HALLELUJAH
The man in his late fifties with receding red hair sat on the bench on the path high up overlooking the sea. He was wrapped up warmly in a dark grey overcoat and woollen green scarf but still the wind blew chill around him and the crashing of the waves resounded in his ears.
He was suffering the severe after-effects of a serious illness, a partially physical and a complete mental breakdown, which had resulted in his having to retire completely from his work.
Retrospectively, it had been building up for years. His work (his life) was perhaps the most dangerous, stressful and fearful undertaken by any human. It had earned him tremendous respect and accolades from those in the highest places – but, when all was said and done, he was just a man.
But, man enough to fall in love. His marriage had ended in divorce many years ago and his children were now grown up. He never thought he would marry again. They thought he was a limited man – but, the extreme nature of his work, in which split-second decisions had often meant the difference between life and death for hundreds of people, had meant he had had to keep his emotions strictly under control. Self-control….leading to self-denial. Opportunities might have been passing him by, as well-meaning others kept advising him – but, there was no other way.
Thus was his mindset when she first came to work for the organisation.
She, that studious, plain-looking, brown-haired girl with intelligent blue eyes, for whom he had developed at first just an affection – until, that evening when she had been seated at her desk, and her beauty in the moonlight had quite overthrown him. He always recalled that conversation he had had in hospital with one other of his colleagues, paralysed in the line of duty:
"Are you in love with her?"
"Do the words skating, thin and ice mean anything to you?"
"Well, she has many – wonderful qualities."
"That's not what I asked you."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
"She's in love with you."
"Is that so? Well, that's one to ponder."
"Don't let this opportunity pass you by…"
From then, their relationship had become a companionship, then a close friendship, then she had had to go away; then she had returned, then it had become more….much more….until…..
"If I don't tell you now, I never will."
Until that terrible, terrible day, eight months before.
Even now, in his mind's eye, he could still see the jagged fragment of glass, the slashing, stabbing – and the fall to the ground of the lady he loved….bleeding, dying….dead.
Tears spilled over at the memory, and he wiped them away roughly. He should have told her years ago. Why did happiness always seem destined to elude him?
So preoccupied with his thoughts was he that he did not notice someone wearing a dark blue overcoat walking towards and stopping by the bench.
He looked up. Looking down on him with concern in her gentle eyes, was his wife.
"Hello," she greeted him.
"Hello," he whispered.
"How're you feeling?"
He shook his head despairingly.
"Every time I think it's gone, it comes back. I still see it. The glass….the stabbing.…the blood…." His face creased with pain. Anguishedly, he asked,
"Why won't it go away?"
His wife sat down next to him and put her hand over his, stroking it gently. "Well, you know what the consultant said. Your breakdown was the result of years of psychological damage – and it'll take a long time to repair." She paused. "But you're sleeping a bit better now, aren't you?"
The man nodded. "Only waking up once or twice in the night now. And the nightmares are fading – slowly." He looked at his wife. "As you know."
"Don't I just?!" They both half-smiled. The lady stood up and held out her hand to her husband. "Shall we walk?"
Hand-in-hand, Harry and Ruth Pearce walked down from the path, along the concrete promenade by the beach.
There were few people about. A couple were walking their dog on the beach and a young mother, tightly muffled up, was pushing along a covered pram. The three ice-cream kiosks remained shut, though sometimes they opened if the weather was exceptionally fair. Above the sea, the February sun was trying its hardest to appear from behind the clouds.
They stopped and exchanged a few words with the young mother. She explained that she and her husband had recently moved there from London, tired of the rat-race. Instead of working in a City bank, her husband was now managing a branch in the town further north up the coast, and they were all far happier. Ruth admired her baby – it was a boy – before they all went on their way.
"Everyone's so much friendlier here," Ruth observed. "They all seem to have time for you."
Harry nodded. "Even an undertaker spoke to me yesterday." Ruth half-laughed.
"How's your arm?" Harry asked. "What did the doctor say?"
"She doesn't think I'll ever have the full movement back. And I'll always have the scar," Ruth replied. "But when you think of what happened, we have to be thankful, really. As we both know, it could have been far worse."
The mind tends to block out what is too terrible to remember or contemplate. Neither of them had complete memories of that dreadful day eight months before. Both remembered being on the beach. What had happened next had occurred so quickly it was only a blur. Their enemy Sasha's sudden appearance, the evil slash of glass in his hand, his lunge at Ruth – Intuitively, and just in time, Ruth had twisted away and the glass had plunged into her left arm; bleeding profusely, she had collapsed to the ground; blindly, in terror, Harry had thrown himself at Sasha to try to stop him –
Harry and Ruth could not begin to think what might have happened next had not the others in their team arrived when they did, and opened fire. Sasha and Harry both fell to the ground. Ruth, the only one conscious and bleeding badly, was screaming Harry's name, over and over….
