Chapter 50
FIFTY
It was just after ten the next day when Stan turned up at the farm, unannounced as ever, in his usual uniform of sun-faded cords and an old jumper, despite it being twenty-five degrees.
He stood in the kitchen doorway with a paper bag in hand.
Everyone else was still in bed, he assumed, since the celebrations hadn’t finished until the early hours.
‘Mrs Jory. I’ve brought you a slice of Mrs Bodkin’s bread and butter pudding and a nudge, as I’m thinking you might need both this morning.’
Rita stopped loading the dishwasher and laughed. ‘You’re so right. Far too much fun was had by all. And what do you mean by a nudge?’
He stepped inside and set the bag on the table. ‘Might be worth taking a walk up to the Singing Tree, that’s all I’m saying.’
Her heart did a tiny somersault. ‘Why?’
He just shrugged. ‘Call it a hunch. Or maybe a whisper from someone who’s not quite done saying what they wanted to say.’
Rita’s mouth fell open. ‘Stan, was it you who’s been leaving messages for me in the Singing Tree?’
The friendly farmhand winked. ‘All I’m going to say to that question, Mrs Jory, is ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
Rita sped up to the High Meadow in the Jimny. The breeze was up. The sea in the distance looked like a shaken sheet, glinting in the morning light. She felt absurdly nervous.
The note was tucked into the crevice where the others had been. Folded neatly. Her name written on the outside, this time in handwriting she recognised.
She opened it slowly, hardly daring to breathe, and began to read.
Dear Rita,
‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
If you still feel what I think you feel, meet me here at sunrise on Sunday.
Here’s hoping.
Jago X
She stared at the words, her throat catching.
Then, as she ran her fingers across the etching on Archie’s bench, the tears came.
The wind whispered through the branches, like the tree was urging her to believe it would all be OK.
She folded the note carefully, held it to her chest for a minute and then, slowly, reached for her wedding ring.
With trembling fingers, she turned it once, twice, then slid it from her finger.
For a moment, she simply stared at it in her palm, so small, and yet it had held so much.
Then, reaching into the tree’s natural cubby hole, she placed the ring inside.
Her voice cracked as she whispered to the wind, ‘I will always love you, Archie Jory.’