The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  “Well, I may treat her now and then,” Sue admits. “She does love pepperoni.”

  “Her tummy doesn’t, and who cleans it up while you’re out at PCC meetings or chairing committees?” Tim shakes his head. “Honestly. Who’d be a house husband?”

  “You know I couldn’t do any of this without you, darling,” Sue says. “Honestly, I couldn’t.” To me she adds, “Seriously, he really is brilliant. Look at how easily he’s just got Caspar to bed. It usually takes me an hour and at least three stories.”

  “OK, don’t over-egg the pudding or I’ll wonder what else you want.” Tim reaches across for another slice of pizza from the box propped open on the coffee table. I like him a lot. He’s easy-going and welcoming, and it’s obvious that he and Sue adore each other. I wait for the dart of loss that usually comes with this kind of observation, but for once it isn’t there. Besides, Neil would have been a hopeless house husband. It took me years to train him to leave the loo seat down…

  “Chloe? Are you all right?”

  Sue touches my arm and I jump.

  “Sorry, I was miles away.” I must stop drifting off like this.

  “Best thing when my wife’s interrogating you,” teases Tim, and Sue punches him gently.

  “I am not interrogating her!”

  “Whatever you say, dear,” Tim replies mildly. “I’m going to check on Cas. Feel free to talk about me while I’m gone! Isn’t that what girls do?”

  “In your dreams!” laughs Sue, shooing him out. Then she picks up the wine to top up our glasses.

  “So, rather than talking about my husband, tell me what Matt had to say about that carved daisy. Does he think it’s anything to do with Kit Rivers?”

  “He says it could be but there’s no real link apart from the addition to the window – and nobody seems to know what that’s about. He was wondering if you’d be able to unearth any church records about when it was added.”

  Sue pulls a face. “I’ll do my best, but to be honest I don’t hold out much hope. They weren’t that good at record-keeping here pre Second World War. I know that there are all kinds of documents in Cornwall Record Office. Maybe it would be worth looking there?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I guess Matt will know more about that.”

  “It certainly sounds promising if he thinks it’s worth pursuing, anyway. Matt’s the expert on all things Kit.”

  I nod. “He seems convinced there could be more evidence in the manor house. He says it’s just a matter of finding it.”

  “Good luck with that. The place is in a dreadful state. Kernow Heritage Foundation have their work cut out there, that’s for sure. I should imagine they need twice the funding just to get started.”

  “He’s asked me to be a volunteer. That’s what all the reading material’s for. Matt thinks all the volunteers need to know about the First World War and how it affected the house and the family.”

  “Matt certainly takes his job seriously.” Sue’s voice is full of admiration. “It’s a shame he isn’t paid more but I guess that’s the nature of working for a charity. He’s actually way overqualified to be buried here in the middle of nowhere. He won’t have told you because he’s far too modest, but he’s actually Doctor Matthew Enys. He was lecturing at Oxford until his divorce. His ex-wife moved to be near her family and he followed to be close to the twins.”

  Matt mentioned that his children lived in Exeter. There’d been sadness in his voice and I could tell he missed them. I guess at our age everyone has their own private grief to bear. None of us are unscathed.

  “He’s been divorced for a while, which makes Matt Rosecraddick’s most eligible bachelor,” Sue says. “Half the women in this village have made a play for him already and the other half are planning to. If I wasn’t a happily married woman then I might be tempted myself. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”

  I really don’t want to be drawn into a conversation about Matt and whether or not he’s gorgeous. I can see that he’s attractive, but that’s purely from an objective standpoint. My heart sinks because I can tell that Sue’s quietly matchmaking, which is the last thing I need. Matt’s offered me something I can throw myself into and I need this escape from my own thoughts. I don’t want anything to complicate matters and I can’t imagine Matt does either. He seems more than content to bury himself in his work.

  “He’s really nice, isn’t he?” Sue continues innocently as she places another slice of pizza on her plate. “Any more for you?”

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  I’ve eaten two slices but my stomach’s so full it hurts. This is the most food I’ve managed for ages.

