The Last Letter from Juliet. Melanie Hudson
Tiger Moth back in the barn.
‘I wonder, do you have time to come to the village again for tea? They’re having a Christmas lantern parade on the twenty-third and I seem to have been roped in again to make lanterns and decorate the church, and you seemed to enjoy our afternoon in the hall. I have a feeling you’d love it. What do you say?’
I wanted to go. I wanted to go so very, very badly, but I shook my head, leant against the wing and sighed.
‘I’m sorry, Edward, but I can’t.’
He stepped in, too close for mere friends.
‘Why can’t you?’
I shook my head and smiled resignedly.
‘I think we both know why.’
He stepped closer still and leant in to brush my cheek with his lips. ‘In that case, thank you for the flight,’ he whispered. ‘It was wonderful.’ He stepped back. ‘Consider the debt paid, Miss Caron.’ And then, without looking back, to my absolute surprise, he walked away.
Katherine
18 December
Poor George
The candles were half their original size and surrounded by pools of wax when I place the manuscript on the sofa beside me, disappointed at Edward for walking away, and cursing Juliet for letting him go.
But it was time to stop reading. Not just because I needed to sleep (although, what did I know of sleep any more? Sleep had become a fitful irrelevance since James had died) or because my phone battery was down to ten percent and I wanted to save a little just in case the roof really did blow off, but because now that I was engrossed in Juliet’s story, I wasn’t sure about the – what to call it – moral correctness? – of reading someone else’s private memoirs, even if that person was no longer around to care. The only answer was to email Sam, the grandson – the coddiwompler? – and ask his permission to read on. I had ventured to Cornwall looking for a historical story to tell and it looked like I had found one, but that suddenly didn’t seem important, because looking into the lives of these strangers tonight had led me to throw side-glances towards my own story which, as Gerald knew, had not just stagnated, but stopped. Juliet was leading me somewhere – I just didn’t know where that somewhere was.
***
I poked my head out of the candlewick bedspread at about ten a.m. the following morning and promptly ducked under again once my nose had direct contact with the cold. I had two options, stay warm under the bedcovers but starve to death, or face the cold and risk hyperthermia. The second option won by a narrow margin leading me to jump out and dance on the spot while throwing open the curtains – a bright, wintery, sunshiny glow flooded the room. I stopped dancing and stared. What a difference a few hours could make, and what a view.
James would have loved this.
Wall-to-wall ocean broken by three little granite islands that sat in the bay.
So here were the famous Angels, splattered with tiny flecks of white, as if God had gone on a paint flicking frenzy. I put my glasses on and realised the white flecks were actually seagulls, presumably taking a well-earned rest after the stress of the storm. The sea was a little swollen still, but it seemed Katherine had moved on to terrorise pastures new, leaving a bright winter morning in her wake.
I turned on a wind-up radio that sat on the windowsill at the top of the stairs and tried the bedroom light. Still no power. Allowing as short a time as possible for my bare skin to feel the sharpness of the cold, I dressed in the previous day’s clothes and headed down the stairs, pausing to sit on the bottom step to check my phone for messages and contact Gerald regarding the day’s agenda.
Uncle Gerald had beaten me to it.
Terrible news. George has had a heart attack. Have rushed to Brighton in Land Rover – used the spare key as didn’t want to disturb. Have spoken to Fenella and she’s going to look after you – you are not to sit home alone moping! Will text when I know more about George as there is talk of a stent being put in. So very sorry to love and leave. Have a fabulous time. Don’t forget about the apostrophe, will you? Oh, and best keep a beady eye out for Percy and Noel who will no doubt try to cajole – they are leaders of opposing camps! X
My first thought was obviously, ‘Poor George …’ but my second thought was very definitely … ‘Bollocks!’
‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.’
And, ‘Bollocks to the bloody apostrophe, too!’
Sitting on the bottom step of the stairs I stared at the door, just as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas came on the radio. Alone again for Christmas after all.
There was only one thing for it – I’d go back to bed for an hour and bury myself in both the snuggly covers and the embrace of my new friends – Juliet and Edward. Hoping that their paths would surely cross again.
Juliet
22 December 1938
The promise
Dear Juliet
On second thoughts, I’m not entirely sure the debt is paid completely. The children are making lanterns in the hall from eleven and as the future lady of the manor, I thought it probably your wish – your duty – to help out. Lunch on the beach afterwards as a thank you?
Yours, the incorrigible coddiwompler,
E. Nancarrow
P.S. If you come, I’ll tell you what a coddiwompler is.
P.P.S. Wrap up warm!
The Christmas Card was hand-delivered by a young boy shortly after breakfast. I was having coffee with Lottie in the lounge when Katie handed it to me. I recognised the card. Edward had made it in the village hall during our afternoon together, when we sat with the children, in a moment of perfect happiness. I dare not open it and yet to leave it unopened would draw suspicion from Lottie.
Lottie glanced up from her book. I opened the card and feigned a smile.
‘It’s from Jessops,’ I said. ‘To thank us for the cider.’
I returned the card into the envelope, both gleefully happy and torn apart, made my excuses by explaining to Lottie that I really must return to servicing the aircraft– that sticky rudder came to my rescue again – and I explained that I would be out for the day. No one batted an eye at this. All they had ever known me do was walk for miles along the Cornish coast and tinker with my aircraft. As the Lanyons were neither walkers nor flyers, I had often spent much of my time during the day in Cornwall alone gathering my thoughts and healing my broken heart.
I dashed to my room to read the card again – slowly this time, drinking in every word. There was such a cocky confidence about his invitation and a secret intimacy, too. If Charles were to read it, he would think nothing untoward, but what Edward was really asking was to be alone with me one final time before I married.
There was only one thing to be done.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I pulled on my flying jacket over my best trousers, blouse and cardigan and headed, as fast as my feet could carry me without actually running, down the road to Angels Cove.
I lost the final piece of my heart to Edward that day. And yet, the very next day found me standing on a small table in the garden room at Lanyon, with Katie fussing around me with pins in her mouth adjusting