It was a small facility. I thought absently there could not have been more than half a dozen people being taken care of here. Most of them had come to die. There were two health care workers visible, and the one we approached upon arrival led us readily to the bedside of the man we had come to see.
“You have company, Sydney,” she said softly. “Do you feel up to it?”
I will never forget him. He was lying on his side in a hospital bed, one that would have been considered archaic in the hospital in Hanley. It was small, but he looked even smaller in it, and he looked much older than I knew him to be. He rolled over slowly, mild puzzlement showing on his pale face.
“Who might you be?” he asked in a hoarse voice, scanning both of our faces, squinting his eyes.
Try as I might, I didn’t know how to begin. In my hesitancy Roger rescued me. He leaned forward, offering his hand, and said, “We haven’t met, sir, but it seems we’re cousins.”
“Cousins?” The wizened little man shook his head. “Most of my cousins are female, and the one that isn’t, well, you couldn’t be him.”
“My name is Roger Simington, but my grandmother was Mary Tucker before she married, the older sister to your mother.”
If anything, the invalid became even paler. His hands trembled as he lifted himself up in his bed. It seemed to take a long time.
“And who are you?” he asked me, finally.
“My name is Sally Nimitz,” I answered softly, looking him full in the face. “I am from the United States, from Hanley, Indiana. I was living next door to your mother when she died.”
There is no way to describe his reaction. He said nothing at first. How could one see sadness, anger, and despair, all in just a few seconds? But that is what I saw. I could not take my eyes off of him, although I wanted to, his pain was so evident.
“Mother?” he said finally. “What mother? She left me when I was little.”
“Yes,” I allowed, “I’m afraid she did. Your grandmother was a very strong, domineering woman, and she took the role of your mother.”
Sydney did not reply. Roger found two empty chairs. We both sat down at the bedside.
Then Sydney spoke again. “Who told you that?”
“Just before she died, your aunt Mary told her daughter Sandra all about why your mother left her family during the war. Sandra is Roger’s mother.”
The little man shifted his gaze from me to Roger, and then left us both to stare vacantly out of a nearby window.
“It wasn’t the same,” he said. We all knew he was referring to his grandmother taking the maternal role.
“Did you remember your real mother at all?” I asked.
He reached unsteadily for the glass of water sitting on a table on the other side of his bed, his hands so shaky I was tempted to help him. He spilled only a couple of drops as he brought the glass to his lips and drank, managing to put it back without dropping it. We waited. I wondered if he would ask us to leave, and what I would do if he did.
“Not very well,” he answered me at last. “I was seven the last time I saw her, and the last time she sent me anything I was ten.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. Who could blame him?
“Were you seven when you saw her last?” There was no stopping now. “Mr. Treadwell, I think you were in America in September. Did you see her then?”
He looked at me again, tears welling in his eyes. “Yes,” he choked, “I saw her.”
Harsh sobs racked his thin frame and the nurse came hurrying over, looking at us reprovingly.
“Is this necessary?” she demanded. “You can see this gentleman is very ill.”
If she had looked closely, she could have seen we looked rather ill ourselves. I heard Roger gasp next to me, and utter an expletive under his breath.
“No!” Sydney’s weak voice surprised us all in its determination, and three pairs of eyes turned to him. “Leave us, nurse. I must talk to these people.”
She obeyed.
“You want to tell us about it?” I asked him gently. “I think the truth must come out.” I almost added that it would hardly matter to him now, but did not. He certainly knew it.
“How did you find me?” Amelia’s son asked as a starting point, his voice a little stronger.
I explained briefly. I wanted to ask him how he had found his mother, but that could wait. Sydney Treadwell had the floor and would tell his story his way.
“It didn’t matter so much when I was little,” he began after staring at the ceiling for a full moment after I had finished. “It is true; my grandmother raised me as her own. I never knew why my mum left. No one ever spoke of it; no one would ever talk about it, except Dad said she found someone else. I wondered sometimes, at night, alone in my room. I thought it hadn’t been my fault, but I wasn’t sure, you know.”
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and probably to collect his thoughts. Roger was silent in the chair next to me. I was vaguely aware of voices and movement around us, all of it totally unimportant.
“Grand dad passed away first, then a few years later, my Grandmother. Now it was just me and Dad, and the farm kept us going all the time. I liked it pretty well. I almost married, once, and we kept seeing each other for years, but it just never happened.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if Sydney’s strong-willed grandmother had had something to do with the failure of his love life. But Sydney was going on.
“Then Dad died. I was over forty. Alone in the house after the chores were done, I got to thinking about her more. There wasn’t anything else for me, really, so I started checking, seeing if I could find her.”
This time when he reached for the water I reached the glass ahead of him and helped. He didn’t resist. The nurse who had approached us earlier came back. She must have decided we were friends, not enemies. She asked courteously if we would like something to drink. Water, if not too much trouble, was my response, and Roger concurred. She left to fetch it and Sydney went on.
