Dom stirs, his eyes fixed on the table, and Alec suspects that he has already made this mental leap. Ed’s face is beginning to soften with his ready sympathy, but Billa’s remains stony. She stares at him.
‘So what are you saying?’
Alec debates with himself. ‘Tris’s life was ruined before he could begin it,’ he says. ‘He was weakened, damaged, and he acted accordingly. Perhaps he longed to be free of it but didn’t have the courage or the genetic make-up to make the leap for freedom. We often allow ourselves to be confined like that, don’t you think? Clinging to past hurts, rejections, cruel words. Hugging them to us, rooting around in them, and reigniting our anger and self-pity at regular intervals rather than casting them away from us. All those angry conversations we have in our heads that we choose to engage in. Tris couldn’t make the break and now he’s dead, and his body is confined to a small box of ashes, poor devil. Perhaps Léon might make a better fist of things. From what we’ve heard about him, it sounds like he’s made a good start; that he’d be a son we could all be proud of. Perhaps Léon makes sense of Andrew and Tris.’
Another silence.
Alec leans back in his chair and looks around at them. ‘None of my business, of course,’ he says mildly. ‘But you asked my opinion.’
‘And what would you do?’ asks Billa, but her eyes are less fierce now and her voice is quieter.
Alec gives a little shrug. ‘I’d do a few more checks, then I’d decide what I could afford and ask my lawyer to send the boy a cheque with a letter telling him how his uncle died and explaining that he has been cremated, his ashes disposed of and his estate has been wound up. Nothing else; no names, no pack drill. End of story.’
The St Enedocs look at each other.
‘I rather like that idea,’ says Ed cautiously. ‘What do you say, Billa? Dom? Shall we give Léon the benefit of the doubt?’
‘It sounds like an honourable conclusion,’ says Dom cautiously. ‘Do you agree, Billa?’
Billa takes a deep breath; her shoulders relax. ‘If you all think it’s the right thing to do,’ she says wearily. ‘Why not?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Postcards arrive from Harry: high snowy mountains for Dom, deep tranquil lakes for Ed and Billa; a pretty market square for Tilly and a handsome Bernese Mountain Dog for Jakey.
‘Hi, mate,’ he writes to Jakey. ‘You’d love these fellows. Nearly as big as Bear but not quite. The snow is good. You must come out here one day. When you’ve learned to surf then I’ll teach you to ski. Smile and wave. Smile and wave. Love Harry xx.’
Jakey keeps the postcard on his little desk in his bedroom with the photograph of the dogs’ tea party and a photograph of Bells. Now he picks up the postcard to read it again and he glows with pride. He’s taken the card to show at school, and he’s shown it to Tilly and to Sir Alec, and the excitement precipitated another dogs’ tea party. It wasn’t quite such fun without Harry, but Tilly was nearly as good, and now he has Bells to tell Ed and Billa and Dom about. Tilly has taken a photograph of Bells, which Jakey showed to them, and they were suitably impressed and agreed that once Bells was part of the family then she would certainly be invited to the next dogs’ tea party. Jakey kneeled beside the sofa to show the recumbent Bear the photograph. He sleepily opened one eye and beat his tail once or twice.
‘There you are,’ said Tilly. ‘You have the official Bear “Seal of Approval”,’ and they both laughed and did a high-five.
He and Tilly have taken Bells out twice now. Her owner thought it was a good idea for her to adjust slowly to her new family so they’d driven Daddy to Blisland to meet her and then the three of them took Bells for a walk on the cliffs. Jakey ran ahead with Bells, while Daddy and Tilly wandered along behind, and Jakey felt proud and grown up, as if he were in charge of Bells. She was really good. She knew how to ‘Sit’ and ‘Stay’ and walk to heel, and he felt very responsible. He hated it when they took her back but Tilly promised they’d take her out again soon and he decided that he wouldn’t make a fuss.
‘You must write to Harry and tell him all about Bells,’ she said. ‘You could send a photograph. I’ll help you if you like.’
