Letters to Lincoln

by Tracie Podger

  Have you moved back home already? I hope, if you have, it wasn’t painful for you. I hope you had the chance to smile, maybe laugh a little as you thought of Anna.

  Hope to hear from you soon,

  Dani.

  I spent some time reading back over the letters he’d sent. I’d built a picture of him in my mind, based on the man I’d seen in the cemetery. I picked up my drawing pad and sketched that image. I imagined him sitting at his desk with his fountain pen, beside an open fire. I wondered if he had an elderly dog at his feet that he’d pet every now and again. Did he speak out loud to the silence that surrounded him just to hear a voice, some noise?

  Those thoughts pulled me up short. My dad had been alone for years. Although I’d lived four, maybe five hours drive away, I’d try to visit as often as I could but not as frequently as I should have. I knew Christian visited monthly, but my dad was like Lincoln—alone for most of the time.

  It was a bright morning, the sun that snaked across my bedroom floor picked up small particles of the dust that floated around. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d cleaned, and Dad didn’t like to intrude in my ‘personal space,’ as he called it. I looked at the photograph of Hannah and the usual pang of guilt hit me. It made me question what kind of a mother I would have been. I hadn’t been able to hold her, she was a part of me and I hadn’t felt the connection I’d read about. I hadn’t looked at her and noticed her beautiful silky strands of fair hair. I hadn’t taken in her perfect rosebud lips, or her small fingers curled into fists. There had been no ‘new baby’ smell. I rose and picked up the photograph. I held it to my chest as if I could inject some life, some warmth, into it.

  I didn’t cry that morning. Maybe I was all out of tears, and there was a small part of me thankful for that. I didn’t want to cry anymore. I was beginning to enjoy the numbness.

  After my shower, I dressed and made my way downstairs. Dad hadn’t woken, so I took my tea and sat with Lucy in the back garden. She pottered around, sniffing for visitors in the night. She whimpered a couple of times as her poor arthritic legs adjusted to the chill and movement. It wasn’t long before she came and sat beside me. She rested her head on my lap and her chocolate-coloured eyes looked up at me. She looked as sad as I must have. I stroked her head and she closed her eyes with contentment.

  “I wondered where you were,” I heard.

  At the sound of her master’s voice, Lucy raised her head and looked towards the back door. She wagged her tail as Dad joined us.

  I watched the wince cross his face as he took a seat. I guessed his arthritic bones were protesting at the cold as much as Lucy’s were. I remembered back to a time when Dad had talked about moving away, somewhere warm. He couldn’t tear himself away from the house he’d lived in with my mother, though. He was attached to the property and her memory. I wondered why I didn’t feel that way.

  I never thought of my house in London. Was I betraying Trey’s memory in some way? I’d wanted nothing more than to run as far away as possible from the home we’d shared.

  “Miller wants to take another look around the barn, with a structural engineer this time,” Dad said.

  I nodded, reaching in my pocket for a pad and pencil.

  What does a structural engineer do? I wrote.

  “Well, you want to take out one wall, there will have to be some steels in place to hold up the roof, I imagine. An engineer would have to advise on load-bearing and all that stuff. And he has to create a second floor. I like his idea of the bedrooms downstairs, though. Can you imagine, sitting up top and just looking out to sea each day?”

  Who recommended him to you? I turned the pad towards Dad.

  “He was born here but moved away for a while. Anyway, he did some work for Mrs. Hampton, you know her? She owns the shop. And, obviously, the vicar recommends him. I think he does a bit of free work at the church when needed. If a vicar recommends someone, you know you’re in for a good thing.” Dad laughed at his statement.

  I’m going to take a walk over to the barn, want to join me?

  “Sure. I guess we should make a start at clearing it out. Perhaps I should organise a skip, I’m pretty sure most of what’s in there needs to be thrown.”

  We walked to the barn and opened the creaking door. A tool bench ran along one side. There were boxes of items piled high against one wall. I tapped Dad on the arm and pointed to the boxes.

