Letters to Lincoln

by Tracie Podger

  When my knees ached, I kissed my fingertips and placed them over both Trey and Hannah’s name. Before I left, I wandered over to the grave the gentleman had stood by.

  Anna Nicolson-Carter

  I turned, looking for the elderly man. Was that Lincoln? He’d told me his wife was called Anna. I suspected he’d be an elderly man. The birth date would suggest that Anna had died at age sixty-five, still relatively young. Although I hadn’t really seen his face, the gentleman, by the way he walked, seemed to be a lot older. Lincoln had told me he planned to move back into his old home. He hadn’t said where that was, though. I had no doubt we’d continue to write but the thought of him moving away saddened me. Maybe I should let him know I’d take care of Anna if he couldn’t.

  That thought brought me up short. Not that I had any intention of leaving the village, or Cornwall, but how do people, who have no choice, cope with leaving their loved ones behind?

  Do you know Lincoln Nicolson-Carter? I wrote and pushed the note towards Dad.

  He slowly shook his head, his brow furrowed as he tried to place the name.

  “No, it doesn’t ring a bell, why?”

  I think that’s the person that’s writing to me.

  Although Dad knew of the letters, we’d never discussed them. I decided to tell him.

  I left a letter to Trey in a bottle on the beach; it seemed a good thing to do at the time. Then, the following day, I got a reply! We’ve been writing back and forth since.

  Dad read, and then raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that’s amazing. And you don’t know who he is?”

  I shook my head.

  “I guess we could find out through the church’s records, if you wanted to, of course.”

  Did I? I thought for a moment, and then shook my head. No, I didn’t want to know. I was curious, but what we had was a lovely friendship that had developed simply through words on a piece of paper.

  I thought of the name, maybe Lincoln didn’t share the double-barrelled surname. Not being familiar with how they worked, did the husband adopt his wife’s name as well? He could be Nicolson or Carter.

  The telephone rang and Dad left the kitchen to answer it. No matter that it was a cordless phone, he still sat at the small telephone table in the hall. I guessed, learning the computer was about enough technological advancement for him to cope with.

  I made some tea and handed Dad one as I passed to make my way upstairs. The walk had tired me out. In fact, pretty much everything I did tired me out. An afternoon nap had become routine, one I didn’t want, as it meant I was awake earlier each morning. I sat in the chair facing the window and wondered how it would feel when the barn was done. I’d sit in the same position and look out over the sea. Dad didn’t use his open fire that often, opting for the safer option of a boiler and mains gas. I didn’t want that. I wanted to hear the crackle as logs spat, to have the smell of apple tree wood drifting around the house. I had no doubt my barn wasn’t going to be particularly energy efficient, because I wanted the beams left exposed, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

  I picked up my Kindle, hoping to read a little. Nothing had kept my attention long enough and I scrutinised the description, avoiding anything over emotional. I also didn’t want humour. I placed it back on the table beside me, not knowing what I wanted to read.

  Instead, I picked up my pad and pen. I didn’t write that day, I drew. I hadn’t drawn since I was a teen, and even then, I was never quite sure if I was particularly good at it. I drew the view from the window. The layers of rock that cut into the cliff were ancient and had always fascinated me. I likened each layer to the rings of a tree trunk, giving age and a story of life. Even on a rainy day, the scenery was beautiful. The cliff face I could see was black, with a rainbow of colour streaking through, wet from the rain and glistening. The grass was a vibrant green, tinged with cream, as the gorse fought for dominance. Scattered around were the wildflowers that had learned to survive the harsh winters. Although not in abundance, they gave a smattering of colour and softening to an otherwise harsh environment.

  My pen couldn’t do the scene in front of me justice. I wondered if I should put some art supplies on my list of things to buy. I found sitting there and drawing relaxing, frustrating, but when I was done, I smiled at my efforts. It wasn’t about to grace a wall in a gallery but I’d enjoyed the process.

  It was, as predicted, a couple of weeks later that we received the drawings from the architect. That evening Christian decided to visit; he had an update on estate agents for me.

  “Hey, Sis, how are you doing?” he asked, as he walked through the front door.

  I gave him a smile and a hug. At first it felt awkward, Christian would speak then pause, as if waiting for me to answer. Dad took over and ushered us to the kitchen table. Teas were made and Dad showed Christian the plans for the barn. Ten or so minutes later the conversation flowed. They spoke, I wrote.

  “These are the three valuations, they’re all about the same, to be honest, but I think this estate agent might be better for you,” Christian said, sliding a brochure across the table.

  That’s fine; will they let you deal with all? I wrote on my pad.

  “Yes, although, you’ll have to sign the documents. I’ll call them tomorrow. They all seem to think the house is very desirable, but then I guess, they all say that.” He laughed as he spoke.

  Christian was a corporate lawyer in a shit-hot firm in London, as my dad called them. I had no doubt he’d take good care of me. I sat and listened as Dad and Christian spoke. An hour or so later, I interrupted them.

  How’s Alistair, have you any pics?

  In the time that Christian had been there, he hadn’t mentioned Alistair once.

  “Erm, yes, he’s doing great.” I could see that he was holding back the grin as he thought of his son.

