Three Letters Page 11

  Tom was not listening. He had heard the train whistle from far off, and he knew what he must do.

  Tom was touched by the way the lady had addressed him in that same easy, familiar way his own father did.

  Tom recalled the day he and his father came right here to this very bridge, to spot the trains.

  He’d been so excited, he’d leaned far over the wall in order to see the trains better, until his father had swiftly hoisted him back with a gentle reprimand. ‘Don’t you ever do that again, son. Them trains don’t stop for nothing, least of all for a scrap of a boy like you.’ He’d led Tom away. ‘I’m sorry, son, but you gave me a real fright, leaning over like that.’ He’d marched Tom to King Street and into old John’s toffee shop, where he treated him to a glass of sarsaparilla.

  Just then, in his tortured mind, Tom could clearly see himself and his father on this very spot where he stood now. For a moment, the image hurt so much he could hardly breathe. But the moment passed, and his intention remained strong.

  This was the place where he had known such joy and laughter. He belonged here, together with all the wonderful memories.

  He heard the woman bid him good night. He watched her walk away, calling out as she went, ‘Mind how you go, young man!’

  The train whistle sounded nearer. Feeling strangely calm, Tom sat on the wall, his legs dangling over; his gaze following the rising steam as it approached.

  Just a short distance away, Dolly was greatly relieved to find her little dog. ‘You naughty scamp!’

  Threading the lead through his collar, she turned to make her way back, when she heard the scream of the train whistle. It was very close. Some deep inner instinct urged her to quicken her steps. On nearing the bridge, she tried to make out the young man, but the steam rose and hid him from sight.

  As the train sped towards him, Tom waited for the right moment. When it came, he hesitated for just a split second, then with a forgiving heart, he leaned forward, loosened his hold and slid softly away.

  His last thoughts before the train hit him full on were for Casey and his father.

  His last words, however, were for the woman who had caused her son and himself such torment. ‘I love you, Ruth. I always have.’

  Dolly was just a short distance away, when she saw him let go of the wall. And then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

  ‘Oh God, NO … NO!’ Shocked and tearful, she ran forward, but it was too late. Realising what his intentions had been all along, she now understood his anxiety to send her away.

  How she wished with all her heart that she had stayed, and talked a while longer. If only she’d persuaded him to confide in her, she might have prevented him from doing such a shocking thing.

  Shaken to her very bones, she remained momentarily transfixed to the spot. She wanted to peer over the wall, but was terrified of what she might see. Through the turmoil in her mind she knew it was too late. Mere flesh and blood could never have survived such an impact.

  With the initial trauma beginning to ebb away, she began violently shaking. Then she was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I should have stayed with him. I should have stopped him.’ She blamed herself.

  Screaming out to raise the alarm, she crossed the street at a run. ‘Help! Please … somebody.’ Reaching her next-door neighbour’s house, she banged her fists on the door and yelled at the top of her voice, ‘Billy! Open the door.’ She stole a nervous, fleeting glimpse at the bridge where the young man had been, ‘BILLY! For God’s sake open this door!’

  When the door was opened by a sleepy, middle-aged man in his pyjamas, she rushed past him, the words tumbling out in a rush as she told him what she had seen. Then she was sobbing helplessly, holding onto him, telling him about ‘that sad young man’ and how she had an idea of what he meant to do. ‘I should’ve stayed with him. I should have stopped him …’

  When she grew hysterical, Billy firmly urged her to stay calm and speak clearly.

  When he understood the details he asked quietly, ‘Are you sure he meant to jump? Could he not have accidentally slipped from the wall?’

