The Last Letter from Juliet

by Melanie Hudson

  That kind of thing.

  By Truro, I’d decided to turn back, but Katherine’s advance party had already begun to rock the carriages, and by the time St Michael’s Mount appeared through the late afternoon darkness – a watered down image of her usual self, barely visible through the driving rain and sea fret – my excitement had vaporised completely. Gazing through the splattered carriage window, I was startled by the sight of my mother’s face staring back at me. Only it wasn’t my mother, it was my own aged reflection. When had that happened? Anxious fingers rushed to smooth the lines on my mother’s face, which could only be described as tired (dreadful word) and I realised that, just like St Michael’s Mount in the winter rain, I too was a watered-down image of my usual self, barely visible through a veil of grief I had worn ever since the morning James had gone.

  I hadn’t needed an alarm call that morning. I’d been laying on my side for hours, tucked into the foetal position, the left side of my face resting on a tear-stained pillow, my eyes focused just above the bedside table, fixed on the clock.

  I watched every movement of Mickey Mouse’s right hand as it made a full circle, resting, with a final little wave, on the twelve.

  Mickey’s voice rang out—

  ‘It’s time, time, time, to wake up! It’s time, time, time to wake up!’

  I’d never known if Mickey had been supposed to say the word ‘time’ three times, or if at some point over the past umpteen years he had developed a stutter, but I silenced him with a harsh thump on the head and lay staring at the damp patch on the ceiling we’d never gotten to the bottom of, just to the right of the light fitting.

  I wanted to lay there and consider that phrase for a moment – ‘it’s time’. Two little words with such a big meaning.

  It’s time, Katherine.

  How many times had I heard those words?

  My father had said them, standing in the kitchen doorway on my wedding day. He’d taken my hand with a wonderful smile and walked me to the car, a happy man. We were followed closely behind by my Aunt Helena, who was frothing my veil and laughing at Mum – who did not approve of the match – and who fussed along behind us, arguing about … I think it was art, but it might have been cheese. And now, twenty years later, the exact same words were used by Gerald, to direct me out of the house. To force me, my insides kicking and screaming for release, to slide into the long black car that waited in the yard – the car that would take us to James’ funeral, the sort of funeral that has the caption ‘But, dear God, why?’ hovering in the air the whole day.

  I turned my back on Mickey and ran my arm across the base sheet on the other side of the bed. If only there was still some warmth there. An arm to curl into, a woolly chest to rest my head on. But the sheet was cold, and like everything else in my house in Exeter, retained the deep ingrained memory of centuries of damp.

  But if I just lay there and let the day move on without me …

  It’s time, time, time, to wake up!

  Mickey again.

  I stretched. Ridiculous thought. Mickey was right. The day wouldn’t move on, not if I didn’t wind the cogs and drop-kick the sun through the goal posts. I threw my legs out of bed, sat up, patted Mickey, apologised for hitting him on the head and I kissed him on the face. Poor thing. It wasn’t his fault James had been killed, even if he did insist in shouting at me every morning in his overly polite, American way.

  It’s time, Katherine.

  But that was the thing with travelling alone on a train, there was simply too much time to think. Trains were just one long rolling mass of melancholy, the carriages filled with random, interconnected thoughts. Travel alone on a train with no book to read and an over-thinker can spend an entire journey in the equivalent of that confused state between sleeping and waking.

  And then the guard broke my reverie.

  Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving in Penzance. Penzance is the last station stop. Service terminates at Penzance. All alight at Penzance.

  It was pretty obvious I needed to get off.

  The train slowed to a final halt at the station and the last of the passengers began to stir. I grabbed my laptop case, put on my winter coat, hat and gloves and trundled to the end of the carriage in the hope that my suitcase would still be there. It was time to step out onto the platform, find Uncle Gerald, and head out into the storm.

  Chapter 3

  Katherine

  A cottage by the sea

  I stepped down onto the platform and stood still for a moment, my eyes searching through a river of passengers, before catching sight of Uncle Gerald, who was waving his multi-coloured umbrella like a lunatic and working his way upstream.