“It took me years. The farm, a pint in the pub now and then, maybe church on Sunday, and looking for her. That was most of my life. But in the end,” and there was a triumphant note in the weak voice, “I did.” He reflected on that for a second before continuing his story. “Then I wondered what to do about it, and I finally decided, ‘Syd, ole’ boy, you haven’t been anywhere. Why not go to America? So for a couple of years I planned it. I sold most of the stock and saved my money.” He had been looking at the ceiling again, but now he shifted his eyes back to us. “Then do you know what happened?”
We confessed we did not. Our water glasses came, and the nurse left again.
He smiled sadly. “I found out I had this cancer. A small tumor in my chest, the doctor says. If I have it operated on right away I might be cured. So, I do, and I get better all right. I feel fine and they think it’s all gone, but one never knows. Besides, she must be about eighty now, too. I decide it’s time to make that trip to America.”
He turned away from us again. We sipped our water and waited. We knew he would go on.
“It was rather nice, the plane ride, the nice hotel in New York. Rather scary, too, but it was all arranged, you see, and went rather well.” He turned back and added with pride, “I am a good driver, you know. Was, that is. Didn’t dare try it in New York, but when I got to Indianapolis, I rented a car there. No trouble at all for me with the steering wheel on the other side.”
“Remarkable, sir,” Roger said, softly.
Sydney gave him another sad smile in response, acknowledging the praise. But his story had to go on and there was nothing else to be proud of.
The tears were coming back to Sydney’s eyes but he kept talking. This was the first time he had told anyone, I was sure of it. The burden must have been horrible.
“I called her,” he said, “from Indianapolis, and asked to see her. She was shocked, no doubt about that. But who wouldn’t be?” He panted a few times, and went agonizingly on. “She said she would return my call. She said she wasn’t sure we should see each other.” Now his weak voice was angry in remembrance. “I told her I couldn’t believe it. I came thousands of miles to see my own mum and she wasn’t sure we should meet?”
The anger took much of his strength, and he rested. We simply waited some more.
“After that she did agree to see me. She gave me directions, and told me to come on Wednesday afternoon at four o’clock. That gave me two days to wait. I took in the sights a little bit, but by Wednesday I couldn’t wait anymore. I started out early, and got there about noontime. I wasn’t sure exactly, where her place was, and like I say I was way early, so I parked my car by a park and got out to walk.”
That’s where you parked your car, I thought, and no one ever noticed. No one ever saw a small elderly man in a black suit walking about, no one except Mr. Reiman.
Sydney Treadwell’s voice was even weaker and getting hoarse. He arched his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling but certainly it was not the ceiling he was seeing.
“I found the place and walked up and rang the bell. She opened the door and looked at me.” The poor man was gasping and I was alarmed for him, and yet afraid the nurse would come back and throw us out. Without realizing it I had started to get up, but Roger put a firm hand on my shoulder, and I sank back down.
“She looked me up and down,” Sydney whispered, “and then she said, ‘I guess you’d better come in.’ She looked so disappointed! All my life I thought if I ever saw my mum again she would put her arms around me. And all she could say was, ‘I guess you’d better come in.’”
He didn’t look as though he could go any further, but I knew we had to hear the rest.
“Is that why you hit her?” it was the most difficult sentence I ever said.
The little bed was shaking with his sobs, but he nodded. “I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered. “I was just so angry. She went to the kitchen to make us some tea, and I heard her sigh, as my dad would when someone had come to visit he didn’t want around.” The sobs subsided a bit as he added, “Once I brought my cane down on her head, I must have gone mad. I know I hit her more than one time.”
The nurse was back now, and looked at us all, not knowing quite what to make of the scenario before her. She asked her patient if he needed anything and he replied, “Not yet, nurse, just another minute or two. Bring something for the pain, please.”
There was another pause. Roger helped with the water glass this time.
“Did you take the Bible, and her daily planner?” I asked after Sydney had another sip.
“Yes. When I realized what I had done, I sat down for a minute to try and think what to do. I must have been in shock. I couldn’t have stayed there much longer but before I left I saw my name in her planner on a little stand, and there was her Bible on the divan.”
He tried to reach into a drawer at his bedside, and seeing his difficulty Roger helped again. He opened the drawer, and pulled out the aged photograph sitting on the top. He handed it to Sydney, who held it out to me. It was of Amelia and her son as a toddler.
“She kept it in her Bible,” he said brokenly, his skin the color of ashes.
This time I called the nurse.
“You need something stronger than tea,” Roger said firmly, pulling his car up in front of a pub with a sign dangling above the door labeling it The Silver Fox. “Besides,” he added, “so do I.”