So they settled down after school one afternoon and he wrote to Harry and put in a photograph of Bells.
‘Hi, mate,’ he wrote in careful letters. ‘This is me with Bells.’
And at the end he’d written, ‘Smile and wave. Smile and wave,’ just like Harry had on the postcard.
On the next outing he and Tilly took Bells to meet Mo and Pa and their little terrier, Wolfie.
‘Wolfie really misses old Jonno,’ Mo said.
Years and years ago, before Jakey was born, she said, Jonno had come from Blisland too, and he was Bells’ great-uncle. This made her even more like one of the family and Mo and Pa were really happy to meet her. They’d both hugged Tilly when it was time to go home and Mo had suddenly looked as if she might cry, but the next minute she was laughing, which was a bit odd, Jakey thought.
‘Are you all right, Mo?’ he asked her, and she smiled at him and kissed him.
‘I’m very, very all right, darling,’ she said, and she and Pa smiled at each other in a very excited kind of way. Jakey wondered for a minute if they were going to do a high-five, but they didn’t.
On the way home he noticed that Tilly was looking happy, too, smiling to herself as if she’d been given a present or something like that.
He really likes Tilly, and he likes it that Tilly and Janna are friends. He loves Janna, loves going to see her, having tea with her. She’s very excited about Bells too, and when he and Daddy are back in the Lodge they’re all going to walk the cliff path to Trevone.
‘But we must make sure she doesn’t fall down the blowhole, my lover,’ Janna said.
Then Tilly said, ‘What’s the blowhole?’ and he and Janna promised to show her on their next walk.
Now, Jakey props the photograph of Bells next to Harry’s postcard and the dogs’ tea party photograph, and stares at them. Soon he and Daddy will be back at the Lodge, Bells will belong to them properly and Harry will be coming home. He can hardly wait.
* * *
Sarah gives a little farewell party when Dave comes home. She invites some parents from Ben’s nursery school, Clem, Tilly and Sir Alec. His ankle is much better now and he and Clem walk up to the cottage together.
‘Good to see you out and about again,’ says Clem.
‘Can’t stand being grounded,’ says Sir Alec. ‘Get cabin fever. So, this is very good news about the dog.’
‘She’s a connection, our Bells,’ says Clem. ‘She’s an absolute godsend.’
Sir Alec smiles to himself. ‘She’s going to be a great addition to our dogs’ tea party. When am I going to meet her?’
‘We’re not taking possession until we’ve moved,’ Clem says. ‘Her breeder thinks it’s wise not to confuse Bells too much with lots of different homes. Generally, we just take her out for walks. Tilly and Jakey do most of it.’
‘Splendid,’ says Sir Alec. ‘Just what was needed. As you say: a connection.’
They go into the cottage where a few people have already gathered. Dave shakes Sir Alec’s hand, passes him on to Sarah, and claps Clem on the shoulder.
‘Thanks for looking after Sarah,’ he says. ‘Sounds like it’s been a bit stressy while I’ve been away. What will you drink?’
‘It’s quite a lot to cope with,’ says Clem. ‘Two small children and trying to run a business. Thanks, I’ll have a beer, if you’ve got one.’
There is no sign of Tilly but Sarah waves to him and he’s pleased to see that she’s looking happier. She edges her way through the knot of people and smiles at him. He bends to kiss her.
‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m better now Dave’s back,’ she says. ‘Quite looking forward to the move. But I shall miss you all.’
‘Will you come for Easter when your mum comes down?’
Sarah makes a little face. �
�I think it might be too soon. Ben needs to settle into Yelverton, make new friends. I think it will confuse him if we come back quite so quickly.’
Clem nods. ‘That makes sense.’
‘You must come and see us when we’ve got settled,’ she tells him. ‘You and Jakey. And Tilly, of course,’ she adds, with just the faintest edge of malice.
Clem smiles. ‘Thanks,’ he says non-committally.