All then had been a flurry of ambulances, police, paramedics, hospital and doctors. Ruth's wound had been cauterised, stitched, heavily bandaged and slung. Harry was not life-threateningly injured – the bullet had only cut his shoulder – but he had hit his head falling on the stones and the shock had sent him into a coma.
He was in a coma for eight days, during which time his unconscious mind had played out his most appalling fears. All that time, he had tried to open his eyes to escape from the horror, but his body would not let him. It was almost as though it had one final, ghastly trick to play on him.
He was on the beach again but, this time, the glass stabbed her through the stomach. She had collapsed, mortally wounded….the others had tried to help, with first aid equipment, but it was all futile, too late, and then, in his arms, her blood all over him, she had died….
His mind's grief had been unimaginable. He had gone to view her house in Suffolk (which, in his fevered brain, appeared quite different from reality), now empty, met the estate agent, decided not to buy it but instead return to work….The Home Secretary and the others were all extremely kind. He was driven to work, entered through the security doors as usual, but before returning to his office found himself in the basement, in front of the memorial board on which were carved the names of all who had died in the service of MI5 and there, at the bottom was her name, R. Evershed….
Ruth had told him many months later that there had been times during his coma that Harry had cried out and writhed in such pain that she could barely begin to imagine what was manifesting in his mind. It was only after months of therapy that the horrors were being unlocked from deep within and he was beginning slowly to be able to deal with them….
In his dream, Harry had returned to his office. The telephone had rung and he had answered it. "This is Harry Pearce," he had answered – but there had been no-one there. "This is Harry Pearce," he had repeated, puzzled. Silence. He looked up – into bright light. The memorial board was in front of him. But no, it couldn't be….it was in the other room. The light shone through the board, straight into his eyes, making him cry in pain….He had dropped the receiver. Like a whirlpool, the light shone, drawing him in closer, pulling, within….His mind and body had begun to whirl. He was going back.…back….
All multi-colours flashed in his head, on and off, on and off, voices, snatches of, sounds, where was he, last week, what was he doing, colours, sounds, cries, voices, sounds, where was he, last week, voices –
He was being pulled back through the door, back into the car, being driven backwards in the car, spinning, the Home Secretary's voice making no sense, in Ruth's house, the high-pitch of the estate agent's voice, then he was back on the beach – but this time, he was alone, then a gun fired –
Then, once again, blackness and silence.
He had read somewhere that when you come round after being unconscious, the hearing is the first sense to come back. Through the darkness and chaos, someone had been calling his name. His eyes had finally opened. There, seated beside him, her left arm swathed in bandages, was Ruth.
For a few minutes, his confused mind had not been able to take it all in. Then, he had thought he was dead and lying in his coffin. He had screamed so loudly he had roused everyone in his corridor. Doctors and nurses had seemed to appear from everywhere. Then, Malcolm. Dear, steady, true, reliable Malcolm, who had held him firmly but gently by the arms, calming him, murmuring reassurances, soothing him. It was only then that Harry realised that his nightmare was just that, it had all been a terrible, terrifying dream, played out in his mind when he had been unconscious, and his dear, beloved Ruth was truly alive.
He spent several weeks in hospital, undergoing some physical but extensive mental therapy. Much of the period was a blur. One day seemed to run into the next and time had no meaning which, in retrospect, was fortunate. It gave a routine to his life and it protected him from the world outside. For several days, he could barely get out of bed and did not want to eat. His head had felt like it were spinning off his neck. He had a preoccupation with death and experienced deep, morbid thoughts. He lost two stone. Dark circles became almost carved beneath his eyes. His entire body and mind had craved rest. He was more physically and mentally overwrought than he had ever been his life.
However, almost all this time, Ruth was there at his side. Just as she had always been at work, now she was here during his sickness. Often, they did not need to say anything; each seemed to know what the other was thinking. A smile; a squeeze of the hand; sometimes, that was all he needed. When they did talk, it was quiet, gentle music to the ears. Sometimes, Malcolm sat with him and Harry drew strength too from his sincere sympathy and quirky but steady character.
There was never any question of either of them going back to work. That was all sorted out with a blessed swiftness. When Harry was deemed fit enough to leave hospital and go home, he and Ruth went and stayed at his flat in London for a few weeks, all the time making preparations to move permanently to Ruth's house near the sea in Suffolk.
