Forty-Four
Matt sat staring at the drawings in front of him. He had an idea of what he wanted to create, he just had to assess if it was possible. The slam of the front door made him raise his head and his voice.
‘Flora, how many times do I need to tell you not to let the door bang closed? I don’t have time to be redoing the plaster work again!’
‘Well, take off that damn spring you’ve fitted to it and then, when my hands are wet from the pouring rain, I don’t need to worry about them not being able to grip the handle and it slipping from my grasp!’
His daughter stuck her head around the door as she reprimanded him back.
‘I don’t know why you feel the need to keep the automatic closer on it – I’ve kind of grown out of the stage where I kept forgetting to close it behind me.’
‘Okay! Fine! I’ll take it off this weekend. Make sure you remind me.’
Flora walked over and kissed him on the top of his head.
‘Are you getting so old now I have to remind you to do stuff?’
‘Cheeky girl! I’m just busy and there’s only so much I can keep in my brain at one time.’
‘Like I said, getting old!’ She grinned at him and he couldn’t help but grin back at her.
‘So, what are you looking at? What’s this?’ She flicked the pad on the desk and he returned his gaze to it.
‘You remember those workers' huts Sally asked me to take a look at?’
‘Yeah, the ones she’s considering turning into writer’s retreats?’
‘That’s them. I’ve been up to have a look and they’re not very big. I suspect they were probably just shelters from the elements rather than actual living abodes.’
‘Does this mean they can’t be used as Sally hopes?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to work out. I’ll need to add some sort of extension if Sally intends for them to be self-contained units with full amenities and sleeping facilities. Alternatively, if she’s thinking of day-use only with the guest sleeping inside the B if that’s the third reference letter you’ve had, then he’s doing that just fine by himself.’
She looked pointedly at the piece of notepaper in his hand before spinning round and walking out of the study.
‘I’ve already peeled some potatoes,’ he called after her, ‘I didn’t know how you fancied them tonight so left them intact until you came home.’
He threw the letter back onto the desk and walked out of the study after her.
‘That was tasty. I can’t remember the last time I had simple boiled potatoes. These days, it seems to be that they must be mashed, chipped, crushed or something else other than what they are.’
Matt placed his cutlery on the empty plate in front of him and took a drink of water.
‘Hey, not “simple” boiled potatoes, Dad, boiled potatoes gently tossed in melted butter and lightly seasoned with the best Maldon Sea salt flakes and crushed Indian black pepper.’
Flora laughed as she spoke her words in the tone of the famous Marks & Spencer’s television adverts.
‘When you put it like that, yes, simply the best boiled potatoes…’
He stood, gathered up their plates and was rinsing them in the sink, ready to go in the dishwasher when Flora uttered a sentence which made his blood run cold.
‘Dad, I saw Uncle Craig today and he mentioned something about my grandmother having sent me a letter before Christmas. I didn’t receive it – did you see anything come in the post?’
He looked out of the window and his reflection looked back at him against the dark sky beyond. He searched his face to see if any sign of the panic within him was showing on it.
‘Dad, did you hear me?’
‘Oh, sorry, Flora, I was miles away. Hang on, let me turn off the tap.’
He placed the crockery in the dishwasher, closed the door and slowly dried his hands before turning and walking back towards the table where Flora was still sitting.
‘You were saying?’
‘I saw Uncle Craig earlier and he said his mum, my grandmother – although it feels strange calling her that when I’ve never met the woman – sent me a letter before Christmas but I’ve never received it. I was wondering if you had seen it, put it somewhere and forgot to tell me…’
‘Erm… I don’t recall seeing anything for you. You know I always leave your post on the table by the door. Maybe it got stuck onto another letter or something? Or, you know what the post is like in December – maybe it got lost.’
‘That’s what I said to Uncle Craig. It’s a pity although probably for the best.’
‘What do you mean, Flora?’
‘I know how you feel about her, Dad, and that you don’t want me to have any contact with her. I think I would’ve felt rather uncomfortable and it might have put me in the position of having to make a choice. This way is easier for me. It might not be right but it’s easier.’
Rising from her seat, Flora gave him a smile as she pushed it under the table, picked up her glass and walked towards the door.
‘Flora?’
‘Yeah?’
Matt looked at her, standing there so tall and straight and gazing at him with those hypnotic silver eyes, just as his own Flora had done all those years ago. His heart clenched tightly with love and from fear.
‘If you had to pick between seeing your grandmother or respecting my feelings, which do you think you’d choose?’
She looked at him for a few seconds before she replied, ‘I don’t know, Dad, I really don’t know.’
He listened to her footsteps running up the stairs and when he heard her bedroom door close, he got up and walked into the lounge, heading straight to the cupboard where the brandy lived. He poured himself a generous slug and downed it in one after which he poured a second glass and carried it over to the table in front of the sofa. He sat down and let out a sigh as he rubbed his hands over his face and pangs of guilt rushed through him because upstairs, hidden in a box tucked away behind a false panel in his bedroom, was the letter from Flora’s grandmother. He’d recognised it when it had arrived – the lavender ink and Scottish postmark both gave away who it was from. He’d removed it from the pile of post and placed it in the box along with all the other letters and cards which had been sent over the last twenty years, all written in lavender ink and bearing a Scottish postmark.