‘The thing is, I can’t help but feel you’re not telling me everything.’
Resting his hands on Tom’s shoulders, he asked him outright, ‘Be honest with me, son. Is there summat you’re not saying? Summat else that’s caused you to turn your back on house and home? Though God knows, what with yer wife carrying on like that, and then upsetting that little lad, that’s more than enough to send a man off the rails. All the same, I need you to be honest with me. So, is there summat?’ He looked Tom in the eye. ‘You can trust me, son. Whatever it is, you know I’m here to help.’
Sidestepping his father’s direct question, Tom shook his head. ‘You already know the problem, and now here you are, right in the middle of it, when I should be dealing with it myself. I’m sorry, Dad. I truly never meant for that to happen.’ Casting his gaze to the floor, he finished lamely, ‘Truth is, things have got on top of me, and I can’t help but wonder … how will it all end.’
‘Tom, now you listen to me!’ Struck by Tom’s heartfelt words, Bob told him firmly, ‘I’m all right with being caught up in your troubles. When a family’s in need, we all pull together, isn’t that the way it’s allus been? If I needed a home, I know you would never turn me away. We’re family, and families look after each other. God willing, I’ll be here for you for as long as the Good Lord sees fit to let me live. D’you understand me, son? If you’re in trouble, it’s my trouble as well, and so long as I’ve got a roof over my head, so have you and the boy … even Ruth, if she ever saw fit to mend her ways. So, we’ll ’ave no more o’ this thanking me, and worrying yerself stupid.’
He paused, before speaking firmly: ‘I’ve asked you once, and now I’ll ask again. Is there summat you’re not telling me?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘What I mean is, while I understand about Ruth and her bad ways, I can’t help but feel, in here,’ he thumped his chest, ‘that you’re deiberately holding summat back. Are yer?’
Again, Tom skirted the question as honestly as he could. ‘Dad! I’ve told you what happened,’ he said.
‘And that’s everything, is it?’
Tom forced a cynical little laugh. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Mmm.’ The old man was still not altogether satisfied, but as he was dog-tired, anything else could wait until morning. ‘All right, son.’ He patted Tom on the shoulder. ‘I’m off to my bed now, and from the look of you I reckon you need to do the same.’ He was concerned at Tom’s appearance: the dark, hollow patches under his eyes, and that forsaken look that took away his smile. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Good night, son. Don’t stay up too late, and remember, you and the boy are all right here with me. I’m well suited wi’ that.’
‘Good night then, Dad. Thanks.’
Still troubled, Bob went carefully up the narrow, winding staircase. At the top, he turned towards the bedroom where Casey was sleeping soundly.
For a while, he stood by the bed, looking tenderly down on that strong little face. Well, lad, it sounds like you and yer father have had a real bad time of it, he thought. ‘But thank God, you’re safe now, and while I’m ’ere to watch over yer, you’ll come to no harm. I don’t know what he’s hiding, but I’m not such an old fool I don’t know when my own son is troubled.’
Looking on the boy again, Bob’s face wreathed in a smile.
Mind you, I’m old and addled, and I could be imagining things. I mean, I’ve been wrong afore, an’ who’s to say I’m not wrong now? Not to worry, eh, lad? The truth is, we all need a good night’s sleep. Things will likely look a whole lot better in the morning.
Leaning down, he gently kissed the boy’s forehead. ‘You’ve no need to fret about the guitar, lad,’ he whispered, ‘because your old gramp will get it fixed. You’ll see, one way or another, you’ll be playing like a good ’un in no time at all.’
He gazed fondly on the boy a moment longer, then he went softly to the door, where he gave a last look back before ambling on to his own bedroom.
Walking carefully to avoid the creaking boards on the landing, he heard the clock strike the eleventh hour, and the downstairs radio playing soft music.
‘Go to bed, son,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Today was a bad ’un, but tomorrow is a new day altogether.’
With that thought in mind he went to his bed hoping that, when tomorrow came, his son might be more able to confide in his old dad.
Downstairs in the back parlour, Tom sat at the small table.
With his eyes closed and the palms of his hands covering his head, he made no attempt to wipe away the tears that ran freely down his face.
Instead, he searched his mind for a way out; a way that would cause the least distress; a way that might allow them to forgive him.
But there was no way out, and he was mortified at the thought of what he was about to do.
In the comfortable familiarity of that small room, alone and deeply troubled, he remained still, his mind going over the remnants of his life, while the only sound breaking the silence was the insistent ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Allowing the rhythmic sound to ripple through his body, he thought it reminiscent of the constancy of Casey’s beating heart.
‘Casey …’ He softly murmured his name. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, in time.’
Raising his head, he glanced about the room, his gaze lingering on the armchair where his father often sat and did his football pools, or picked his horses for the Saturday races.
Decorating the sideboard were his mother’s much-loved ornaments. There was a brown and white pot dog, and beside that a large, framed photograph of his parents and himself as a boy. The picture was a happy one, taken by a beach photographer on a day out to Cleveleys. In pride of place was the big, painted vase that Tom had bought his mother, along with a bunch of flowers to put in it. He remembered, sadly, that birthday had been her last.
Each and every item in this cosy room held a memory. Normally, he found great comfort in that. But not tonight.
Sadness overwhelmed him, but then he looked again at the photograph, and he remembered those happy times. Over the years, this little house had always been a haven to him. Here with his parents and his friends, he had experienced laughter and joy. He had learned from his parents both practical matters and the freedom to dream.
Above all else, he had grown through childhood to manhood, being blessed with a great sense of belonging. Treasures such as that were priceless.
He remembered his fortunate boyhood, and his heart broke for Casey.
Getting up from the table, he absent-mindedly wiped the
drying tears from his face. He then went to the sideboard where he lifted the photo frame. Taking a moment to gaze down on those three happy faces, he gave a whimsical smile. With the tip of his finger he traced the younger faces of his beloved parents, and he remembered that wonderful day out like it was only yesterday.
Replacing the photograph, he then opened the tiny drawer in which his father kept his notepaper and envelopes. They were hardly ever used these days, as he had little reason to write letters. But every now and then an article would appear in the newspaper that would stir up the fight in him, and he would pen a long and carefully crafted letter, spelling out his agreement or disagreement.
Taking the writing paper, together with three envelopes, a pot of ink and a fountain pen, Tom returned to the table.
For what seemed an age, he sat at the table with the articles before him. He had known for some time that he must write these letters, but now that the occasion was actually here, he found it difficult to think straight. His mind was too scrambled. All he could hear was the grandmother clock in the hall, striking the half-hour.
He arranged the notepaper; unscrewed the lid of the ink bottle, and took the top from the fountain pen. What to say? He stared at the paper for a while, searching for the right words. Then he began.
‘My dearest Son,’
When Ruth’s cruel words came into his mind, he viciously scrunched up the paper.
Distressed, he put the pen down and sat for a while going over her claim in his mind: ‘Casey is not your son … I’ve no idea who the father is, but I do know it’s not you … a dark alley … some stranger …’ Her voice echoed in his brain. ‘Casey is not your son …’
Picking up the pen, he started the letter once more.
My dearest Casey,
I have things to tell you, some of which no man should ever have to say to his beloved son.
Since the moment you were born, you have brought me such pride and joy, and I have loved and protected you, with every breath in my body.
Throughout your life, and even when you are very old – God willing – please remember these words, for they’re spoken from the heart.
Three Letters Page 9
