The Journey (9 page)

Reaching down, Mary laid her own hand over that of her mother. She could feel the warm softness of her skin, and beneath the tip of her fingers, the blood running through Lucy’s veins. Holding hands was not something she and her mother did all that often, so she felt privileged, and oddly humbled.

Choking back the emotion, she slid her mother’s hand beneath the sheets and covered it over. She then stroked her fingers through the long graying strands of hair where they lay nestled on the pillow like silken threads; so soft in her fingers.

She gazed long on Lucy’s face, her eyes following every feature, every shadow and shape, and all the while she wondered about her mother, and about her father. What had transpired before she was born? What was the secret that she had always known existed? And why had she never been told of her parents’ true past?

Her heart turning with emotion and the questions burning bright in her mind, she kissed the sleeping woman and made her way back downstairs to the men: Arthur had mashed the tea and was busy pouring it out. “She’s sleeping well,” Mary told them, gratefully accepting the cup that was handed to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking so peaceful.”

“Thank God for that.” Arthur knew what a restless soul Lucy was, and unlike Mary he knew the reason why. “It will do her the world of good to sleep through the night.” His voice fell until it was almost inaudible. “If she’s in a deep sleep, maybe she won’t be plagued by the bad dreams.”

“What bad dreams?” Mary had heard his quiet words and they bothered her. “Mother never told me about any dreams.”

Silently cursing himself, the little man tried to dismiss his remark. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he lied. “I recall how she once told me she’d had a bad dream, that’s all.”

Mary wasn’t satisfied. “You said she was plagued. That doesn’t sound like one bad dream to me.” She knew Arthur had known her parents long before she was born, and now she realized he was part of the secret she had never been privileged to share. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Sensing something too deep for his understanding, Ben wisely changed the subject. “The fire’s almost out. Shall I put more logs on?”

Relieved that the moment was broken, Arthur turned to him. “I think it might be a good idea,” he said, and to Mary, “if that’s all right with you?”

Having believed that she was on the verge of a long-awaited peep into the past, Mary now felt cheated. “Yes,” she answered, “best keep the fire alive. I for one won’t be going to bed tonight.”

Arthur was horrified. “You must get your sleep,” he told her. “I’ll stay here and keep a check on your mother. I promise to wake you if needs be.”

Mary looked at Ben. A man of few words, he had such quiet strength. “Will you stay?”

He smiled on her, a slow, easy smile that filled her heart and made her feel safe. “Of course. Arthur’s right, though. Your mother will need you to be bright and alert tomorrow. You’ll sleep better in your bed.”

Mary would not hear of it. “I’m staying here with you two. Three pairs of ears are better than one, and we can take it in turns to check in on her. Look—there are two big sofas and a deep armchair. We can all snatch a moment’s sleep when we grow tired.”

She smiled from one to the other. “Meanwhile, we’ll drink our tea and talk.” She paused. “The time will soon pass.”

While Ben and Mary sipped their tea and chatted about things other than the one which pressed on their minds, Arthur became increasingly agitated. By referring to Lucy’s nightmares, he had almost betrayed his long-held loyalty to her.
“Mary must never know … promise me you won’t ever tell.”
That had been Lucy’s request to him, and though he had done everything possible for the woman he cherished, he had managed to avoid making an actual promise not to tell.

Somewhere deep in his soul, he truly believed that one day, Mary would have to know the truth of what had happened; not least because she herself was part of that fascinating, devastating story, for without it, she would never have been born.

Discreetly watching him, Mary saw how Arthur was pacing the floor, faster and faster, until it seemed he would go crazy. She saw the panic in his face and the way he was rolling his fists together, much like her own mother did when anxious. And she knew, without a shadow of doubt, that old secrets were tearing Arthur and her mother apart.

While she watched him, Ben was watching her. And just as she had seen the anguish and pain in Arthur’s eyes, he saw the very same in hers. Without a word he took her hand in his and, when she swung her gaze to him, he stroked her face, fleetingly. “Your mother will be fine,” he whispered. “You have to believe that.”

Mary acknowledged him with an unsure nod of the head. She wanted him to hold her, and kiss her, and be the safe haven she craved; for in that moment she had never felt so alone in the whole of her life.

Suddenly, Arthur was standing before them. “I thought I heard a noise—I’m sure it came from upstairs. Please, lass … will you check on your mother again? See if she’s all right?”

Mary didn’t need asking twice. She was on her feet and out of the room before he’d finished speaking. While she was running up the stairs, Ben grew concerned for Arthur. Taking the little man by the shoulders, he sat him in the armchair. “Here, sit down … before you fall down.” And when Arthur was seated, head low in his hands and his whole body trembling, Ben dashed off to the kitchen and brought him back a glass of water. “Drink this … it’ll help calm you.”

By the time Arthur had swilled down every last drop of the cool water, Mary had returned. “Mother is fast asleep,” she told them. “She hasn’t moved, except to pull down the covers a little.” Lucy never did like being too warm, even in her sleep.

Arthur grabbed her hand. “Are you sure she’s all right?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Mary squeezed his hand comfortingly. “Like the doctor said … she’s sleeping soundly.”

And then Arthur was weeping, quietly at first, until the sobs racked his body, and when he looked up at them he was like a man haunted. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to your mam,” he said brokenly. “I love her, d’you see? I have loved her for a long, long time … and always will till the day I die, and even after that.”

Mary sat on the edge of the sofa, opposite Arthur and next to Ben, but she did not let go of Arthur’s hand.

“Do you think I don’t know how much you love her?” she asked tenderly. “I’ve known it since I was very small. I’ve seen the way you look at her, and I’ve heard you whisper her name … talking to her when you thought she couldn’t hear. But
I
heard, and I know how much you adore her.”

She had a question. “Why did she not love you back in the same way?”

Arthur was curiously hurt by her question, though he understood it well enough. “She
did
love me … she still
does!
”

“Yes, I know that, but why did she not love you
in the same way?
”

He smiled painfully at that, a sad, lonely smile that made her feel guilty. “We can’t always choose whom we love,” he answered wisely. “I didn’t choose to fall head over heels in love with Lucy, any more than she chose to fall head over heels in love with your daddy.”

He gave a long, rippling sigh. “And who could blame her for that. Y’see, Barney Davidson was a very special man. Not because he was handsome or rich, or even because he was exceptional in ways we mere mortals might understand.” His eyes shone with admiration. “No! He was
more
than that. He was deep, and kind …” Hesitating, he gave a shrug. “Sometimes, words alone can never describe someone.”

“Please, Arthur, will you try to describe him for me? No one ever talks about him. I know my stepfather took good care of us, and I’ll always treasure him for that, but he died when I was about seven, and I don’t really miss him. It’s my real dad I want to reach out for.”

Arthur was shocked to see the tears running down her face and once again, was tempted to tell her everything. “You never knew him, did you, lass—not really?” he murmured. “You were only a wee thing when we lost him. He was my dear, dear friend … the best pal a man could ever have, and I loved him for it.”

Afraid of losing the moment again, Mary persisted. “Please, tell me what you know, what you and Mother have always kept from me.” Her voice broke. “I will never rest until I know what happened, and don’t tell me there was nothing untoward in my parents’ lives, because in here …” she tapped the cradle of her heart “… I know there was.”

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.