As soon as they could, they had married – quietly, with only Malcolm and Ruth's cousin in attendance. They had a cosy celebratory dinner and spent their wedding night at the large hotel in the market-place. Then they had returned home, to the quiet orderly new life they had mapped out for themselves in rural Suffolk.
Ruth remembered that night fondly. Harry had told her, a look of concern on his face, that he still did not have enough energy, and she had placed her fingers on his lips and reassured him not to worry, there would be more than enough time for that in the future. They had been more than content that night with just cosy intimacy. "And remember when I moved in you, the holy dark was moving too, and every breath you drew was Hallelujah..." Nor would she ever forget the night a couple of weeks later, she could actually recall the exact date, when Harry had finally taken her as his wife. Spent, he had eased himself off her, and, to her horror, she had realised he was weeping. She had touched his face in concern; but her fears had been allayed when he had smiled that they were tears of happiness.
Something of the pleasure of her thoughts must have been registering on her face; for Harry asked,
"What are you thinking about?"
Ruth snapped back to the present. They had almost reached the lighthouse. "Oh – The Night When The Holy Dark Moved."
Harry shook his head. "There was a time – I thought we would never…"
"It was worth the wait."
They both smiled.
Since they had moved there, they had established a simple daily routine, which had given Harry the stability and reassurance he needed towards his recovery. Every morning, they had breakfast together in the living room, watching the world go by in the street outside, then Ruth would clear away and start the housework whilst Harry went on his walk. They had a little routine in which Harry put on his coat, scarf and gloves then waited by the front door for Ruth to come to straighten his scarf, brush his collar and kiss him goodbye.
Whatever the weather, Harry would walk for around two hours. More often than not, he walked along the beach, but sometimes he ventured inland and walked across the common. He could breathe in the sea air deeply, and it seemed to cleanse and relax his whole body. The spray from the cold sea cooled and calmed him. Sometimes the wind was icy-cold and blew strongly, but it seemed to batter the stress out of him and make him feel better.
The solitude helped him, also. Standing by the edge of the beach gazing out to sea, he could be alone with his thoughts and emotions, and deal with them in whatever way was needed. Sometimes, he would just stand and think; other times, he cried and cried. Ruth didn't ask everything when he returned but she hated seeing the tear-stains on his cheeks. However, it pleased her to see the rosiness of Harry's face after his walks; it was better than the pale, haggard features of the first few weeks; a positive sign, the pounding out of his stress, worries and fears…
They would always take one meal out a day. They did the rounds of all the tea-shops but their favourite was Tilly's in the High Street and here was where they dined most. They had got to know the lady owner quite well. Talking to her one evening, as they often did, she had commented that children remembered not the presents and gifts you bought them but what you did with them and the time you gave them. Harry and Ruth realised this was true. They did lots of little things together, nothing remarkable but all, in their own simple way, memorable. Buying sweets from the tall jars in Squier's the sweet shop…choosing books in the quiet town library…deciding which jam to have with their afternoon scones. It was a complete world away from London and MI5. Sometimes, when they looked back, it seemed as though it had all happened to someone else, their years there had never existed and their lives had started again when they had reached Suffolk.
Some afternoons now, they would go for a drive. In the first weeks, Ruth's arm had been too stiff for her to drive far, and Harry had been too weak and on too strong medication to drive at all. Then, they had started to venture slightly further afield – out of town, even – either along the coast or into the countryside, where they was absolutely no-one about and they could sit in complete silence.
Ruth often thought that people in the town must have wondered who they were. In the first week or so, when Harry was still too weak to leave home, she would read aloud to him every day. Because he liked the description of the raw Cornish countryside, she often read to him from Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. Ruth could not help but think that their situation was rather like that of Mr. and Mrs. de Winter. They, like them, had suffered a great tragedy; yet they, like them too, had overcome it by embracing a much simpler and gentler life, far away from the scene of near-disaster. They rode no more tormented, and both of them were free. If anyone ventured to ask, she and Harry would say that they used to work for the National Grid in London – with its play on words, a virtual truth. They must have seemed in some eyes, the quintessentially eccentric English couple – yet here, thankfully, in this quintessentially English town, no-one thought it their concern to ask too closely, which was a tremendous blessing.
The nights were still the hardest. In the early days, Harry's medication had practically knocked him out and had caused him to sleep very deeply. Then, for a period, sleeplessness had plagued him; he would lie awake for hours, his mind whirling, before he could rest. Now, however, he was falling asleep more easily and naturally – but, his sleep was punctuated by nightmares. He would wake up, screaming, often in a cold sweat, trembling or weeping. Whatever and whenever, however, Ruth was always there to comfort him. She would hold him in her arms, rock him gently, bathe his face, wipe his hands, all the time murmuring reassurances to him. When he was calm again, they would lie back down together, often with his head against her, and she would stroke his hair gently until he was almost asleep.
