A Long Road
Through The Night
Rosemary Hodgson
Copyright C 2016 Rosemary Hodgson
All rights reserved
KINDLE edition
This is a work of fiction. While the places and events in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The two caravan sites exist, but not under the names I have given them. My husband and I have stayed at both on several occasions, and found their staff to be courteous, welcoming, helpful and efficient at all times.
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to my late husband who sadly never had the chance to read it, but would have been thrilled to see it in print, and to our children who were there for us during his long illness, and whose care and comfort have helped me to face and conquer the shock of bereavement.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my friends and fellow writers at Selby Writers` Circle, for all their support,, and to my family who`ve encouraged me to get “A Long Road through the Night” into print.
ONE
On the afternoon of Tuesday 13th June 1995, Sylvia Brandon`s husband vanished from her life for ever.
At first she was unaware that it had happened. She returned from the hairdresser`s at around six-o`clock in the hope of finding him already home, but realised at once that he hadn`t yet returned to their flat behind the museum.
Tom must be working late. A few days previously, a lorry had delivered to the Museum its load of “Musical Instruments of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” and he would want to be certain everything was in perfect readiness for the opening of the visiting exhibition the following week. Perhaps he would like some sandwiches to tide him over while she cooked dinner.
With that thought in mind, Sylvia walked through the garden and across the forecourt of the museum to see if he was there, but the whole building was shuttered and locked against her most determined rattling. Maybe he had strolled down the road to buy the evening paper – she would make the sandwiches anyway, just in case.
By eight-o`clock, she became concerned enough to telephone their two married daughters. `No, Mam, sorry,` Patty said, raising her voice against a cacophony of TV-sound and the voices of squabbling children. `He hasn`t been here. Might he have gone to Dee`s with that book she wanted to borrow?`
Because that was possible, Sylvia made another phone-call. `No, Mum, I`ve not seen him since Sunday,` Delia said. `But please could you remind him about that book? I really do need it for this weekend.` She sounded more concerned about the missing book than about her missing father.
There were other places to try, and Sylvia did so, with increasing desperation. His Local, first of all, where they had not seen him either, and please could he let them know if he would be available for the Darts Final on Saturday night?
His brother`s house, maybe? But John and his wife were out, according to their answering-machine. The Bowls Club? - No, sorry, he hadn`t been there tonight. Nor at the Leisure Centre, though that had been a forlorn hope. He only ever went there to swim, and on Tuesday evenings, use of the pool was restricted to Ladies Only.
At nine-thirty, Patty phoned. `Is he not home yet? I hope he hasn`t been in an accident. Should we start ringing the hospitals?`
`He hasn`t got the car. I took it with me today, to get to my appointment.`
`Where the devil can he be, then?` Unlike Delia, Patty seemed genuinely worried. `Give me a ring the minute he gets back, or I`ll be up all night, thinking the worst.` You and me both, Sylvia thought, reminding herself how silly it was to get so worked-up. Tom would laugh when he came home with some perfectly reasonable explanation for his absence, and learned now she had spent the whole evening imagining disasters.
At eleven, about to go to bed, Patty checked again. `Mam, I don`t mean to sound morbid, but should you maybe ring the Police?`
`If he`s not back by midnight, I will.`
He was not, and Sylvia did ring them. The female officer who answered expressed polite concern, although they could not take an official interest until twenty-four hours had elapsed, since Tom Brandon was a healthy adult, of sound mind. `More than likely he`ll turn-up any minute, full of apologies, after a night out with The Boys,` the woman suggested in the world-weary tone of someone who had seen it all before. It sounded eminently sensible, and Sylvia was sure the police-woman despised her for panicking.
Unable to contemplate going to bed, she sat in Tom`s favourite armchair, drinking cup after cup of coffee, and counting the slow passage of hours. Two o`clock – three – four – still nothing. If he had been all right, surely he would`ve found a way to let me know what`s going on - unless perhaps he couldn`t – had he been mugged, and was lying unconscious in some dark alley? Her brain reeling with terror, she leapt towards the phone, then held herself back. If that had been the case, the Police would surely have found him by now, and told her.