  Dolly shook her head. ‘No … no!’ Thinking back, she could see the incident so clearly in her mind it was too shocking to comprehend. ‘He just … let go of the wall and slid over the edge. He …’ she took a deep breath, ‘… he told me he was going to meet a friend at the station, but I know now that was a lie. There was no friend. He waited for the train to come …’ her voice quivered, ‘… he was waiting for the train to get close enough to the bridge, and then he just …’

  Momentarily silent, she knew she would never forgive herself for not staying there to keep him company, to talk with him. ‘I blame myself,’ she murmured. ‘I should have realised …’

  ‘Hey, it’s not your fault,’ Billy calmed her. ‘If that young man truly meant to jump from the bridge, there’s nothing whatsoever you could have done to stop him. If you’d stayed, he might have moved away, but probably only until you were out of sight. From what you tell me, I reckon he was determined.’

  Dolly was past listening. Instead, she was rocking back and forth in the chair, quietly sobbing and chunnering to herself.

  After gently quietening her, Billy firmly advised, ‘We’d best call the police. When they get here, you must tell them exactly, what you just told me.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CASEY WAS OUT of bed and eager to see his father, when he heard a car door slam shut in the street below.

  Having already pulled one sock up to his ankle, he now hopped awkwardly to the window, while continuing to pull it up to his knee.

  For a fleeting moment he thought about his mother, and the awful row that had brought him and his dad here. He had stayed over with his granddad Bob many times before, but never with his dad in the next room. Now, though, he needed to talk to him about his mam and everything …

  Throwing open the curtains, he closed his mind to the bad things his mam had said. Instead, he chose to concentrate only on what his dad had told him afterwards: that he was his son, and always would be.

  Curious now, Casey pressed his nose to the windowpane. Looking down, he noticed one police officer standing by a black car, and another policeman climbing out of the other side and making his way round to the pavement. He saw the severe expressions on their faces, and when the two officers went to the front door of Granddad Bob’s house, a sense of dread came over Casey.

  Why were they here? What did the police want with Granddad Bob? Was he in trouble? Then Casey thought of the row between his parents. ‘It’s Mam! She’s called the police to come and take me away.’ Or had she sent them for his dad? Had she lied and claimed that he’d hit her? Casey knew she’d lied before. But how could the police take his dad away when he had done nothing wrong?

  He had to go down and tell the police … his dad had done nothing wrong. It was his mam’s fault. Look how she’d punched him with her fists, and when Dad tried to stop her she went mad and broke Granddad Bob’s guitar. It was all her fault.

  Quickly, he grabbed his other grey sock and, sitting on the edge of the bed, he struggled to put it on.

  Rushing to the other bedroom, Casey was surprised to see that the bed was made and his father was nowhere in sight. Assuming he must be downstairs with Granddad Bob, he ran towards the stairs.

  He could hear Granddad Bob at the door. He was talking to the officers, and then they were inside, going down the passage. Peeping over the banister, Casey could see them: Granddad Bob had his head bent, and was going ever so slowly towards the back parlour, with the two police officers following behind. It seemed to Casey that they were moving too slowly, too quietly, and the silence was almost deafening.

  The feeling of dread that Casey had experienced earlier was much stronger now; like a hard, choking lump in his throat.

  Softly, nervously, he crept down the stairs and sat on the last but one step. From here, he could listen without being seen. He was angry. She had done this. She wanted his dad to be put a
way, but Casey was adamant he wouldn’t let them do that. When he told them the truth, they would understand. His mam was a liar and a bully.

  In the back parlour, Tom’s father fell heavily into his old armchair, his ashen face stained with tears and his heart heavier than any man could bear.

  For what seemed an age, he did not utter one word, nor did he look at the two men. Instead, keeping his face down, he reached out and taking Tom’s open letter from the side table, he held it up to them.

  The senior officer took the letter and read it, then handed it to his colleague. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Denton.’ Sympathy was all he could offer. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  The officer went on, ‘From the papers your son had in his pocket, we discovered his home address. We went round there first, but there was no one in. The neighbour said there’d been a row of sorts, and soon after your son left, his wife took off and hasn’t been seen since.’

  Straining to listen, but unable to hear clearly what was being said, Casey shifted down to the next step. Peering carefully round the corner, he saw Granddad Bob in the chair, looking older and sadder than he had ever seen him before. The two stern-faced officers were standing over him.

