Three Letters. Josephine Cox

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, thank God for that!’ Tom shivered inwardly at the way these children regularly risked life and limb, running along a six-inch-wide wall some twenty feet above the water. ‘So, who was it that wanted you to do it?’

      ‘School pals.’

      ‘Who were they?’

      ‘There were two Brindle brothers, and another boy who lives on King Street.’

      ‘Oh, the Brindles … big family. Yes, I know them.’

      ‘Well, the Brindle brothers had a race in bare feet. One of them ran on the far wall, and the other ran along the opposite wall. I had to count from one to ten, and see who got to the other side first.’

      ‘So, who won?’

      ‘Nobody. They got to the other side at the same time. On a count of eight.’

      ‘A draw, eh? Well, I think that was OK, don’t you? At least it stopped them from arguing.’

      ‘No, because they still argued. They said I must have counted wrong, but they were so fast, it was frightening. They ran like the wind … slipping and sliding all over the place, they were. I thought they might fall into the water, but it didn’t even bother ’em! They kept their balance, and made it to the other side.’ When he looked up at Tom, the light from the lamp caught the excitement in his eyes. ‘You should have seen them go, Dad!’

      ‘I can imagine.’ The Brindle family was boisterous, with the boys, in particular, always up to something.

      ‘They made it look so exciting, I really wanted to try.’

      ‘You never did, though, did you?’

      Casey gave a huge sigh. ‘No, but sometimes I wish I had.’

      ‘So, what stopped you?’

      ‘I tried once, but my foot slipped and I could hardly keep my balance, so I chickened out.’

      ‘That was very brave.’

      The boy gasped. ‘How could it be brave, when I chickened out?’

      ‘Because sometimes it’s better to admit that it’s too dangerous and stop, instead of going on when your instincts warn you not to.’

      ‘Honestly?’

      ‘Yes, really. It takes a wise man to admit when he’s made a wrong decision.’

      When Casey suddenly leaned his head on his father’s broad shoulder, it was a tender, deeply bonding moment in which each relived the awful situation that had brought him here.

      Eventually the child asked hesitantly, ‘She hates me, doesn’t she?’

      ‘Are we talking about your mam?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I see.’ Tom carefully considered his next words, because whatever he said, he could not deny that Ruth had caused a great deal of pain and confusion especially with her cruel revelation to himself.

      Casey’s next words only proved the damage Ruth had done. ‘I don’t want to stay with her. I want to be with you and Granddad.’

      ‘That’s fine, then, because that’s where we’re going.’

      Another awkward moment of silence before Casey needed to know, ‘Are you my daddy? Are you really my daddy?’

      Choking back the rush of emotion, Tom turned the boy round to face him. ‘I want you to listen to me, son. I want you to hear my every word and never forget it. Can you do that for me?’

      When Casey nodded, Tom held him tight before telling him softly, ‘In every way that matters, I truly am your daddy. Your name is Casey Denton, and you are the son of Thomas Denton … that’s