As reasonable explanations ran out, more fanciful possibilities jostled for position in Sylvia`s mind. Perhaps Tom had set out to walk somewhere, lost his memory and was wandering around not knowing what to do next. Or he had fallen asleep on a bus, and been locked in the garage for the night - ridiculous, she decided, fighting back hysterical laughter that could all to easily have become tears.
At some point, she must have dozed off, awakened with a start at seven-thirty by the ringing of the phone. Filled with a rush of relief, she snatched up the receiver. `Tom?`
`No, Mam, it`s Patty. Didn`t he come home at all? Did you ring the Police?`
`Yes, but they can`t do anything till he`s been missing twenty-four hours. `Sylvia could not quite hide disappointment that the caller was Patty, and not Tom.
`Have you been on your own all night? Why-ever didn`t you let us know?` In the background, the sound of another voice interrupted before Patty continued, `Stop right where you are, Mam. Edgar`s coming over to sit with you till there`s news.`
`What about his work?`
`He`s going to tell them there`s a family emergency, and he`ll not be in today.`
That intended kindness made Sylvia feel guilty. `Don`t let him get into trouble with his boss on my account.` In these days of economic-depression, jobs often hung by a thread, and lorry-drivers were ten-a-penny.
`Never mind the damn job!` That Geordie accent was Edgar speaking. `Family`s more important and – I`m sorry if it sounds morbid, Sylv – summick serious must`ve happened, for him to gan-missing as long as this, with no-word. I`ll be at your place in twenty minutes.`
It was comforting to think someone as strong as Edgar would be there during these dreadful lonely hours - it would all have been so different, had parents still possessed the authority of their Victorian forebears. Tom had not wanted Patty to marry a Catholic – Edgar`s mother had not wanted him to marry a Protestant. Eschewing both kinds of religious bigotry, Edgar and Patty had simply married each other, and appeared ideally happy in spite of six children, and a tendency to have too much week left at the end of their money. Sylvia approved of her son-in-law, knowing he could be relied on to confront the whole world for Patty`s sake – he was that kind of man.
Edgar arrived, clumsy and kindly, determined to fight Sylvia`s battles whether she liked it or not. He rang the Police again, hoping to force them to take Tom`s disappearance more seriously. After that, he tried the hospitals, but nobody of Tom`s name or description had been admitted.
As the Museum belonged to the Local Authority, he rang their office over and over, until the first of the day`s incoming staff answered. `Has anybody given him any orders that might`ve stopped him getting home all night?
`
The girl on the switchboard apparently had no idea. `Then has he left any message there?` It appeared she did not know. When Edgar began raising his voice to her, she diverted him to her supervisor to continue wrangling. `Well, somebody must know where he is,` Edgar insisted. `I want to talk to whoever`s running things there.`
It seemed there must be nobody higher-up yet available, for his voice became several decibels louder. `Are you the Head Honcho, like?`. . . Then who`s your boss? I want to talk to him . . . never mind He Won`t Be Able To Help. Let him and me be the judges of that, eh?` Though well-meant, it was all very wearing, and Sylvia wished he would stop. Perhaps Tom was in a phone-box even now, trying desperately to get through, and wondering why his home-number was perpetually engaged so early in the day
Just before eight-twenty, they heard the sirens of a police-car and ambulance, and Sylvia sprang to her feet. `I wonder if they`re coming here. Maybe they`ve got news of Tom.`
Edgar glanced out of the window, and shook his head. `They`re not coming in your gate, they`ve gone round the corner.` Already they must be out of earshot, for the sound of sirens had ceased. Not for us, then, Sylvia decided, not knowing how wrong she was.
The sirens had cut-out suddenly because the emergency vehicles had no further to go. Tom had been in the Museum all along. He had finished his day`s work, tidied his desk, switched all the alarms On and the display-area lighting Off, then gone down into the basement and hanged himself from a steel gantry carrying central heating pipes to the floors above.