  My heart melted. Uncle Gerald had been a steady presence in my life as a child, and although I had hardly seen him during my adult years, the bond that was formed during those childhood visits – nothing overly special, just a kind smile and couple of quid for sweets tucked into my sticky fingers – had never gone away. It was a bond that represented the safety and easiness of family. A bond that is usually lobbed into the back of the dresser drawer, stashed away, forgotten and allowed to loiter with the unused Christmas cards, nutcrackers and Sellotape, until the day came along when you actually needed it, and you opened the drawer with a rummage saying to yourself, ‘I just know I left it in there somewhere.’

  Gerald rested his umbrella against my suitcase and put his arms around me.

  I wasn’t expecting the sudden onset of emotion, but he represented a simpler time. A happy time. A time of singing together in the kitchen with Mum. The Carpenters.

  ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’.

  I started to cry.

  He patted.

  ‘Now then, none of that, none of that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me, Uncle Gerald,’ I said, trying to smile while rifling through my handbag and coat pockets for a tissue. ‘Train stations and airport lounges always do this to me. I swear they’re the portals used by the tear fairies to tap directly into the tender places of the soul.’

  Gerald handed me a folded blue handkerchief.

  I opened the handkerchief and blew my nose.

  He smiled. ‘Still over-dramatic then?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That’s my girl!’

  We both laughed and sniffed back the emotion before heading out into the wind and rain. We dashed to the car and he handed me the keys. ‘You wouldn’t mind driving, would you? Only I spent the afternoon in the Legion …’

  ***

  The drive to Angels Cove took a little over half an hour. It was a fairly silent half hour because Uncle Gerald slept while I battled the car through the beginnings of the storm, luckily the sat nav remembered the way. The road narrowed as we headed down a tree-lined hill. I slowed the car to a halt and positioned the headlights to illuminate the village sign through the driving rain.

  I nudged Uncle Gerald.

  ‘We’re here.’

  He stirred and harrumphed at sight of the sign.

  ‘Perhaps now you can see why I asked for your help,’ he said.

  I failed to stifle a laugh.

  The sign had been repeatedly graffiti-ed. Firstly, someone had inserted an apostrophe with permanent marker between the ‘l’ and the ‘s’ of angels. Then, someone else had put a line through the apostrophe and scrawled a new apostrophe to the right of the ‘s’, which had been further crossed out. The crossings out continued across the sign until there was no room to write any more.

  ‘This all started at the beginning of November, when the letter from the council arrived. The average age in this village is seventy-four – seventy-four!– and they’re all behaving like children. I’ve got my hands full with it all, I can tell you. Especially on Wednesdays.’ He nodded ahead. ‘Drive on, straight down to the harbour.’

  ‘Wednesdays?’ I asked, putting the car into gear.

  ‘Skittles night at the Crab and Lobster.’

  ‘Ah.’

  We carried on down th
e road, the wipers losing the battle with the rain and I tried to remember the layout of the village. I recalled Angels Cove as a pretty place consisting of one long narrow road that wound its way very slowly down to the sea. Pockets of cottages lined the road, which was about a mile long, with the pub in the middle, next to the primary school which was a classic Victorian school house with two entrances: BOYS was written in stone above one entrance and GIRLS written above the other.

  The road narrowed yet further before opening out onto a small harbour. I stopped the car. The harbour was lit by a smattering of old-fashioned street lamps. Waves crashed over the harbour walls. The car shook. Although Katherine had not yet arrived with the might of her full force, the sea had already whipped herself up into an excitable frenzy.

  Gerald pointed to the right.

  ‘You can’t make it out too clearly in the dark,’ he said, staring into the darkness. ‘But the cottage you’re staying in is up this little track by about a hundred yards … or so.’

  I glanced up the track and put the car into gear.

