Ten Little Words

by Leah Mercer

  But there was always London, she reminded herself, sighing as she ran a brush through her hair. Just a few more weeks, and she would be escaping to a city where things were sure to be in Technicolor. Okay, so she still hadn’t figured out where she would live and how she’d survive until she made it as a singer. She didn’t know a soul and, even with Frank’s tips, it was bound to be difficult until she got going. Something like fear shot through her, and she took a deep breath.

  But she didn’t have to worry about that now. She didn’t have to think about that now. Tonight, she was Bertie’s, safe and loved in his arms. And she was going to hang on to that with everything she had, even if it would only last for a few more hours.

  She sprayed on her favourite perfume, grabbed her cardigan and ran down the hill to the promenade. The sun was shining and the air was warm, but further out to sea she spotted dark clouds and the hazy slant of falling rain. Although she may not be a huge fan of this town, she loved living by the sea. It reminded her that she wasn’t trapped; that across the water were other places to see and new things to explore. Hastings might sometimes feel like the end of the world, but it was only a starting point.

  In the distance, she could see Bertie leaning against the rail and gazing out at the sea the same way she had just done. She hurried her legs faster and faster, warmth growing inside, the closer she got. Not only was she attracted to him physically – although they still hadn’t slept together; Bertie hadn’t wanted to push it, but if they didn’t do it tonight, when would they ever? – she was attracted to the person inside, too. She’d never felt this combination before, and she revelled in its headiness.

  Jude lifted a hand as Bertie turned towards her, and she could see his smile growing bigger in a reflection of hers.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said when she reached him, tipping her head up to meet his lips. He folded her in his arms, and she tried not to think yet again that this would be the last night he’d hold her.

  They chatted their way down the promenade and over to the fish and chip shop, the same one they’d got their first meal from after meeting at the pub. With every second that passed, no matter how frothy and flirty Jude tried to keep her tone, the heaviness in her heart increased until she felt like she could no longer breathe without a struggle. She could almost see a clock counting down their last seconds together.

  As they crossed the beach to their favourite spot, the skies opened and rain poured down. Bertie grabbed her hand and together they ran underneath the concrete of the promenade, into a space strewn with litter that smelled of spilled beer and urine. Jude wrinkled her nose, rubbing her wet arms as goosebumps poked up. This was most definitely not what she’d had in mind for their last night together.

  She swallowed. It was now or never, and if Bertie was too shy . . .

  ‘Shall we go back to yours?’ she asked. She wanted to keep her tone light and fun, but to her own ears it sounded shaky and uncertain. Bertie wasn’t someone she’d shag one night then simply move on. Whatever happened now would mean something to her . . . something she’d clutch close to her heart in the days to come without him. It might hurt – it would hurt – when he left, but she wanted that. She wanted a reminder of him, even if it was painful.

  And as he nodded slowly, she could see that he felt the same way, too.

  They clutched each other’s hands and dashed though the rain to Bertie’s hotel. Inside the tiny room, they sloughed off their wet clothes and stood facing each other. Normally, Jude would be worrying whether her boobs were too saggy (the perils of big breasts) or if the fish supper she’d wolfed down was making her tummy poke out, but in front of Bertie, she found she didn’t care.

  His body was surprisingly sturdy and solid, and when she took a step forward to close the distance between them and his arms came around her, she could feel his heart beating steadily against her ear, a rhythm that grounded and stilled her. Rain lashed the window and the panes shook as they fell on to the bed. The world around them was dark and brooding, and they formed the one spot of light – light that was bursting from Jude as they kissed. Making love with Bertie wasn’t just about her body. For the first time, she felt it was about them, not as two separate people but making something new, something wonderful, together.

  And when it was over, she lay in Bertie’s arms, both of them trying to catch their breath. He rolled over and raised himself up on one elbow, tracing the curve of her hip with his fingertips.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, his voice soft.