Sylvia sat with tightly-clenched hands, listening to the news broken by a nervous-looking constable obviously wishing himself elsewhere. `I don`t believe it,` Sylvia said, remembering how she used to laugh when those words came up in film-dialogue – it seemed such a stupid thing to say. But now, when the time had come, she could think of nothing else except another trite line from the silver-screen. `Are they sure it`s him?`
`I`m afraid there`s no doubt, Mrs. Brandon.` A policewoman who had arrived with her male colleague to break the news shook her head. `His assistant, Mr. Johnson, came in early for work and found him.` So the identification was certain – Dave had been Tom`s right-hand-man for too long to have made a mistake about someone he saw so regularly.
Dave came to the flat as soon as he could, so pallid and distraught that Sylvia almost stopped feeling sorry for herself in her anxiety about him. `You look terrible. Sit down before you fall down. Would you like some coffee?`
Edgar, the man of action, chipped in. `Like hell he would! By the looks of you, chum, you need something a damn-sight stronger than coffee.`
Dave accepted the brandy Edgar brought from the drinks-cabinet, tossing it off at a single swallow. How can he drink it like that, Sylvia thought, before remembering that it was Dave who had found Tom dangling lifeless at the end of a rope, and who would carry that picture in his mind for the rest of his days. Perhaps he needed drink to help him blank out the memories.
`I can`t believe it.` Dave used the same pointless words that Sylvia had uttered. Longing to shout Snap! she knew it would be a terrible lapse of good taste, and managed to bite her tongue in time.
`How did you come to find him?` Edgar asked, putting the question she had hesitated over.
`I came-in early, to check through the catalogue for the new exhibition in case the printers had made any mistakes. Seeing it`s a fine day, I came on the motor-bike. The air was so full of dust, my throat was bone-dry by the time I got here, so I thought I`d make a cuppa before I started. I went down to the basement and noticed lights burning in the boiler-room. At first I thought Tom must`ve left them on by accident. I was even getting ready to pull-his-leg about it. And when I went in, there he was . . . just hanging . . .` Dave`s voice faded away as he buried his face in his hands, shaking visibly.
`God Almighty! That`s a hell of a thing to come across, never expecting it,` Edgar said, offering more brandy which Dave declined with a wave of the hand.
`I daresn`t, thanks. The way I feel right now, if I start drinking, I`ll never be able to stop.` Pulling himself together, Dave rose to his feet. `I need to get home.`
`Is the place all locked-up?` Edgar asked, picking up the empty glass for the wash.
`No. The Law`s still in there. They said they`d tell the rest of the staff when they come-in, and drop the keys off here when they`ve finished prowling round.`
`Are you fit to drive?` Edgar seemed to be taking charge of everything, and Sylvia was happy to leave it that way for the moment.
`I`ll manage, thanks. I haven`t got far to go, and I`ll just take it steady.` Dave leaned over Sylvia to squeeze her hand. `God, Sylv, I`m so sorry. What can I say? I`ll miss him like hell. He was a good bloke. What the devil`s made him do this?`
`I don`t know. Isn`t there a note, or anything?` That had only just occurred to her. `Folks that kill themselves always leave a note, don`t they, to try and make people understand?`
Dave shook his head. `I didn`t see one, but to tell you God`s honest-truth, I wasn`t looking. I was too busy flying-round like a paper-kite, getting the ambulance and the Law, and ringing the Council. Maybe the Police`ll find it, if he wrote one.`
Pray God he did, Sylvia thought – I need to know what drove him to it - was it me? - something I said or did - or didn`t? The possibilities were too many and too wearying to contemplate.
Even in such miserable circumstances, Edgar`s aunt jumped at the chance to spend a day looking after the three of his children not yet old-enough for school. With the family taken care of, Patty came over to the museum flat, ostensibly to support her mother, in reality needing comfort herself, for Tom had been a loving father without whom life would hardly be the same.
