A few minutes later, his face torn by overhanging branches and his ankles sore where the thorns and bracken had proved a hindrance, Tom was shocked to see Davie’s mammy lying crumpled in a shallow ditch. ‘Step aside, lad.’ Falling to his knees beside her in the wet leaves, he took hold of her hand, taken aback by how cold she was. In the slimmest shaft of light filtering through the umbrella of trees, he saw how pale and still she lay. ‘We’d best get her out quick.’ His quiet, decisive manner gave Davie a sense of calm, and hope. But not peace of mind. Too much had happened this night. Too many bad memories would follow him, and he thought he would never again know peace of mind.
Between the two of them, they set about getting her up, and when she cried out, they stopped to give her a moment. ‘Shh now. It’s all right,’ Tom reassured her. ‘You’re safe. We’ve got you.’
All the same, it was a slow and painful operation, but at last they had her out and up on her feet, albeit unsteadily. ‘Crook your arm under hers,’ Tom instructed. ‘She’s in no fit state to take her own weight, and I can’t get the wagon down here, so we’ll have to carry her out the best we can.’
As they took her step by careful step towards the lane, she dragged her feet and murmured incoherently, and as the horse snickered, sensing something amiss, they lifted her gently onto the bench set into the back of the wagon. ‘There’s a rug under the driver’s seat. Fetch it, will you, lad?’ Tom grunted.
While Davie went to get the rug, Tom made Rita comfortable. ‘It’s no good taking her back to your grandad’s house,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s the Infirmary she needs.’
Davie gave no reply. Instead he sat beside his mother while Tom tucked the blanket around her. When she began shivering uncontrollably, Davie held her closer, trying to warm her, intent on making her safe.
‘Right, that should do it.’ Tom nodded. ‘Keep her as still as you can,’ he said as he climbed down. ‘We don’t know what injury she suffered when she fell.’
Thankful that soon they would be on their way, Davie glanced down, astonished to see his mother looking straight back at him. The rain had stopped, and in the brightness of a new day, her eyes were incredibly beautiful. ‘I’m sorry, Davie,’ she said. ‘You’re a good boy.’ She then gave him a look of absolute love. ‘And I have been a bad mother. A bad … mother. Don’t hate …’ Her voice faded away.
Davie felt her convulse in his arms, and then she was still, her wide eyes still turned on him, and in that moment he knew. But he could not accept the truth, and in his overwhelming sorrow, he screamed out for Tom to help her. ‘HURRY! WE HAVE TO GO NOW! Hurry … oh, please hurry, Tom.’ The rending sobs tore through him and he couldn’t speak any more. Instead, he held her close, the scalding tears running down his face and onto hers. ‘Don’t go, Mam. Don’t leave me …’
Tom drew the milk-cart to a halt and turned round. He saw, and it broke his heart.
‘She’s gone, lad.’ Inching close, he took hold of the boy’s arm. ‘There’s nothing we can do for her now.’ Tremulously reaching out, he placed his fingers over the dead woman’s sightless eyes and closed them. ‘Come away, son,’ he urged softly. ‘It’s out of our hands now. We’ll take your mammy where they’ll look after her. They’ll know what to do …’
Suddenly startled when the boy leaped off the wagon and sped into the woods, Tom called after him, ‘No, Davie! Come back, lad!’
Time and again, Tom called after him, but Davie was quickly gone, and Tom was afraid this might be the last he would ever see of him. ‘COME HOME TO THE FARM WHEN YOU’RE READY.’ He cupped his hands over his mouth. ‘MY HOME IS YOURS. I’LL BE THERE WHENEVER YOU NEED ME, DAVIE.’ His voice fell. ‘I’ll always be here for you, son. You must never forget that.’
With a heavy heart he returned to cover Rita’s face. ‘The lad’s tekking it hard,’ he murmured as he wound her into the blanket. ‘It don’t matter what badness you’ve done, lady, he can’t help but love you.’ He made the sign of the cross over her, and prayed that she might find a kind of peace elsewhere, for she had found none on this earth.
As he climbed into the seat, he stole another glance into the trees, but there was no sign of Davie, and no reply when he called his name. Licking his wounds, poor little bugger! Oh, but he’ll be back, God willing. You’ll see, when he’s all cried out, he’ll turn up at the farm, looking for his friends. And we’ll be there to help him through.
Drawing a long deep breath through his nose, he held it for a while, before the words eased out on the crest of a sigh. ‘He’ll come back.’ He turned his head to look on the dark shadow that lay in the back of his cart. ‘I can only promise you, that when the lad does come home, we’ll take care of him.’
Davie had a special place in his own family’s affections. Since toddlers, Davie and Tom’s own daughter, Judy, had played together, sharing every experience that youngsters share – learning to ride the ponies; chasing the rabbits into the hedge-rows; laughing at secret nothings that no mere adult can ever understand, and as they grew and blossomed so did their friendship until they were virtually inseparable.
‘Come home, son,’ he murmured. ‘Come home, where you belong.’
Slowly shaking his head in despair, he clicked the old horse on; this time at a sedate and dignified pace.
After all, with the way things were, there was no hurry now.
‘LOOK, MAM, HE’S home. Dad’s home!’
Tom’s daughter Judy had been watching for him these past two hours. Now, as she saw the old milk-cart turn the bend in the lane, she took to her heels and ran to open the gate of Three Mills Farm. Her dad was back, and she needed a hug.
Tom saw her coming and his heart burst with pride. How had he come to father such a lovely creature? Small-boned, with long willowing sun-kissed hair and eyes soft and grey as a dove, she was like a rainbow after rain to him.
Right from when she was a toddler, Judy had been behind him everywhere he went, and now at the age of twelve, it was the same; whether he was milking the cows or stacking the hay, she was there. Most days, before and after school, she helped him in the fields or the barn, and when he was painting the house, she went before him, washing the picture-rails inside or the window-sills outside, or holding the ladder in case it slipped and he broke his worthless neck.
And when she wasn’t helping him or her mammy, she was running across the valley with the local dogs at her heels. Other times she would sit quietly with the fishermen at the river, thrilled when they caught a fish and put it back, and sad at heart if they took it home to cook it.
From a tender age, Judy was drawn to the water at every turn; Tom and Beth daren’t let her out of their sight in case she slipped into the river. So, when she was little more than a year old, they took her into the water and, as they expected, she loved it. Swimming had come naturally to her, until she was as much at home in the water as the fish themselves. ‘Should’ve been born with a tail and fins,’ her parents joked.
When she wasn’t swimming or watching the fishermen, the little girl was running down the towpath, racing the barges as they made their lazy way
