Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(117)

Bradshaw had proved very adept at deflecting any questions he didn’t wish to answer, and had clearly been a loner. He hadn’t set foot in his own country for at least three years, possibly more, so his family would have no way of knowing of his imminent return. As soon as the Kansas Star arrived in New York, Harry planned to sail back to England on the first available ship.

His greatest dilemma was how to prevent his mother from being put through any unnecessary suffering by thinking she’d lost her only son. Dr Wallace had gone some way to solving that particular problem when he promised to post a letter to Maisie the moment he arrived back in England. But Harry still had to write that letter.

He had spent hours going over the text in his mind, so that by the time he’d recovered enough to commit his thoughts to paper, he almost knew the script by heart.

New York,

September 8th, 1939

My dearest mother,

I have done everything in my power to make sure you receive this letter before anyone can tell you I was killed at sea.

As the date on this letter shows, I did not die when the Devonian was sunk on September 4th. In fact, I was plucked out of the sea by an American ship and am very much alive. However, an opportunity arose for me to assume another man’s identity, and I did so, in the hope it would release both you and the Barrington family from the many problems I seem to have unwittingly caused over the years.

It is important that you realize my love for Emma has in no way diminished; far from it. But I do not feel I have the right to expect her to spend the rest of her life clinging on to the vain hope that at some time in the future I might be able to prove that Arthur Clifton and not Hugo Barrington was my father. This way, she can at least consider a future with someone else. I envy that man.

I plan to return to England in the near future. Should you receive any communication from a Tom Bradshaw, it will be from me.

I will be in touch with you the moment I set foot in England, but in the meantime, I must beg you to keep my secret as steadfastly as you kept your own for so many years.

Your loving son,

Harry





He read the letter several times before placing it in an envelope marked ‘Strictly private and confidential’. He addressed it to Mrs Arthur Clifton, 27 Still House Lane, Bristol.

The following morning, he handed the letter over to Dr Wallace.





‘Do you think you’re ready to try a short walk around the deck?’ asked Kristin.

‘Sure am,’ Harry replied, trying out one of the expressions he’d heard her boyfriend use, although he still found it unnatural to add the word ‘honey’.

During those long hours he’d spent in bed, Harry had listened carefully to Dr Wallace, and whenever he was alone, he tried to imitate his accent, which he’d heard Kristin describe to Richard as east coast. Harry was thankful for the hours he’d spent with Dr Paget learning voice skills that he’d assumed would only be of use on stage. He was on stage. However, he still had the problem of how to deal with Kristin’s innocent curiosity about his family background and upbringing.

He was assisted by a novel by Horatio Alger and another by Thornton Wilder, the only two books that had been left behind in the sick bay. From these he was able to conjure up a fictional family who hailed from Bridgeport, Connecticut. They consisted of a father who was a small-town bank manager with Connecticut Trust and Savings, a mother who was a dutiful home-maker and had once come second in the town’s annual beauty pageant, and an older sister, Sally, who was happily married to Jake, who ran the local hardware store. He smiled to himself when he recalled Dr Paget’s remark that, with his imagination, he was more likely to end up a writer than an actor.

Harry placed his feet tentatively on the floor and, with Kristin’s help, pulled himself slowly up. Once he’d put on a dressing gown, he took her by the arm and made his way unsteadily towards the door, up a flight of steps and out on to the deck.

‘How long is it since you’ve been home?’ asked Kristin as they began their slow progress around the deck.

Harry always tried to stick to the little he actually knew about Bradshaw, adding a few snippets from the life of his fictitious family. ‘Just over three years,’ he said. ‘My family never complain, because they knew I wanted to go to sea from an early age.’

‘But how did you come to be serving on a British ship?’

Damn good question, thought Harry. He only wished he knew the answer. He stumbled, to give himself a little more time to come up with a convincing reply. Kristin bent down to assist him.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, once he’d taken Kristin’s arm again. Then he began to sneeze repeatedly.

‘Perhaps it’s time to take you back to the ward,’ suggested Kristin. ‘We can’t afford to have you catching a cold. We can always try again tomorrow.’

‘Whatever you say,’ said Harry, relieved she didn’t ask any more questions.

After she’d tucked him up like a mother putting a young child to bed, he quickly fell into a deep sleep.





Harry managed eleven laps of the deck the day before the Kansas Star sailed into New York Harbour. Although he couldn’t admit it to anyone, he was quite excited about the prospect of seeing America for the first time.

‘Will you be going straight back to Bridgeport once we’ve docked?’ asked Kristin during his final lap. ‘Or are you planning to stay in New York?’