Oh, and then—’
‘Whoa!’ Tom laughed out loud. ‘That all sounds too exhausting and wonderful, and I’m sure Granddad Bob would love it, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to get all wound up just now, when I need you to go to sleep.’ He added cautiously, ‘No doubt there’ll be time for all that later on.’
The memories of his own wonderful childhood flooded Tom’s mind and lifted his heart. Lately, though, he had discovered that sometimes life was really cruel.
When the boy yawned again, Tom tucked the bedclothes over him. ‘I’m so proud of you, son.’ He sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers twining through the boy’s thick hair. ‘No man ever had a more wonderful son.’
‘Dad?’
‘Go to sleep, Casey.’
‘But I want to ask you a question.’
‘Aw, go on then. But that’s the last one.’
‘Are you proud of me when I play the guitar and sing?’
‘Of course. How could I not be proud of you, eh? You have a gift, and you must always use it. But I’m not only proud of you for that. I’m proud of you because you’re a good boy. It makes me feel special to have a son as fine as you.’
For a moment he paused, looking Casey in the eye. ‘I want you to tell me the truth, Casey. Are you sorry we left home … and your mam?’
‘No, Dad, I’m not sorry. I can’t be happy at home, because Mam won’t let me be. She gets angry and she makes me cry, even when I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Tom received the boy’s answer with mixed feelings. ‘Do you think you might be able to forgive her … some day in the future?’
Lowering his gaze, Casey considered Tom’s question before answering quietly, ‘I don’t know. Sometimes, I don’t like Mam very much, and sometimes … well, I think I might love her. Only she doesn’t want me to love her, and she won’t love me back.’
‘I understand what you’re saying,’ Tom reassured him. In his heart he was content to think that Ruth might never again get her claws into this boy. Then again, Casey was her son, and he needed a mother. And yet, if Ruth really had no warm feelings for him, he might be better off without her altogether.
‘It’s difficult to love someone, isn’t it?’ Tom said now. ‘Like you, I’m not really sure if she wants us or not. But there’s always the chance that she’ll change her mind. And if that happens, it would of course be for you to decide whether or not you want to forgive her.’
‘I’ll never forgive her!’ Casey had not forgotten. ‘She called me a liar, and I know what I heard. Anyway, she doesn’t want me. She said so.’
Before Tom could reply, the boy asked quietly, ‘She meant it, didn’t she, Dad?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Yes, I think she did … at the time, but when we’re angry, we all say all kinds of things we don’t mean.’
‘Well, if she doesn’t want me, then I don’t want her. I’ve made up my mind, and I won’t go back.’
‘All right, son. That’s enough now. We’re here at Granddad’s, and he said you can stay as long as you want. So, let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
‘All right.’
‘I love you, Casey, and all I want is for you to be happy.’
‘But I can’t be happy just now, ’cause I’m a little bit sad that I can’t play the guitar any more.’
‘Then we’ll just have to get it mended, won’t we?’
‘How can we do that?’ He looked up at Tom with wide eyes, the tearful words tumbling one over the other. ‘It’s all busted, and the strings have jumped out, and … it’s no good any more.’
Tom gathered him into his arms. ‘Trust me, son,’ he murmured, ‘it can be mended.’
‘But, it’s all in bits.’ Casey’s tears spilled over. ‘It can’t ever be mended. Never, never!’
‘Hey!’ Tom wagged a finger. ‘Have I ever promised to do something that can’t be done?’
The child shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Right! So trust me now. Tears and tantrums won’t mend anything. But there must be a man out there who can mend whatever needs mending; even a guitar with “jumped-out” strings, and bits of wood missing.’
‘Where is he, then?’
‘Well, I can’t be really sure, not yet, but there must be someone out there. I mean, there are clockmakers to mend clocks; tailors to repair clothes, and mechanics to mend broken engines. So I reckon that means there must be someone who mends guitars. Isn’t that so?’
Tom was rewarded with a bright, happy smile. ‘Yeah! And we’ll find him, won’t we, Dad?’
Relieved that the boy’s spirits were up again, Tom gave an encouraging nod. ‘Now close your eyes and go to sleep.’
‘Dad?’
‘What now?’
‘Will you tell me that story, about when you were a little boy, and Granddad used to take you to Mill Hill bridge, where you watched the trains running underneath, and all the steam blew up into your faces?’ He grinned at the thought. ‘You said you felt invisible.’
‘That’s right, son. Oh, but they were wonderful times. I was a very lucky boy to have those adventures.’ Just now, when Casey mentioned the railway bridge at Mill Hill, Tom’s heart had almost stopped, because that particular place from his childhood had played heavily on his mind lately.
Now, though, because of the boy’s curiosity, he was made to revisit Mill Hill bridge in his mind once more. The thought of his father and himself walking under that picturesque viaduct and onwards, up the bank and along the curve of the bridge itself, was one of Tom’s most precious memories.
When other, darker thoughts clouded his troubled mind, he smiled at the irony. ‘Are you sure you want that particular story, son?’
‘Yes, please.’
With mixed emotions, Tom told the story about the days when he and Granddad Bob had regularly stood on the bridge for hours, watching the trains as they made their noisy way beneath, sending clouds of steam upwards and outwards. There was always much laughter when the steam enveloped the two of them, before quickly evaporating in the air.
While Casey laughed aloud, Tom blinked away stinging tears. ‘Soon the next train would come along,’ he went on, ‘and sometimes we’d lean over the bridge wall, with your granddad Bob hanging onto my pants to stop me from falling headfirst onto the railway lines below. The steam was everywhere. When we finally came away, my hair would feel really damp to the touch. Then Granddad Bob would always threaten to turn me upside down when we got home.’
‘Why would he turn you upside down?’
‘So’s he could wash the kitchen floor with my damp hair … or at least that’s what he said.’
Casey laughed out loud. ‘He wouldn’t really do that, would he?’
‘No, it was just his idea of a joke.’
Having been persuaded to tell the tale for the umpteenth time, Tom’s heart was heavy.
Nevertheless, he told it as promised, right to the end; by which time Casey was fast asleep.
Tom stayed with him for a while. He held his hand, and watched him sleeping. His tearful eyes roved over that small, familiar face, and for a precious time he lay beside him, oddly content just to watch him sleep.
In those precious moments of quiet, he could almost hear the boy’s heartbeat, as regular as a clock counting