  When are you bringing him over?

  I watched his eyes flick to Dad. “He’s had croup, so Helen didn’t want to let him out of the house, but maybe next week?”

  I’ll look forward to it.

  Something told me that they didn’t think I was ready for a visit with my nephew and that pissed me off. I hadn’t heard from Helen since the funeral; in fact, I hadn’t heard from anyone. I decided to change the subject.

  So we need to find a builder once these are sent to the council, don’t we?

  “I think it might be wise to source a builder now, he might look at those plans and have better suggestions or concerns,” Christian said.

  I nodded, agreeing with him.

  “I’ll ask around for recommendations,” Dad added.

  Christian left for his four-hour drive home after dinner. His visit had left me feeling despondent. Why should my grief have caused the distance that had obviously appeared?

  “They don’t know how to behave,” Dad said, picking up on my low mood I guessed.

  Normal would be good! I wrote.

  He sighed as he placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Christian doesn’t remember as well as you do, or doesn’t want to remember, how it was when your mum passed. So, I guess, this is the first time he’s had to deal with loss. We’re all winging it really.”

  I’m going to head to bed. Thank you, Dad, for everything.

  “Nothing to thank me for, baby.”

  I left him locking up the house, turning off the lights, and muttering to his dog.

  I took a shower before sliding under the duvet. I’d left the curtains open, and once I’d turned off the bedside lamp, I looked out the window. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the surface of the sea. I thought about Christian and Helen, my dad, and whether the man at the cemetery was Lincoln.

  I heard a low voice coming from downstairs, a voice not belonging to my father. I climbed out of bed, and had a quick shower, before throwing on some clothes.

  “Morning, Dani, this is Miller. Miller, my daughter, and soon to be owner of the barn, Dani,” Dad said, making the introducti
on.

  I swallowed hard, not expecting to have someone in the house. I held out my hand for a shake and forced a smile.

  “Erm, my daughter can’t…”

  “Talk? Speech is overrated, Dani. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Miller said with a smile as he shook my hand. “So how about we take a look at the plans and you can show me around the barn?”

  His smile was warm, broad. He didn’t appear to be much older than me but had that rugged outdoor look. Dark brown hair flopped over his forehead and I watched as he ran his hands through it, pushing it from his eyes. He wore torn, faded jeans, tucked into sand-coloured work boots. A black t-shirt was taut across his toned body.

  Dad had made tea and gestured to a chair at the kitchen table. Miller sat and reached for the rolled up plans.

  “So you want to convert the barn?” he said, looking at me. “Amazing spot with a great view, I imagine.”

  I looked around the room. Miller leant back in his chair; he grabbed the pad and pen from the countertop.

  “You need these?” he asked.

  I nodded. My hand shook a little as I wrote. I wasn’t sure what it was that had my anxiety levels increased, other than the embarrassment of meeting a stranger and having to write instead of speak. I blinked back the tears I knew were starting to form in my eyes, while inwardly cursing myself for being so daft.

  This is what the architect came up with, I wrote.

  He nodded as he read. “But is it what you want?”

  I shrugged my shoulders; I guess so.

  He smiled at me while Dad took a seat beside me.

  “Okay, first, architects know shit all about building,” he chuckled as he spoke. “See here? We have a kitchen at the front of the building. That’s great; you want the living at the back. But up here…?” he pointed to the en suite. “We’ll need to get the plumbing from mid-house to the front, to line up with kitchen. Of course, it’s totally possible but adds to the budget. And if your guest needs to pee in the night, they have to come downstairs, or traipse through your bedroom.”

  He took the pen from my hand. “You want a guest bedroom, so how about the kitchen is in the middle of the house? You have your dining area one side and your living the other. You have windows at the front and back of the barn, that’s enough light for downstairs. Upstairs, we have two bedrooms, both en suite.”

  He scribbled on the plans as he spoke.

  “Can we do that?” Dad asked.

  Miller looked up, his smile and the wrinkles that appeared around his dark blue eyes were mischievous. “We can do what we like, for now. The council may have other ideas, of course.”

  I reached for the pen. Why didn’t the architect think of that?

  “Most have never even put up a shelf! What he’s done here is what you asked, of course, but with no thought of logistics. I used to be one, so I know how they work,” he said.

  You were an architect? I wrote.

  “Yep, for a short time, but creating something has always been my passion.”

  “Miller was highly recommended,” Dad said.

  “I don’t just build houses, Dani, I create homes. You have to live here; it has to work for you without compromise, if possible. I can take you to some of my clients so you can see what I’ve done. What your architect has given you is okay, but with just a little more thought, or knowledge, it could be amazing.”

  Can you draw new plans?

  “If you want me to, of course,” Miller said.

  I looked over to Dad who nodded. Okay, can you do that for me, please? Then we need to submit them, I wrote.

  “Of course, I can submit them on your behalf, if you want me to. But don’t make a decision until I’ve priced it up. You might not like my price,” he laughed as he spoke.

  The sensible thing would be to get new plans, then three quotes from various builders but for some reason, I trusted Miller already. He hadn’t made a deal about my lack of speech, he hadn’t tried to exclude me from conversation, and he hadn’t been fazed at all by me.

