The Missing Letters of Mrs Bright (ARC)

by Beth Miller

  ‘Yes, do go up,’ she said. ‘Give it an airing.’

  Thank God. ‘I’m not sure how long I’m staying…’

  ‘Long as you like, Kay. Have you got that horrid cold that’s going round? Ignore any estate-agent bumpf that comes through the door. Some of my irritating relatives are trying to convince me to sell up, but I’m ignoring them. Over my dead body.’

  I thanked her and hung up, praying that she would continue in rude health for many years. I programmed the satnav, noting with detached interest that my hands were slightly less shaky, and the gasping was a bit quieter, and set the car in a westerly direction. I was going where I should have gone in the first place.

  I remembered David, three decades earlier, saying, ‘Whenever there’s the possibility of travelling, one should always go west.’ He immediately undermined the solemnity of the pronouncement by breaking into the chorus of ‘Go West’ by Village People, but the sentiment was right. I needed to go west.

  Letter written on 15 May 2018

  Dearest Bear,

  * * *

  Well, this is getting to be a habit: the third time I’ve written to you without one of your letters to reply to. Three missing letters in thirty-five years doesn’t sound a lot, except they’ve all been in the last six months. Before that, I could have set my watch by our letters. One month, you write. The next month, I write. That’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? I hope everything’s OK. I’m hoping it’s just a weird snafu with the postal service. But I’m feeling worried about you.

  I’m writing from Bryn Glas cottage. I got here yesterday. I know I’ve mentioned the cottage in letters before. As I’ve got none of your news to reply to, I’ll tell you about the cottage, as it’s such a special place to me. A refuge, particularly this time.

  I came here most recently with Rose, last year, for my fiftieth. But I’ve been coming on and off for more than twenty years, ever since Alice looked at my frazzled face – the kids were little then, and hard work – and told Richard, ‘Your wife needs to get away. I know the perfect place.’ I think I might have written to you about it back then.

  That first visit, courtesy of Alice, was a wonderful break from my busy, chaotic life. I left behind in her care two noisy children, a largely absent husband, and an albatross of a job. When I retrieved the key from the outside safe-box – the first time I had seen one of those – and unlocked the heavy, old wooden door, it was like stepping into a fairy circle that we used to conjure up at school with chalk. Do you remember us doing that, Bear? A magical place that conferred special powers to anyone who stepped inside. The cottage felt like that to me, and still does. I am more myself here, more content.

  It belongs to Imogen, a friend of Alice’s from her cooking-for-minor-royalty days. Bryn Glas – meaning ‘green hill’ – has been in Imogen’s family forever. Perhaps 150 or 200 years ago her ancestors even lived here. Imogen isn’t royal, before you start to picture a grand mansion known as a cottage ironically. She was one of the upper-crust women Alice knew who worked as ladies-in-waiting (‘In waiting for rich husbands,’ Alice liked to quip).

  When I first came here it was used as a rural bolthole for Imogen’s friends and acquaintances, but as the years went on it was used by a dwindling number of people, and now I think, perhaps only me. Imogen never stays at the cottage herself, she hates to leave London, but she still pays for it to be cleaned every fortnight, and for a gardener once a month. After my first visit, I didn’t need to go via Alice, but could call Imogen directly.

  ‘Imo, dear,’ I’d say, copying the way she and Alice speak to each other, though I’ve never met her in person. ‘I don’t suppose lovely Bryn Glas is free?’

  I say that every time, even though it’s always available. She calls me ‘chérie’. ‘Of course, chérie, go and give the old place a bit of love,’ she says. She used to charge a peppercorn rent for it, but even that’s faded over the years. The cheques I send her are rarely cashed. She seems happy simply if someone is using it.

  When the kids were little they loved it here as much as I did. I’d drive the three of us, captain of the ship, listening to the radio on low while they slept in the back, four or five hours through the early morning, only waking when I pulled up outside the cottage and turned off the car engine.

