Three Letters (20 page)

At that very moment, Ruth was at the other end of town, curled up in an alleyway
on a back doorstep.

Dazed, dishevelled, and unaware of her surroundings, she tried to gather her thoughts. Where had she spent the night, and who with? And where was she now?

She gave a shiver as the cold bit through her flimsy clothes.
He’s left me … him and the kid!
It was all coming back now.
They’ve buggered off and left me!
She didn’t know what to do, or where to go. The idea of going home
to that empty house was more than she could bear. I’ll find Tom. I’ll tell him I’m sorry and then he’ll come home, she decided. The old man can keep the brat, though.

Just then the door was flung open. ‘What the devil … ?’ The man was surprised to see what had looked like a sack of rags on his doorstep.

Startled, Ruth scrambled up and accidentally tripped forward, hitting her head on the wall
as she fell.

Shocked at her dishevelled appearance, the man helped her up. When she struggled, he held her tight. ‘Hey! There’s no need to be frightened o’ me. But what in God’s name are you doing out here? It’s a bitter cold morning, and you haven’t even got a coat to your back.’ He was alarmed at the trickle of blood running down her forehead. ‘You’d best come inside and clean up. I’m sure
the missus can find an old coat to keep you warm. Where d’you live? Once we’ve got you warm and seen to that cut on your forehead, I’d best run you home … if that’s what you want?’

Disorientated and angry, Ruth stared at him. It was all coming back to her now. She remembered being in some backstreet pub, making merry, when a good-looking fella paid attention to her. She was flattered when he
began flirting with her; then he bought her a few drinks over the bar, and the more she drank, the merrier she got. After a while, he offered to take her home, and she was more than willing to go with him.

When they got to his place, she was surprised to see what a filthy tip it was, yet even then she was so angry at Tom leaving her, and so full of booze, that she brushed aside all the warning
signals.

The man turned out to be a monster, who viciously took what he wanted and smacked her about before throwing her out on the streets.

She felt oddly humiliated because that had never happened before. It had always been a matter of enjoying herself with the men she took up with until now.

This time, though, dazed and hurt, she wandered about, walking the streets until, too weary to walk
further, she fell asleep in this doorway.

Now, allowing herself to be led inside by this man who appeared to be kind and considerate, she asked him groggily, ‘Where am I? What street is this?’

‘You’re on Preston New Road, and you appeared to have fallen asleep on my doorstep.’ His smile was genuinely friendly. ‘I’m Jim Ellis.’ A retired pub owner, he was a small man in his late sixties, with
balding head and pert manner. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a fall and cut your head. My missus will take a look at the cut … if that’s all right with you?’

He could smell the streets on her clothes, and it was not pleasant. Also, he suspected from the look of her that she’d been knocked about quite a bit. Certainly the fall outside could not be blamed for the bruises on her neck and arms.

They entered
a room off the hallway. Well furnished, with deep armchairs and a sofa of wide proportions, it contained a handsome old display cabinet, crammed full of all manner of pretty china artefacts.

Covering most of the far wall was a beautiful fireplace with high mantelpiece, and red velvet-fringed runner stretching from one end to the other. Standing centre of the mantelpiece was a clock of immense
proportions, with two moulded figurines flanking either side of the face.

Ruth imagined this place to be the home of people who, though maybe not wealthy, had no financial worries.

Just as he’d promised, the man’s wife treated the cut on Ruth’s forehead. Then she was given tea and cakes, and an old coat to fend off the cold, though, unlike her husband, the wife was not kindly of manner.

‘What
were you doing, sleeping on our doorstep? Have you no home to go to?’

‘I got lost, that’s all.’

‘Drunk, were you?’ The smell of booze lingered in the air.

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Irritated by the woman’s questions, Ruth lashed out. ‘So, what if I
were
drunk? What’s it got to do with you?’

Sensing trouble, the woman’s husband warned her, ‘Leave it, Judith. I’m sure when our visitor is fed and feeling
warm again, she’ll be in a hurry to get home.’