  Casey wanted to go to find out why Granddad Bob was crying, but he was too afraid. Something was very wrong. If his mam really had sent them to take his dad away, they would be asking where he was, and Granddad would show them the door. But it wasn’t like that, and Casey’s fear was heightened.

  What did they want? Why were they here?

  Casey quickly pulled back when the officer addressed the old man.

  ‘When did you know about this letter?’

  ‘I found it this morning, when I woke up.’ There was a muffled sob while Granddad Bob discreetly wiped his eyes. ‘It was propped up on my bedside cabinet.’

  ‘And before you found this letter, did you have any idea of what he meant to do?’

  The old man shook his head.

  ‘And you had no idea of what he’s explained in the letter … the obvious cause of his distress?’

  He was greeted with silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Denton, but I have to ask these questions. I know this is painful for you, but even though we now have the letter, I am obliged to verify the reason for us being here and, like I say, I know how difficult this must be for you.’ His voice was warm, his manner caring. ‘You did understand what I was saying to you at the door?’

  The old man looked up, his voice breaking as he said softly, ‘I know what you told me, and I have the letter. But … I can’t seem to get it into my head.’ His face was haggard. ‘I can’t make myself believe … ?’ Racked with grief, he lowered his head and sobbed; unable to discuss it any more.

  Leaning forward on the step, Casey was aching to go to his granddad, but when he saw the younger officer glance his way, he dodged back, his instinct to remain hidden.

  Deeply moved by the old man’s distress, the officer stooped to his level. ‘It’s all right, old fella.’ He laid his hand over Bob’s trembling fist. ‘I’m sorry … I truly am, but you do need to hear what I’m telling you, because sadly, I’m afraid it is true, although as I’m sure you understand, there are other steps to be taken before we know for certain.’ He was careful not to go into detail of how they had discovered the pitiful remains of a young man, together with proof of his identity.

  He explained in reverent tone, ‘Mrs Dolly Pritchard gave us enough of a description to tie it all together as best we could under the circumstances.’ He went quickly on, ‘Also, we recovered the remains of two documents, which we’ve already shown you, and which you’ve identified as belonging to your son.’

  Leaving Casey’s granddad to reflect on that, the officer lifted his gaze to the photograph on the sideboard. It tied in with the smaller, damaged photo they’d discovered on the tracks earlier that morning.

  ‘That’s your son, isn’t it, Mr Denton?’

  The old man looked up, his eyes raw from the crying, ‘Yes, that’s Tom,’ he confirmed. ‘And there’s his own darling son alongside.’ He pointed a shaking finger at the figure of Casey.

  His thoughts were now for the little boy. Dear God above, how would he tell him that his father had thrown himself under a train and was killed instantly?

  How would the child cope when, even to his own weathered old mind, it beggared belief that Tom would do such a wicked thing? But then, who was he to know how a man’s mind might work, when faced with the agonising decision that had haunted Tom?

  Still reluctant to believe it, he asked the officer for the second time, ‘Tell me again … what happened?’

  ‘Like I explained, we investigated a call some hours ago. A woman living nearby was out looking for her little dog, and she stopped to talk with the young man, who we now believe to be your son. As she walked away, some instinct made her turn back, and she actually saw him slide from the bridge wall. She then ran to a neighbour’s house, and he raised the alarm. We responded swiftly, but it was already too late. There was absolutely nothing anyone could do. I’m so sorry.’

  Crouched down out of sight on the step, Casey was confused. Sometimes when the officer spoke quietly he could hardly hear what was being said, but he could hear his granddad’s quiet sobbing, and it tore through him like a rush of cold wind.

  ‘This woman …’ His granddad’s trembling voice was so low, Casey dared to lean forward in order to hear him, ‘… who is this woman? What exactly did she tell you?’