  ‘You ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Ready? Ready for what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just a bit of a bumpy track, that’s all.’ He tapped the Land Rover with an affectionate pat, as if he was praising an old Labrador. ‘No problem for this little lady, though. Been up that track a thousand times, haven’t you, old girl? Onwards and upwards!’

  I set off in the general direction of a farm track. The car took on an angle of about forty-five degrees and began to slip and slide its way up the track. Waves crashed against the rocks directly to my left.

  ‘Shitty death, Gerald! What the f—?’

  A couple of wheel spins later, to my absolute relief, a little white cottage appeared under a swinging security light. We pulled alongside and I switched off the engine, left the car in gear and went to open the driver door.

  ‘Don’t get out for a moment,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ll go in ahead and turn on the lights. It’ll give me time to shoo the mice away and make it nice and homely, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Mice?’

  ‘Only a few, and they’re very friendly.’

  I wiped condensation from the window and tried to peer out into the storm. ‘OK, but don’t be too long,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’ve stepped through one of the seven circles of hell!’

  ***

  The tour of the cottage was very short but very sweet. When Gerald mentioned that an elderly lady had left it as a 1940s time capsule, he wasn’t exaggerating. There were three bedrooms upstairs, which were pretty but functional, a downstairs bathroom, a good-sized kitchen and an achingly sweet lounge. Gerald lit the fire while talking.

  ‘I’ve stocked the fridge with enough food, milk and mince pies to take you through to the New Year.’ He glanced up. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘In case … what?’

  He stood and brushed down his trousers. ‘This is Cornwall. Anything can happen.’

  I took off my coat and lay it across the arm of a green velvet chaise longue, then crossed to the window to close the curtains. A photograph frame sat on the windowsill. The black and white image inside was of woman standing in front of a bi-plane, holding a flying helmet and goggles, smiling brightly, squinting slightly against the sun. There was a tag attached to the photo. I read it.

  Summer 1938. Edward took this. Our first full day together. Two days in one – fantastic and tragic all at once. Why can we never have the one, without the other. Why can’t we have light without shade?

  ‘Juliet was a pilot,’ Gerald said by way of explanation, turning to face me briefly while attempting to draw the fire by holding a sheet of newspaper across the fireplace. ‘She flew for the Air Transport Auxiliary during the war. They used to deliver all the aircraft from the factories to the RAF, that kind of thing. Amazing woman.’

  I nodded my understanding, still looking at the photograph.

  ‘Juliet handed the old place to Sam Lanyon last year, but he hasn’t got around to sorting through her belongings yet.’ Gerald rose to his feet. He screwed up the paper he’d used to draw the fire and threw it onto the flames.

  I put the frame down, closed the curtains and looked around the room … photos, books, paintings, odds and ends of memorabilia. There was a 1920s sideboard, I opened a drawer. It was full of the same forgotten detritus of someone else’s life.

  This was no holiday cottage, this was a home.

  Gerald turned his back on the fire a final time. It was blazing.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve a good supply of coal and logs so just remember to keep feeding it, and don’t forget to put the guard up when you go to bed – this type of coal spits!’

  He made a move towards the door. His hat and scarf were hanging on a peg in the little hallway. He grabbed them and began to wrap his scarf around his throat.

  ‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to stay here, Gerald?’ I was standing in the lounge doorway looking pensive. ‘Only it seems a bit … intrusive.’

  ‘Nonsense! It was Sam’s idea. He’s happy that it’s being aired.’

  Gerald turned to leave and attempted to open the door. The force of the storm pushed against him. My unease at the prospect of staying alone in an unfamiliar cottage perched precariously on a cliff side, unsure of my bearings, during one of the worst storms in a decade, must have shown on my face. He closed the door for a moment and walked back into the lounge, talking to himself.

  ‘On nights like this, Juliet always put her faith in one thing, and it never let her down.’

  I followed him. ‘What was that? God?’

  He opened the sideboard door and peered inside.

  ‘Ha!’ He took out a bottle.

