A.J. emptied the contents of the envelope onto the desk, there were two letters, hand written by two different people and a photograph. He recognised his mother’s handwriting, strong bold and clear, easy to read.
Dearest Arthur, it began. Only his mother had called him Arthur. His father only ever referred to him as you. Get here you!, get over there you!, get out of my sight you! He often wondered if he actually knew his name.
Dearest Arthur,
by the time you read this I will have passed away. I hope my final days were peaceful and you do not mourn for me. There are things I’ve often wanted to say, but could not find the courage. I cannot go to my grave leaving these things unsaid.
The other letter in this envelope is from Mrs Hughes. She wrote to me explaining that George was alive and what she had done to convince him he was her son Albert. She said she had previously written to you and therefore assumed I already knew. She finally plucked up courage to write to me as well. She was very ill and felt she had to confess to me, another mother, and say how sorry she was. I do not know why you didn’t tell anybody about receiving the letter, why you didn’t tell anyone about George, I’m sure you had your reasons. I was glad George was not coming home, that he had left us to start a new life. Any life, even one believing he was someone else, was better than the life we had at home with your father. I was prepared to give him up, perhaps never to see him again, knowing he had a chance of happiness.
In this envelope is a photograph, it is a picture of your real father. His name was Robert Townsend. He was a doctor. He joined a practice in the town and worked part time in the hospital, which is where we met. He was the most kind, gentle, loving and understanding man I ever met. We did not mean to have an affair, we tried our best to avoid it and just remain good friends, but in the end, I became pregnant. Laurence, my husband, suspected something was wrong and after days and nights of constant questioning, I finally told him the baby was not his and Robert was the father. Laurence, in his usual sinister way did not get angry or mad; he just calmly put on his coat and walked out of the house. I do not know where he went, or what he did, but I never saw Robert again.
From that day on Laurence’s whole reason for being was to make our lives as miserable as he possibly could. He punished you and me until the day he died. If he had beaten us, been violent, it would have been easier to bear compared to the psychological torture he inflicted on us all his waking hours. I am sorry, it was my fault, I brought this upon you. You had to suffer for my wrongdoing.
The final thing I have to confess is the part I played in Laurence's death. I was cleaning your bedroom at the back of the house when I happened to look out of the window and saw Laurence walking across the yard towards the stable. He had sent you to Roebuck's farm on an errand. You wanted to use George’s bicycle as it was quite a long way, but as you know he never allowed you to have a bicycle and prevented you using George’, which he kept in the shed just to annoy you. Half way across the yard Laurence started to stagger clutching his chest in pain. He collapsed to his knees and appeared to be calling for help. He managed to crawl towards the stable and leant his back against the wall, his face contorted in agony gasping for breath. I was praying you would not return from the farm and hear his calls for help. You did not appear and God answered my prayers. If he had let you use the bicycle, you would probably have returned in time to save him. He finally slumped to one side, he was dead and we were free. I drew the curtains and continued making the bed.
Goodbye Arthur - your loving mother.
A.J. turned over the letter, somehow expecting more, but that was her last line. He looked at the photograph and mouthed the name, Robert Townsend. It showed a faded black and white picture of a young man, early twenties he would guess, standing relaxed before the wall of a house. The man wore a suit with the jacket open and his hands in the pockets of the jacket. He looked confident, sure of himself. His mother had described him as kind and loving and nothing in this old photograph suggested otherwise.
He put the letters and the photograph back in the envelope and muttered, “I’m the bastard son of a doctor,” as he went to join George in the bar.
“What was in the envelope?” George asked.
“Oh, just some old family photographs. Are you ready for another? Single malt isn’t it?”
Jane didn’t arrive at the hotel until late afternoon. She found George and A.J. in the bar laughing and joking, rather too loudly she thought.
“Arr Jane,” A.J. jumped up, too quickly as he wobbled a little before recovering his balance, “what would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have a freshly squeezed orange juice please,” she replied looking glaringly at the two men trying to determine their level of inebriation.
“Two more of these,” holding up his empty whiskey glass A.J. called to the barman, “and a freshly squeezed orange juice for our dear friend. We’ve been celebrating,” he continued, turning to face Jane then turned away quickly when he saw the stern look on her face, “not only is George, my brother here, now a man of wealth and independent means, but he has also agreed to be my partner.” He made a theatrical flourish to emphasise the point and nearly fell over.
Trying to ignore A.J., Jane sat next to George and asked what his plans were for the rest of the day.
“I shall find my way to the station and return to my humble abode in the good old town of Eastbridge,” he slurred trying to impersonate A.J.’s theatrical style.
“You will do no such thing, not in this state,” Jane counted, sterner than ever, “you will return home with me. There are plenty more of father’s shirts you can wear.”
George did not put up much of a defense and agreed it was probably the best idea. He only hoped that he was asleep by the time he had to suffer her driving.
Rather than falling asleep, the drive with Jane had the opposite effect. By the time they reached her house, he was wide-awake and sober.
“Jane, why are you doing this?” George asked.
“I don’t know what you mean, what’s the problem?”
“Why are you inviting me into your home, why do you want me to stay the night again?”
Jane did not reply, she had a feeling she knew what was behind these questions.
“Who am I Jane? Who is it standing here looking at you?”
“You’re George Waterson, you’re George,” she repeated.
“Are you sure Jane? Are you sure, really sure?”
“I’ll admit it I wanted you to be James Richards, you looked so alike” Jane was close to tears, “but James is dead, you’re not James, you’re George.”
