The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Wentworth nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘They wouldn’t mind if I used the tractor to move it out of the way, then?’

  Phil checked to see if Wentworth was joking. No, he was utterly serious.

  ‘I’d probably leave it for the RAF boys to clear it out, old chap. You never know, they may be able to salvage something.’

  Sniffing in disapproval, Wentworth ambled off muttering to himself, leaving Phil standing alone next to his plane, wondering what on earth he was going to do next. A rumbling met his ears. Shading his eyes, Phil looked towards the farmhouse to see a military police vehicle pulling to a stop by the front door. The cavalry.

  THE RUG

  Sarah surged forward, gathering her friend up in a clumsy embrace, trying to protect her hands as well as comfort her friend who was sobbing hysterically in her arms.

  ‘Hey now, I’m back, it’s OK. I’m here and, apart from some grazes, I’m fine.’

  ‘Well I’m not fine,’ Patricia retorted, wiping her eyes on a scrap of fabric. ‘You’ve been gone months. Months. What do you think I thought? Huh? I’ll tell you. I thought you were dead. Either dead or never coming back. Do you know how much pressure I’ve been under? And Andrew? The police constantly “drop in” to ask about you. That’s not good for business, I can tell you that for nothing.’

  Sarah held up her hands, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how to explain, it’s ...’

  Hesitating, Sarah tried to think how best to convey in words what had happened. Her time locked up by the Jowl brothers was too raw, too painful for her to even comprehend, let alone share. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. It was different this time. I don’t think I can explain it, and to be honest, I don’t know if I really want to. Not right now, anyway.’

  Patricia shrugged, her pain at being abandoned by her friend still slicing into her gut. ‘Whatever, Sarah, but you’re going to have to do a lot of explaining soon, and to people other than me. The police wanted to hear from you as soon as you showed up. The auction house has your money, so I’ll have to ring Andrew, and tell him that you’re here. It’s going to get messy.’

  ‘Messy?! What do you think I’ve been doing? Sunning myself in the Caribbean? Jesus, Trish, I’ve been locked up by two lunatics. I’ve been assaulted. I can’t remember the last time I had a coffee, let alone a wine or a hot shower. That’s another thing, someone turned off my hot water! Anyway, you could give me a break at least. I told you before what’s been happening, you said you believed me. What more can I say?’

  ‘“Sorry” would be a good start.’

  ‘Fine. I’m sorry. I had no way of coming home, and I certainly had no idea that I’d been gone for so long. It didn’t feel that long there. But did you have to employ someone for next door? How do you know she’s trustworthy?’

  Patricia stood up, her bottom lip wobbling, fresh tears in her eyes. Pointing to the door, and without meeting the eyes of her friend, she simply said ‘Out. Now.’

  ‘What? Come on, Trish, we need to talk about this, you’ve got to fill me in on everything that’s happened. Last time I was here, someone was shooting at me. Please?’

  ‘I can’t have this conversation with you now. I have my own life I’ve been trying to get on with. So can you please leave? I can’t do this now. Please, just go.’ Patricia wouldn’t meet Sarah’s eyes; instead, she stared at the floor, her arm stretched towards the workroom door.

  Sarah stepped away, shoulders drooping. Trish was her closest friend, and Sarah never thought it would’ve been possible for her to be like this. It wasn’t in her nature; she was a constant source of sunshine in everyone’s life. Turning, she made her way out, oblivious to the stares of the customers whose ears had pricked up at the mention of the police, a shooting, and the other delicious tidbits of gossip they’d overheard.

  Reaching The Old Curiosity Shop, Sarah looked in through the window. She could see the interloper bustling around the shop. Her shop. Her life was a mess, that was for certain, and now she needed to straighten it up. But where do I start?

  First things first, she needed her hot water reinstated. That seemed to be the easiest to deal with. She’d just call the ...

  She shook her head. Who am I kidding? If she’d been gone months, in all likelihood her cellphone would have been cut off too. Taking a deep breath, she walked back into her shop.

  ‘Um, Nicole? By any chance would my mobile be around here somewhere?’ Sarah ventured.

  Nicole paused, a small bronze bust in her hands. Looking around, her brow furrowed, ‘Um, not that I can recall.’

