Chapter 16
16
I floated across the lawn, waving my fingers at the tadpoles in the pond and nodding hello to a pair of ducks. The bike was where Rosemary had promised, and I grabbed on with gusto, looking forward to sailing back along the path to Sunflower Barn.
It took me a couple of seconds to notice that the handlebars were damp. Sticky, I realised as I snatched my hands away. I sniffed them, only to recoil in horror.
I had no idea what that stench was, but I imagined a dead fish had possibly been involved.
I dug through my bag for a tissue to try to wipe it off, then checked the rest of the bike. The saddle was splattered with the same liquid. Using the remains of my water bottle, I did my best to clean off the worst of the mess, but the lingering smell still triggered my gag reflex if I bent too close.
My buoyant mood evaporated. I wheeled the bike home, the return journey seeming far longer than it had previously, and not simply because it was alone and uphill.
Lily was heading out to pick the kids up from a birthday party when I arrived back.
She started to ask how lunch had been, before coming to an abrupt stop, whipping around and promptly vomiting in the nearest bush. I hastily wheeled the bike back to the furthest part of the drive, then fetched a glass of water and a napkin from the kitchen.
‘What fresh hell was that?’ Lily spluttered, gratefully accepting the water. ‘Smells like you fell in a pile of rotting fish guts, then tried to wash it off in the septic tank.’
‘It was on the bike when I came back from lunch. I wondered if an animal had sprayed on it.’
Although that wouldn’t explain why it was only on the handlebars and saddle.
‘No animal I’ve ever come across.’ She frowned, giving a tentative sniff from the safety of several metres away. ‘Where had you left it?’
‘Your mum wheeled it to the far gate. Maybe someone walking along the footpath tipped something over the hedge?’
‘No islander would have done that.’ Lily looked pensive for a moment before shaking it off with a shrug. ‘Must have been a tourist. Perhaps they found an old bottle on Minke Beach and decided to empty it out.’
A bottle of gone-off embalming fluid? And again, it didn’t explain why they’d omitted to get any on the crossbar or wheels. But I didn’t have the same unquestioning faith in islanders as my host. I lived in a village. I knew how feuds and petty grievances could fester. Maybe someone had been offended about not being invited to the party? What I also knew was that it was a rental bike on Hawkins Farm. On the off chance this had been intentional, it surely didn’t have anything to do with me.
Malcolm left for a run shortly after Lily.
‘I’ll not be back for a couple of hours.’
‘Wow. That’s a decent run.’
He winked, stretching out his hamstring. ‘To the Island Arms. Three miles each way. Lily’s messaged to say the kids are happy, so they’ll be stopping out a while longer, too. If you go out, leave the key under the purple shell.’
‘I was planning on sitting in the garden for a bit.’
‘I was planning on visiting for a stag weekend and heading back to marry my lass in the valleys. This island makes a mockery of plans.’
I accepted his parting offer of a glass of wine – it was well into the afternoon, and I was on holiday, after all – and tried to pretend I didn’t feel like a complete imposter, reclining on an outdoor sofa in my shorts and sunglasses, then opened up the brown envelope.
Three smaller, plain white envelopes were inside.
Disappointing, considering Mum’s box had contained nine. Unsurprising, considering the likelihood of her writing any letters at all.
I opened up the first one and scanned it for a date.
Seeing her precise handwriting, using the thick, black pen she’d insisted upon writing with right up until she died, triggered a tidal wave of grief and homesickness that threatened to suffocate me.
Pressing the letter against my chest, I forced my gaze towards the climbing rose, fixing on a bee buzzing amongst the yellow and peach blooms that were already open. Breathing in slowly, I focused on the blend of aromas – warm grass, the chicken coop, wine and pollen. Gradually, as my breathing settled, I tuned into the hen’s comforting clucks, an aeroplane whirring in to land on the other side of the island, a distant moo.
‘Okay. Are we quite finished with the overdramatics?’ I lessened the pressure of my hand, as if it made any difference, and took another peek at the cream notepaper, making sure I read only the date.
It was 1988. Two years after the previous letter I’d read from Gabe. I checked the others, but they were both later the same year.
I slipped them back into the brown envelope, reeling from the discovery that they had been communicating for at least four years, and turned to the other pile, unable to wait to read the next chapter in their story.
