A Letter

Tom was puzzled. Well, perhaps more perplexed than puzzled. He sat staring, wide-eyed, at the letter on the table. The handwriting was unfamiliar to him – he knew lots of people who wrote with a scrawl, but none with a backward slant. It was obviously someone he didn’t know. But why would someone he didn’t know be writing to him?
  
He heard the shower turn on upstairs. It was seem his mother was now awake, and owing to her daily beauty regime, would be considerably busy for a while. Which Tom deemed a good thing – his mother enjoyed prying into his personal affairs. He returned his gaze to the letter, still lying innocently on the table. Sighing, he picked it up and ripped it open.

Inside was a folded sheet of paper. Curious, Tom reached in to pull it out. As he removed it from the envelope, another smaller piece of paper fluttered onto the floor: a photograph.

Tom bent down, turning the photograph over as he picked it up. He gasped – the scene depicted was familiar to him. It showed a young woman, lying in a hospital bed, proudly holding a newborn baby. There was a slightly older man standing beside her, the expression of pride on his face identical to the woman’s – his mother’s. The date written on the back confirmed it – it was a picture taken on the day of his birth.

Suddenly excited, Tom grabbed the folded paper from the table. The paper ripped as he unfolded it, a clear indicator of his eagerness to read what was written. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and then began to read:

‘Dear Thomas,
                     The day you were born was the happiest day of my life. It broke my heart when your mother would not let me see you. Every day for the past sixteen years I have thought about you: what you have grown up to look like; how life is treating you; whether or not you knew about me. But now that you are old enough to understand, I feel I must write to you. I love you, Thomas, and I always have.
With love,
              Dad.’

Tom stared at the last word for what seemed like an eternity. Dad? But it couldn’t be…his father was dead, wasn’t he?

He heard the kitchen door open behind him, and his mother glided into the room.

“Ah, good morning, Tom. How are you feeling to-” she cut off as she saw his face staring at her, his expression full of hurt and betrayal. “What’s wrong?”

Tom held the letter up to her face. “You told me that Dad was dead.”
   
His mother went suddenly very pale, all cheerfulness that she had shown only moments earlier magically vanished. She turned away from her son’s piercing, and now angry, gaze. “You shouldn’t have opened it.”

“And why not? It was addressed to me!” Tom screamed at her. “You lied to me. You lied about it for sixteen years!” He was suddenly started to see tears in his mother’s eyes, but it did nothing to calm him. So what if his mum was upset? He had thought his dad was dead for sixteen years! He had every right to be angry!

“I’m sorry, Tom,” his mother whispered, her voice scratchy with tears. “Things were complicated-”

“Don’t give me that rubbish,” Tom replied scornfully, still extremely upset and angry with her. Suddenly, an idea slipped into his head. He considered it for a brief moment – it would probably upset his mother further, but he so wanted to see it through.

He stood up and turned away from his mother. “I’m going to visit Dad.” He barely acknowledged her quiet sobs behind him. “Don’t try to stop me.”


* * *

Tom stared silently out of the window, watching the mountainous landscape roll past. He had caught the train to Carlisle at 8 o’clock that morning, and in a short time he would be reaching his destination. He had left a note for his mother on the kitchen table; something he felt slightly guilty about, but not too much.
   
Another ten minutes passed before he felt the train slowing down. He was there. He felt the excitement and apprehension flood his body – an exhilarating feeling. He stood up, grabbed his bag, and joined the crowds standing by the train doors. As he stepped onto the platform, he reached into his pocket for the letter. Already it was crumpled and smudged, having being read constantly, almost religiously, by him over the previous two days. His father’s address was written in the upper right-hand corner, in the backwards slanted handwriting that he had come to love so quickly.
   
After having to ask for directions several times on the way, Tom finally found himself standing outside his father’s house. A strange feeling was worming its way through him. It took him only a few moments to realise what it was – he was afraid.

He walked slowly up the path, his eyes taking in the early 1930s style of the house. He took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.
   
After a few moments, he heard a key turn in the lock. He held his breath as the door opened, revealing a man in a large pair of checked pyjamas. He seemed to have just gotten up, if the bed hair and sleep in his eyes was any indication.
  
“What do you want?” he grunted, rubbing his eyes.
   
“Jacob Tiffoney?”
   
“Yes?”
   
“My name’s Tom Kirby…” Tentatively, Tom held out the letter. The man’s eyes scanned the page before widening so that they began to resemble saucers.
   
“Thomas? My little boy…is that really you?”
   
Despite the fact that this was really only their first meeting, Jacob held open his arms and Tom stepped into them. At last, he knew the truth – his father was really alive, he was really here! He had so much to tell him.