  ‘What about when you tidied up?’ Sarah gestured towards the now-immaculate shelving behind the counter, where chaos had previously reigned.

  Nicole looked over at the wooden shelves, ‘No, I don’t remember seeing one. Maybe Patricia tidied it away before I got here?’ she added helpfully, before adding ‘But I’ve got one Trish gave me for shop stuff.’ Plonking the bust onto the countertop she rummaged behind the counter, unaware of the thunderous looks Sarah was giving her, this stranger in her shop.

  Triumphantly she held up an iPhone, clad in a gaudy bubblegum pink cover. ‘This is the one; it’s my cover, but is the phone yours? You can use it if you like?’

  ‘Too kind,’ Sarah replied, her sarcasm lost on Nicola who was busy unlocking the phone, and checking her email before she handed it over.

  Examining it, Sarah was relieved that her best friend hadn’t given this enthusiastic puppy-like employee her phone, but a newer one; one without the telltale crack on the bottom corner where she’d once dropped it on a marble-topped washstand she was trying to move.

  ‘No it’s not mine. I’ll have a look upstairs, and start sorting out some stuff. I’ll pop down if I need to borrow yours.’ Hesitating, Sarah decided to broach the other question which had been niggling away ever since she’d come downstairs, ‘So, Nicole, where do you live?’

  ‘Oh, not that far from here. A friend has a place in St. George’s Square, in Pimlico, and the timing was perfect, because she’d just been told she was being transferred to the Paris office of her company at the same time as I got this job. So I’m flat-sitting for her for however long she stays there. That way she doesn’t have to let it out to strangers. Worked out perfectly.’

  With relief, Sarah smiled. The notion that this girl, however nice she seemed, could have been living upstairs in her flat filled her with dread, and a sense of invasion.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll just pop upstairs, till Trish isn’t so busy in the shop, then I can have a proper catch up with her, so she can fill me in on everything that’s happened.’

  ‘You don’t want me to talk you through the books for the past few months?’

  ‘No, not now. Can we leave that till tomorrow?’

  ‘Good idea. Anyway I’ve got to finish getting all the props ready for Trish’s show this weekend. You’d think with all this stock, you’d have more Indian antiques, but I’ve hardly found anything. Don’t suppose you remember if you’ve got any downstairs in storage? I’ve been through lots of the boxes. Found the tiger skin rug and the ...’

  ‘The what? What tiger skin rug?’ Sarah paused on the bottom step and grabbed Nicole’s skinny arm, her eyes suddenly bright.

  Squirming of out Sarah’s rough hold, Nicole rubbed her arm, eyeing Sarah warily.

  ‘We ... ell ...’ she hesitated, drawing out the word ‘... there were some crates stacked up by the stairs. Trish asked me to move them down just after I started, and the tiger skin was in one of them, along with some other bits and bobs. All Indian stuff, I thought.’

  ‘Where is it now?’ Sarah demanded.

  Nicole squirmed under Sarah’s intensity, ‘It’s in the back of my van, um, I mean your van. I’m meant to be delivering it for the show tomorrow.’

  Frowning, Sarah replied, ‘For Trish's show?’

  ‘Yes, for Patricia’s new line. The one she’s been working on since I’ve been here.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ />
  Confused, Nicole just stood there. ‘Go where?’

  ‘To the van. Come on, grab the keys, I need to see what’s in there.’

  Sarah veered off towards the back door, leaving Nicole frozen at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘But it’s all packed up ready to go. There are loads of boxes in there, all heaped on top of everything.’

  Now moving towards the back door, she stood by while Sarah struggled with the old latch. It had taken Nicole weeks to figure out the complicated system of locks and bolts. Confusingly, there was even a random panel of trapezoid shaped tin screwed to the bottom of the door, as if covering up a giant cat flap or similar, which had another floor bolt screwed to it.

  Going out the back door to the van was a constant annoyance, so she’d negotiated with Patricia that on Monday’s she wouldn’t be at work, instead using the van for pick-ups and deliveries, thereby giving her a vehicle to use over the weekend, and meaning she only had to struggle with the old door a couple of times a week.