“If we were to kiss, who would you be kissing?”
“I would be kissing you George, only you.”
And they kissed.
Dearest Arthur, it began. Only his mother had called him Arthur. His father only ever referred to him as you. Get here you!, get over there you!, get out of my sight you! He often wondered if he actually knew his name.
Dearest Arthur,
by the time you read this I will have passed away. I hope my final days were peaceful and you do not mourn for me. There are things I’ve often wanted to say, but could not find the courage. I cannot go to my grave leaving these things unsaid.
The other letter in this envelope is from Mrs Hughes. She wrote to me explaining that George was alive and what she had done to convince him he was her son Albert. She said she had previously written to you and therefore assumed I already knew. She finally plucked up courage to write to me as well. She was very ill and felt she had to confess to me, another mother, and say how sorry she was. I do not know why you didn’t tell anybody about receiving the letter, why you didn’t tell anyone about George, I’m sure you had your reasons. I was glad George was not coming home, that he had left us to start a new life. Any life, even one believing he was someone else, was better than the life we had at home with your father. I was prepared to give him up, perhaps never to see him again, knowing he had a chance of happiness.
In this envelope is a photograph, it is a picture of your real father. His name was Robert Townsend. He was a doctor. He joined a practice in the town and worked part time in the hospital, which is where we met. He was the most kind, gentle, loving and understanding man I ever met. We did not mean to have an affair, we tried our best to avoid it and just remain good friends, but in the end, I became pregnant. Laurence, my husband, suspected something was wrong and after days and nights of constant questioning, I finally told him the baby was not his and Robert was the father. Laurence, in his usual sinister way did not get angry or mad; he just calmly put on his coat and walked out of the house. I do not know where he went, or what he did, but I never saw Robert again.
From that day on Laurence’s whole reason for being was to make our lives as miserable as he possibly could. He punished you and me until the day he died. If he had beaten us, been violent, it would have been easier to bear compared to the psychological torture he inflicted on us all his waking hours. I am sorry, it was my fault, I brought this upon you. You had to suffer for my wrongdoing.
The final thing I have to confess is the part I played in Laurence's death. I was cleaning your bedroom at the back of the house when I happened to look out of the window and saw Laurence walking across the yard towards the stable. He had sent you to Roebuck's farm on an errand. You wanted to use George’s bicycle as it was quite a long way, but as you know he never allowed you to have a bicycle and prevented you using George’, which he kept in the shed just to annoy you. Half way across the yard Laurence started to stagger clutching his chest in pain. He collapsed to his knees and appeared to be calling for help. He managed to crawl towards the stable and leant his back against the wall, his face contorted in agony gasping for breath. I was praying you would not return from the farm and hear his calls for help. You did not appear and God answered my prayers. If he had let you use the bicycle, you would probably have returned in time to save him. He finally slumped to one side, he was dead and we were free. I drew the curtains and continued making the bed.
Goodbye Arthur - your loving mother.
A.J. turned over the letter, somehow expecting more, but that was her last line. He looked at the photograph and mouthed the name, Robert Townsend. It showed a faded black and white picture of a young man, early twenties he would guess, standing relaxed before the wall of a house. The man wore a suit with the jacket open and his hands in the pockets of the jacket. He looked confident, sure of himself. His mother had described him as kind and loving and nothing in this old photograph suggested otherwise.
He put the letters and the photograph back in the envelope and muttered, “I’m the bastard son of a doctor,” as he went to join George in the bar.
“What was in the envelope?” George asked.
“Oh, just some old family photographs. Are you ready for another? Single malt isn’t it?”
Jane didn’t arrive at the hotel until late afternoon. She found George and A.J. in the bar laughing and joking, rather too loudly she thought.
“Arr Jane,” A.J. jumped up, too quickly as he wobbled a little before recovering his balance, “what would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have a freshly squeezed orange juice please,” she replied looking glaringly at the two men trying to determine their level of inebriation.
“Two more of these,” holding up his empty whiskey glass A.J. called to the barman, “and a freshly squeezed orange juice for our dear friend. We’ve been celebrating,” he continued, turning to face Jane then turned away quickly when he saw the stern look on her face, “not only is George, my brother here, now a man of wealth and independent means, but he has also agreed to be my partner.” He made a theatrical flourish to emphasise the point and nearly fell over.
Trying to ignore A.J., Jane sat next to George and asked what his plans were for the rest of the day.
“I shall find my way to the station and return to my humble abode in the good old town of Eastbridge,” he slurred trying to impersonate A.J.’s theatrical style.
“You will do no such thing, not in this state,” Jane counted, sterner than ever, “you will return home with me. There are plenty more of father’s shirts you can wear.”
George did not put up much of a defense and agreed it was probably the best idea. He only hoped that he was asleep by the time he had to suffer her driving.
Rather than falling asleep, the drive with Jane had the opposite effect. By the time they reached her house, he was wide-awake and sober.
“Jane, why are you doing this?” George asked.
“I don’t know what you mean, what’s the problem?”
“Why are you inviting me into your home, why do you want me to stay the night again?”
Jane did not reply, she had a feeling she knew what was behind these questions.
“Who am I Jane? Who is it standing here looking at you?”
“You’re George Waterson, you’re George,” she repeated.
“Are you sure Jane? Are you sure, really sure?”
“I’ll admit it I wanted you to be James Richards, you looked so alike” Jane was close to tears, “but James is dead, you’re not James, you’re George.”
“If we were to kiss, who would you be kissing?”
“I would be kissing you George, only you.”
And they kissed.