The Last Letter from Juliet. Melanie Hudson
I want to leave my home at Christmas? It was beautiful. But the energy had changed, and what was once the vibrant epicentre of Exeter’s academia, now hovered in a haze of hushed and silent mourning, like the house was afraid of upsetting me by raising its voice.
A miniature Christmas tree sat on the edge of the dresser looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. I’d decorated it with a selection of outsized wooden ornaments picked up during a day trip to IKEA in November. IKEA in Exeter was my weekly go-to store since James had gone. It was a haven for the lost and lonely. A person (me) can disappear up their own backsides for the whole morning in an unpronounceable maze of fake rooms, rugs, tab-top curtains, plastic plants and kitchen utensils (basically all the crap the Swedes don’t want) before whiling away a good couple of hours gorging themselves on a menu of meatballs and cinnamon swirls, and still have the weirdest selection of booze and confectionary Sweden has to offer (what on earth is Lordagsgodis, anyway?) to look forward to at checkout.
And we wonder why the Swedes are so happy!
But did I really want to spend the run-up to Christmas in IKEA this year? (Part of me actually did – it’s very Scandi-chic Christmassy). But to do it for a third year in a row, with no one to laugh out loud with when we try to pronounce the unpronounceable Swedish word for fold-up bed?
(That was a poor example because a futon is a futon in any language and I really did need to try to control my inner monologue which had gone into overdrive since James died – I was beginning to look excessively absent minded in public).
But did I want to spend Christmas in IKEA this year?
Not really, no.
But the problem (and Gerald knew this, too) was that if I left the house this Christmas, then it would mark the beginning of my letting go, of starting again, of saying that another life – a festive one – could exist beyond James. If I had a good time I might start to forget him, but if I stayed here and kept thinking of him, if I kept the memories alive, re-read the little notes he left me every morning, if I looked through photographs on Facebook, replayed scenes and conversations in my mind, then he would still be here, alive, in me. But if I go away, where would that lead? I knew exactly where it would lead – to the beginning of the end of James. To the beginning of not being able to remember his voice, his smell, his laugh – to the beginning of moving on.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
But still …
I knocked back the last of the Merlot while googling train times to Penzance and fished out the last card in a box of IKEA Christmas cards I’d abandoned to the dresser drawer the week before. It was the exact replica of the one I’d already sent him, a golden angel. I took it as a sign and began to scribble …
Dear, Uncle Gerald,
You are quite correct. This kind of thing is indeed ‘right up my Strasse’. Rest assure there will be no need to beg – I shall come!
I arrive in Penzance by the 18.30 train on the 17th and intend to stay (wait for it) until Boxing Day! By which time I am confident that, one way or another, I will have found a solution to your problem. DO NOT, however, feel that you have to entertain me all week. It’s very good of you but actually – and quite selfishly – this trip could be a blessing in disguise. I have been racking my brains for an idea for a new book – a history project to keep me going through the rest of the winter – and I have a feeling that hidden deep within the midst of Cornish myth and legend, I might find one.
Please thank Mr Lanyon for the offer of use of his cottage – I accept!
How are the cataracts, by the way? Are you able to drive? If so, I wonder if you could meet me at the station?
With oodles of love,
Your, Katherine
P.S. Wouldn’t it be funny if ‘The Cataracts’ were an old couple who lived in the village and I would say, ‘How are the Cataracts, by the way?’ And you would answer, ‘Oh, they’re fine. They’ve just tripped off to Tenerife for Christmas.’
P.P.S. Take heart in knowing that there is nothing simple about the apostrophe. It is punctuation’s version of the naughty Cornish pixie, and seems to wreak havoc wherever it goes. There is a village in America, for example, where the misplacing of the apostrophe led to full-scale civil unrest and ultimately, the cold-blooded murder of the local Sheriff. Let us hope for your sake that the situation at Angels Cove does not escalate into a similar scale of brouhaha!
P.P.P.S. Gin? I love you.
Katherine
The last station stop
It turned out that the residents of Angels Cove were expecting not one, but two Katherines to arrive in Penzance on the evening of 17 December. My namesake Storm Katherine – a desperate attention seeker who was determined to make a dramatic entrance – would arrive late with the loud and gregarious roar of an axe-wielding Viking. Trees would crash onto roads, chicken hutches would be turned upside down, and the blight of every twenty first century garden – the netted trampoline – would disappear over hedgerows never to be seen again (it wasn’t all bad, then). I hoped Uncle Gerald wouldn’t see my concurrent arrival with Katherine as some kind of omen, but really, how could he not?
Stepping onto the train in Exeter, despite the forecast weather, I was excited. By Plymouth I was beginning to wonder if it had all been a dreadful mistake – the locals would want to chat, and the woman in the shop (there was always a chatty woman in a shop) would glance at my wedding ring and pry into my life with a stream of double negatives: ‘Will your husband not be joining you in the cottage for Christmas, then? No? Well, it’s nice to have some time away from them all, eh? And what about your children? Will they not be coming down? No children? Oh, dear. Well, never mind …’
That kind of thing.
By Truro, I’d decided to turn back, but Katherine’s advance party had already begun to rock the carriages, and by the time St Michael’s Mount appeared through the late afternoon darkness – a watered down image of her usual self, barely visible through the driving rain and sea fret – my excitement had vaporised completely. Gazing through the splattered carriage window, I was startled by the sight of my mother’s face staring back at me. Only it wasn’t my mother, it was my own aged reflection. When had that happened? Anxious fingers rushed to smooth the lines on my mother’s face, which could only be described as tired (dreadful word) and I realised that, just like St Michael’s Mount in the winter rain, I too was a watered-down image of my usual self, barely visible through a veil of grief I had worn ever since the morning James had gone.
I hadn’t needed an alarm call that morning. I’d been laying on my side for hours, tucked into the foetal position, the left side of my face resting on a tear-stained pillow, my eyes focused just above the bedside table, fixed on the clock.
I watched every movement of Mickey Mouse’s right hand as it made a full circle, resting, with a final little wave, on the twelve.
Mickey’s voice rang out—
‘It’s time, time, time, to wake up! It’s time, time, time to wake up!’
I’d never known if Mickey had been supposed to say the word ‘time’ three times, or if at some point over the past umpteen years he had developed a stutter, but I silenced him with a harsh thump on the head and lay staring at the damp patch on the ceiling we’d never gotten to the bottom of, just to the right of the light fitting.
I wanted to lay there and consider that phrase for a moment – ‘it’s time’. Two little words with such a big meaning.
It’s