  “No wonder you’re so slim and I’m such a porker,” Sue sighs, attacking her fresh slice with gusto. “I’m sure I eat twice as much since I got married. What’s your secret? Is it being single?”

  Misery? Grief? Not really anything I want to share, but if I’m to live here and enjoy life without any well-meaning matchmaking I know I have to level with her.

  “I lost my husband two and a half years ago,” I say quietly. “To be honest, Sue, I haven’t really felt much like eating since.”

  Sue’s pizza-laden hand freezes between her mouth and plate.

  “I’m so sorry, Chloe. What a crass thing for me to say. I’d assumed you’re divorced like Matt. I had no idea.”

  “The village gossip mill’s been very remiss. I thought they knew everything,” I try to sound light-hearted but my voice cracks.

  “They certainly don’t know about your husband and it won’t go any further than me.” Sue looks at her food and it seems that I’ve cured her appetite after all, because she puts the pizza down and pushes her plate away. “I don’t know what to say. I feel terrible.”

  And now she feels awkward. I hate that.

  “You weren’t to know,” I say. “Honestly. It’s OK.”

  But we both know it’s far from OK. There’s an uncomfortable silence. Above us the floorboards creak as Tim crosses the bedroom. The light on the baby monitor flickers as Caspar grizzles before his father soothes him. I know Sue’s waiting for me to continue, so I dredge up words from the deep place inside where I usually keep them safely pushed down.

  “Well, no, it isn’t OK – but that isn’t what anyone wants to hear, is it? I’m supposed to be moving on now. It’s been long enough.”

  “I don’t think there are any rules for these things,” Sue says gently. “Grief and loss don’t work to timetables. Or not in my experience anyway.”

  I think about the stained-glass windows in the church and the granite cross on the cliffs, memorials to a loss that can never be tempered by time.

  “I suppose not, but I thought a move here might help. Neil spent his childhood holidays in the village and it feels like my last link to him. It’s a way of being close but our memories aren’t here, if that makes sense?”

  “It makes perfect sense,” Sue replies. “You want to heal but you still want to be close to him.”

  “Exactly. I’m not ready to let go. Not yet. Maybe never.” My throat’s tight and I feel the old beat of panic in my chest. I can’t cry. I daren’t cry. Poor Sue’s off-duty. She wanted pizza and wine and a chat – not a full-on counselling session.

  “I don’t think we ever let go of loved ones,” she says. “They’re always in our hearts. I do think time lessens the pain of the loss, but they never, ever leave us. That’s what memories are for. Talking helps too, Chloe, and I’m here if you ever want to chat.”

  I take a big gulp of my wine. Memories are painful. Talking is even worse. Perky Pippa wanted to talk non-stop and it was awful, like digging into an open wound. I have to change the subject. Now.

  “Thanks, Sue. I guess in a way this brings us back to Kit Rivers. Somebody remembered him, didn’t they? I think that’s what the daisy in the window is about.”

  Kit Rivers is the lifebelt I need to stop me sinking and I grab it gratefully. Sue takes the hint. By the time Tim joins us I’ve managed to step away
from the emotional quicksand and our conversation drifts back to life in Rosecraddick. All is calm, outwardly anyway. But inside? I’m shaken.

  The quicksand’s much closer than I’d realised and still I’m only a footstep away from plunging in.

  Chapter 9

  Chloe

  November blends into December in a swirl of sea mist and rain. The crisp days of frost and lemon-tinted sunshine are distant memories and I become an expert at drying my damp clothes on the wooden rack hanging over the range. I also learn how to bank up the firebox and load the wood burner so that the Rectory has some semblance of heating and hot water. It’s funny how visiting the woodshed and stacking log baskets have become second nature.