Having recovered somewhat from her earlier ordeal, Ruth changed her tone. ‘I’m not in a hurry. What have I got to go home for? My husband’s cleared off and left me. Mind you, he took the little bastard with him, so good shuts to the pair of ’em, that’s what I say!’

‘I’m sorry for your troubles,’ Judith Ellis said, refusing to be drawn further into
this woman’s confidence. ‘If you’re feeling better now, you might want to go into the bathroom and clean up. Afterwards, I think it best if you make your way home.’

‘Hmm!’ Swigging the dregs of her tea, Ruth replaced the teacup into the saucer. ‘Where’s the bathroom then?’

Jim stood up. ‘I’ll show you.’

She followed him down the passageway and when she went into the bathroom, her benefactor
returned to his wife, who was already regretting their charity.

‘I wish you hadn’t brought her into our home,’ she said, flustered. ‘There’s something about her … I’ve seen her before somewhere, but for the life of me, I can’t think where.’

‘Don’t worry, dear. At least we’ve done our duty and helped a poor soul in need. Soon, she’ll be away from here, and you’ll never see her again.’

‘I hope
not!’ Sometimes, her husband was too kind and far too trusting, and it was a real source of worry to her.

A few moments later, Ruth appeared, looking and feeling more like her old self. ‘I could really get used to this place.’

The man quietly took stock of Ruth. With the grime of the streets now stripped away, and having raked a comb through her hair, the woman looked almost human; handsome,
even, Jim thought. But there was something else … The more he looked at her, the more familiar she looked.

‘I know you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re Ruth Denton. You used to visit our establishment, the Rose and Crown, on King Street.’

Ruth laughed out loud. ‘Well, bugger me! I didn’t recognise you. By, you’ve not aged well, either of you. The Rose and Crown, eh? Good grief! That seems a lifetime
ago.’

‘Ruth Denton, of course!’ The woman was shocked. ‘What’s happened to you? How in God’s name could you bring yourself to go out drinking, wandering the streets and sleeping in doorways? Have you lost all sense of decency? You should be at home, looking after your child. It’s shameful, especially at a time like this.’ She gave a loud tut. ‘Does your poor husband’s memory mean nothing to you?’

‘What the hell are you going on about?’ Ruth stared at her, angry and confused. ‘My “poor husband’s memory” – what kinda talk is that? Just ’cause I told you he’d buggered off and left me, doesn’t give you the right to say a thing like that!’

Shocked, the woman looked to her husband, who stepped forward. ‘I’m sure nobody meant to be disrespectful, least of all us. Only—’

‘Only … what?’ Panic
rose up in Ruth. ‘What’s going on ’ere? What the devil’s she talking about, my “poor husband’s memory”? ANSWER ME, DAMMIT! WHAT DOES SHE MEAN BY THAT?’

‘All right, calm yourself.’ Taking her by the shoulders, Jim adopted a sympathetic voice. ‘I imagine from your reaction that you haven’t been home for some time. But … have you heard what’s being said? Have you had a chance to look at the papers?’

Ruth began to imagine all manner of things. ‘What are you trying to say? Tell me. Has something happened that I should know about?’

‘Just a minute, please.’ Jim went to the sideboard and took out the late edition of the day’s newspaper, which he placed on the table for her to see. ‘I think you should prepare yourself, my dear. They’re not altogether sure of the facts yet … but there’s a lot of
speculation regarding your husband, Tom Denton. I’m sorry.’

Ruth quickly read the article about the young man who had committed suicide. The name Thomas Denton was mentioned more than once.

‘No … no, it can’t be Tom.’ The blood drained from her face. ‘It can’t be …’

When the man stepped forward to comfort her, she pushed him away. ‘Leave me alone! It’s not him. I know it’s not him … it can’t
be!’ Then she was running; down the passageway and out of the front door.

When she was clear of the house, she fell against the wall and sobbed bitterly. ‘It can’t be Tom … he would never do a thing like that.’ But then she remembered that shocking row, and the hateful things that were done, and she was disgusted, with herself, but mostly with him.

‘Tom Denton, you cowardly bastard!’ She thumped
the wall with her bare fists. ‘How could you do that to me? How will I manage now, eh? How am I supposed to keep a roof over my head?’

