The Journey (10 page)

But what of the other innocents? Dear God above!

WHAT OF THEM?

Weary now, she dropped her hands and the photograph fell on to 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 toward 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.

Arthur went over to the fireplace and stood there for a while, his arms reaching up to either 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,” Arthur 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,” he said. “I have no right to be here.”

Neither Arthur nor Mary would hear of it. “Please, Ben, I want you to stay,” Mary told him, and Arthur 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 Arthur 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.

Arthur 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 realize that their lives would never again be the same.

During the telling, Arthur 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.

T
he summer of 1930 was proving to be one of the most glorious on record, as if to offset the misery of mass unemployment on Merseyside. Today, May 25, 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; floralpinnied women in turbans busied themselves white-stoning their front doorsteps, pausing only for a snippet of gossip as a neighbor 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 older man laughed. “That’s because you’re a miserable bugger, and I should know, being the unfortunate that had the next bunk to you.”

“What d’you mean? We got on all right, didn’t we?”

“That’s true—but only because when you’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean, you’ve either to get on with your shipmates, or jump off the ship. And I for one didn’t fancy being the sharks’ next meal.”

“So where are you off to now?”

“Home to South Wales, thank God. What about you? Where might
you
be headed?”

A crafty smile flickered over the younger man’s features. “I’ve a woman to see.”

“A woman, eh?” The other man knew of Frankie Trent’s liking for the ladies, because he’d witnessed it many a time in port. “So, she’s
another
one you left behind, is she?”

“Whether I left her behind or not, she’ll still be waiting for me.”

“You’re an arrogant devil, I’ll give you that.”

“I might stay this time … make an honest woman of her,” Trent boasted.

The older man laughed out loud at the idea. “Never!”

“Ah, but this one’s different. She’s full of fun, a real stunner. Moreover, she’ll do anything for me.” He preened himself. “A man could do worse than settle down with a woman like Lucy Baker.”

“Well, good luck to you then, boyo. As for me, I’m away to my beloved Wales. No more sailing the world’s oceans for me. I’m finished with all that.”

“So, what will you do? There’s mass unemployment, you know. It may not be much of a picnic in your part of the world, matey.”

“That won’t bother me.” The older man took a deep, gratifying breath, and when he released it, the answer came with it. “I’ve not made up my mind yet, but what I do know is this: I’ll spend my days as I please, tending my bit of land and fishing, and not be driven by money and command. I’ve worked hard and saved my wages, and God willing, you’ll not see me again.” With that he threw his kitbag over his shoulder and strode off, with never a look back.

Watching him go, the other man laughed under his breath. “That’s what they all say,” he sneered, “and you’re no different from the rest.” Dark-haired, dark-eyed and with a heart to match, Frank Trent was a regular Jack the Lad who fancied he should please every woman he came across, and he had done just that, in every port across the world.

We’re
both
going fishing, he thought as he walked on. I’ll leave you to catch the ones with the tails, Taffy Evans, while I settle for the others—the ones that pretend to fight you off when all they really want is for you to catch ’em and show ’em a good time.

As he left the docks and headed toward the nearest lodging-house, he had only one woman on his mind; a young and spritely thing, with long flowing hair and a smile that could melt a man’s heart from a mile off. “You’re a lucky girl, Lucy Baker!” he chuckled. He hoped she’d kept her looks and taken care of herself, because Frankie boy was on his way!

He called her up in his mind and smiled. Even after two years away and countless other women, he’d still got a soft spot for her. She’d been a virgin when they’d met, a hardworking shop girl, still living with her parents, and she’d fallen for him hook, line and sinker. Who knows, if she treated him right, he might even consider putting a ring on her finger. Somehow, she had got to him, where the others hadn’t. Maybe it was her innocence and loyalty—things in short supply among the women he usually had dealings with.

He squared his shoulders and marched on. That doesn’t mean to say I’ll be staying for sure, he thought. Oh no! Like the man said, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and half the fun is catching them, then throwing them back for another day.

An hour and a half later, he had drunk a pint, had a strip-down wash and bedded the landlord’s daughter, twice. And now he was on a bus, headed for Kitchener Street, a mile or so from the docklands—number 14. He checked his notebook and scanned the many names there. Yes, that was it—Lucy Baker at number 14, Kitchener Street, Liverpool.

“Will that be a return ticket, or one way?” The conductor had his ticket-machine at the ready.

“I might be coming back, or I might not.” Frankie liked to hedge his bets, especially as he didn’t quite know what awaited him. “I’ll have a return ticket, if you please.”