Three Letters. Josephine Cox

yer up. Yeah, that’ll be it. If yer ask me, that lad o’ yours wants keeping in check! If ’e were mine I’d give ’im a right slap. Irritating little bastard.’

      ‘Hey!’ she giggled. ‘If you’re itching to slap somebody, why don’t you slap me?’ Grabbing his hand from her breast, she clamped it over her buttocks.

      He liked that. ‘Yer a wicked bitch, Ruth Denton, a woman who’d sell herself for a shilling.’ He sniggered. ‘If Tom ever upped and left, I wouldn’t be surprised if you flogged the kid to the highest bidder.’

      She chuckled. ‘It wouldn’t bother me to be rid of the brat,’ she confessed. ‘Come to think of it, old Foggarty might pay me more for him than he’d pay for that damned guitar!’ She gave a low, throaty cackle. ‘I’m sure the old devil would find a good use for the boy … one way or another.’ Sometimes the nastiness in her took even her by surprise.

      Rolling her over, Len climbed on top, biting and caressing her neck and giving of himself in such a way that the passion became too strong for him to hold back.

      Afterwards, when he rolled away from her, he told her, ‘Yer a bad example to women, you are. In times past, you’d ’ave been tarred and feathered. To tell the truth, I don’t know how poor Tom puts up with yer.’

      He meant it too. Having worked alongside Tom for a good many years, he knew what a decent sort he was. He even felt a pang of guilt.

      Ruth gave him a playful slap. ‘Hey! What’s all this about “poor Tom”? Forget him! All I need to know is … did you get yer money’s worth?’

      His answer was to grab her about the waist and roughly draw her to him. ‘You certainly know how to please a man,’ he admitted. ‘Matter o’ fact, I might even go for another helping. What d’yer say, eh?’

      ‘It’ll cost yer.’ She giggled, snaking her arms round his neck.

      Headed home, Tom was deep in thought, his face dampened by the drizzle and his mind alive with thoughts of what he’d decided.

      It was a moment before he realised that he’d actually walked right past the bus stop. Turning to go back, he was dismayed to see the bus had already set off. ‘Dammit!’ That would put another half-hour onto the journey home.

      No matter. At least he now had more time to think, and to plan. There must be no regrets, and he must make sure that the boy was safe. That, above all else, was the important thing.

      When the slight rainfall became a real downpour, he quickened his steps through the town to King Street, where he saw the queue in the fish-and-chip shop. When the aroma drifted towards him, his stomach began rumbling.

      I wonder if Ruth’s cooked us a meal, he thought, quickening his pace towards the lights of the chip shop. I bet she hasn’t. I bet our Casey’s not been fed … again.

      Countless times he’d got home to find that Ruth was out and Casey was searching the cupboard for food. Keeping house and seeing to the boy’s welfare were never his wife’s priorities.

      He ducked into the fish-and-chip shop. When his turn came, he ordered, ‘Fish and chips three times, please.’

      ‘Got caught out in the rain, did yer?’ The woman had a round, rosy face and a kindly voice, much like his own mother, who had died shortly before he’d married Ruth. Suddenly, Tom wondered if his mother, looking down, would be ashamed at his plans. He truly hoped not.

      He forced a smile. ‘The rain’s coming down hard,’ he remarked. ‘I reckon it’ll settle in for the night now.’ He found it amazing how he could converse so casually about something and nothing, when he was intent on a deed so dark and drastic that lives would be changed for ever.

      The woman dished the food into the paper bags. ‘D’yer want salt and vinegar, young man?’

      ‘Yeah … go on then, but not too much, eh?’

      ‘Have yer far to go wi’ these?’

      ‘Only to Henry Street.’

      ‘Hmm! That’s still a good long stride an’ no mistake.’ She regarded him with interest. Seeing how wet he was, and how sad he seemed, she suggested, ‘You go and sit yersel’ in that chair over by the window. I’ll put these on the fryer to keep warm, then I’ll mek yer a pot o’ tea … no charge, mind. It’s on the house.’

      ‘I need to get back,’ Tom explained graciously. ‘I missed my bus so I’ve had to walk, but I’m almost home now. Fifteen minutes and I’ll be in the warm. Thank you all the same.’

      She was genuinely disappointed. ‘Aye, well, I expect you’re eager to get home to yer good woman, eh?’

      Tom gave a wry little smile. ‘Something like that, yes.’ He wished Ruth could realise how she had damaged his love by her rejection of Casey, together with her infidelity to himself.

      Often it felt to Tom that there were only two people in the whole world that mattered to him now. They were his father, Bob, and his son, Casey; and may God forgive him, for he was about to hurt them badly.

      ‘There you are, son.’ The kindly woman tapped him on the shoulder.

      ‘Oh!’ Tom apologised, ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

      ‘Are you all right?’ She’d seen the faraway look in his eyes and, being a mother herself, she suspected he was unhappy. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve a son about your age, and I know how some things can get you down.’ She smiled. ‘Money worries, is it?’

      ‘No, we manage well enough, I reckon,’ Tom assured her.

      ‘Oh, well then, it’ll be woman trouble,’ she tutted. ‘It’s allus woman trouble … at least with my son it is. She’s already left him twice and come back with her tail between her legs. I tell him straight, you’d be better off without her, but he never listens—’

      She would have ranted on, but Tom interrupted, ‘No, it’s not woman trouble, but thanks for your interest.’ She meant well, he thought, but from what she was saying, it sounded as though she might have troubles of her own.

      ‘Right then!’ She handed him the bag of food. ‘I’ve double-wrapped them in newspaper so they should still be nice and hot by the time yer get home.’

      Wishing her well, Tom opened his wage packet, settled the bill, and left.

      He knew Ruth would not be too pleased about him dipping into the wage packet. No doubt she would launch into one of her tantrums.

      Besides, he had no intention of being drawn into an argument, especially not tonight of all nights, when he had other pressing matters on his mind.

      With the three meals bagged up and tucked under his coat to keep warm, he quickened his pace towards home. The sooner it’s done, the better, he told himself. There’s no turning back. Not now. Not ever.

      It wasn’t long before he was approaching Henry Street.

      As he crossed the little Blakewater bridge, he paused, holding the meals safe with one hand, while with the other, he frantically searched his coat pockets for the front door key.

      Still digging about in his pockets, determined to find the key, he set off again. By this time, he was only minutes away from his front door.

      The closer he got to the house, the more he despaired at the thought of what he must do, and how it would devastate those he loved.

      Oh, Tom, have you really thought it through? Not for the first time he questioned himself. You must know what it will do to that lad o’ yours?

      Momentarily distraught, he leaned against the wall, his eyes closed and his heart heavy. It’s a terrible thing you’re planning, Tom, he admitted … a terrible, sinful thing.