Shadows of the Past
Friday, 18th October, London
This morning felt particularly grey, the rain tapping against the window of my small bookshop on Charing Cross Road. Its three months since Edwards funeral, and the city feels colder than ever. I was carefully dusting the spines of old Dickens volumes when the postman knocked on the glass door. People rarely send handwritten letters these days, especially without a return address.
Youve got a letter, he said, passing over a white envelope. Just sign here.
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. I slid on my reading glasses and opened it right at the counter, curiosity outweighing caution.
Dear Harriet Hope. Im sorry to disturb you in your time of grief, but my conscience wont allow me to stay silent. Your late husband, Edward Hope, led a double life for twenty years. If you wish to know the truth, meet me tomorrow at 2pm in The Dickensian Café on Southampton Row. I’ll be wearing a red scarf. Forgive me for causing pain.
My hands shook so violently that the letter dropped to the floor. I sank into the chair behind the counter, the room spinning around me. Edward? The man who kissed my forehead every morning before heading to King’s College? Who recited poetry to me in the evenings? Who died of a heart attack during his lecture on Shakespeare?
This must be some mistake, I whispered to the empty shop. Or perhaps someones cruel idea of a joke.
But doubt had crept in. I tossed and turned all night, remembering odd little things: his frequent trips to academic conferences accounting for days away, unreadable phone calls he took by stepping out onto the terrace, bank statements he always took from the post before I could see them
Saturday, 2pm. I pushed open the door of The Dickensian Café. At a corner table sat a woman in her thirties: beautiful, with striking cheekbones and sorrowful grey eyes. Wrapped around her neck was a scarlet cashmere scarf.
Harriet Hope? she rose. My name is Lydia. Thank you for coming.
My voice trembled with a mixture of anger and confusion, Who are you? And how dare you write things like that about my husband?
Lydia pulled out a creased photograph from her bag. Edward, fifteen years younger, stood with his arm around a woman holding a small child.
Thats my mother, Lydia spoke softly. And thats me as a child. Edward Hope he was my father. Not by blood, but he raised me from when I was five. Mum died last yearcancer. Before she passed, she begged me to find you and tell you everything, but I couldnt not while he was alive.
I felt the ground slip away beneath me. The waitress brought water, but I couldnt drink. My hands shook uncontrollably.
This cant be true, I whispered. Edward and I were married for forty-five years. We never kept secrets.
He loved you, Lydia said, leaning forward. He always spoke of you so fondly. But my mum she needed him. She was illmentally. After my real father abandoned us, Mum nearly gave up entirely. Edward was her academic tutor. He saved her and then he never left.
Twenty years, I shook my head. Twenty years of deception.
Not deception Lydia insisted. He was torn between his duty and love. He paid for Mums treatment, for my studies. But every evening he came home to you. Mum knew he was married. She never asked for more.
I stood so abruptly that the glass toppled. I need to think. Dont look for me again!
I walked out of the café, not once looking back. The autumn drizzle mixed with the tears on my face. Was forty-five years of marriage an illusion? Or something more?
At home, I began searching. Every drawer, every paper of Edwards. In his battered briefcase behind the lining, I found a key for a safety deposit box and a receipt made out to P.S. CartwrightEdwards mothers maiden name, unused for decades.
At the bank, I presented his death certificate and inheritance documents. Inside the deposit box were papers: a tenancy agreement for a flat in Camden, medical records for Ellen Lydia Cartwright diagnosing bipolar disorder, photographs of Lydia through the yearsfrom nursery to her university graduation. And Edwards diary.
I sat there on the cold floor of the deposit room and began to read.
I am a coward, I know it. But I cannot live any other way. Harriet is my anchor, my joy, my true life. But Ellen and Lydia they would perish without me. Ellen threatens suicide when I speak of leaving. Lydia she looks at me as her father. How can I abandon her?
Today Lydia was accepted at Oxford to study English Literature. She wants to follow in my footsteps. I am proud of her and ashamed of myself. Harriet asked why I was crying. I told her it was from reading Jane Eyre. That was trueI wept for my own divided life.
Ellen is dying. Cancer. Doctors say a few months left. Her only request is that I tell Harriet the truth after she passes. I promised, but I know I wont. Ive always been a coward.
The last entry was dated a week before Edward died.
My heart cant go on. Literally. The cardiologist says surgery is needed, but I know this is punishment. Ive lived two lives, and now my heart is torn apart. Harriet, if you ever read thisforgive me. I loved you every second we were together. But I couldnt abandon a sick woman and a child that called me father. Forgive this weak, old fool.
I closed the diary and sat on the cold floor, thinking about those forty-five years. Were they a lie? Did Edward truly love me, or was he trapped?
I remembered how he always looked at me with tired but tender eyes. How he held my hand in hospital when I had pneumonia. How he read poems just for me. The way he laughed at my stories.
That evening, I rang Michael Spencer, Edwards old friend from Kings.
Michael, did you know?
A long silence.
Harriet I Yes, I knew. He asked me to witness the secret signing of the tenancy agreement. Forgive me.
Why didnt he leave me? My voice trembled.
Because he loved you. Honestly, Harriet, he adored you. But that woman she tried to take her life more than once. Edward couldnt bear to think he was the reason for someones death. And then Lydia appeared, calling him Daddy
I hung up and stared out the window at Londons city lights reflected in the wet pavement.
One week later, Lydia came to the bookshop. We sat amongst the rows of books.
Tell me about him, I asked. About the life I never knew.
Lydia spoke for hourshow Edward taught her to ride a bicycle, helped with her homework, comforted her mother in dark times, and cried at her graduation ceremony.
He often talked about you, Lydia admitted. He called you his angel. Said you were too good for him.
He was wrong, I said, wiping my tears. I wasnt worthy of such a man. A man who could balance duty and love for twenty years and not break.
Arent you angry?
Yes, furious. But I also understand. Life isnt simple, Lydia. Especially not when it comes to love and responsibility.
I pulled down a copy of Chekhovthe English translation, naturally.
He loved The Lady with the Dog. Now I know why. Please, take this. It was his personal copy.
Lydia took the book with trembling hands.
Harriet, I Im so sorry.
No need, I touched her hand. Theres nothing to forgive. Not for you. Not even for Edward. He simply tried to be a good man in an impossible situation.
After Lydia left, I stayed in the shop for hours, thinking about Edward, his hidden life, the burdens he carried, and the strange, deep, imperfect love we shared.
On the last page of his diary, I wrote:
Edward, my dearest. I know everything nowand understand it all. I forgive you. More than that, Im proud of you. You carried a cross that would have crushed most. Sleep peacefully, my love. Your secrets are safe with me, and your memory will remain pure. Ill look after Lydiashe is a part of you, and so a part of me.
I locked the diary in the safe. Tomorrow will be another day. I will continue to live, to keep Edwards memory, and perhaps find in Lydia the daughter Edward and I never had.
Life goes onmessy, full of secrets and revelations, but genuine. And love, it turns out, is stronger than lies, stronger than death, stronger than anything.