4 April 1987
My darling wife Nellie,
I had to stop there, take another few breaths and a good slurp of wine. The photograph had made it pretty clear that she’d gone through with the wedding, but to have it confirmed in writing that Mum had been married was still a jolt. I sat for a minute, trying to picture her with Gabe. Laughing, cuddling on the sofa together at the end of a long day. Tucked up in bed. Then again – Pip had told me that he was twenty-nine, so Lily must have been born only six years after this letter.
Was it more accurate to picture them bickering, knocking heads over the million things Mum held her pig-headed opinions on? Blazing rows or days of moody silence?
Either way, Mum being married was still mind-blowing.
A letter for our anniversary, seeing as I’ll be up with the dawn again this morning, and quite possibly incapable of forming a coherent sentence when I return. I know this year has been a big change, leaving your city and starting afresh. There must be so much you miss. Supermarkets. Cinemas. Bus stops on every corner. But now Ma and Da’s shock has worn off, I hope you are starting to feel more settled. Farm life takes some getting used to, I’d imagine. There’s a lot taken for granted when you grow up amongst cows and wheat, riding a tractor before most kids try a bike. But you’re doing grand. Better every day. Ma even asked if I could trouble you for your pastry recipe (she couldn’t possibly ask you directly – you’ll have learned there’s no stubborn pride like an island woman’s when it comes to her kitchen). And waking up with your strawberry hair spread across my pillow, coming home to the warmth of your arms – well – I don’t imagine that unbridled pleasure will ever fade. You, here on my island, my farm – our land, and one day our children’s. The only thing that could make me happier is knowing you are as home here as I am. Soon, my love (I know – you’ll feel a lot better once the other cottage is finished and you can have your own stovetop!).
Save me an anniversary kiss for when this weary farmer returns.
I shall think of you every moment of the day, and it will spur my efforts so that I can be home as soon as I can.
With faith, hope and love,
Your grateful husband,
G
Like in all Gabe’s letters, his devotion shone through every paragraph. But, unlike the others, in between those heartfelt lines, I detected some teething problems for the newly-weds. I could guess how Gabe’s family felt about him turning up with a ‘mainlander’ wife. An independent city girl who would have detested being expected to slot into another woman’s household. While the farmhouse was a decent size, I couldn’t imagine it was easy for the couple to enjoy much time alone together, either. For a brief, mad second, I wondered what it would be like for me to move into the farmhouse with Pip, while his parents still slept in the master bedroom, Aster in the ground-floor snug that he’d told me about, Richard in an annexe tacked onto the back of the house.
After a lifetime living with Mum’s established order, plus two years fending for myself, I couldn’t begin to fathom how I’d handle new rules, customs and family dynamics.
Good job you’ll never have to, then, isn’t it? I reminded myself, hastily stuffing the letter back into the envelope in response to the sound of Lily’s car pulling into the drive.
‘Ack. Don’t tell me Malcolm’s gone for a run?’ she asked, once Beanie and Jack were playing happily on the grass with a wooden farm and Flora had disappeared upstairs.
‘Sorry.’
She shook her head in disgust. ‘He gets on at me about all the jobs need doing. Now instead of helping me sort the soft furnishings in the lilac room, he’ll be setting the world to rights with his Welsh cronies until I’m far too knackered to hang a curtain.’
‘I’ll help,’ I offered.
Lily narrowed her pastel eyes at me. ‘I’m thinking you might actually mean that.’
‘I do!’ I laughed. ‘I work six days a week, and spend my evenings and days off cleaning and sorting out everything else that needs doing. I know I’m on holiday, supposedly learning to chill out for the first time ever, but if I don’t pace myself, I’m going to have a serious relapse. You’ll find me scrubbing cupboards at three in the morning.’
‘Really?’ She grinned. ‘You wouldn’t hear any complaints from me. Except that you’re my test guest, and that’s not quite the home-from-home experience I’m going for.’
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I promise I won’t mention it in my review.’
Lily grabbed my hand, which I then used to help haul her up. ‘Oh, my goodness. You’re going to write a review?’
‘Best breakfast on the island,’ I said, with a nonchalant shrug. ‘So far, anyway.’
‘Don’t try the Copper Pot by the ferry port. That used to be my café, and they’ve stuck with all my recipes.’
