Live the Dream (42 page)

They made an odd sight when eventually they walked away. The tiny woman's hat and veil covered the top half of her tear-stained face. The tall, dejected man had, until this very morning, lain in a hospital bed, recovering from an injury inflicted by his crazed wife. The doctors had told him that, if the deep jagged cut had been a mere half-inch further down, he would have lost the sight in one eye.

What happened that night played on Luke's mind over and over again. He was consumed with guilt at the easy manner in which Georgina had tempted him.

He did not blame Sylvia, nor did he blame Georgina, for the blame was his alone. What had happened was his fault.

Fate had given him choices and at every turn he'd chosen unwisely. Sylvia—so beautiful but always highly strung—how had he failed her that she needed to turn to a lout like Arnold Stratton for diversion?

Georgina—so like Sylvia as to be taken for her shadow knowing Sylvia's waywardness, why had he allowed Georgina to come and go in his house? He'd always known she was dangerous/and so she had proved to be. Again, his fault.

But Amy—dear girl—not wayward or dangerous, but as sweet-natured and kind as it was possible for a woman to be—in Amy he had glimpsed what might have been his if fate had been less cruel. But the timing was all wrong and she could never be his now. His fault again, because he'd already chosen Sylvia.

Now, as he turned to close the heavy iron churchyard gate behind him, the strain showed deep in his still-handsome features. His eyes were hollow, and his face pinched and grey. Slow-moving, with his head down and his heart heavy, Luke had become an old man before his time.

He shuffled off to his car alone as Edna was embraced by her husband, who had ready a dry handkerchief and the promise of 'a nice cup of tea at home'.

Luke started the engine and drove out towards the forest. Since Sylvia's death he had gone to the cabin often. Now that she was laid to rest there was nothing to keep him in Blackburn at all, he realised. Jack Tomlinson was in charge of the day-to-day running of the factory; Luke was hardly needed there.

The cabin, which had been an occasional retreat, was already, even since Sylvia's death, becoming a home. Here, the perfect isolation brought Luke a measure of contentment, although he felt he would never be truly happy again.

He had the birdsong and the trees, Velvet for company, the sound of the brook, his paints and, above all, the escape from noise and crowds and the responsibility of work that he had always craved. He even had Amy—in a way. The painting of Amy hung in pride of place on the wall. To gaze at her and think of what might have been, that was all his dreams had come to.

Coming out of the shadows, Don Carson made his way across the churchyard to where Sylvia Hammond and her sister, Georgina, were laid to her rest.

For a long, poignant moment he stood, his gaze roving the oval mound in the ground, where the pretty posies and other floral tributes marked a sad ending to two vibrant, young lives.

Taking the newspaper cutting from his coat pocket, he opened it out to study the familiar picture of this woman he had known as Helen. Then, dropping to his knees, he turned the cutting towards the top of the mound. 'Tsee how your lies will allus find you out?' he whispered. 'Why did you not tell me the truth? Did you think it would have made any difference to me if I'd known you were the sister-in-law of a wealthy man? Did you think I might blackmail you…or him?'

He gave a gruff laugh. 'What does it matter now, eh? You're gone and I'm still here, and we none of us know why.'

He said a prayer, made a sign of the cross on himself and, straightening up, put his hand to his mouth and blew a kiss. 'God bless,' he murmured, and, dropping the newspaper cutting between the flowers, he quickly strode away.

Amy didn't see him, until she had turned the corner and was coming through the gate when he literally bumped into her. 'Don!' She was visibly shocked.

Don too was taken aback by her sudden appearance. 'Hello, Amy.' He felt a rush of embarrassment. 'Er…how are you?'

Amy gathered her composure. Involuntarily her hand went to her stomach as if to shield her, as yet, tiny baby from this man who had brought her so much disappointment. 'I'm well, and you?'

He nodded. 'Look, Amy…' he swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, 'I did wrong to you, and I'm sorry. Sometimes we do things we regret, but once they're done there's no going back.'

Amy was astonished. She had never thought to hear him apologise. 'I understand.' Now that she had Jack, and was expecting a baby, everything had fallen into place. 'We had something for a time, but it wasn't right,' she explained. 'I can see that now. In the end, it was all for the best.'

She glanced back to the churchyard. 'This is a strange place to see you,' she mentioned curiously.

He gave the merest smile. 'I've been to see…' he too glanced back at the churchyard, "…an old friend.' His embarrassment betrayed itself when he now found it difficult to look into her eyes. 'Take care of yourself, Amy.' With that he was swiftly gone, leaving Amy to wonder about the 'friend' he had mentioned.

Hurrying across the grass, she laid her posy of spring flowers, and as she straightened up she spotted the newspaper cutting. Plucking it out, she saw that it was an article on the two sisters, with a photograph of each. 'That's odd.' She looked about the churchyard but there was no one to be seen.

Then, as a thought struck her, she turned her attention towards the gate and beyond, to where she could see the familiar figure of Don Carson hurrying away. 'I wonder?' Don had earned a reputation for enjoying the company of women friends; and why should he stop at the ones from his own class?

Before her thoughts ran away with her, Amy replaced the newspaper cutting where she had found it.

Jack and the coming baby were her life now, and she thanked God for what He had given her.

She stood a moment to murmur a prayer, then she went into the church, where she lit three candles, one for each of those young women, and the third for any poor lost soul who had no one else to light a candle for him.

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