  ‘Whiskey?’

  ‘And there’s a torch in there, too.’ He put the whiskey back and walked into the kitchen. I heard him open and close a few drawers before reappearing in the lounge with half a dozen candles. He handed them to me.

  ‘Just in case the electricity goes out. And the matches are on the fireplace so you’re all set.’

  The lounge window started to rattle.

  He straightened his hat and headed to the door. ‘This cottage might seem rickety, but it’s the oldest and sturdiest house in the village. It’ll take a bit more than Katherine to see her off now!’

  I picked up the car keys from the hall table and grabbed my coat from the lounge.

  ‘I’ll drive you home,’ I said.

  ‘No, no. I’ll walk back.’ He pulled his scarf tighter.

  ‘In this weather?’ I asked, only half concentrating, searching in my handbag for my phone. ‘Mercy, me! I have a signal!’

  Gerald paused at the door.

  ‘Put the keys down, Katherine. I’ll be fine. Listen, why don’t you leave your coat on and come with me to see my friend, Fenella. Poor thing. I promised her I’d pop in on my way home. She’s had a bit of a bereavement and isn’t coping very well.’

  ‘Husband?’

  ‘Worse. Dog. Her cottage is on the harbour. We can nip in and pay our respects, quick cup of tea, then make our excuses and go back to mine … via the pub. You might as well meet the enemy straight off.’

  I wanted to say, ‘Thank Christ for that. Yes please.’ But the curse of the twenty-first-century independent woman prevented me from throwing myself at his mercy. And I didn’t fancy the pub.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said with a blasé shoulder shrug, taking my coat off one final time. ‘I’ll be absolutely fine.’ (Which is the exact phrase everyone uses when they are, in fact, sure that they will not ‘be absolutely fine’.)

  He put his hand on the door handle.

  ‘And how are you sleeping these days?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re still listening to Harry Potter audio books half the livelong night?’

  I shrugged again.

  Listening to Stephen Fry narrate Harry Potter was much better than tossing and turning all night. There was just something about the combina
tion of the two – Fry and Potter – that made the world seem like a safe place again.

  ‘It relaxes me. And you must admit, you can’t beat a bit of Stephen Fry at bedtime.’

  Gerald laughed.

  ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, I suppose – but don’t tell George, you know how jealous he gets. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll be off. Just phone me if you need reassurance. Oh, and there’s WiFi here.’

  Result.

  ‘The code is …’ Gerald paused and delved into his coat pocket. He took out a scrap of paper. ‘… “tigermoth”, one word, all lowercase. And try not to worry. I wouldn’t leave you here if I thought it wasn’t safe.’

  Gerald kissed me on the cheek and stepped out into the wind.

  ‘I’ll pop up tomorrow morning once the storm’s gone through,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got a fabulous programme of events all worked out, people to meet, things to do! And lock the door behind me straight away. It’ll bang all night if you don’t.’

  ‘I will,’ I shouted back, down the lane. ‘And, thank you!’

  With the door locked and bolted, I walked into the lounge, sat on the sofa and stared into the fire, unconsciously spinning my wedding ring around my finger. The lights began to flicker, and in the kitchen, another window rattled. I grabbed my laptop from the hallway, logged onto the WiFi and – for at least five seconds – thought about doing a little apostrophe research (or any research that might lead me in the direction of a new project and take my mind off the storm). I closed the laptop lid.

  Tomorrow. I’d do the research tomorrow.

  I grabbed the remote control, flashed the TV and Freeview box into life and pressed the up button on the volume. The closing scenes of a Miss Marple rerun sounded-out most of the noise of the storm. Now all I needed to do was make a cup of tea, rustle up dinner and settle down to a spot of Grand Designs (the harangued couples who mortgaged themselves to the hilt and lived in a leaky caravan during the worst winter on record with three screaming kids and another on the way while trying to live off the land and source genuine terracotta tiles in junk shops for a bathroom that wouldn’t be built for another five years … they were my favourites).