Dave comes back with his beer and Clem raises it in a toast to the move and their new house. Some more people are arriving and Clem strolls away, chatting to the other guests, waiting for Tilly.
* * *
Billa has been picking daffodils. The woodland floor is a mosaic of gold and cream and white and she’s been out for an early walk, unable to sleep once the light begins to slide over her bedroom windowsill. Ever since the dogs’ tea party, Billa has been restless. Jakey unsettles her. He is so eager, so confiding, so natural in his sudden displays of affection. She is beginning to love him, and she misses him when he goes; his bright little face beaming from the car window, hand waving furiously.
We are lucky, she tells herself. Lucky to have Tilly and Harry – and now Clem and Jakey to add to the family. It’s good to have the young around, making us laugh, keeping us up to the mark.
When she ruffles Jakey’s hair, treasuring those rare moments when he reaches unselfconsciously for her hand, Billa thinks about her lost children and what she has missed and her heart aches.
‘I shall want babies,’ Tilly said a little anxiously, in a moment of confiding.
‘Of course you will,’ she answered firmly. ‘And you needn’t worry about Jakey. He’s old enough and secure enough to be quite sensible about it.’
Tilly nodded. ‘I think so too. I think he’ll be very fraternal, and rather strict, but very loving.’
They’d laughed together, imagining it.
‘He’ll be old enough to be a proper part of it all,’ agreed Billa. ‘He’ll be very useful. Like having a reliable older dog to help bring up a puppy.’
‘I feel so lucky I can hardly dare believe it,’ Tilly said. ‘Did Dom tell you that Mum and Dad are coming over for Easter? They want to meet Clem and Jakey. And Dossie and Mo and Pa. And isn’t it weird that Dom knows Pa – you know, Clem’s grandfather? He was a mining engineer, too. They don’t know each other very well but it’s another tiny connection. Dad’ll be thrilled. I’m taking Dom to meet them.’
Now, as she fills the vases with fresh water, trims the daffodils’ thick stems, Billa remembers Dom talking about it.
‘He’s a bit older than I am,’ he said, ‘but the name rings a definite bell. Everything’s falling nicely into place for our Tills, isn’t it?’
And so it is. For a little while, after that meeting about Tris with Alec, things were a bit strained between her and Dom but, after some more talks, she and Ed decided to abide by their mother’s wishes and arrange for their lawyer to send Léon ten thousand pounds.
‘I’d like us to go thirds,’ Dom insisted when they told him. ‘After all, I might so easily have been like Léon, mightn’t I? If our father had refused to acknowledge me, if he hadn’t provided for me, I might have finished up in a few rooms in a shabby old lodging house looking after my mother when she fell ill. Let me pay a share.’
When he brought Tris’s belongings back from the hospital and from the Chough, Dom showed Billa the photograph of Léon. She stared at the young, smiling face, searching for some evidence of Tris or Andrew, but there was none.
‘Perhaps he looks like Tante Berthe,’ Dom said. ‘And perhaps he’s taken after her in more ways than one. After all, she took Andrew in when he was on the run and she looked after Tris. He wanted to stay with her, remember? He told me that he felt he had a family again and he wanted to look after Tante Berthe and his half-brother. What a shame he couldn’t keep it up. Maybe Léon is made of different stuff. Anyway, it’s all over now.’
Billa places the daffodils into the vases with quick stabs. She wants to let it go; to chalk Tris’s visit up to experience and put it behind her. But she can’t quite manage it. She remembers Alec’s words about clinging to hurts and rejections, and knows that it will take some action, some gesture to free her; but she doesn’t know what it is. It is easier to think about her mother more kindly now, with a greater understanding, though she still suffers spasms of humiliation when she thinks of the way Tris looked at her, holding her wrist.
Let it go, she tells herself silently, angrily. Just let it all go. Step free of it.
She finishes the vases and carries one into the hall and another up to the gallery, where she can hear Miles Davis playing ‘Old Devil Moon’ and Ed’s computer keys tapping away. One of his publishing friends has promised to look at the manuscript, and Ed is completely committed to his story now.