Once, when Harry had awoken, he had barfed copiously all over the bedcovers, and suffered a nose-bleed at the same time. Ruth had said nothing reproachful, just helped him out bed, sat him on the chair, put his dressing-gown round him, cleaned him up, given him a bowl, changed the bedclothes, assisted him back into bed, and all this in the middle of the night. Harry had ceased trying to tell her how sorry and grateful he was; he knew she knew, they had no secrets from one another, and they marched in unison.
However, it had not all been one long catalogue of misery and difficulty. Memorable had been their trip with Malcolm to Washington in November as special international guests, to attend an FBI conference. Joining up with them were a group of seven delegates from New York who worked for the FBI Missing Persons Department, whom they met on the first day and with whom they hit it off straight away. Despite having never met before, by the end of that memorable week, it seemed they had known Jack, Vivian, Martin, Danny, John, Tim and Ben all their lives. As they all said afterwards, it was as though they had been waiting for each other.
They had had to be a little cagey about why they were there. They had used the "National Grid" explanation when they had been asked, though they weren't sure if they were quite believed. However, it was clear that Jack, the Head of the Missing Persons Department, knew the truth, as he had insinuated to Harry the second day. Nevertheless, it was an indication of the fine nature of their new friends that they never probed further. Theirs was not to reason why. They realised Harry, Ruth and Malcolm would tell them as and when they wanted, all in good time.
Every morning, they would race each other to see who could be first down to breakfast (Danny and Martin won most times.) After the first few days, the kindly hotel staff pushed the tables together, so they could sit as one big group, and it became part of their daily routine. They would spend the days on their own, going to the different meetings and speeches, sometimes two or three of them joining for lunch, then, they would meet up in the evenings, either at one of the receptions or in one of their rooms. Ruth had liked Vivian, the only other lady, on sight and they had spent a good deal of the week chatting to one another and comparing notes.
On the fifth evening, they had all met in Tim and Ben's room after dinner. Martin had picked up Tim's guitar. There had been a few quips about Tim feeling the need to bring his guitar to Conference; but then, Martin had started strumming the guitar and the evening would be changed forever.
They had started singing. One by one, everyone joined in; then, people had started offering to sing on their own….All of them were enraptured and really got into the spirit. Singing is the purest expression of one's character and feelings. They could never have imagined they would have been brought so close together by something so pure and simple.
Their very last song had been Hallelujah by Rufus Wainwright. They had all settled down to listen – and reflect. It had always been one of Harry and Ruth's favourite songs but, that night, it passed into legend. As the last chord faded away, the room was silent and still. Harry and Ruth had held hands tightly. Nobody stirred. They had all wanted to stay in the peace, hold the moment for ever….
The sea crashed against the breakwaters. It was not high enough to reach the sea wall, as it had done a couple of times in December and January, but it was rough enough to soak to the skin anyone who happened to brave venturing on to the beach. They had reached the farthest ice-cream kiosk – the one set back from the beach – and had now turned back to retrace their footsteps in the direction of the pier.
They liked holding hands. It was a restrained display of affection. Neither of them was the kind to show his or her emotions outwardly – and, indeed, their career had rendered that extremely unwise – but the warmth and security of holding or squeezing the hand of the one you love was always reassuring. Harry's hands were square and pudgy whilst Ruth's were soft and smooth; but, like so much else about the two of them, they complemented.
"Tim and Ben are arriving at the end of the month, aren't they?"
"Yes. On the….twenty-sixth, I think."
"It'll be good to see them again," Ruth commented. "Vivian e-mailed me last week. She's sending us some little presents over with them."
Harry nodded. "That's kind." He smiled. "I'll never forget Washington."
Ruth returned the smile. "They were there when we needed them most."
"I wonder what they'll think of our new lives," Harry mused. He looked at Ruth. "Do you miss London?"
"In some ways – but, less than I once thought I ever would. We've settled in so well here. It really feels like home to me now. Sometimes, it seems as if it were two different people living in London, not us."
"When have you next got Book Club?" Harry asked.
"Monday week; it's the first Monday in the month, if you remember," Ruth replied. "It'll be the day after the Literary Festival. I'm looking forward to that." Harry pulled a slight face. "And so will you! You always used to say how you never had time to do any reading."
"No – I am, really," said Harry. "It's just – "
You still feel a little bit apprehensive about meeting people, thought Ruth. She wasn't too worried, though. The people at the bookshop were so welcoming, friendly and non-judgemental. She knew Harry would fit in before very long.
