gone travelling ‘to find herself.’
What she had found, upon her return, was that she was pregnant. For some reason, she had concealed her pregnancy and given birth alone, revealing Amy’s existence only months afterwards when she realised she needed to register her daughter’s birth.
Richard’s attempts to uncover the finer details of the story were met with evasiveness, and even hostility, a clear warning not to pry any deeper. He had learned to accept this; otherwise he might have lost her.
Richard Turner knew very well what it was like to lose those you love. After fifteen years of marriage, his wife had left him for another man who had two children of his own, taking with her their son and daughter. Richard had felt their loss as a physical pain, and then his daughter Julia, on reaching the age of sixteen, had declared she’d had enough of her ‘new family,’ and returned to Shelton to live with him.
Richard couldn’t claim to have been a father to Amy, and he acknowledged this with some regret. It was not that he couldn’t love another man’s child, nor was he fearful of displacing his own children by loving someone else’s, for he possessed the strength of character and, perhaps more unusually for a man, enough sensitivity to deal with these kinds of emotional complexities.
If Richard had been prevented from being a father to Amy, it was for the same reason as his failure to be a husband to the woman he loved; Nancy’s resistance. She kept him at a distance, never allowing him to be her equal in Amy’s affections, as though she were afraid that including another person would eclipse her position at the centre of Amy’s universe. Amy had once called him ‘daddy,’ only to be admonished by Nancy. He had accused her of denying Amy the father she so obviously needed and wanted.
To his surprise Nancy had agreed with him, and begged him to accept things as they were. So Richard had let it go. Their arguments were all now in the past, but as he held Nancy in her grief, sad too on his own account, Richard knew that Amy’s death changed everything. However painful it might be for Nancy, he now needed to know the truth.
* * *
Amy Hill’s funeral service was held at the fourteenth century church in the village that Nancy had brought her tiny daughter to seventeen years previously. Richard Turner had noted the presence of a number of young people, and was grateful, knowing that it would be a comfort to Nancy to know that her daughter’s friends had come to pay their last respects, even if at that moment she was unaware of anything around her.
He was grateful too, for the presence of his son and daughter. Julia had cried when she heard the news of Amy’s death. Whenever his children came to stay, usually during the school holidays, Julia and Amy had played together companionably enough, though never becoming, as he had once hoped, as close as sisters. Of the two, Julia was the more level-headed, the kinder , Richard believed, thinking of all the times when Amy had got Julia into trouble, or allowed Julia to take the blame for her misdeeds.
Bradley was another matter. He and Amy had been close as children, but Bradley’s feelings for Amy had changed, and he had been unable to accept that they were not reciprocated. After that, the special relationship they had always enjoyed was irretrievably lost, so much so that on a recent visit to see his father, Bradley had not even bothered to look Amy up.
A smaller group escorted Amy’s coffin down the sloping path of uneven flagstones, dangerously slippery with the soggy remains of lingering autumn leaves, to the spot where she was to be laid to rest. It lay on the other side of a beck that cut the graveyard in two, effectively separating old graves from new.
As the coffin was lowered into its black hole, Richard gave up all pretence of being strong for Nancy’s sake and wept openly, matching his lover’s grief, sob for racking sob.
When the gravediggers
What she had found, upon her return, was that she was pregnant. For some reason, she had concealed her pregnancy and given birth alone, revealing Amy’s existence only months afterwards when she realised she needed to register her daughter’s birth.
Richard’s attempts to uncover the finer details of the story were met with evasiveness, and even hostility, a clear warning not to pry any deeper. He had learned to accept this; otherwise he might have lost her.
Richard Turner knew very well what it was like to lose those you love. After fifteen years of marriage, his wife had left him for another man who had two children of his own, taking with her their son and daughter. Richard had felt their loss as a physical pain, and then his daughter Julia, on reaching the age of sixteen, had declared she’d had enough of her ‘new family,’ and returned to Shelton to live with him.
Richard couldn’t claim to have been a father to Amy, and he acknowledged this with some regret. It was not that he couldn’t love another man’s child, nor was he fearful of displacing his own children by loving someone else’s, for he possessed the strength of character and, perhaps more unusually for a man, enough sensitivity to deal with these kinds of emotional complexities.
If Richard had been prevented from being a father to Amy, it was for the same reason as his failure to be a husband to the woman he loved; Nancy’s resistance. She kept him at a distance, never allowing him to be her equal in Amy’s affections, as though she were afraid that including another person would eclipse her position at the centre of Amy’s universe. Amy had once called him ‘daddy,’ only to be admonished by Nancy. He had accused her of denying Amy the father she so obviously needed and wanted.
To his surprise Nancy had agreed with him, and begged him to accept things as they were. So Richard had let it go. Their arguments were all now in the past, but as he held Nancy in her grief, sad too on his own account, Richard knew that Amy’s death changed everything. However painful it might be for Nancy, he now needed to know the truth.
* * *
Amy Hill’s funeral service was held at the fourteenth century church in the village that Nancy had brought her tiny daughter to seventeen years previously. Richard Turner had noted the presence of a number of young people, and was grateful, knowing that it would be a comfort to Nancy to know that her daughter’s friends had come to pay their last respects, even if at that moment she was unaware of anything around her.
He was grateful too, for the presence of his son and daughter. Julia had cried when she heard the news of Amy’s death. Whenever his children came to stay, usually during the school holidays, Julia and Amy had played together companionably enough, though never becoming, as he had once hoped, as close as sisters. Of the two, Julia was the more level-headed, the kinder , Richard believed, thinking of all the times when Amy had got Julia into trouble, or allowed Julia to take the blame for her misdeeds.
Bradley was another matter. He and Amy had been close as children, but Bradley’s feelings for Amy had changed, and he had been unable to accept that they were not reciprocated. After that, the special relationship they had always enjoyed was irretrievably lost, so much so that on a recent visit to see his father, Bradley had not even bothered to look Amy up.
A smaller group escorted Amy’s coffin down the sloping path of uneven flagstones, dangerously slippery with the soggy remains of lingering autumn leaves, to the spot where she was to be laid to rest. It lay on the other side of a beck that cut the graveyard in two, effectively separating old graves from new.
As the coffin was lowered into its black hole, Richard gave up all pretence of being strong for Nancy’s sake and wept openly, matching his lover’s grief, sob for racking sob.
When the gravediggers
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