ELI'S SECRET by D. M. Lewis

Author:D. M. Lewis [Lewis, D. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781905553648
Publisher: Dolman Scott
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

ApIvor drove straight home, his mind filled with premonitions of further distress from the day's events. Over and over, he admonished himself for not having done more all those years ago. He believed he'd done the right thing at the time, but now he wasn't so sure. Faced with the result of that doomed relationship in the form of a young female version of Howell, he had been overwhelmed with self-doubt. He had given no thought at all to the child.

I must pray, he told himself, pray for forgiveness.

As he considered the situation, he realised that Eli had shown a truer Christian spirit than he could ever hope to achieve, and he was plunged deeper into gloom over his own inadequacies.

If only he hadn't antagonised him. No wonder he kept it to himself. Yet what could possibly have happened to make such a man take in a pregnant Gypsy girl? He would never know the answers now. Maybe Mahalia would tell him, though he doubted it. Her anger was raw, and in defence of her daughter, totally justified. He wondered what he should write, and what, if anything, he should tell Louise. It was a blessing she decided to stay away from the funeral, but now he had another dilemma – she might find out. If she asked him about Eli's wife and child he would have to evade the truth (he couldn't bring himself to use the word 'lie') or he would hurt her too.

The letter took him two days to write. He went through many drafts before he could find the right words, trying to eliminate overtones of self-righteousness, defensiveness, wanting only to justify his actions where they were based in fact.

He had trouble addressing her as Mrs Jenkins, even though she had looked every inch a respectable matron in her widow's weeds.

In his mind's eye he remembered her exotic appearance long ago. On that occasion she'd worn her traditional costume, rich with colour, several sets of glinting gold earrings, her arms devoid of the traditional bangles that would have distracted from her fine playing. Unlike the local women who wore their hair up and out of the way even on informal days like the mid-summer fair, her jet black curls had cascaded down her back, held off her face by an embroidered scarf.

They had entertained the crowds, one of the few times when there was no hostility. Their music and singing – every bit as vibrant as their appearance – struck chords of appreciation amongst those who listened. She played the pedal harp, he recalled, and he had watched her spellbound. No, she would always be 'Mahalia', the ancient beautiful name matching her perfectly.

He wrote:

'Dear Mahalia,

You asked me to tell you what happened to Howell, and I will give you an account of events as I know them. On the evening he 'allegedly' disappeared, his father, my old friend, Wilfred Pritchard, came to see me. Howell hadn't come home at his usual time...

He recalled that painful evening, sighed, and finished writing the facts, as succinctly as he could.

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