  Jude raised an eyebrow. ‘Uh-oh.’ She was joking, but her pulse picked up pace at his serious expression.

  ‘I realise we’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks,’ he said. ‘Well, even less than a couple. And I know it sounds horribly clichéd, but I feel like we belong together.’ He drew in a breath, and Jude could feel his heart beating quickly now. ‘You’re planning on going to London, and the last thing I want to do is stand in your way. But I have to ask, because if I don’t do it now . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Would you like to come to Edinburgh with me?’ The words tumbled out, and Jude jerked in surprise. She hadn’t been expecting that!

  ‘I mean, I’d move to London with you, but I have my house there and a job,’ Bertie continued. ‘And Edinburgh has a great music scene, too. Maybe it’ll be easier to get a start there? It’s not London, but . . .’

  His words washed over Jude as her mind spun. Go to Edinburgh? Be with Bertie, with someone who understood her, who appreciated her – who barely knew her. Carolyn’s voice sneaked into her head on those last few words, but Jude pushed it away. It wasn’t true, anyway. Bertie did know her, in a way her sister never could . . . never would. He knew her better than anyone ever had, even if they had only met just weeks before.

  In an instant, she knew what her answer would be. London would always be there – it wasn’t going anywhere. Bertie was, and she was going with him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, beaming. ‘Yes, I’d love to. I’d love to come to Edinburgh with you.’

  And as his arms tightened around her, she felt safer than she had since her parents had died all those years before. She wasn’t alone, not any more.

  She had Bertie.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ELLA

  I sat up the next morning, rubbing my eyes triumphantly. For the first night in weeks, I’d managed to sleep for hours without waking up – or having that horrific nightmare. If my subconscious was a dog, I’d give it a good pat on the head. Finally, it had submitted. I was proud of myself and confident I’d taken the right steps to return to normal.

  I was just getting ready to go to work when my mobile rang. My heart dropped as I read the name. Carolyn. I sighed and picked up, hoping she wasn’t expecting another tête-à-tête, like last night. I knew talking about my mother would make her think I’d let down my guard.

  ‘Sorry to ring so early, but I wanted to catch you before you left for work,’ she said.

  ‘That’s okay.’ I grabbed my jacket and my backpack, ready to head out the door.

  ‘I just wanted to see how you are this morning,’ she said, her tone strangely pinched. ‘Have you had a chance to go through your mother’s things?’

  I sighed. I didn’t want to reminisce with her over my mother’s belongings – not now, and not ever. It was all packed up, both in my mind and in my space. ‘Not yet,’ I said, thinking it was the easiest answer to cut this conversation short.

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Far from the disappointment I was expecting, Carolyn sounded relieved. ‘Well, don’t worry about the shoebox – it’s just a bunch of old letters; nothing to do with your mother. I don’t know why Rob gave it to you. I think he was trying to make space in his shed for more gardening tools . . . or at least that’s what he told me this morning.’ She laughed, but it sounded high and tense, far from her usual affectionate tone when she spoke of her husband.

  ‘I’ll send him over tonight to pick it up,’ Carolyn was saying. ‘There’s no reason for you to hang on
to it.’

  ‘Sure, that’s fine,’ I said as my mind whirled. Nothing to do with my mother? They might be old letters, sure, but they had everything to do with my mother. They’d been addressed to her, after all.

  ‘Right, well, have a good day at work,’ Carolyn said, in that same strange, stilted tone. ‘Talk soon.’

  ‘Bye.’ I hung up the phone, an odd feeling sliding over me. Had my aunt actually lied? Carolyn had said ‘honesty is the best policy’ so many times, it was practically tattooed on her forehead. I’d never known her to even fib, that’s how truthful she was. Why would she be dishonest about a bunch of old letters?

  I gazed at the wardrobe where the shoebox was, picturing the thick stack of envelopes. What did these letters say? Who were they from? Was there something in them Carolyn didn’t want me to see?

  How could she know, if she hadn’t even opened them?