  ‘Maybe you could come and help set up at the show? I’m sure Trish would be more than happy with an extra pair of hands – and it’ll give your hands another day to heal,’ Nicole offered helpfully.

  Sarah whirled around and, through gritted teeth, replied, ‘Undoubtedly Trish would appreciate my help, especially since we are good friends, and I would love to help, but in order to do that, I need to sort out a few things first, and checking which of my stock is being used for my friend’s show is something I want to do right now. So please, spare me your helpful suggestions, and fetch the keys to my van. We’ll make this quick, then you can get back to work.’

  The sniping from Sarah was entirely undeserved, but the tone had been set, and she couldn’t bring herself to turn on the charm now. This woman was a stranger in her shop. She wouldn’t bloody well understand that the skin could well be from the tiger which had attacked the Raja of Nahan. It could be a link back to my father, dammit!

  Nicole squared her shoulders. This woman may well be the owner, but no one spoke to her as if she were a servant. Her mother had raised her better than that. ‘The keys are hanging on the same hook as they were when I first started here. You’re right, I should get back to work, so feel free to look through the van, but you’ll have to do it without me, as I have to close early today. I’ll lock up out front, and I’m busy at a fair tomorrow morning. Have fun helping your friend with her collection. Please pass on my apologies; I don’t think I’ll be finished at the fair in time to help.’

  Her feelings hurt, but her pride intact, Nicole left the astonished Sarah by the door, the cool air complementing the frosty atmosphere inside the shop.

  THE ARTIST

  Annabel Lester hovered in the study of the Bishop. Ostensibly, she was meant to be dusting, but she was reading the spines of the hundreds of leather-bound volumes decorating the shelves in front of her.

  Other than hot showers, electric ovens, central heating, and the local Waitrose, the one thing she missed more than anything else was the comfort of curling up on the couch with a good book. To dive into a make-believe world, to lose yourself for hours in someone else’s life, from the safety of your paperback, was a joy she missed with her whole being.

  Reverend Cummings had kept a decent library, with a wide variety of material. The Bishop’s taste, however, was vanilla. Running her fingers along the titles, she’d only encountered various bibles, psalters, religious texts, and illustrated history books.

  Where were the bodice-ripping yarns the Victorians were rumoured to love? Or even something by Dickens? Anything. She needed means to shrink from this life, wrapped in the familiar arms of a book.

  A set of matching volumes caught her eye. Clad in burgundy leather, the gold-embossed lettering seemed too joyful for the study of the dour Bishop. Intrigued, Annabel knelt down, running her worn fingertips along the lettering. Angling her head, she read the spines, “Ruskin. Modern Painters. Vol. I-V”.

  Ruskin, that name’s familiar. From her crouched position on the floor, she pondered the link. Ah yes, Ruskin was a watercolour artist. Clearly a favourite of the Bishop’s because there were at least three signed John Ruskin works hanging around the house – vapid, hinting towards being unfinished, as if you were looking at them through grimy windows. Not her style at all. Curious, she pulled out the middle volume, leafing through the gilt-edged pages. Pages and pages of in-depth analysis of the work of another artist, Turner. Discussing, at length, symbolism in art and in nature. Dry material, but better than the Bible. The Reverend had been partial to reading ‘sensation novels’. Although he tried to maintain that they’d been left in the church accidentally by some of his parishioners, she had her doubts about the veracity of that story. No, even the good Reverend needed a dash of escapism in his role. As do I. He’d had all the Wilkie Collins books on his shelves, and volumes written by James Payn and Edmund Yates. One of the last books she’d read before he’d left was by a woman; Danesbury House by Mrs Henry Wood. It may have been written by a woman, but convention dictated that she still had to use her husband’s name.

  With the undue haste that Reverend Cummings had been moved on by the Bishop, he hadn’t had time to pack his books. Promises were made to send them on, but no sooner had the Reverend left the parish, than the Bishop had ordered the ‘filth’ disposed of. Permanently. By fire. That had broken her heart. No one should ever burn books, not just because of their monetary value. Books were treasures in their own right. Just as valuable as a diamond brooch or a marble statue. Their covers held between them ideas and knowledge, hopes and dreams. And fire should never be used to quell those.

  So, for now, she was reduced to reading the words of art critics and long-dead disciples of Jesus.