  I have something of a routine here now, if you can call it that. The Rectory’s far too large for me, so I’ve shut up most of the rooms and restricted myself to the sitting room, kitchen and bedroom. Most of my time’s spent in the downstairs window seat, where I never tire of watching the waves gallop across the bay and where I can see the clouds dance across the sky. I’ve placed my sketchbook on the table and my pencils and water colours are never far away, but I’ve yet to find the courage to discover whether I can still draw. When the weather allows I walk across the cliffs or wind my way down the narrow path to the rocky cove, where I sit and watch the surf pound the shore. It’s comforting to think that the waves have dashed these rocks for centuries and will continue to do so long after I’ve passed.

  The nights have drawn right in. Darkness pools from the wooded hills beyond the Manor and by half four in the afternoon the whole world feels as though it’s sleeping. In the evenings I light the lamps in the sitting room, throw another log on the wood burner and curl up to read. I’m gradually working my way through the pile of books that Matt loaned me, and with every page I turn I fall deeper and deeper into the world of Kit Rivers. At times this feels more real to me than my own time, and I’m surprised and grateful at how fast the quiet evenings pass. By the time I haul myself up the steep stairs to bed my eyes are heavy and my head’s spinning with images and verse.

  Sometimes I picture Neil sitting opposite me, one ankle crossed over his knee and his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. He was never one for sitting still and reading, so it’s no surprise to me that as the shortened days race towards Christmas he’s here less and less. He drifts through my dreams, always a fingertip’s touch out of reach, and I lose count of the times I wake up with wet cheeks and an aching heart. On these mornings I have to force myself out of bed and, as crazy as it sounds, I’m grateful for the cold shock of lino under my feet and the chilly trek to the woodshed. It’s hard to dwell on feeling sad when you have to battle wind and rain to fetch wood. Life in the Rectory isn’t easy but it is exhausting and the setting never fails to stir my soul. When I’m ready to paint again I suspect my canvases will be filled with savage skies, driving rain and wild wrecking waves.

  Apart from walking and reading and fighting daily battles with the temperamental heating system, I’ve also joined the team of volunteers at Rosecraddick Manor. We’re an eclectic bunch of people. So far I’ve met a retired head teacher, a pagan, a poet and two elderly sisters who used to race speedboats in the seventies, so as well as learning about Kit’s war I’m also learning a great deal about many other things. No matter what our backgrounds or political views, we all come together for one shared purpose: to restore the grand old house to her former glory.

  It’s not a glamorous job – I seem to spend most of my time in the attic sifting through junk and painstakingly cataloguing it – but it’s a wonderful distraction. Matt’s busy meeting conservation officers or travelling to London to attend fundraising meetings, so I haven’t seen a lot of him. After my conversation with Sue, I’m quite relieved about that; I don’t want to be viewed as the latest desperate woman who’s set her cap at him.

  When Matt and I do meet up, we brainstorm the meaning of the daisy. So far we’ve come up with precisely nothing. Matt’s made a start on the parish records but it’s a slow task. Still, as I sort through the strata of junk in the attic I live in hope that something significant will appear. It hasn’t so far – but, even so, my solitary work’s absorbing. One morning I came across a pile of exercise books from the nineteen-fifties, the pages yellowed with age and the ink as brown as old blood. The round childish hand that had crafted the words in them and spilled blots in many places belonged to a Tommy Waken in class 4b. As I’d flipped through his composition book, I’d learned all about Tommy’s school life, his dog Dash and his sad mother. His father had died in the war and Tommy had written about him at great length. One essay entitled My Hero brought tears to my eyes. I’d collected up all his books and crawled through the years of detritus in the attic to one of the windows, where I’d read for hours until Tommy’s life at Rosecraddick merged with Kit’s and both overlay my own with their unique colours and nuances. I wonder what happened to Tommy. Did he have a family of his own? Did he ever become a pilot? Is he even alive? I guess I can Google him and find out, but something stops me from typing his name into the search engine. Maybe I’d rather he stayed forever twelve, a cheeky imp with scraped knees and ink-stained fingers who missed his dog and hated tapioca pudding. In the same way that Kit Rivers is forever twenty and Neil will always be in his early thirties.

