Shadows of the Past Valerie Murray carefully dusted the spines of old Dickens volumes in her cosy b…

Shadows of the Past

Beatrice Atkinson delicately dusted the spines of battered Dickens volumes as the postman rapped on the glass door of her little bookshop off Charing Cross. The October rain fell heavily over London, grey and relentlessthree months, exactly, since Arthurs funeral.

Youve got a letter, he said, holding forth a pristine white envelope with no return address. Sign here, please.

Surprised, Beatrice raised her brows. In this age of emails, paper letters rarely arrivedespecially anonymous ones. She perched her reading glasses on her nose and tore open the envelope right at the counter.

Dear Mrs Beatrice Atkinson. Forgive me for disturbing you while youre grieving, but my conscience wont allow silence any longer. Your late husband, Arthur John Atkinson, led a double life for the past twenty years. If you wish to learn the truth, meet me tomorrow at two oclock at Café Dulcinea on Fleet Street. Ill be wearing a red scarf. Forgive me for the pain.

Beatrices hands trembled, and the letter slipped to the floor. She sank onto the stool behind the till, feeling the shop tilt around her. Arthur? Arthur, who kissed her forehead every morning before teaching at Kings College? Who read Yeats aloud each evening? Who had died of a heart attack during his lecture on Wilde?

This must be a mistake, she murmured to the empty shop. Or some cruel joke.

But doubt had crept in. All night Beatrice tossed in bed, recalling oddities: Arthurs frequent trips to conferences abroad; phone calls, after which he would pace the balcony; bank statements he always collected first

The next day, precisely at two, Beatrice walked into Café Dulcinea. At a corner table sat a young woman, striking, about thirty, sharp-cheeked, melancholic grey eyes. Around her neck, a scarlet cashmere scarf.

Mrs Atkinson? she stood. Im Emily. Thank you for coming.

Who are you? Beatrices voice quavered with suppressed anger. How dare you write such things about Arthur?

Emily fetched an old photo from her bag. Arthur, fifteen years younger, smiled while holding a woman and a child.

Thats my mother, Emily whispered. And the child is me. Arthur he wasnt my biological father, but he raised me from age five. Mum died last year of cancer. She told me to find you, to tell you everything, but I couldnt not while he was alive.

The ground seemed to slip away. The waitress placed a glass of water before her, but Beatrices hands shook too much to drink.

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

He loved you, Emily leaned in. Always spoke of you with such tenderness. But my mothershe needed him. She was mentally unwell. After my real father fled, she tried to take her own life. Arthur was her lecturer during her postgrad. He saved her, then couldnt leave.

Twenty years, Beatrice shook her head. Twenty years of deception.

Not deception, Emily countered. He was torn between duty and affection. He paid for mums treatment, my schooling. But he came back to you every evening. Mum knew about you. She never demanded more.

Beatrice stood so quickly she knocked over her glass.

I need time. Dont contact me again.

She left without looking back. Rain mingled with her tears on the pavement. Forty-five yearswere they a fantasy? Or not?

At home, Beatrice searched Arthurs things. Every drawer, every paper. In an ancient briefcase, sewn behind the lining, she found a key and a receipt in the name P.S. VernonArthurs mothers maiden name, which he never used.

At the bank, showing Arthurs death certificate and her inheritance papers, she gained access to the vault. Inside lay documents: a lease for a flat in Hackney, medical reports for Helen Emily Vernonbipolar disorder; photos of Emily, from nursery through graduation; Arthurs diary.

Beatrice sat right on the cold vault floor, reading.

Im a scoundrel. I know it. But I cant help it. Bea is my light, my strength, my true life. But Helen and Emilytheyd die without me. Helen tries again to cut her wrists when I mention leaving. Emily the girl calls me dad. How can I abandon her?

Today Emily got into Oxford for English. She wants to teach literature like me. Im proud, but despise myself. Bea asked why I cried. Said it was Wildes Lady Windermeres Fan. It was trueI wept for my fractured life.

Helens dying. Cancer. Doctors say months. She asks one thingthat I tell Bea everything after shes gone. I promised, but know I wont. Im a coward. Always was.

Final entry, written a week before Arthurs death:

My heart wont take much more. Literally. Cardiologist says I need surgery, but I knowthis is the reckoning. I lived two lives, and my heart splits. Bea, if you ever read thisforgive me. I cherished every second. But I couldnt abandon a sick woman and her child. Forgive this feeble old fool.

Beatrice closed the diary. She sat in the chilly vault, pondering forty-five years. Were they lies? Or did Arthur truly love her, caught in an impossible web?

She remembered his eyestired, yet always gentle when gazing at her. How he clasped her hand in hospital when she had pneumonia. How he recited poetry. How he laughed at her jokes.

That evening, Beatrice rang Peter JamesonArthurs old friend from Kings.

Peter, did you know?

A long silence.

Bea I Yes, I knew. Arthur asked me to witness the secret lease paperwork. Forgive me.

Why did he stay with me? her voice trembled.

Because he adored you. Swear it, Bea. He was besotted. But Helen she tried to end herself more than once. Arthur couldnt live knowing he caused someones death. And then came Emily, who called him dad

Beatrice set down the phone. She looked out at the London twilight, city lights glimmering on the wet roads.

A week later, she invited Emily to her bookshop.

Tell me about him, Beatrice said. About the part of his life I never knew.

Emily spoke for hourshow Arthur taught her to cycle, helped with homework, comforted Helen during bouts of depression, cried at Emilys graduation.

He mentioned you often, Emily admitted. Called you his angel. Said he wasnt worthy of a woman like you.

He was wrong, Beatrice wiped her tears. Its me who wasnt worthya man who bore duty and love for twenty years and didnt collapse.

You arent angry?

I am. Deeply. But I also understand. Life seldom fits neatly, darling. Especially love and responsibility.

Beatrice fetched a slim volume of Chekhov from the shelf.

He adored The Lady with the Dog. Now I see why. Take itit was his personal copy.

Emily took the book with trembling hands.

Mrs Atkinson, I Im sorry.

No need, Beatrice touched her hand. You arent to blame. None of us arenot even Arthur. He only tried to be good in an impossible situation.

After Emily left, Beatrice lingered in her empty shop. She thought of Arthur, his double life, the burden he’d carried. And of lovepeculiar, intricate, imperfect, but real.

She opened Arthurs diary to the final page and wrote:

Arthur, dearest. I know all now, and I understand. I forgive you. In factIm proud of you. You carried a weight that would have broken many. Sleep peacefully, darling. Your secrets stay with me, your memoryuntarnished. Ill watch over Emily. Shes a part of you, and thus, a part of my life.

Beatrice locked the diary in the safe. Tomorrow a new day would dawn. She would keep Arthurs memory, and perhaps, find in Emily the daughter she and Arthur could never have.

Life went oncomplicated, full of secrets and revelations, yet unflinchingly genuine. Love proved itself stronger than lies, stronger than death, stronger than anything.