"I've been looking up concerts at the Aldeburgh Festival which we can go to, and the Snape Proms," Ruth continued. "It's so nice to have the concert hall so near, and be able to drive there and back in an evening. And it's much cheaper than London."
"You've always like classical music, haven't you?" Harry asked. "That's one of the first things I remember about you, when you first came to work at the Grid."
"Yes," Ruth nodded. "Especially Hallelujah."
For a moment, Harry thought of the Hallelujah Chorus but, almost immediately, he realised which Hallelujah she meant. Rufus Wainwright's voice reverberated in their healing minds and bodies, and they both were filled with peace.
They had reached the pier and made their way up the slope on to it, on to the wooden boards of the walkway. They walked along in silence, to the sound of the rough sea and blustery wind. The pier was quiet now, with barely another soul around, but as winter turned into spring it would become busier, and would be full of visitors in all the cafes and shops in the summer. However, Harry and Ruth did not mind. They would be quite content to merge into the anonymity of the crowd.
They walked the full length of the pier. One of the aspects which made it unique were the brass plaques, fitted all along the top of the balustrades. Residents and holidaymakers could pay for their own plaques, a permanent reminder of their happy times spent in the town. Some recorded particular special occasions, like a wedding or birth of a child; others, such as one which read "2002 - HAPPY HOLIDAYS - THE HOLT FAMILY OF UPMINSTER" had been placed by families who had holidayed there for many years.
"We should have one of these done," observed Ruth.
"When we've lived here a bit," Harry agreed. "Perhaps later in the year – on our first wedding anniversary?"
"That would be lovely," Ruth replied. They were practically at the end of the pier now. They stopped walking. They turned to look at each other and held each other close. Ruth gazed into the careworn face of the man she loved most of all in the world.
"I love you, Harry Pearce."
Harry's face cracked into his half-smile, the expression Ruth had found so endearing for so long.
"I love you, too – Lady Pearce."
He leaned forward, almost tentatively, put his hands on her face, stroked her hair, and they kissed tenderly. Ruth closed her eyes, feeling warm and peaceful. Harry could not but remember a previous time when they had been like this – on the quay by the River Thames in London, when he had thought he was saying good-bye to Ruth never to see her again. This time, however, they were together – and would be forever.
Gently, they withdrew from the kiss. They nudged each other's foreheads, wanting to retain the closeness. They looked into each other's eyes – Ruth's blue, Harry's brown. A lock of Ruth's hair had tumbled across her forehead, and Harry smoothed it back with loving care.
"You remember I said, not long after I bought the house, that I couldn't imagine myself living there?" Ruth continued. "Well – I was right, you know. I couldn't imagine myself living there – on my own. Without you."
Harry couldn't speak at first; he reached out and stroked his wife's face gently. Then he said quietly,
"For the first time, in a long while, I've been thinking, 'Maybe there's a God above.'" He turned his head to gaze up at the sky, then he looked back down at his wife. In a voice breaking with emotion, he cried,
"Oh, my precious, precious Ruth….if I ever lost you.…"
He took her in his arms and held her close. Ruth buried her face in Harry's shoulder. Even though in the last few months, when she had had to be the strong one, looking after Harry, he had always made her feel protected and safe. She clung to him tightly. The warmth and magic of their bodies pressing together insulated them from the cold wind and the rough sea around them.
Finally, Harry released Ruth and he gazed fondly into her gentle blue eyes.
"Well, the house is nearly finished and we're practically settled. I – think – everything's going to be all right now."
"Oh, I don't know," said Ruth carelessly. "I think we may have to change some things round again fairly soon."
Harry looked quizzical.
"I'm pregnant," Ruth said simply.
Harry stared. "What?"
"I'm pregnant, Harry."
For a moment, Harry continued to stare. He just couldn't speak. Then, his face broke into the warmest, happiest, most glorious smile imaginable. His joy was wonderful to see. He put his arms around Ruth and hugged her tightly and protectively. They had been on a long voyage together, often tossed and tempestuous, occasionally calm and clear, but had now arrived safely together at their home port.
Epilogue
Harry and Ruth Pearce became parents to a daughter, Esther Grace Pearce, six months later.
Ruth gave birth one month prematurely, when Harry was away on business, and was taken to hospital by their dear friend Malcolm Wynne-Jones.
Their little girl has blue eyes and red hair; as Harry commented, "A very good combination."
The Pearce family continue to live in the town by the sea, somewhere in Suffolk.
Finally, Harry and Ruth are happy together.