  Age shall not weary them…

  It’s a blustery December Thursday and I’m on my way to the Manor, swaddled in my winter coat and wearing my trusty welly boots. The sky’s a bruised purple and the clouds are billowing. Rain is fast approaching. I usually walk to the Manor but I’ve no desire to arrive soaked to the skin again. My little red convertible hasn’t done many miles since I arrived, so it will do it good to have a run. I’m busy reacquainting myself with the radio when my phone rings. It’s not a number I recognise. I don’t usually answer these but for some reason today I take the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Chloe? Is that you? Thank Christ. What’s going on? Why haven’t you picked up your emails? Where the hell are you anyway?”

  It’s Moira Olsen, my agent, and she doesn’t sound happy. My heart sinks because I’ve not checked my emails since I left London and I’ve been avoiding her for obvious reasons.

  And anyway, how did she get my mobile number? She only ever had my old landline one.

  “Hi, Moira, how are you?” I try to sound pleased to hear from her but I’m a rubbish actress.

  “As pissed off as you sound!”

  Moira’s never one to pull her punches. This is one of the reasons I was so happy to sign with her. She’s feisty, forthright and the best in the business. I could hardly believe my luck when she said she wanted to represent me. Neil and I celebrated by splashing out on the most expensive bottle of champagne we’d ever dared to buy, but we knew it was worth it. My dream of leaving teaching and pursuing a career as an artist was on the cusp of coming true. Moira sold some of my designs for cards and prints, but then Neil got sick and painting was squeezed in between teaching and chemo and visits to consultants, until it finally became something I didn’t have the heart to do anymore.

  Moira had said she understood I needed time – but I don’t think she realised just how much. I’m just wondering how I can explain my unprofessional silence when she steams ahead in her own indomitable fashion.

  “Anyway, never mind how I feel. It’s you that’s the issue. Your mother says you’ve gone quite mad and run away to Cornwall.”

  Has she indeed? I make a mental note to have a stern word with my mother and also to tell her not to give out my number. What’s the point of escaping to Rosecraddick if the old life just follows?

  “I’m having some time out,” I say mildly. “Cornwall’s very peaceful.”

  “Lovely,” says Moira. “Pleased for you and all that. Can’t bear the place myself. Too far from London for me. Still, it’s Mecca for artists and the light and the scenery are to die for. I did pootle down to the Beside The Wave gallery the other day. Would have look
ed you up if I’d known you were nearby. Have you been there?”

  The furthest I’ve been since I arrived is the vicar’s house, but somehow I don’t think this will impress my agent.

  “Not yet,” is all I say.

  “Well if you ever get off your arse and paint again I’ll see what I can do. Anyway, that’s not why I called. I’ve got you a commission and it comes with some serious money.” She lowers her voice and then names a figure that does make me blink.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. This is it. It’s for syndication but you keep creative control and great royalties. This is the bit where you thank me.”

  In the past I would have jumped for joy. Making money from my passion has always been the dream, but the dream has now become a nightmare.

  “Who’s it for?” I ask.

  “You’d better make sure you’re sitting down for this one. It’s for Regal Press.”

  She’s right. It is just as well I’m sitting down.

  “The big publishing house?”

  “Publishing giants,” Moira corrects. “They need six book covers for a series of novels based on that country house drama – you know, the Downton rip-off one that’s huge right now – and by chance they’ve come across that sketch of the castle you sold ages ago. The one that was on the biscuit tins and tea towels.”

  This was a little more than a sketch: it was a detailed canvas and one I’m still hugely proud of. Neil and I had been on holiday in Scotland and, struck by the beauty of a castle we’d come across, I’d asked the laird for permission to paint it. He’d loved the finished piece and bought it from me. It was eventually used as an image on cards and gifts at the castle shop. It was one of the first paintings I ever sold and Neil and I used the money to have a much longed-for weekend in Paris. I still count this sale as a big success, but if it’s not on the scale of Tracey Emin or Damien Hirst then it doesn’t register in Moira’s eyes. She knows her stuff and wants top dollar.

  What she doesn’t know is that I can’t paint anymore…