“I haven’t had anything much to eat,” I protested very feebly. “It will knock me on my derriere.”
“That might not be so bad,” he opined, “but they have food here.”
It was late in the afternoon. The nurse had given Sydney a strong pain medication. As he dozed off to sleep he asked us what we were going to do.
“Don’t worry, old man,” Roger had patted his arm. “It will all be alright. I imagine you will get a visit from the authorities, but it was an accident, don’t you know?”
Whether he had wanted to believe it, or he did, Sydney nodded, and closed his eyes. I turned around to walk away, but saw his trembling hand reach out to me, and I took it. “Sorry,” he murmured, “so sorry.”
“Yes,” I whispered back, “I know. She was too.” I gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
I was sipping the drink Roger had ordered for me, trying to keep the room in focus and listening to Roger mutter, “Poor old sod,” when a serving girl brought us each a plate of chicken, potatoes, and mixed vegetables.
It looked good, but I thought Roger could have ordered one plate between us unless he had a voracious appetite. He didn’t. He picked at his food as I did mine, taking long draughts of his ale.
“I’m sorry to bring this trouble,” I said to him after half of my drink was gone. “Perhaps it would have been better not to know.”
He looked at me in obvious surprise. “Dear lady,” he said, “the truth is almost always better, don’t you think?” He rubbed his forehead and added, “I don’t think he’s the worse for confessing it, do you? Maybe he’ll die with a little more peace. I asked the head nurse on duty to call his vicar.”
I had gone straight to the car after Sydney let go of my hand. I sat in the passenger seat in a sort of shock myself. Roger was made of sterner stuff. He lingered.
“That’s who you talked to while I was waiting in the car?”
He nodded. “I asked her what she knew about him, and his illness. She said he’s been there about two weeks, checked in by his doctor now that he’s terminal.”
“I guess they didn’t get all of the tumor after all,” I observed.
“Yes, well, funny about that. She said he went back to his doctor about six weeks ago, and there was hope for him then. They recommended chemotherapy and he refused. She said she doesn’t think he wants to live.”
I looked at him quizzically, and he added ruefully, “Perhaps understandable.”
We both tried to eat for a bit, making a little dent in our food. I emphatically refused the offer of a second whiskey, to Roger’s amusement.
“What do we do about this now?” I wanted Roger’s opinion. “Certainly I should notify the local law enforcement agency?”
Roger said he had been thinking about that, and wanted to think about it some more. For now we should go back to Coventry. The old boy wasn’t going anywhere, was he? Both of us had heard his confession. By now his vicar may have heard it, too.
Our drive back was quiet. Neither one of us mentioned stopping to see the cathedral in Litchfield. We were both preoccupied with our private thoughts.
Once he asked me, “Don’t you Americans have a holiday about this time of year? Thanksgiving, isn’t it?”
“It’s next Thursday.”
“When are you booked to go home?”
“Tuesday, very early in the morning.” I wondered if I would make it home in time for Thanksgiving. I wondered what the police were like in Britain.
It was very dark when Roger delivered me to my lodgings. The two streetlights nearby emitted a soft glow, but there were no stars, no moon visible. Roger parked the car legally and stopped the engine. He turned to face me.
“Sally, I think you should go home on Tuesday.”
“Really? Will I be allowed?”
He grinned. He was really charming and had been wonderful. If I were ten years younger ….
“You’ll be allowed, because I’m not going to report this until Tuesday morning.” He held up a hand to stop me from protesting.
“Listen. I know two chaps on the force here, and I’ll go to them in innocence, telling them I heard an extraordinary story on Sunday, and just had the chance to follow up. I’ll tell it exactly as it happened. An American lady comes to follow the family history of her deceased neighbor, etc. etc. I heard just what you did, and you’ll be safely on your way home when the story is being told. Chances are, they’ll get back to your police in Indiana and find out all the facts on that end from them.”
I thought about it for a full minute, and went for it. We spent over five more minutes saying goodbye. I told him to give his family my very best, and thank them again for all their hospitality. I could not help but say again how sorry I was to bring this tragedy to their doorstep and again Roger brushed aside my apology.
“Dear Sally,” he said, with a warm, sad smile, “Amelia and Sydney are family. You have given us answers we never would have had, and maybe we can give that poor man a bit of comfort before he dies.”
“I was afraid of this when your mother confirmed Amelia had a son,” I confessed. “I couldn’t imagine how he got himself there, but it all added up.”
“I’ve been wondering how he got himself home,” Roger said. “And speaking of that, can you get yourself back to London and the airport alright?”
“I got myself here just fine,” I said tartly, feeling like I was talking to George, but added in a more modified tone, “but thank you for asking. And thank you for everything you have done today. Without you at my side this ordeal would have been even worse.”
“Just want to give a good impression of the Brits,” he grinned modestly, and jumped out to open my door for me.