Unable to find emotional rapport with his wife, Lil, with whom he shares a childless marriage, middle-aged and ailing librarian Leo Lambkin begins a correspondence with an old flame, Bernarda, who writes to him after she hears of the tragic death of his mother.
Bernarda, whom Leo disguises as Jude, informs him that he is the father of her child, Uanito, begot some years previously by violent circumstances at the instigation of apparent burglars in the Chief Librarian's Dublin home, where Bernarda had been working as an au pair. Overwrought at the time and fearing that Leo would not want a child conceived in such a manner, she kept him in the dark and returned to her native Spain. Leo feels for Uanito as he grows and delights in the boy's sense of wonder at the world, which is related to him in alternating sad and hilarious accounts by Jude. He suffers however in not being able to share in his son's development.
As dark wintry days give way to the increasing light and hope of summer, Leo and Jude long for an anticipated rendezvous. But what are the forces that stand in their way?
Genre: FICTION / LiterarySteady sales with excellent reviews
My Dear Leo,
I hope you don’t mind my writing to you after such a long, long time, but my thoughts of you never faded. I just had to write when I heard of the sudden death of your mother. It must have been a dreadful blow. I knew how close you were to her. Freddie Crichton conveyed the news. He had my phone number from when I au paired for him, of my parents’ home in Sevilla. When he called I was polite to him but I didn’t tell him much of my business. He hinted at the terrible ordeal we suffered that night in his house. He was trying to get me to describe it as if he wanted me to relive the trauma inflicted on us by those creatures. He called them dogs. ‘You know the way the dogs do it,’ he said, making me feel most uncomfortable. I asked him did they ever catch the assailants. He said what would be the point of that? ‘You know the cops here never catch anyone; they just spend their time asking the public to solve their crimes.’ It was he who suggested I write to you. He seemed so concerned—friends that go back the furthest, he said, but I never knew you two were close. In fact I would have thought the opposite. Anyway age can mellow people and maybe that’s what happened to him. He told me how you were shattered by the unexpectedness of her death—my poor, poor Leo—and that I would be like a tonic, he said. O, how he goes on. He tried it on with me you know more than once, but what chance did he have when my heart was smitten by you? However, he did mention your wife in very favourable terms. O Leo, I should not be talking like this, not now that you are a married man . . .
