George returned to Eastbridge and gave the council a month notice of termination of employment. As he had taken so little vacation throughout the year, he only had one more week to work before Christmas. Jane insisted he spend Christmas with her and he accepted gladly. This would be the first time he could remember not spending Christmas on his own. He always volunteered to work at the Station Inn over the Christmas period; the customers would at least guarantee him some. He needed to buy Jane a Christmas present; he needed to buy everyone a Christmas present as he looked at the calendar realising how few shopping days remained. Of course, money was no longer an issue. Calder had made good progress and Armstrong was gradually releasing the funds from the trust. He had decided, without any pressure from A.J., to make some money available to the Foundation, but at A.J.’s insistence, he was to keep a substantial amount for himself. His first big purchase was a car, not a new one, but one that would be comfortable, or at least more comfortable than Jane’s, which wasn’t very difficult to achieve. He started taking driving lessons and found it surprisingly easy. The driving instructor asked, “are you sure you haven’t driven before?”, and was surprised by the answer, “I don’t think so, but maybe I have.”
The letter arrived the Saturday before Christmas. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the Australian stamp. He put the letter on the table and looked at it, unopened, for some minutes before getting a knife to use as a letter opener. There was a handwritten letter and a photograph. His eyes went to the end of the letter. The name was Sarah.
Dear George,
I cannot possibly describe how I felt when I received the correspondence from Jane telling me she had received a letter from you. I felt joy that you were alive, anger that you had not returned to us and then despair when I read of your amnesia and how you had lived so long believing you were someone else. When you were not able to attend our wedding I believed it to be the saddest day of my life, but it was nothing compared to the depths I sank when I received the news of your death. I was in a dark place and never wanted to see the light again. I would have gladly died with you accept for one thing, I was carrying your child. For the sake of your baby, I had to live.
I went to live with an aunt on the east coast and that is where your son was born. I called him John. He was a beautiful baby with your eyes and your shaped mouth. When John was three, I met a man, his name is Norman, we married and he has been a wonderful father to John, treating him just as if he was his own. In 1957, we emigrated to Australia and made a new life in Sydney, which is where we live today.
I had a baby girl with Norman but she died when only 18 months old, so we only have John. He is married now with two wonderful children of his own. His daughter Jill is four and his son Shane is just two. You can see them in the photograph. A neighbor took the photograph during a barbecue in our back garden a few weeks ago; John was cooking. He is the one wearing the apron with his wife, Stephanie, on his left side. The two children are sitting on the grass in front of the barbeque. Norman and I are standing to John’s right. I do not think it’s a good picture of me, but John says I always say that.
Before Norman retired, he was an engineer working for a company that made machine tools. John lives about ten miles away, on the other side of the city and has his own heating and lighting business. Stephanie helps him in the office when she is not looking after the children.
The letter continued for two more pages but George had stopped reading. His eyes kept returning to the line, “carrying your child”. He put the letter down and walked away leaving it on the table. He returned to look again, the words, “carrying your child” were still there. Somehow, he thought the words would have disappeared or reformed to say something else. He looked at the photograph, a happy family scene of three generations enjoying a warm summers day. “That’s my son”, he thought to himself and pointed to the man wearing the apron. “Those are my grandchildren,” he said aloud as his finger moved from one to the other. He repeated the words again and again until they were no longer words, just sounds.
The letter arrived the Saturday before Christmas. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the Australian stamp. He put the letter on the table and looked at it, unopened, for some minutes before getting a knife to use as a letter opener. There was a handwritten letter and a photograph. His eyes went to the end of the letter. The name was Sarah.
Dear George,
I cannot possibly describe how I felt when I received the correspondence from Jane telling me she had received a letter from you. I felt joy that you were alive, anger that you had not returned to us and then despair when I read of your amnesia and how you had lived so long believing you were someone else. When you were not able to attend our wedding I believed it to be the saddest day of my life, but it was nothing compared to the depths I sank when I received the news of your death. I was in a dark place and never wanted to see the light again. I would have gladly died with you accept for one thing, I was carrying your child. For the sake of your baby, I had to live.
I went to live with an aunt on the east coast and that is where your son was born. I called him John. He was a beautiful baby with your eyes and your shaped mouth. When John was three, I met a man, his name is Norman, we married and he has been a wonderful father to John, treating him just as if he was his own. In 1957, we emigrated to Australia and made a new life in Sydney, which is where we live today.
I had a baby girl with Norman but she died when only 18 months old, so we only have John. He is married now with two wonderful children of his own. His daughter Jill is four and his son Shane is just two. You can see them in the photograph. A neighbor took the photograph during a barbecue in our back garden a few weeks ago; John was cooking. He is the one wearing the apron with his wife, Stephanie, on his left side. The two children are sitting on the grass in front of the barbeque. Norman and I are standing to John’s right. I do not think it’s a good picture of me, but John says I always say that.
Before Norman retired, he was an engineer working for a company that made machine tools. John lives about ten miles away, on the other side of the city and has his own heating and lighting business. Stephanie helps him in the office when she is not looking after the children.
The letter continued for two more pages but George had stopped reading. His eyes kept returning to the line, “carrying your child”. He put the letter down and walked away leaving it on the table. He returned to look again, the words, “carrying your child” were still there. Somehow, he thought the words would have disappeared or reformed to say something else. He looked at the photograph, a happy family scene of three generations enjoying a warm summers day. “That’s my son”, he thought to himself and pointed to the man wearing the apron. “Those are my grandchildren,” he said aloud as his finger moved from one to the other. He repeated the words again and again until they were no longer words, just sounds.