  “Do you want to show me around?” he asked, looking directly at me.

  I slowly nodded, picking up the pad and pen and shoving them in my cardigan pocket.

  “I’ll make another cup of tea and bring it over,” Dad said, giving me a nod of encouragement.

  I hesitated, unsure why at first. “We can always wait for the tea, Alistair,” Miller said, addressing my dad.

  Miller has picked up on my hesitancy and that had me warm to him further. I smiled and gestured with my hand for him to lead the way.

  Within a minute, I’d wished I’d picked up a jacket. I pulled the cardigan tighter around me, wondering how the heck Miller could stand the chill in just a t-shirt. He must have seen the shiver that ran over me. He headed to his truck and returned with a worn leather jacket, the kind a biker might wear, and a spray can.

  “Here,” he said, as he draped it around my shoulders. I gave a nod of thanks.

  Miller talked as we walked around the building. He sprayed where the side windows would be to give me a visual of their position. He would speak, and then make a point to look at me, waiting for my written answer. I fished in my jeans pocket for the key to the padlocked door. It creaked as I pulled it open. Miller scanned the wall for a light switch. When Dad and I had driven to the cemetery, I’d waited outside for him to reverse the car out. I hadn’t been inside the barn since I was a teenager.

  “Wow, look at those beams, Dani,” Miller had placed his hand on my arm to gain my attention. “Please tell me we’re keeping those.”

  I looked up, following his gaze. Dark oak beams crisscrossed the ceiling above us.

  “I have an idea.” The excitement in his voice had me smiling. “Why not have an upside down house? Put the bedrooms down here and your living space up there. That way you not only get the view of the cliffs and the sea but those beams, as well.”

  For the first time in a while, I felt a bubble of happiness explode in my stomach. It startled me, if I was honest. It was too soon to be happy about anything, wasn’t it? However, I found myself nodding and reaching for the pad and pen.

  I love that idea, I wrote.

  “I’ll take some measurements, then draw up some new plans. Probably take me a couple of days, but I have a job to finish before I can start on them, is that okay?”

  Of course, thank you.

  “I’ll get new drawings over to you as soon as I can, and use them to get other quotes in, okay?”

  I nodded as I replaced my pad and pen. Miller took a walk around, pacing out and mumbling to himself. Just as Dad arrived with fresh tea, he headed to his truck, returning with a tape measure, a pad and pencil, and a camera. We watched while he measured, sketched, and photographed every aspect of the barn. He prodded walls, beams, kicked at the dusty floor and rattled the frame.

  “There’s a lot of wood here we can reuse, some of the structural beams might need to be replaced though, that one is rotted through,” he said, as he took his tea from Dad.

  He explained to Dad how he thought an upside down house might work better, and it pleased me to see that he would shift his gaze to me, to keep me in the conversation.

  Miller left shortly after and Dad and I locked up. I threaded my arm through his and we walked back into the warmth of the house. It was as I listened to Miller’s truck leave the drive that I realised I still wore his jacket.

  Chapter Seven

  I felt conflicted. I was excited about the build and that didn’t feel right. It hadn’t been that long ago that my world had been torn apart, thrown off its axis. I sat on my chair in my bedroom, looking at Miller’s jacket hanging on the back of the door. I liked him, not in a sexual way, I felt comfortable around him. I picked up my pad and pen.

  Lincoln,

  I met a builder yesterday; he came up with some wonderful ideas for converting Dad’s workshop. It’s a barn sitting next door and I plan to live in it. I asked my brother to put my house up for sale; I have no intentio
n of going back to London.

  I don’t know how long the planning process is, and what with Christmas just around the corner, I doubt this will start until some time in the new year but I feel excited about it. And guilty. Should I feel excited? How long should I mourn? How long should I grieve? It has only been about ten months, or so, and whether this is rational or not, I feel I’m letting them down by making this move. It’s as if I’m moving on with my life, yet they never can.

  Dad and I have decided to have a quiet Christmas this year. Just us. It made me sad, to be honest. Normally, each year he alternated between Christian and me but he, we, haven’t been invited this year. I get the feeling they don’t want me around, or rather, they don’t want my misery around, and I’m starting to feel a little bitter about that. Is bitter better than the sadness?

  I did tell Dad that he should call them, ask what their plans were. I’d love for him to go, and if I’m not invited, then so be it. I’ll stay home. I know Dad wouldn’t go without me but I don’t understand what’s happening. I want to write Christian a letter; I think I’ll be able to explain how he and Helen are making me feel by trying to ‘do the right thing.’

  Do you have plans for Christmas? I should look online and order a few presents. I’m trying real hard to get into the spirit of things for Dad’s sake, more than mine. Who knows how many Christmases we’ll have left together.

  Do you wonder that, Lincoln? How long do we actually have? I see inspirational posts on social media, people saying, ‘live each day as if it’s your last.’ But that’s not realistic. Real life doesn’t always allow it. I’m getting morbid now.

  I started to draw again; it was something I’d enjoyed as a teen. I’m not particularly good but I find it relaxing.