  ‘I don’t really think you have the time for reading.’

  Annabel dropped the volume in fright. Looking up, she was confronted by the sight of the Bishop’s assistant. His narrow teeth were bared in a macabre rendition of a smile, one which never reached his hooded eyes.

  Annabel stood up, the book abandoned, ‘I wasn’t reading,’ she protested, ‘Dusting. The cobwebs ...’ she trailed off, uneasy under his suspicious gaze. If she didn’t find a way out of this house soon she’d scream. Or stab someone. Probably Norman Bailey.

  Bailey scurried over, fitting the book neatly back into its allotted slot. ‘The Bishop would be most upset if he knew you’d been reading his volumes of Ruskin’s Modern Painters. He likes his books to remain in perfect condition, you see.’ Taking Annabel’s fingers in his tiny hand he carried on, ‘Dirty fingers may damage the gilt edging, hmm?’

  Annabel jerked her hand out of his grasp, wiping it against her skirts, removing all traces of his clammy sweat.

  ‘Best you don’t touch them then. Sweat damages books more than dust,’ she muttered, turning her back on the smaller man.

  Bailey grabbed her a second time, ‘There’s something not right about you. Can’t put my finger on it, but you watch yourself. I’ll not have you ruining the plans Bishop Dasent has. He is a great man, and not one to be sullied by employing a woman with dubious morals. I think your time here will soon be at an end.’

  With his ominous words ringing in her ears, she fled from the Bishop’s study, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Never had she wanted to go home as much as she did this very moment.

  From the instant Reverend Cummings had rescued her, and for a long time after, she’d been secretly happy at her predicament. Her duties were light, the lifestyle suited her. No husband, no child. None of that all-absorbing guilt over whether she was a good mother and an adequate wife, or functioning as an employee. Certainly no frustration over whether she could be all three at once. Here, in this time, she was just Annabel Lester.

  THE FAIR

  The cavernous hall echoed with the voices of traders from around Europe, with a smattering of antipodean twangs, and the harsh vowels of South Africa.

  Furniture polish shone on Georgian side tables and
Regency chests. Silver spittoons, festooned with the crests of the great families who’d owned them, were buffed and cleaned.

  Everywhere you looked, men were on the prowl for a bargain, and ladies loitered with lust in their eyes around cabinets crammed with rubies and gold, bangles and baubles, glittering under the lights at the annual Alexandra Palace Antiques Fair.

  Nicole Pilcher ambled around the hall, each stand more impressive than the one before. Her mental list was growing with every step. How she’d ever be able to remember half the things she wanted to buy was beyond her. She struggled to put the altercation with Sarah out of her mind. She’d been looking forward to this event since she’d started at The Old Curiosity Shop and it wasn’t fair that Sarah had ruined it by coming back, and by being so vile. She tried hard to regain her sense of excitement being at London’s largest antiques gathering.

  She’d planned to do a first pass around the hall –looking only, noting the things she was interested in – and then to buy them on her second pass through; if they are still there, she reminded herself. The trouble with Sarah Lester was clouding her thoughts. She had to concentrate. Now she really had to prove her value, and buying well was one way of doing that.

  So far, she’d spied a cute vintage perfume bottle shaped like a Scotty Dog. She’d heard that some of these old Avon bottles were sought after, so had decided that building up a collection for the shop could be worth a go. She’d even had the idea of contacting the company itself to see if they wanted to be involved in a special ‘collectors only’ night. That of course would take a lot of work, but she was keen to try anything new to make The Old Curiosity Shop more of an iconic place to come, as opposed to a dying business barely struggling along, which is what it seemed.

  High on her list were small pieces of sterling silver – they had to be pre-1900, and hallmarked. These had been flying out the door, probably due to the silver price at the moment – that, and the fact that gold was astronomically expensive, so investors had turned to this precious metal instead. Her scrap merchant, who regularly called into the shop, had told her horror stories of exquisite pieces other dealers had scrapped in order to take advantage of the high silver price. It was criminal for them to be melted down, all for the sake of profit – the history those pieces represented lost overnight in a giant smelting pot. She understood businesses needed to be profitable, but surely sometimes they needed to weigh up whether it was better to keep those pieces for their historical value?