  “You know, I have no idea what’s in those. I guess it’s all your childhood things; they’ve been here for years. Let’s get one down.”

  He reached up and grabbed one of the boxes from the top of the pile. He laid it on the workbench and opened it. He pulled out something wrapped in white tissue paper.

  “Jesus, I remember these. Your mother had this dinner service given to her as a wedding gift. We used to laugh because it was hideous. Some old aunt gave it to her, I think. Might be worth money nowadays.” He laid a white and blue plate on the bench before reaching in to grab another.

  I picked up the plate. I was sure it was a design I’d seen before, usually in a quaint coffee shop. The plate had a delicate flower decoration. I turned it over. Although faded I could see that it might have possibly been made in Denmark. I didn’t think it had any value other than sentimental, but I liked it.

  Can I have these?

  “Of course. It would be a shame to throw them away, I guess.”

  Sitting in my London home was stark white, modern crockery. It suited London; it wouldn’t suit the barn. We put the box to one side, satisfied all it contained was crockery. The next box held my childhood possessions. I smiled as I reached in and pulled out Panda. He’d lost the rings of black around his eyes, the red bow tie that I recalled him wearing, and he was a little grubby, but I remembered him fondly.

  “That was the first bear you owned. I bought that from the market on my way to the hospital…”

  Dad’s sentence tailed off. I knew the story; the day I was born he’d given me that. It was bigger than I was. I guessed he didn’t want to talk about births. I squeezed his arm, hoping he understood the gesture. It was okay. I wasn’t about to break down at his memories of my own birth. I placed the bear to one side. Aside from the usual first, sixteenth, and eighteenth birthday cards, the box contained old diaries I had never completed, notes from school friends, school reports, hair ribbon that, for some reason, had never been thrown away.

  “I think maybe you should go through all this, decide what you want to do with it,” Dad said.

  In addition to the boxes there were tools: so many old carpentry tools in pristine condition. I remember my dad being studious about cleaning his tools after every use.

  “Maybe Miller might like these,” he said, picking up what looked like a wooden hammer and chisel.

  “Like what?” I heard. I startled at the low tones of his voice as they echoed through the barn.

  “Miller, we were just talking about you,” Dad said.

  Miller strode into the barn; he wore dark jeans with a checked shirt. With the scruff that covered his chin, his physique, and the tattoos down one arm that I’d noticed before, he looked like a lumberjack. That thought brought a chuckle to my mind.

  “I thought you might like these old tools,” Dad said.

  “Hi, Dani, how are you today?” he asked with a smile. I gave him a smile and a nod in return.

  He picked up one of the tools from the bench; I noticed the grazes to his knuckles.

  “These are great, Alistair. I’d love to have whatever you want to get rid of. I remember my dad using one of these. I’d get a tanned arse if I ever tried to touch it,” he said with a laugh.

  “Your dad was a carpenter?”

  “In his spare time, he taught me all that I know. He’d call himself a master craftsman, if I remember. He could turn his hand to pretty much anything.”

  I grabbed my pad and pencil.

  Does he still do carpentry?

  “No, he stopped working when… Well, he hasn’t done an
ything for a long time, shame really. Anyway, I wanted to check on some measurements before I give you revised plans, that’s okay isn’t it?”

  “Of course, how about I make some tea?” Dad said, as he headed to the door.

  I wondered what Miller was going to say about his dad. I didn’t ask, instead I watched as he placed a pencil behind his ear. There was no high-tech laser measuring devices for Miller, just a good old-fashioned tape measure.

  “You know, Dani, this is going to be an amazing house. It has such wonderful vibes, there’s history in these beams beyond our years. If it could only talk to us, imagine the secrets it could tell.”

  I liked his enthusiasm; he stroked beams as if coaching those secrets out through his fingertips.

  “It reminds me of you,” he said, not looking at me. “Everything has a story to tell, and sometimes we have to work around using conventional words. This beam here, it’s way over a hundred years old, I imagine, and most probably part of a ship in its former life. Imagine the seas this beam has sailed on, the countries it’s visited, yeah, everything has a story to tell.” He seemed to be talking to himself.

