The Journey. Josephine CoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
that dear child with the same all-consuming love that she had felt for Barney. It was Mary who had been her saviour; Mary who was like her daddy in so many ways; Mary who had brought her untold joy.
Adam 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 onto 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 towards 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.
Adam went over to the fireplace and stood there for a while, his arms reaching up to each 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 last 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,’ Adam 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 business,’ he said. ‘I have no right to be here.’
Neither Adam nor Mary would hear of it. ‘Please, Ben, I want you to stay,’ Mary told him, and Adam 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 Adam 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.
Adam 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 realise that their lives would never again be the same.
During the telling, Adam 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.
THE SUMMER OF 1930 was proving to be one of the most glorious on record, as if to compensate in some way for the misery of mass unemployment on Merseyside. Today, 25 May, 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; floral-pinnied women in turbans busied themselves white-stoning their front doorsteps, pausing only for a snippet of gossip as a neighbour 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