  Now the younger officer stepped forward, while the first one was grateful for the chance to take a deep breath and compose himself, for although they were used to such visits, this particular duty was especially harrowing. ‘As my colleague said, her name is Dolly Pritchard. She’s a widow, and she lives opposite the railway bridge at Mill Hill …’

  While he explained the event in a sensitive, careful manner, Casey sat bolt upright on the stairs, his heart racing as he tried to make sense of it all.

  His mind was flooded with all manner of questions. That officer said some woman called Dolly had stopped to ask his dad about a dog, and now the police were here, and Granddad Bob was crying. What was all this about? When did it happen, and why was his dad on the railway bridge at Mill Hill? And, where was his dad now?

  ‘Where did you say he was when she stopped to ask him about the dog?’ The old man was trying hard to piece it all together, but it was difficult. His reasoning was all over the place and it was all too much. Way too much! He didn’t want to listen, but he knew he had to. ‘My son … where was he when he spoke to the woman? Where was he … exactly?’

  ‘Like I said before,’ the officer was more than willing to explain again in view of the old man’s distress and confusion, ‘the young man we believe to be your son was standing on the railway bridge at Mill Hill.’

  For a minute, Bob remained silent, appearing not to have heard, and then, as the information settled in his mind, the fragments came together and formed a heartbreaking picture. ‘The railway bridge at Mill Hill you say? Oh, dear God, no!’

  In his mind, the old man drifted back to the days when he would take Tom to watch the trains going under Mill Hill bridge. Anne would pack them a bag of sandwiches and a flask, and they would camp out on the bridge, waiting for each train as it came flying in. They would laugh when the steam rose and momentarily shrouded them, and later they would take the long walk home to Addison Street, talking through their happy time when trainspotting.

  Bob smiled through his tears. ‘Mill Hill were allus a special place to me and my boy.’

  Suddenly it was like he could not hold in the pain any longer, and his cries were heart-rending. ‘All them years I took him to that bridge. It were ours … our own special place, and now I don’t know what to think.’ His voice was hoarse with emotion. ‘Why in God’s name would he do such a terrible thing?’ He began to rock back and forth.

  Moved by the old man’s pain, the older officer leaned close and in a gentle voice he told him, ‘Ma
ybe it was the only place he could go, because in his mind he imagined he would be with you. Maybe that bridge and the train were the last things he needed to see, because that was where he spent some of the happiest times of his life.’

  Leaning into the chair Bob gave a whimsical little smile. ‘Aye … mebbe.’ He hoped that was what Tom had thought: that he would leave this world with a picture of himself and his father in that very spot. They were good memories, and maybe that truly was the reason why Tom had chosen that place. The thought offered him small comfort, though at the same time, he felt angry and sad. And, oh, so very lonely. And yet, he had young Casey, Tom’s son, his own dear grandson.

  ‘This woman, Mrs Pritchard, what exactly did she see?’

  The officer answered in a quiet voice, ‘Only that he was leaning on the wall, and when she turned round, he appeared to have climbed up onto the wall, and then he just … well, she wasn’t sure whether it was done on purpose, or whether he fell accidentally.’ He pointed to the letter. ‘As to that, I believe your son’s letter appears to answer that question.’

  Listening on the stairs, Casey understood his dad had been sitting on the wall on the railway bridge at Mill Hill, and that something might, or might not have happened.

  But what was that to do with his dad, and what was the letter they kept talking about? Granddad was crying, but why? And where was his dad?

  Suddenly he could bear it no longer. Bursting into the room, he demanded to know, ‘Where’s my dad? What’s happened to him? I WANT MY DAD!’ When the tears flooded his eyes, Granddad was on his feet, holding out his arms to take him.

  ‘Oh, lad! Were you listening? Tell me what you heard.’

  But Casey was adamant. ‘Where’s my dad? I want my dad!’

  The old man moved towards him, his arms open wide and his voice trembling. ‘Oh, lad let me take you back upstairs. Then we’ll talk you and me.’