  I picked up my pen and wrote.

  What story do you have to tell?

  I didn’t show him the page, though, in fact, I scribbled through the message. It seemed an intrusive question and I wondered why it had popped into my head. Miller measured, he wrote those down on a scrap of paper that he’d retrieved from his jean pocket. Eventually, he turned to face me.

  “Did you think any more on an upside down house?”

  I nodded. I’d loved the idea as soon as he’d proposed it.

  I think that would be wonderful. I’ll still be able to have that picture window at one end, though, won’t I? I wrote and then showed him my pad.

  “Of course. We’ll take down that whole back wall, insert a beam where the floor is going to be, and it will be glass top to bottom. I’m sort of jealous that you’ll get to sit there all the seasons and watch the sea.” He laughed when he spoke.

  There was something about his voice that comforted me. It was low, baritone, and so smooth. The kind of voice that could lull me to sleep.

  Do you like the sea?

  “I used to. I have a small boat but I don’t use it that much nowadays. I guess I should get rid of it, it’s cluttering up the front garden.”

  Dad returned with a tray and three teas. He handed me one and I wanted to laugh at the clichéd ‘builders’ mug with the strongest-looking tea I’d ever seen. I didn’t need to guess who was about to be presented with that one.

  Miller took a sip from the ‘builders’ mug and I watched as he winced a little. Whether that was the taste or the heat, I wasn’t sure.

  How long do you think this will take? I wrote.

  “Planning could be up to three months, and that’s if it’s all straightforward. The conversion? I’d say about another four to five months. To be honest, I hate to put a firm timeframe on anything until we get going. I’ll need to do some testing to see what foundations we have, if any. Half the time, these old barns were just put straight on the ground.”

  Miller placed his mug back on the tray; he pocketed his pencil and the piece of paper then rolled up his tape measure.

  “Thank you for the tea. Hopefully, I’ll see you in a few days with some drawings,” he added.

  Dad walked him out to his truck, and it was as he was driving away that I remembered his jacket. It was still sitting in my bedroom. I locked up the barn and walked to the warmth of the house.

  Miller’s words swam around my head. He likened me to the barn, not able to speak words but having a story to tell. I wondered what he knew about me. Had someone in the village told him? It was a traditional small village, full of gossipy women and although they wouldn’t have been unkind, I guessed I would have been a source of entertainment for a little while.

  As I entered the kitchen, I saw the familiar purple envelope on the mat beside the front door. Although I’d been inside the barn, I hadn’t heard anyone approach the house. Dad walked in carrying the tray as I pocketed the envelope. I indicated I was going upstairs. Being out in the cold, and a restless night, had me wanting to curl up in my chair, snuggle under the comforter, and nap. Not before I read the letter, of course.

  Dani,

  I don’t have plans for Christmas, I never make plans, for anything. To be honest, I like to spend the day alone. It’s not to wallow, just to be.

  I’m glad you’ve found a builder and it seems, through your words, that a little excitement is entering your life, something to take the focus off your sadness. That’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Having something, a project, is a great thing to do. Just for a few moments, a couple of hours, to have something other than your grief is a blessing. Grief is so tiring sometimes. I’m pleased you’re able to find this to inject some energy into yourself.

  I have moved, and it wasn’t easy. Every room has memories, and although I’m repainting each room, I struggled. I felt like I was erasing her and I didn’t want to. I’m a way on from where you are, Dani, but every now and again I’m pulled up short. I’m reminded that she shadows me, and I love and hate that in equal measure. She’d hate for me not to have moved on with my life. She’d hate for me to shed a tear at repainting a wall, removing her favourite colour. Daft isn’t it?

  Like Trey, Anna would be upset with every down day I, or you, have. If she were here, she’d be kicking my backside, for sure.

  I’m sorry for such a short letter today, Dani. I’ve decided there is something I need to do, a reconciliation of sorts, and without you even knowing, I need to thank you for that.