  In my memory the sun is always shining, illuminating floating columns of fairy dust, and casting a glow on Edward’s golden hair. He almost tumbles out of the car in his eagerness to get to the wooden swing-seat at the front of the cottage. Stella gazes at me with huge blue eyes. ‘My favourite place,’ she says.

  I get out, stretch my cramped-up back, let the sunshine warm me, feel the stillness of the mountains surrounding us. I open the heavy doors and breathe in the cottage scent, and for a moment, with the children playing nearby, I attain perfect peace.

  Only for a moment, mind you. After that there would be unpacking and bed-making, while the kids ran around, and doubtless later there would be arguments over whose turn it was on the swing-seat. And for me it would be the hard work of managing yet another family holiday solo, because even if Richard did manage to join us for a couple of days, he wouldn’t be involved in any of the planning or organising. The first few times I felt a little lonely being here without him, but to be honest, if he did come, something of the peace of the place would be lost.

  As the children got older, they got less keen on ‘the cottage in the middle of nowhere’. When they didn’t want to come, I came here with Rose. The cottage was always available, has always been there for me, solid, its flint walls warm to my touch. And now here I am again.

  So, I looked at your last letter, from October. I’ve read it through six times looking for clues as to why you might have stopped writing. But I can’t find anything. Your job is fine, and Charlie is fine, you’d been to see him play the bassoon in a concert, the clever boy.

  I’ve been reminiscing about the past. ‘Oh no!’ I hear you cry. ‘That’s a mistake!’ But since Mum, I’ve been thinking a lot about when we were younger, and wondering if the decisions I made then were the right ones. I’ve even been thinking a little about He Whose Name I Shall Never Utter Again. Now that’s a blast from the past, right? You’re the only person in the world who might guess how painful it is to think back on it. But for the first time in years I’ve been reflecting on the anguish I went through then, the impossible decisions, the pact with Richard. Our Catholic upbringing has a lot to answer for, amirite?

  Still to this day, only you, me, Richard and HWNISNUA know the truth. But is that the right thing? Should I tell other people, important people, before it’s too late?

  I’m still thinking about it.

  However, there are things I am doing before it’s too late. You’ll be amazed when I tell you. I’ve done something drastic, something massive, and I feel jittery and strange and, frankly, a little close to hysterics. I can’t believe I’m not pouring it all out to you, my most loyal confidante. But it feels weird to do that without knowing for sure that you’re still at the other end of this letter. It’ll have to wait till you write me back. Or when I come and see you – I know I’ve been saying I’m coming over for years, but this time, I really am. I’ve already got my visa.

  Till next time.

  Miss you.

  * * *

  Always, Kay

  Two

  Stella

  I was surprised to hear my phone ringing, because I’d thought it was completely flat. Gabby and I had been working hard all day at the market, and though the lunchtime rush was over, Gabby was hopeful of a few more punters. I fished the phone out of my pocket, and nearly dropped it when I saw it was Dad. He never phoned.

  ‘Hello, Dad? Is everything OK?’

  There was a silence. I was about to speak when I realised I could hear something – a very weird noise. Was Dad crying?

  ‘Dad! What’s wrong?’ No answer. ‘Listen, my battery’s almost run out—’

  ‘Stella?’ he said. He was crying. �
��I really need to—’

  My phone cut out, and I stared at it in disbelief. It was doing that maddening thing where the little circle in the middle goes round and round, before it turns itself off.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ I felt cold all over. ‘Gabby, please can I use your phone?’

  ‘Well, not really,’ Gabby said, stirring one of the pots of food on the stall. ‘I’m using it.’ She gestured to her phone, which was plugged into the card reader.

  ‘There’s no one here.’

  ‘But what if someone comes and wants to pay with a card, while you’re using my phone?’

  I stared at her. Our banner – ‘Yummi Scrummi Authentic Sri Lankan Street Food’ – flapped in the breeze above her head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, not sounding it. ‘If you can wait half an hour we’ll pack up and you can borrow it then.’

  I took off my apron. ‘I’ll find a phone box.’