Billa goes back down to the kitchen and lifts the remaining vase on to the dresser. It doesn’t quite stand properly, something is blocking it, and she reaches behind it and brings out an ugly plastic box. She stares at it for a moment, puzzled, and then realizes what it is: it is Tris’s ashes. She remembers Alec saying: ‘Tris couldn’t make the break and now he’s dead, and his body is confined to a small box of ashes.’
She sits down at the table, holding the box, and quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, she begins to weep. She weeps for her babies who had no burial, no formal grieving, for Bitser who vanished out of her life one day so many years ago. She weeps for her mother, wishing she could tell her that she was sorry, and for her father whom she’d loved so much. And at last she weeps for Tris. She folds her arms on the table and lays her head on them and it seems the tears will never stop. But they do, and when she sits up she knows now how she can weave all these threads together into one final gesture of release.
* * *
A few days later, on a bright blowy March morning, Tilly arrives at the old butter factory to find Billa getting ready to go for walk.
‘It’s a bit early,’ says Tilly apologetically. ‘I was hoping to surprise Dom but he’s out so I thought I’d just come along to you anyway.’
‘Walk with me,’ says Billa. ‘I’d like some company. I’m not bringing Bear on this one because I don’t know how far I’m going.’
So they set out together, passing around the lake’s edge where the wild cherry tree is in blossom, skirting the thickets of scarlet and yellow dogwood that guard its northern shore. They walk on beside the turbulent stream and into the woods. Presently Billa turns inland, climbing the hill that leads to the moors, until they are looking down on the grey slate roof of Dom’s cottage and they can see the stream winding away, disappearing amongst the high banks of azaleas and rhododendrons. They are high up, unprotected, and the cold west wind is strong.
Billa hesitates, looks around her. ‘This is a good place, I think,’ she says. ‘Do you mind waiting for a moment?’
She walks a little distance away and pauses beside a blackthorn tree whose buds are just breaking into creamy white stars. Taking a plastic box from her pocket, Billa fumbles with the lid and stares down at the contents. She remains quite still for several moments, then suddenly she raises the box with a tossing movement, so that the ashes scatter into the wind and stream away towards the moors. She continues to hold the box high above her head as if to make certain it is completely empty; waiting patiently in the cold cleansing wind.
Watching her, Tilly thinks that somewhere beyond the sound of the wind and the distant water she can hear Sister Emily’s voice, jubilant and full of hope.
The Lord is my strength and my song:
He has become my salvation.
I shall not die but live …
Billa is coming back towards her now: her eyes are bright with tears but her face is serene, peaceful. She smiles at Tilly.
‘Perhaps he’s free now,’ she says. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’
Also by Marcia Willett
FORGOTTEN LAUGHTER
A WEEK IN WINTER
WINNIN
G THROUGH
HOLDING ON
LOOKING FORWARD
SECOND TIME AROUND
STARTING OVER
HATTIE’S MILL
THE COURTYARD
THEA’S PARROT
THOSE WHO SERVE
THE DIPPER
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR
THE BIRDCAGE
THE GOLDEN CUP
ECHOES OF THE DANCE
MEMORIES OF THE STORM
THE WAY WE WERE
THE PRODIGAL WIFE
THE SUMMER HOUSE
CHRISTMAS IN CORNWALL
THE SEA GARDEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcia Willett’s early life was devoted to the ballet, but her dreams of becoming a ballerina ended when she grew out of the classical proportions required. She had always loved books, and a family crisis made her take up a new career as a novelist – a decision she has never regretted. She lives in a beautiful and wild part of Devon.
Find out more about Marcia Willett and her novels at www.marciawillett.co.uk
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
POSTCARDS FROM THE PAST. Copyright © 2013 by Marcia Willett. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
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First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, a Random House Group company
First U.S. Edition: April 2015
eISBN 9781466846517
First eBook edition: February 2015
Postcards from the Past Page 24