After a while, when the shock had run its course, she walked down the street, cursing and blaming him, and wondering what would happen to her now.
You can’t have loved me. If you did, you would never have abandoned me … and in such a way. What made you do it,
Tom? What possessed you?

An overwhelming sense of pain rose above her anger. She blamed herself, and regretted she had not done right by him. Right from the start, she had pretended to love him; pretended to cherish their every moment together, when all the while she felt nothing for him. Instead she had leaned on him, and when it suited her she had given herself to other men. Hard and selfish,
she had leaned on Tom like no woman should ever lean on her man, and when she lay with strangers, she never gave her long-suffering husband a moment’s thought.

From the day he put a ring on her finger and even before then, she had no love in her heart for him. And in all the difficult years that followed, there had never been any love for him.

Time and again over the years, she had heaped humiliation
on that good man. She had taken his hard-earned money; she had given thanks because he had raised the brat in the belief that he was the father. And she had gladly taken his money, and when that was spent, she had taken other men – even his friends – into her bed.

Standing there all alone in that empty street, she saw herself as she really was. And when the weight of her treachery threatened
to overwhelm her, she reluctantly headed for Henry Street.

As she hurried there, dark rage rippled through her. She blamed Tom for not being man enough to see what she was like. She blamed him for putting up with her all these years. She blamed him for not realising that the brat was not his, but came from the loins of another man; a man he never knew and never would. A man she had never forgotten.
A man who had taken her love and betrayed her, in the same callous way she had betrayed Tom.

Thinking about it all now, she was filled with hatred. The world was an ugly place and she did not fit in any more. Penniless and alone, she now had some very hard decisions to make.

One thing was certain: the brat needn’t think he could rely on her. If she hadn’t wanted him when Tom was here, why would
she want him now? In fact, he was the one to blame, because he was at the root of all the heartache. That was why, if she never again clapped eyes on him, it would not bother her.

It seemed an age before she arrived at her front door. For a long, reflective moment, she stood on the pavement, her eyes sweeping the house, as she recalled memories of the years she had spent behind that closed door.
Like a film, the scenes rolled through her tortured mind.

In her mind’s eye she saw the time when, as his bride, Tom carried her over the threshold. He was so happy then; loving her like any man loved his new wife. He was proud to have his arms around her; proud when she told him she was carrying his child. And even then, he never knew how much she wished she was not there; weighed down with
a shiny new wedding ring on her finger, and the strong arms about her body were like a chain choking the life from her.

Tom’s arms were not the arms she needed about her.

From that first night as man and wife, and through all the hard years afterwards, her heart and soul slowly began to die, until after a while she felt nothing for Tom, and gave nothing to him. And she knew that for the rest
of her life she would always feel like that.

On that first day as her husband, and on the days and weeks following, Tom never knew how much she resented him. She had never loved him; though at first she did try, but there was no love in her heart; not for Tom, and not for the life form she carried inside her. In those first few, unbearable months, all her efforts to be rid of the unborn came
to nothing.

It was as though she were being punished, and even before the child was born she felt no motherly love for it. When she first looked down on the child’s face, she was shocked. He had a look of his father. He was a constant reminder of how that man had deceived and abandoned her; just like Tom had abandoned her now.

‘Mrs Denton, are you all right?’ Mrs Kettle had seen Ruth arrive
and was puzzled by the way she just stood there, staring at the door. But then, after the awful business of her husband’s suicide, who could blame her for acting strangely?

‘We’re so sorry to hear about your husband … I mean … oh, but what a shocking thing. Is there anything we can do? Would you like to come inside … ? I’ve got the teapot freshly warmed …’

With her memories shattered, Ruth shook
her head. ‘No … thank you all the same.’ That woman was the last person she would ever sit down with.

Quickly climbing the steps she went inside the house. She didn’t even notice that the front door was unlocked.

Closing the door behind her, she stood still for a moment, her back to the door and her eyes scouring the way before her. She looked along that seemingly endless passageway, then her
gaze travelled up the stairs, and now she was climbing the stairs until she was at the top, looking down, unaware that the tears were rolling down her face.