  ‘So nineties,’ Gabby said. She turned her attention to a woman who was walking past the stall. ‘Hello, madam, can I interest you in some delicious fresh…’

  ‘No thank you,’ the woman said, walking faster.

  I hurried off down the precinct, past the other stalls: Jamaican food, Indian food, noodles, Japanese. Phone box, phone box. Did the town actually have one? Did anywhere? I couldn’t think when I’d last seen one. I certainly hadn’t used one since I was a child. I walked quickly through the market and into the main shopping street. Maybe Mum was ill. Or, oh God, perhaps she was dead. Car accident, brain haemorrhage, a hold-up at the shop. I found that I was crying, and tried to get a grip. What would Bettina say? You’re catastrophising, Stella, imagining the worst. The worst rarely happens. Deep breath, now.

  Bettina was right. Mum was never ill. Nothing ever happened to her; she was reliable, safe. It was more likely something to do with Edward, or his kids. Jesus. Or maybe Dad had discovered that he himself was ill: prostate cancer, or bowel, could be anything.

  Thank God, there was a phone box outside the library. I ignored the horrendous smell inside the cabinet and dialled my parents’ number. But every time I pushed money in, it came out again. One pound coin rebounded out so violently that it fell on the floor, and seeing the pool of unspecified liquid it landed in, I decided to leave it there.

  Trying not to give in to sobs, I ran into the library.

  ‘The phone box isn’t working,’ I barked at the dark-haired guy behind the desk, as though it were his fault. He seemed willing to accept full responsibility for it, in any case.

  ‘I know, it hasn’t worked for ages, I keep telling them. Borrowers can use our payphone over there.’ He pointed to the far side of the room. Despite my panic I couldn’t help noticing that he was rather young and hot for a librarian.

  ‘I’m not really a borrower,’ I said, thinking foolishly of the tiny people in the children’s book, The Borrowers.

  ‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘It takes pound coins and fifty pences. Do you have enough money?’

  The overly solicitous way he said it made me realise that he thought I was a homeless person. OK, so I’d slept in my make-up and got up way too early to bother doing anything about it, and I was wearing a cardie and baggy jeans. But surely it wasn’t that bad… I became aware of an old smelly man waiting next to me, his tweed trousers tied round the waist with washing line, holding a large-print copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. I was only marginally better-dressed than him.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I have money,’ I said and walked over to the phone in what I hoped was a dignified manner. I pushed in a pound coin and dialled the landline – we’d all given up long ago trying to get Dad to use a mobile phone – but he didn’t pick up. Instead I heard my mother’s ancient and formal answerphone message: ‘This is the telephone of Richard, Kay, Edward and Stella. We cannot come to the phone right now, but we will call you back.’ A pause, then ‘How do you turn it off, Richard?’

  My static, unchanging parents. It was ten years since Edward had gone to university in Scotland. He’d stayed there, got married and started a family, yet his name was still on their message. Mind you, my name still being on the message made sense, embarrassingly; it wasn’t that long since I’d finally managed to move out.

  Dad’s voice came in, cutting off the machine. ‘Oh, thank goodness, Stella.’

  ‘What’s happened, Daddy? Tell me quickly.’

  ‘It’s your mother. She’s left.’

  ‘Left?’ I felt my heart sink into my feet. ‘Left for where?’

  ‘Left.’ He started crying properly. ‘Gone. Gone and left me.’

  * * *

  I staggered back to the stall. I wished I knew Gabby well enough to fling myself into her arms. But I didn’t. We’d hit the ground running when we started working and living together; we hadn’t been friends for much more than six months. One thing I did know about her, because she’d told me often enough, was that she wasn’t a fan of drama. So, as we packed up, I told her as calmly and rationally as I could about the awful phone call.

  ‘I think my parents have split up.’ My eyes welled with tears again, just saying those words.

  ‘You think? Or definite?’

  ‘I don’t know. Apparently Mum’s walked out, and Dad doesn’t know where she’s gone.’

  ‘Then they have split up.’