By the time we’d hung the curtains, made up two single beds and plumped cushions, hung pictures and arranged knick-knacks to Lily’s satisfaction (until it all looked stunning, in other words), the younger kids were growing fractious, hens needed putting to bed and Flora was rootling in the cupboards for supper.
While Lily plonked Beanie and Jack in the bath, Flora and I shooed the chickens back in the coop then made bubbling cheese on toast, smothered with cider chutney. We scattered the strawberries I’d brought back over bowls of traditional island honey ice cream, and poured mugs of thick, creamy hot chocolate.
I made it through another Flora inquisition on mainland life, doing my best to channel Blessing as a far more typical example of English culture than me, but before long we were chatting about how she was considering journalism as an alternative to intelligence – ‘I’m not sure I can be bothered with being bossed about’ – and she was providing examples of all the latest island scoops.
‘So, the word on the Lithin promenade is that Barnie was seen in the gallery.’
‘Okay.’ I matched Flora’s body language, leaning forwards across the kitchen table as she took a triumphant bite of toast. ‘I don’t know what Lithin promenade is or why it matters that Barnie was in the gallery. Is he a secret art lover?’
Flora rolled her eyes. ‘Lithin is the other village. Well, it’s barely that, to be honest. It’s got like three shops that are any use and then the promenade, which is all tourist stuff. Most of the houses are holiday lets so it’s the most boring place on earth in winter. Anyway, the gallery may sell paintings, but none that Barnie could afford, even if his cousin did paint half of them. But it also sells jewellery.’
‘Aha.’ I nodded. ‘Engagement rings?’
‘I don’t suppose he’s after a shell necklace for himself, now, is he?’
‘I didn’t think he and Violet were even going out.’
‘They aren’t. But around here, that doesn’t make much difference. Not when you’ve grown up knowing every tiny little thing about each other. It doesn’t take much dating to decide if there’s going to be any chemistry or not. And Auntie Violet is ramping up the travel plans now Uncle Pip’s back. If Barnie’s smart – which is up for debate, to be fair – he knows it’s a grand gesture or nothing at this stage.’
We carried on chatting for a while longer, then a sheepish Malcolm arrived home, hastily taking over with the bedtime routine while Lily helped herself to the last slice of cheese on toast and Flora went to read in bed.
‘So, have you found out any more about your ma’s mystery man?’ Lily asked, almost causing the ice cream I’d just swallowed to refreeze in my gullet.
‘Um. Not really. I’ve only read a couple more letters.’ I scraped at the remains in my bowl, despite suddenly feeling nauseous. ‘I know they definitely married and lived on the island at some point.’
‘And you still aren’t ready to reveal the vital initial?’
I shook my head. ‘I’d rather read to the end of the story first, if that’s okay.’
‘Of course it’s okay. It’s your story. Ach, you only met us a couple of days ago, which is plenty long enough to learn what a bunch of gossipy old tattletales we are around here.’ She got up to put the kettle on. ‘You’re coming to the beach tomorrow, aren’t you? Pip did ask?’
‘Um. Yes.’
She nodded, pleased with herself. ‘I thought as much.’
‘But can I come as your guest, not Pip’s?’
Lily turned around and leant back on the worktop, arms folded across her bump. ‘I don’t know why you two are faffing around about this. It doesn’t take Flora’s spy skills to see that you’re sweet on each other.’
Knowing what a bunch of gossipy old tattletales they were, I decided the best way to deal with this was to be honest. Lily could then let everyone else know, and at the very least, they could stop grilling me on the subject.
‘I’ve lived in the same place, done the same job and pretty much nothing else for my whole life, so anything different is a big deal. I’m not used to dating, and I’ve done more socialising in the past two days than in the previous six months. I’m not going to be able to keep anything casual, or a bit of fun. While I can’t deny that I like your brother, I don’t want my first proper holiday to end in a broken heart.’ I tried to lessen the oversharing with a laugh, but it came out more like a strangled cry for help. ‘I might never find the courage to get on a plane again.’
Lily came to sit down, kettle forgotten, her face creased with compassion. ‘Pip wouldn’t deliberately hurt you, Emmie. Or play with your feelings. But I can understand why you don’t want to start something when his life is here, and yours is on the mainland.’
‘Thank you.’
She patted my hand. ‘Having said that, no life is set in stone. Ask Malcolm. I for one would not be complaining if Parsley’s Pasties relocated.’