  I’ll just have a quick look through them, I decided. I was over all of this – my subconscious had proved that last night, and reading a few letters wouldn’t change anything. Anyway, this wasn’t really about my mother. This was about Carolyn. I was curious to see why she’d broken her own advice.

  I crossed to the wardrobe then picked up the shoebox and carried it back to the bed. I leafed through the envelopes and picked up the one at the bottom of the pile, which looked to be oldest. I slid my fingers under the flap and unfolded the letter inside, squinting at the neat cursive writing. It was dated 20th July 1983 – my mother’s birthday. I paused, doing a quick calculation. She would have just turned twenty-three, and I’d have been just a few months old. An address at the top showed the letter had come from someone called Bertie in 10 Belford Mews, Edinburgh.

  Happy birthday, my love. It seems fitting that my first letter to you is on your special day. In a way, it feels like I was born that day, too – the day we first met, when I heard you sing on the promenade. It was the day I fell in love, before I even knew you. It was the day that changed everything for me, whether we both knew it then or not.

  I hope you’re not angry that I’ve written to you through your sister. I know you told me not to contact you again, but I had to. Whatever the reason that made you leave me – whatever the reason you felt you couldn’t tell me – it’s behind us. It’s in the past, and only one thing is clear. You are my future. I meant what I said – I meant those words we repeated every night.

  I am always with you. I will always be here.

  I stared at the page in my hands, unable to believe my eyes. For the second time in as many weeks, those words leaped out at me from the past. Unlike the newspaper advert, though, this time I knew they were connected to my mother . . . but it wasn’t her saying them. It was a stranger, someone outside the world we’d made together. My gut churned and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I’d thought those words had belonged to just us, but they hadn’t been our special mantra, after all.

  I forced a laugh, shaking my head. What was I, five years old? Those words meant nothing. So what if she’d said them to someone else? I focused on the page once again.

  I can only hope that you meant them, too, the letter continued. And that’s enough for me right now. Hope, and my love for you.

  Hope. The word cut through me, and the letter slipped from my fingers and fell to my lap. Hope was never enough – not after years and years. It hadn’t been for me, anyway. I looked at the pile of letters. Had it been for him?

  Who was this Bertie? When had he been with my mother? I picked up the letter again, scanning his words. If he’d met her on the promenade, then she must have been in her late teens or very early twenties – Carolyn always told me my mother had shunned uni to busk. If they’d had a serious relationship, they couldn’t have been together for more than a year or two before Mum had met my father and had me.

  Was that why she’d asked him not to contact her, because she’d been with someone else? Did Bertie know my mother had had a baby? I tilted my head, looking at the pile of letters. He clearly didn’t know she had died.

  Was he still hoping, even now? God, I hoped not. I hoped he’d given up, like I had. Not that I cared, of course, I reminded myself. Not that it had anything to do with me. I was only reading these to see why Carolyn might have lied.

  Right, next letter. There had to be something here that Carolyn didn’t want me to see. I picked up another envelope, postmarked a month or so after the first, and scanned the neat writing. My mother hadn’t written back to Bertie, but he was still hoping – still loving. I opened the next and the next and the next, brittle pages falling around me like dead leaves as I devoured the words. Years passed, and she still hadn’t got in touch. Years passed, and yet he was still writing.

  They didn’t say much, the letters – just snapshots of their world together: how my mother would hog the pillow, how proud Bertie was of her singing, how she looked beautiful from the second she woke up, how he loved her so much it hurt. Despite the short time they’d been together, they’d clearly had a committed relationship. They’d even lived together, judging by the everyday titbits these lines held.

  Was that why Carolyn had tried to hide the letters? Because my mother had lived with someone before getting married? I dismissed the thought. My aunt was a traditionalist who believed in ‘good old-fashioned values’, but I couldn’t picture her wanting to hide this from me so much that she’d lie about it. No, there had to be something more.

