ought to go and see if everything’s all right.’
‘You keep your nose out of it and don’t interfere. They’ve rowed before, and no doubt they’ll row again. She thrives on trouble, you should know that by now.’
Sylvia, however, found herself talking to thin air as her husband followed the shouts and abuse that came from the Denton house. ‘Oh, my!’ At the door, he saw Ruth lying there, still loudly complaining. She appeared half dazed and there was a trickle of blood running down her face. When she madly struggled to get up off the floor, the ornaments fell off the side table one after the other.
‘Whatever’s happened? Here … let me help you …’
As William began to make his way into the house, Ruth gave him a barrage of abuse. ‘Bugger off out of it!’ Snatching a small ornament, she sent it flying through the air, to land at his feet. ‘You’d best clear off before I get up … or you’ll rue the day!’
When he came running back indoors, his wife was in fits of laughter. ‘You silly old fool! I told you not to go, but you never listen, do you?’
‘Hmm!’ Without another word, he skulked into the parlour, lit up his pipe, and sat there, contemplating life and thanking his lucky stars he had married a sensible, understanding wife.
Away from Henry Street, Tom was growing frantic. Casey was nowhere to be seen. He was not in the street, nor was he at the bus stop, and each time he called out, Tom was greeted with silence.
After widening his search beyond Penny Street, he wended his way back to Henry Street. At the back of his mind Tom worried that the boy might have overheard the row. If so, it would have been a devastating shock, flooding Casey’s young mind with all manner of imaginings. Tom hoped with all his heart that the one thing Casey had not heard was his mother’s shocking confession.
Suddenly Tom recalled the place where Casey would go whenever he wanted to be alone or quiet; mostly after school and before his daddy was home. That was the time when Ruth might send him out – so she could entertain her men friends, Tom now knew.
He remembered how much Casey loved the peace and quiet of the Blakewater, a long, winding brook that ran behind Henry Street and on through the lowlands of Blackburn. He quickened his steps towards the place.
Once there, he paused to look over the little stone bridge, and was greatly relieved to see Casey below. A small bundle of humanity scrunched in a heap on the wet cobbles, he was sobbing bitterly, his arms wrapped round the guitar and his head bent low.
Saddened at the sight of that small, innocent child hunched up in the cold and so deeply distressed, Tom thought of where the blame lay. He suspected the worst: that Casey must have heard his mother’s damning confession; that the man he had always known and loved as his father was not his father at all.
Tom felt helpless. While he himself was trying to come to terms with her wicked claim, he could not even imagine the trauma Casey was going through. His heart went out to him.
‘Casey!’ Tom called out.
When there was no answer, he took off at a run, over the bridge and down the slope, where he slithered and slipped on the shifting cobbles. ‘Casey. You had me worried, son. I’ve been searching everywhere for you!’
Casey appeared not to have heard or, as Tom suspected, he chose not to respond.
A few minutes later, Tom was seated cross-legged alongside the child.
‘I’m sorry about earlier, about the shouting and the things that were said, but none of it was your fault, son. Don’t ever think that.’ Deciding it might be wiser not to elevate the situation, Tom slid a comforting arm about Casey’s shoulders. ‘I’m just glad you’re safe. When I couldn’t find you, I got really concerned.’
Tom waited for him to speak. The boy, though, remained silent, afraid to open a conversation that might prove his fears were all too real.
Tom understood. In some inexplicable way he, too, felt immensely safe in those familiar surroundings, and, again like Casey, he was momentarily lost in the peace of that place.
This dark, dank area beneath the Blakewater bridge could never be described as beautiful. Beneath life’s traffic, and surrounded by brick buildings and stone walls, a visitor might be forgiven for thinking he was deep in the bowels of the earth. The air was thick with a pervading stench of rotting food and other perishables routinely thrown into the water from the bridge, yet, for all that, there was something magical about this place. Here an unquiet soul felt safe and uniquely comforted. Unlike people, this ancient bridge would not desert or hurt you.
Now quieter of heart, Tom glanced about him at the tall, ancient walls that had stood for an age, thick and solid, and strong enough to support the houses that had rested on those reliable stone shoulders for many an age.
At certain times, after heavy rains, the shifting stream of Blakewater would rise to cover the walls and flood the passageways into the back yards. Carried by the high water, rats would swim through into the house cellars. Many scampering rodents lost their lives when the frightened residents beat them with spades and threw their corpses back into the swirling, stinking waters.
When the water receded, the rats were carried off, and the walls were left covered in a coat of dark slime, which dripped relentlessly until a brighter day arrived to dry it off.
Now, softly breaking the silence, the delicate splashes of water trickled over the cobbles to create a unique melody. Above them, with the evening closing in fast, the streetlamp cast a flickering, eerie shadow over the fading day.
‘You love it here, don’t you?’ Tom said softly. ‘I can understand why.’ He chided himself for not searching here earlier for the boy.
‘Yes, it’s my favourite place.’ Casey did not look up.
Tom smiled. ‘Mine too.’
Surprised by Tom’s admission, the boy peeped at him out the corner of his eye. ‘When you were little, did you ever run along the bridge wall?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Were you frightened?’
Tom laughed out loud. ‘I were terrified!’
‘So, why did you do it then?’
‘Because …’
‘Because what?’ Casey kept his gaze averted, his arms wrapped round his knees and his head bent as before, but now his face was turned sideways as he gazed up. He felt a deeper sense of security now that Tom was there.
‘Well … because …’ Momentarily lost for words, Tom cast his mind back over the years. ‘Because I think I must have taken leave of my senses.’
When Casey laughed at that, Tom laughed with him, and the sound rippled softly through the air, causing some frightened creature to scurry away under the bridge.
There followed another small silence, before Casey confided his secret. ‘They wanted me to do it, but I never did.’
‘Well,