`Has Edgar got his news a bit mixed-up, Mam? Surely that cannot be right, what he`s told me. Has Dad really . . ?` Unable to finish the sentence, she put her arms round her mother.
`Killed himself? Yes.` Sylvia struggled not to break down in front of her daughter, and for the moment succeeded.
`What-for?`
`Don`t ask me.` The reply was too curt for politeness, but hanging on to some semblance of composure took all Sylvia`s strength.
At her insistence, Edgar rang his employers to find out if they needed him that afternoon. Kind as he had been, she was glad when they said they did. His boundless capability had become wearing, and at the moment she wanted only the comfort of Patty`s quieter presence.
Allowing her umpteenth cup of coffee to cool and skin-over, Sylvia sat hunched-up in an armchair, defeated by her efforts to make sense of the tragedy. `I haven`t even got the satisfaction of knowing why he`s done it, Patty. He hasn`t left a note.`
`Are you sure? Have they looked?
`Dave said he hadn`t seen one, and if the police had found it, surely they would`ve said, when they fetched the museum keys back.`
`Could he have left a letter here, in the house?` Because Patty`s suggestion appeared sensible, they searched the flat, but Tom Brandon had apparently cancelled his subscription to the Human Race with no explanation to those left behind.
Slumped in the armchair with yet another cup of unwanted coffee, Sylvia struggled to come to terms with her loss. `Why, Patty? Why? We`ve been happy – as happy as most married folks are, I guess. At least I always thought we were, till now.`
Patty bit her lip, fighting tears. ` You and Dad always seemed like the perfect couple.`
`Yesterday I would`ve agreed with you. But surely people don`t kill themselves for nothing.` Exasperation supervened on despair. `Why the hell couldn`t he leave a note? I`ve got the right to know why he`s done this. We`ve had no serious quarrels, no excessive drinking, no gambling, no other women – as far as I know, anyway. And I`ve certainly had no other men. His job was secure and satisfying to him, which`s a great thing in this day and age. He`s hardly had a day`s illness in his life, and if he had any money worries he`s never mentioned them to me.`
`Perhaps we haven`t looked in the right place. We could still find a letter somewhere,` Patty
hoped aloud.
`No. We won`t. He`s just dropped out of my life without a word, the callous bastard.` Hands pressed to her eyes, Sylvia wept bitterly for the loss, not only of her husband, but of the safe and comfortable life she had hitherto known.
Summoned by a hasty whispered phone-call from Patty, Delia rushed from work to her mother`s side – somewhat to Sylvia`s surprise, for she had rather unkindly expected her elder daughter to wait until close of business, putting her career first as in all the other major decisions of her life. That judgement had been too harsh – for once, Delia looked distressed, perhaps remembering her father`s many kindnesses. The sight of her sent Sylvia`s train of thought speeding off in an inconsequential direction. `I`m sorry, I don`t know where that book is, that you wanted. Is it very important?`
`Not now.` Delia dabbed at her eyes with a pretty embroidered handkerchief, shining-clean and dainty, just like everything else about her. Patty always looked slipshod by comparison, but with six children under eleven, she probably had little time or money for self-improvement
The doctor, called by Patty to help her mother over the first shock, might be one source of information. `Has Tom consulted you lately? Did he have anything wrong with him that he hasn`t told me about?`
`That`s not for me to say, Mrs. Brandon. All consultations with patients are strictly confidential.`
Irritated, Sylvia snapped back. `For God`s sake! He`s dead, so he`s hardly going to sue you for breach of confidence, is he? When all`s said and done, I am his wife – well, his widow, anyway. Surely I`ve got some sort of rights?`
After all the secrecy, it turned out that there had been nothing in Tom`s state of health to warrant the drastic action he had taken. In the absence of an explanation, Sylvia`s feelings of guilt persisted. As the person closest to Tom, should she have guessed, seen some sign that others missed, read his mind through the subtle unspoken links of a long relationship?
A Long Road Through The Night Page 1
