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, Adam, will you try to describe him for me? No one ever talks about him.’
Adam 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.
‘Adam?’ 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, Adam 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, 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 mesmerising 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 realising 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 her.
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 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
