Shadows of the Past Mrs. Valerie Mitchell carefully dusted the spines of antique Dickens volumes in…

Shadows of the Past

Margaret Archer carefully dusted the spines of old Dickens volumes when the postman knocked on the glass door of her small bookshop on Londons Cheapside. A rainy October morning outside made the city seem particularly greyexactly three months since Edwards funeral.

Youve got a letter, the postman said, handing her a white envelope without a return address. Just sign here, please.

Margaret raised her eyebrows in surprise. In an age of emails, paper letters were rareand anonymous ones rarer still. She slid on her reading glasses and opened the envelope right there at the counter.

Dear Mrs Archer. Forgive me for disturbing you during mourning, but my conscience forbids me to stay silent any longer. Your late husband, Edward, lived a double life for the past twenty years. If you wish to know the truth, please come tomorrow at two oclock to The Red Lion on Fleet Street. Ill be wearing a red scarf. I am truly sorry for the pain.

Margarets hands began to tremble. The letter slipped to the floor. She sank onto the stool behind the till, feeling the room spin.

Edward? Her Edward, who kissed her forehead every morning before leaving for the university? Who read her Shakespeare in the evenings? Who died of a heart attack during a lecture on Dickens?

This must be some mistake, she whispered to the empty shop. Or someones cruel prank.

But the seed of doubt was sown. All night, Margaret tossed and turned, recalling the peculiarities of recent yearsEdwards frequent trips for academic conferences he spoke of only briefly, calls after which hed disappear onto the terrace, bank statements he always fetched first…

The next day, at precisely two, Margaret walked into The Red Lion. At the corner table sat a young woman, about thirtybeautiful, with high cheekbones and sad grey eyes. Around her neck was a scarlet cashmere scarf.

Mrs Archer? the woman stood up. My name is Elizabeth. Thank you for coming.

Who are you? Margarets voice trembled with barely suppressed anger. How dare you write such things about my husband?

Elizabeth pulled from her bag a worn photographEdward, younger by some fifteen years, embracing a woman holding a child.

Thats my mother, Elizabeth said softly. And the child is me. Edward was my father. Not by blood, but he raised me from the age of five. My mother died last year of cancer. Before she passed, she asked me to find you and tell everything, but I couldnt not while he was alive.

Margaret felt the ground slip beneath her feet. The barmaid brought water, but her hands shook so badly she couldnt drink.

Its impossible, she breathed. We were married forty-five years. We had no secrets.

He loved you, Elizabeth leaned forward. He always spoke of you with such tenderness. But my mother she needed him. She was ill, mentally. After my real father abandoned us, she tried to end her own life. Edward was her PhD supervisor. He saved her, and then he couldnt walk away.

Twenty years, Margaret shook her head. Twenty years of lies.

Not lies, Elizabeth replied. He was torn between duty and love. He paid for Mums treatment, my schooling. Yet every evening he came home to you. Mum knew he was married. She never asked for more.

Margaret stood so suddenly she nearly toppled her glass.

I need time to think. Dont seek me again.

She left the pub without looking back. It was drizzling, blending with the tears on her face. Forty-five years of marriagea fantasy? Or not?

At home, Margaret began searching. She rifled through all of Edwards drawers and papers. In an old briefcase, tucked behind the lining, she found a key to a bank safe and a receipt in the name P.S. Brownher husbands mothers maiden name, which hed never used.

At Barclays, showing Edwards death certificate and inheritance documents, she gained access to the box. Inside were documents: a flat lease in Southwark, medical reports for Helen Brown listing bipolar disorder, photos of Elizabeth through the yearsnursery school to university graduation. And Edwards diary.

Margaret sat right on the cold floor of the vault and began to read.

I am a scoundrel. I know it. But I cannot do otherwise. Maggie is my light, my strength, my true life. Yet Helen and Liz, they would perish without me. Helen tries to cut her wrists again when I mention leaving. And Liz she looks at me as if I were her father. How can I abandon her?

Liz was accepted to Oxford in English Literature today. She wants to be like meteach. I am proud and hate myself. Maggie asked why I was crying. Told her I was moved by reading Anna Karenina. It was trueI was mourning my own divided life.

Helen is dying. Cancer. Doctors say months at most. She asks only one thingthat I tell Maggie the truth after shes gone. I promised, but I know I wont manage it. I am a coward. Always have been.

The last entry was dated a week before Edwards death:

My heart cant take much more. Literally. Cardiologist says surgery is needed, but I know this is my reckoning. Ive lived two lives, and now my heart is split. Maggie, if you ever read this, please forgive me. I loved you every second we shared. But I couldnt abandon an ill woman and child. Forgive this weak old fool.

Margaret closed the diary. She sat in the cold, silent vault and pondered forty-five years of her life. Were they a lie? Or did Edward truly love her and simply find himself trapped?

She remembered his eyestired but always gentle when he looked at her. Remembered him holding her hand in hospital during her bout with pneumonia. The poems he read her. The laughter at her jokes.

That evening, Margaret telephoned John SpencerEdwards old friend from university.

John, did you know?

Long pause.

Maggie yes. He asked me to witness the secret flat lease. Forgive me.

Why didnt he leave me? Margarets voice wavered.

Because he loved you. I swear, Maggie, he adored you. But that woman she tried to kill herself several times. Edward couldnt live knowing hed caused someones death. Then the girl started calling him Dad

Margaret hung up. She moved to the window, looking at the evening city. London was radiant, lights reflected on slick pavements.

A week later, she met Elizabeth again, this time in her bookshop.

Tell me about him, Margaret asked. About the life I never knew.

Elizabeth talked for hours. How Edward taught her to ride a bike. Helped with homework. Comforted her mother during spells of depression. Cried at her graduation.

He spoke of you often, Elizabeth confessed. Called you his angel. Said he didnt deserve a woman like you.

He was wrong, Margaret wiped tears from her cheeks. I am the one unworthya man who carried such burdens for twenty years and didnt break.

Are you angry?

I am. Very much. But I I understand. Life is rarely black-and-white, dear. Especially with love and responsibility.

Margaret took a volume of Chekhov from the shelf.

He loved The Lady with the Dog. Now I understand why. Take itit was his own copy.

Elizabeth accepted the book with trembling hands.

Mrs Archer I am so sorry.

No need, Margaret touched her hand. You arent to blame. None of us are. Not even Edward. He just tried to be a good man in an impossible situation.

After Elizabeth left, Margaret sat alone for a long while in the shop. She thought of Edward, his double life, the burden hed carried, the lovestrange, complicated, imperfect, but true.

She opened her husbands diary to the last page and added:

Edward, my love. I have learnt everything and understand it all. I forgive you. More than thatI am proud of you. You bore a cross that would break most. Rest well, my dear. Your secrets stay with me, and your memory is pure. I will care for Elizabeth; after all, she is part of you, thus part of my life.

Margaret locked the diary in the safe. Tomorrow would be a new day. Shed continue living, tending the memory of her husband and, perhaps, discover in Elizabeth the daughter she and Edward never had.

Life went onmessy, filled with secrets and revelations, but real. As was love, stronger than lies, stronger than death, stronger than anything.