The Last Letter from Juliet. Melanie Hudson
morning once the storm’s gone through,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got a fabulous programme of events all worked out, people to meet, things to do! And lock the door behind me straight away. It’ll bang all night if you don’t.’
‘I will,’ I shouted back, down the lane. ‘And, thank you!’
With the door locked and bolted, I walked into the lounge, sat on the sofa and stared into the fire, unconsciously spinning my wedding ring around my finger. The lights began to flicker, and in the kitchen, another window rattled. I grabbed my laptop from the hallway, logged onto the WiFi and – for at least five seconds – thought about doing a little apostrophe research (or any research that might lead me in the direction of a new project and take my mind off the storm). I closed the laptop lid.
Tomorrow. I’d do the research tomorrow.
I grabbed the remote control, flashed the TV and Freeview box into life and pressed the up button on the volume. The closing scenes of a Miss Marple rerun sounded-out most of the noise of the storm. Now all I needed to do was make a cup of tea, rustle up dinner and settle down to a spot of Grand Designs (the harangued couples who mortgaged themselves to the hilt and lived in a leaky caravan during the worst winter on record with three screaming kids and another on the way while trying to live off the land and source genuine terracotta tiles in junk shops for a bathroom that wouldn’t be built for another five years … they were my favourites).
With the closing credits of Miss Marple rolling down the screen, I walked through to the kitchen to make dinner. It was the real deal on the quintessential cottage front – not a fitted cupboard in sight – and very pretty, with French doors at the rear. A circular pine table with two chairs sat at the opposite end of the kitchen to the French doors, underneath a window. A golden envelope addressed to Katherine Henderson, C/O Angel View, sat on the table. I opened the envelope and took out the Christmas card.
Another angel, they were everywhere this year.
Dear Katherine
Just a quick note to welcome you to Angel View and explain about the house, which until recently belonged to a very special lady called Juliet Caron – my amazing Grandmother. You will find that her personality is still very much alive within the cottage walls. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to decorate the cottage for Christmas before you arrived, but you’ll find lots of decorations in the loft if you want to make the old place feel a bit more Christmassy.
Most importantly, please make yourself at home and have a wonderful time.
Yours,
Sam Lanyon
P.S. … you may find that a particularly vigilant Elf has already pitched up and positioned himself in the house somewhere. He always kept a beady eye on Juliet at this time of year. Give him a tot of whiskey and he’ll be your friend for life!
Smiling, I rested the card against a green coloured glass vase filled with yellow roses and took a cursory glance around the kitchen. There he was – sitting on a shelf, looking directly at me with his legs crossed and auspicious expression on his face.
I crossed the room to take a good look at him.
‘Hello, Mr Elf,’ I said, cheerily. ‘You needn’t worry about me. As Eliza Doolittle once said, I’m a good girl, I am … unfortunately!’
A few half-burned candles were scattered around the worktop and also on the windowsill. I took the matches from the lounge and lit them. There was a notepad and pen on the worktop, as if waiting for the occupier to make a list, and a very pretty russet red shawl was draped over the back of one of the chairs. I picked up the shawl and ran it through my fingers – it smelt of lavender and contentment. A luggage-style label had been sewn onto the shawl at one end. It read—
This was Lottie’s shawl – her comfort blanket. You wrapped Mabel in it on the day Lottie died.
Feeling a sudden chill, I took the liberty of wrapping the shawl around my shoulders and began to put together the makings of dinner – cheese on toast with a bit of tomato and Worcester sauce would do. I took an unsliced loaf out of the breadbin and opened the drawer of a retro cream dresser looking for cutlery. Sitting on top of the cutlery divider was a hard-backed small booklet with a large label attached to it. Another label? I took out the booklet and ran a finger over the indented words, First Officer Juliet Caron, Flying Logbook.
I turned the label over. With very neat handwriting, it read:
This is your flying logbook, Juliet. It is the most significant document of your life. Look at it often (whenever you use cutlery will do) and remember the times when you were happy (Spitfires), the times when you were stressed out (Fairey Battle – awful machine), the times when you had no idea how you survived to fly another day (like that trip in the Hurricane when the barrage balloons went up just as you were leaving Hamble) and that terrible day you tried to get to Cornwall with Anna – the one entry you wish you could delete. Other than the compass, this is your most treasured possession.
My rumbling tummy brought me back to the moment. I filled the kettle, stepped over to the fridge and noticed a laminated note stuck to the door with ‘Read Me’ written on the top. I read it, expecting it to be instructions from Sam, or Gerald.
It wasn’t.
While the kettle was boiling, I read a letter which began:
This is a letter to yourself, Juliet …
So that was what all the labels were for … Juliet had been frightened of losing her memory. I took the letter off the fridge and turned it over.
Where Angels Sing, by Edward Nancarrow
When from this empty world I fall
And the light within me fades
I’ll think, my love, of a sweeter time
When life was light, not shade
With bluebirds from this world I’ll fly
And to a cove I’ll go
To wait for you where angels sing
And when it’s time, you’ll know
To meet me on the far side where
We once led Mermaid home
And finally, my love and I
Will be, as one, alone
And at that moment, after pouring water from Juliet’s kettle into Juliet’s cup, sitting in Juliet’s house and wearing Juliet’s shawl, I felt an overwhelming sensation of being swaddled, that Juliet and I were somehow linked. Gerald would blame my overactive imagination, of course, but I really did feel that I was supposed to come to Angels Cove this Christmas.
With my dinner quickly made and eaten, I set up camp in the lounge and, trying to ignore the other Katherine who was hammering at the door to get in, I decided it was time for Kevin McCloud (such a lovely man) to transport me into his TV world of Grand Designs, into other people’s lives – happier, family lives – where dreams really do come true (and maybe a tot or two of that whiskey wouldn’t go amiss either).
Glancing into the sideboard I was mesmerised – it was an Aladdin’s Cave of memorabilia, of yet more labels. Next to the whiskey was a wad of faded A4 paper held together by green string. The top sheet had the typewritten words,
Attagirls!
The war memoirs of Juliet Caron
Lest she forgets
I untied the string and peeled back the top sheet to reveal a letter.