Lenny’s confident smile belied the hurt he was feeling. ‘All those years, and you never once acknowledged me. And now, it makes no difference whether you want me or you don’t.’
Looking from one to the other, he informed them in a quietly controlled voice, ‘It’s too late, because I don’t want you – any of you.’
His accusing gaze lingered on the woman he had always believed was his mother, but who had never loved him in that way. ‘I came home tonight to tell you that I would be moving out in a week or so,’ he said. ‘But after what I’ve heard here this night, it’s best if I go now.’
He spoke with pride. ‘At long last I’m free of you – of all of you. From now on, there’s no need for me to feel guilty or unwanted. I can be my own man.’
His voice hardened. ‘As long as I live, I never want to see or hear from you again.’
‘You ungrateful little toe-rag!’ Patsy hit out, but when he caught her by the arm, she began to sob. ‘You owe me for taking care of you all these years. You owe me!’
‘I owe you nothing!’ He brushed by them. ‘Now get out of my way.’ He ran up the stairs and into the room which he shared with his younger brother – half-brother, he reminded himself. He closed the door and sat on the edge of thebed, shaking his head and trying to take it all in. ‘She’s right,’ he muttered. ‘I am a bastard. I belong to nobody.’
And then he remembered Judy, and Annie too. ‘Thank You, Lord,’ he murmured, ‘for the kind and honest people You brought into my life.’
Quickly now, he packed a bag and ran down the stairs; the man gone, the woman pleading for him to stay. He didn’t hear; he wanted no more of it. So, without a word or backward glance, he fled from that place.
This house, these people, were his past. The future was out there, and he meant to grasp it with both hands.
Bedfordshire, 1962
THE LATE MONTHS of December 1961 had been unusually hard in Bedfordshire, with days and nights of snowfall. Some drifts were so high they brought traffic to a standstill and made everyday life very difficult.
Winter had arrived with a vengeance, catching everyone unawares. People in isolated places were trapped, animals were lost in the far fields, pipes were frozen and schools had to close their doors to the children. And when the thaw came, it was with the same ferocity. The ice melted and the waters ran headlong down the banks and valleys and into the streets. Shops were flooded and emergency services were tried to the limit.
It had been a costly time, but now they were into the month of January, and chaos was replaced with normality. There were still cold, breezy days, but with the odd flicker of bright sunshine.
And the harsh months of 1961 already seemed a distant memory.
This particular Saturday afternoon was pleasantly mild, and having time to spare, Lucy strolled into the stable to see if Dave was there. She loved chatting to him. Humming her favourite Buddy Holly song, ‘Listen To Me’, she was feeling on top of the world, but her good mood came to a halt, along with the song, when she saw the expression on his face. Dave was checking the hooves of her father’s best mare, Molly. ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ he told her grimly. ‘I saw her limping a few days ago when Seamus was riding her back from the fields.’
‘Did you tell him?’ Lucy came closer.
‘Yes, but he rounded on me – said it was none of my business and that he was dealing with it. I took that to mean he’d already seen the vet and was treating it. But when I came in this morning, she was sweating badly. I suspected an infection, but I couldn’t be certain until I took a look.’
Bending down, he raised the mare’s hoof to wedge it between his knees; as he prodded it with the flat blade of the knife, he reeled from the stink that came up. ‘Jesus!’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Dave didn’t answer straight away. Instead, holding his breath against the stench, he gently dug until he had located the culprit – a long bramble-thorn deeply driven into the mare’s soft hoof. With that done he eased the iron-shoe away, reeling again when the pus was revealed.
‘Well done, girl.’ Patting her side, he carefully lowered the mare’s leg to the ground and when in distress she hobbled over to the far corner, he burst out of the stable, securing the door behind him. ‘Damn it!’ He shook his head angrily. ‘What in God’s name is Seamus playing at? Why didn’t he get the vet out to her?’
‘Is it bad?’ Lucy could see he was worried. ‘Will she be all right?’
‘Not if Seamus has anything to do with it. It’s real bad, Lucy. The infection has gone right down into the soft flesh. There’s a mass of pulp and the hoof was tightly swollen under the shoe. We’d best get the vet out straight away. She’s in a lot of pain.’
Following him to the yard office, Lucy waited anxiously while Dave telephoned the vet; he was in the middle of describing the mare’s symptoms, when Lucy’s father arrived. Standing in the doorway, Frank Thomson listened to Dave’s every word.
‘By my reckoning, the hoof’s been infected for some days now,’ Dave was explaining. ‘No, I’ve no idea why you weren’t called earlier. Yes, I managed to dig out the thorn, and I prised the shoe off … lots of pus, yes. She’s got a temperature. She seems in a bad way.’
He finished the conversation. ‘Thank you. Yes, I will.’
Frank was at his side as he put the receiver down, his face hard and angry. ‘Where’s Seamus?’ While Dave was talking, Lucy had told her father everything she knew.
‘I saw him go off about an hour ago. He should be back soon.’
‘Show me!’ Enraged, he stormed out of the office.
Together with Dave and Lucy, he went straight for the mare’s stable. Dave was the first in. ‘Oh no, she’s gone down!’ Lying flat on her side and panting heavily, the mare was struggling to breathe.
Shouting instructions to them, Dave went inside. ‘We need buckets of hot water and salt … plenty of salt, and towels … some cotton-wool. Quickly, Lucy. HURRY!’
While Lucy ran to get help, Dave tended the horse and Frank got to his knees, soothing the stressed animal and promising her that she would be all right.
By the time the vet arrived, Dave had drawn out as much of the foul-smelling pus as he could, before bathing the hoof several times in warm salt-water. Lucy was laying cold compresses across the mare’s forehead, and Frank was in the office, having summoned two of the junior grooms, to satisfy himself that they had had no idea how bad the mare was. ‘We’re never allowed near her,’ admitted the young girl. ‘Seamus keeps us up the other end of the yard.’
Frank excused them, and when they were gone he slammed his fist on the desk. ‘You’ve a lot to answer for, my man!’ he growled. ‘It seems you’ve forgotten whose yard this is!’
In the stables, the vet had concluded his examination. ‘How is she?’ Both Dave and Lucy were deeply concerned. ‘Will she be all right?’ Dave sensed the news was not good.
Scrambling