  ‘It could be a temporary thing.’

  ‘Yeah, probably not.’ Gabby untied one side of the banner.

  ‘My parents have been married forever,’ I said. ‘Almost thirty years.’

  Gabby whistled. ‘Bloody hell, she’s done her time. Guess she had enough.’

  ‘That makes no sense, though. They were great together.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes!’ I said. ‘God, I feel so weird. My parents have always just been, well, my parents, you know?’

  ‘Mine split when I was six, so I don’t really remember them being together,’ Gabby said. ‘I suppose if they’ve always been all right, you take that for granted.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was taking it for granted! I thought things would just carry on as they were.’

  Gabby shook her head. ‘That’s pretty much the dictionary definition of taking something for granted.’

  I couldn’t think of a reply to that, and we carried the stuff to her van in silence. Once we were on the way back to our place, she let me borrow her phone to call Theo. Luckily I knew his number by heart, but of course, his name came up anyway when I put in the last digit. Theo and Gabby had known each other for years; he was the one who’d introduced us to each other.

  He picked up straight away and said, ‘Gabs! So good to hear from you,’ rather more enthusiastically than one would want one’s boyfriend to address another woman. I tried to ignore any worry about this because my anxiety bucket was already full, and said, ‘Theo, it’s me.’

  ‘Hey, babe! What’s up?’

  I told him, and started crying again, and he was lovely and kind, saying all the right things. I told him I’d be going to my dad’s as soon as possible and he offered to come right over, as he was working at home.

  At the house, Gabby and I lugged in all the gear, my mind full of logistics and fears. I was startled when she broke into my thoughts.

  ‘Stell, listen, I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a shock. It’s a shitty thing to happen. But I heard you tell Theo that you’re going to your dad’s. What about the stall? We’ve got loads of events coming up. How are you going to work?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I bit my lip to stop myself from blubbing again. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to do anything. But I can’t not go home.’

  There was a pause, then Gabby nodded. ‘OK. I’ll think of something.’

  I went to my room, plugged in my phone and started packing a bag. As soon as I got a tiny bit of charge I called Mum’s mobile but she didn’t pick up. I left her a voicemail, and messaged Edward and Rose, Mum’s best friend. I could hear Gabby talking downstairs in the kitchen, presumably telling Piet what had h
appened, because a few minutes later there was a quiet knock on my door and he came in, stooping under the doorframe. Theo always called Piet ‘the Flying Dutchman’, because he was so tall – six foot six – that his head was way up in the sky. It was a handy feature in a housemate because he could clean cobwebs off ceilings, but you didn’t want to be sat behind him at a gig. Oh, and also he was Dutch. He handed me a mug of coffee and offered me one of his comforting hugs, which I gladly accepted. Piet made up for Gabby in the humane-housemate stakes.

  ‘I am so sorry to hear of your bad news, Stella.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, muffled against his chest – actually I was closer to his waist. ‘I’ve got to go and look after my dad.’

  He let me go, and sat on the bed. ‘This happened to my parents also.’

  I carried on putting random stuff into my bag. I didn’t know what to bring, because I didn’t know how long I’d be away. ‘When you were little?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Piet said, crossing his long legs. ‘It was only two years previously.’

  ‘Oh! When you were already grown-up,’ I said. ‘Like me.’

  ‘It is becoming more common, I believe, amongst older couples,’ Piet said. He continued in his usual calm tone, ‘My father had an affair with the aunt of my mother.’

  ‘My God, your mother’s aunt?’

  ‘She is ten years younger than my mother. My family is a little complex. But so are all families.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Piet. I didn’t think mine was.’ I wiped my leaky eyes and tipped some bits of make-up into the pencil case that served as my sponge bag.

  ‘I am much older than you, Stella,’ Piet said – he was only six years older, actually, ‘and I have found that everyone has the complicated story, if you dig low down enough.’

  ‘Not my mum, though!’ I said. ‘This is totally out of the blue. I’m worried she’s had a funny turn. She’s always been completely, well…’