  Reading these letters, I could almost hear Bertie’s voice in my head. The more I read, the more their life and his love leaped from the page and swirled around me, transporting me to their past. I could hear their voices mingling, see the patch of sun fall on the white sheets like Bertie described, smell the strong coffee he brewed up each morning, just the way my mother liked it. And—

  I blinked as the words on the page jumped out at me. Bertie had given my mother the necklace? The necklace with the heart pendant, the one she’d always said was so precious to her, and the one she’d promised to me? I closed my eyes now as images flashed through my brain: how she’d always touch it when she said those ten words to me; how she’d never take it off, not even when she showered. How it had nestled next to her heart, as if it was keeping her soul safe.

  My mother must have really loved Bertie. She’d been so young, and they may not have been together for long, but she must have cared for him deeply to keep wearing that pendant even after she’d left – even after she’d met my father and had me – and to promise it to me, when I found someone to love.

  Had she realised she’d made a mistake in leaving Bertie? She hadn’t seemed to have much of a relationship with my father. She’d never spoken of him, and she hadn’t even put him on my birth certificate.

  Why hadn’t she answered Bertie’s letters, then?

  And how could he bear to hope for so long?

  I knew I should stop reading, but I tore through the final few envelopes in the box, praying Bertie had accepted my mother wouldn’t write back. The letters were shorter with every year, but I could still feel his pain, his longing, his desire for her to return, almost as keenly as if it was my own. Like me, my mother had been his world. Like me, she’d left without an explanation.

  Please God, like me, may he have finally given up.

  My fingers shook as I lifted the last envelope from the box and ripped it open. It was dated just a couple of years ago, and I unfolded it slowly. Would this be his goodbye? Had he stopped hoping, all these years later?

  I scanned the page, my heart dropping.

  There were only ten words.

  I am always with you. I will always be here.

  He hadn’t given up. As recently as a few years ago, he was still writing, still longing. I sucked in my breath as a thought hit. Could Bertie have placed the advert in the paper on my mother’s birthday? He knew those ten words, he didn’t know she was dead, and he’d definitely known her birth date. Hell, he’d considered it his, too. God, the poor man. To want to see her so much he’d placed an a
dvert in a national newspaper . . .

  I put the envelopes back in the box. I’d read them all, yet I still couldn’t understand why Carolyn had tried to hide them from me. Perhaps she’d figured, if my mum hadn’t wanted to read the letters, then I shouldn’t, either? I was glad I had, though. I could see in those letters what I would have become if I hadn’t accepted my mother’s death; if I hadn’t taken these final steps to douse the flames. My hope would have lingered, taunting me for years – for decades, even, because it had taunted me for years.

  Thank God there’d been an end. Thank God I’d been able to stop the fire from burning out of control. But Bertie . . . I swallowed. Bertie was still hanging, swinging in the wind with the noose of hope around his neck. He was stuck in the torturous state I’d existed in, with no end in sight.

  Unless someone told him my mother had died.

  I’ll tell him. The thought popped into my mind and I held it there for a second, unable to shove it away for some reason. It was a ridiculous notion, I told myself. I shouldn’t care – this person was a stranger. But somehow, Bertie wasn’t a stranger. It was odd, but I felt like I knew him. I could see how he’d loved my mother and how she’d been his world. I could understand his devastation and confusion when she’d disappeared, and how he longed for her to return.

  We were connected by more than those ten words. We were connected by more than our love for my mother. We were connected by losing her, and he deserved to know that she wouldn’t come back. He deserved a chance to accept her death and move on, to be able to make a life without my mother in the margins.

  Just like me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ELLA

  I rifled through the box and drew out the most recent letter, staring down at the return address: 10 Belford Mews, Edinburgh. There was no phone number and – I flipped over the envelope – no surname. Should I write to him and tell him the news? What if the letter didn’t reach him? What if he wrote back, wanting more information? I didn’t want to start a dialogue. I just wanted to set him free.