  Lincoln.

  For the first time I notice there was sadness within his words, and I pondered on the ‘reconciliation’ he talked about. I imagined moving back into the house he shared with his wife had caused him painful memories. In that moment, I wished that we’d met, that I knew him personally. I would have comforted him, and I felt in that moment he needed someone. Maybe I was being presumptuous. Perhaps he had a circle of friends to rely on. His comment about spending Christmas alone also bothered me. I wanted to reach out, invite him to join Dad and me. I didn’t want to picture him in his house all alone, even if he did have that imaginary dog by his side.

  I found myself worrying for him and not for myself.

  Chapter Eight

  I didn’t get a chance to write back to Lincoln for a couple of days. Miller arrived with a structural engineer, and I let Dad deal with that, I had some paperwork from Christian to go through. It seemed all so formal; I signed to give permission for him to deal with the sale of my property on my behalf. I signed the estate agent’s contract and mailed them back to Chris. He had placed a note among the documents to inform me that he would organise a removal company to pack up all my furniture. I wondered why the need for the note and not a visit. Something seemed very off between us, I felt it. I was, like most twins, very much in tune with my brother. Although I didn’t want it to be true, I believed he couldn’t deal with my grief. He struggled to see how fragile life was, especially being a new father himself. It saddened me, but there was a part of me that understood. If Hannah had lived, and Christian’s baby had died, I thought I’d struggle, too.

  I opened the drawer of the desk in my bedroom. I’d had that desk when I’d been in school. After I retrieved the stack of letters from Lincoln, a thought hit me. Lincoln knew me; in the barn were boxes of my childhood things. I had wondered if Lincoln might have been a teacher at my primary school. Maybe, among those things I might find something that gave the names of my teachers. I doubted they would give first names but there might be something. It surprised me to learn that I wanted to know who he was. I’d been perfectly happy to keep the anonymity of the man in the words, but I was still troubled by his last letter.

  I tried to remember the surname on the grave I’d seen the old man visit. Anna something. It wasn’t a conscious effort to grab Miller’s jacket, it was simply the fi
rst one my hand landed on. I filled one pocket with a pad and pen, in case I needed to make a note. I pulled on my boots and made my way down the stairs. Dad was still in the barn as I made my way along the coastal path, towards the church.

  The rusting gate creaked as I pushed my way through. I hesitated as I came to the path that would take me to the newest section, where Trey and Hannah lay.

  I’ll be back in a minute, I said, in my head.

  At first I struggled to remember the exact location of the headstone. When I found it, I noticed fresh flowers and a small pile of weeds that had been plucked from under the headstone and placed to one side.

  Anna had died just two years ago; that seemed, in my mind, to tie in with Lincoln’s letters. Not that he’d given those details but he had said he was a way on from the source of his grief. I sat down on the cold earth beside her. I opened my mouth, it was unconscious, but I heard the squeak that left my lips. It sounded so strange, strangulated, and strained. I tried again, nothing.

  I placed my hands over my throat; I wanted to see if the muscles worked. I had no real idea what part of my body moved when producing sound. I knew I should feel vibration but when I tried, I felt nothing. So I talked to her in my head.

  When I was done, I rose, rubbing my hands over my backside to gain some warmth through the cold jeans. I walked over to where Trey and Hannah were. Their grave and headstone seemed so clean compared to Anna’s. It was white marble, not what I would have chosen, had I been in the right state of mind to make that decision. I ran my fingers, as I always did, over their names.

  I took a slow walk back to the house. All the while I thought of Trey and Hannah, I wondered about Anna and Lincoln. I was sure the man I’d seen that one time was him. My curiosity got the better of me and I turned around and headed back to the church. I pushed open the door; not knowing if the information I was seeking would be inside. The church was empty and in that moment, I was thankful. Had I encountered anyone, I wasn’t sure if my embarrassment would get the better of me. Other than Miller and the architect, I hadn’t seen anyone since I’d been at Dad’s.