Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
He’d never even considered such a prospect until he’d been given the house and met Tammy.
The two events had combined to remind him of his mortality and what he truly wanted from life.
Though he’d known Tammy only a few weeks, he couldn’t deny how hard he’d fallen for her.
Meeting her and delving into Walter’s past had made him reframe his perspective.
Maybe he was simply maturing. His experiences of late had brought pleasure and pain – and insight.
For that, he should thank Tammy. He wanted her to be part of his future even though she had hinted that their relationship should be based on fun.
Now he’d screwed up even the ‘fun’ aspect and felt helpless to fix it. Only Tammy could decide if she would trust him and feel able to cast aside her own fears and take a chance on him.
Yet there was something he could do about his own doubts and ignorance, and he hoped that the answers lay in the past.
He opened the cardboard box and took out the first document.
The last thing he’d expected was for it to be a letter from his own father, dated just before Walter had called in at his parents so many years earlier.
Dear Walter,
Thanks for letting me know you’ll be in the area next week. I must admit Fiona and myself were surprised to hear from you after all this time but if you want to call in then you’ll be welcome. I’m sorry you’ve been unwell but hope your appointment goes well in Bristol.
Robert
Not very welcome, Ruan noted, refolding the letter. He hadn’t been welcome at all a few years later. Walter was seriously old school to write to arrange to visit his parents rather than pick up the phone. Or maybe he didn’t have his parents’ number or even have a phone? That would be very Walter.
Ruan opened several more letters – a few were barely more than notes.
One was to a plumber, berating him for ‘shoddy workmanship’ on the boiler repairs at Seaspray.
Another piece of paper appeared to be a shopping list for tinned foods Ruan didn’t even know existed: Fray Bentos steak and kidney pudding, tinned pink salmon and evaporated milk.
The next seemed insignificant at first until Ruan’s interest was caught by the instructions.
They were to the gardener, addressing the poor guy by his surname as if he was a servant. He must have decided not to send it, or Hicks had thrown it back at him.
Hicks
Make sure you pay attention to the Rambling Rector while you are in the garden this week. And don’t butcher it this time or I’ll be dispensing with your services.
Walter Cavendish
There was one other letter that seemed to be significant. It was written on blue writing paper and folded inside a faded blue envelope. Ruan recognised the stationery: Basildon Bond. His granny and grandpa used to use it and let him doodle on the sheets when he went round to see them.
The envelope had been sent from Cornwall. It was flat and, unlike the other notes and letters, had obviously been carefully treasured, perhaps kept inside a document folder.
Written in blue ink, the handwriting was flowing and cursive, reminding him of old legal documents – although the hand seemed less assured towards the end.
Ruan spread it carefully on the tabletop, sensing that this letter, above all the others, needed to be treated with respect.
May 21 st 1958
Dear Walter,
It pains me to write this but I needed to explain why you will find the house empty when you return from London.
I’m sorry to tell you that this will be the last letter you will receive from me.
I’ve decided to make a fresh start somewhere a long way from Cornwall where I don’t know anyone.
Mum and Dad are coming with me. I won’t include our address.
It’s better that we make a clean break. I’m sorry if you’re hurt by this but it’s for the best. You’ll understand one day and you’ll get over me.
I hope you’ll meet someone else. I hope you can open your heart to someone and give it freely – since you couldn’t with me.
I don’t mean that to sound bitter, only honest. I realised some time ago that I would never be enough for you.
You are an ambitious young man who wants to get on in the world.
I’m an ordinary girl from a humble home who simply wants to settle down and bring up a family.
That would have been more than sufficient for me.
I think that will never be enough for you and that is why you don’t seem to be able to return the kind of love and affection I would be willing to offer you.
I can’t say much more. There’s nothing left to say.
Wishing you all the very best,
Yours with affectionate thoughts,
Kathleen
Ruan read Kathleen’s letter several times over before sitting back with a sigh of complete confusion.
It was clear that Kathleen had been in love with Walter, yet he hadn’t been in love – or enough in love – with her.
She’d given up on him and left Cornwall to live with her parents somewhere.
Going by the date, Walter would only have been a young man then, with his whole life before him.
Judging by the fact he’d kept the letter, surely he must have regretted losing Kathleen.
With a heavy sigh, Ruan delved deeper into the box and found a small notebook with a stained navy leather cover.
It looked as if it hadn’t been opened for decades.
Carefully, he prised the pages apart and there at the heart of the book, pressed between two of the leaves, was a flower with another tightly folded piece of paper.
It was a rose, and the head was so fragile that it crumbled even as Ruan unfolded the letter: and when he read on, it seemed a symbol of Walter’s thwarted hopes and perhaps his grip on any chance of happiness.
This time, the note was full of scrawled phrases, crossed out so hard that the nib had made a hole in the paper and there were blots everywhere. Walter had written it in a state of high emotion – his distress and frustration were clear.
Dear Kathleen,
I don’t know how to say this. I’m the worst person in the world to say it, which is why I’ve put it in a letter.
My dearest Kathleen
I’m not the one for honeyed words. You of all people know that so I’m going to come right out with it.
I’d be the happiest man alive if you would do me the honour of becoming my wife.
My dearest Kathleen,
I feel I have to write down a sentiment I feel I would never have the words to express adequately.
Would you do me the honour of
No. NO. I CANNOT DO THIS!
Ruan set the abandoned proposal aside and placed the fragments of the rose in an empty bowl, feeling despair at all that he’d read.
Had Walter bought the roses for Kathleen, intending to propose but never being able to find the courage?
Or picked them later in life as a very bittersweet memento?
Was that why he was so angry with Hicks for hacking at the rosebush?
Had he tried to find Kathleen? Or had he simply accepted she’d left him and retreated into his house?
Feeling that the letters had only opened up more wounds rather than provided healing, Ruan walked outside and looked up at the house, imagining all the secrets, lies and misery it had witnessed over the decades – especially since Tammy and her parents had left.
She’d said they’d been so happy there, in the early years, playing in the sun in the garden and swimming in the cove. Could such a place ever be happy again after what he’d read?
He’d been allowed a glimpse into the backstory of his benefactor that involved a lost love and a wounded and embittered character who had only himself to blame.
Kathleen’s reference to Walter being an ambitious young man resonated too – but was that enough for Walter to have recognised a kindred spirit in Ruan himself?
Or had Walter been thinking of the day he’d found a young boy helping his mum in the garden?
With a sigh, Ruan returned to sifting through the contents of the box when a piece of white notepaper, clearly newer than the rest, attracted his attention.
The writing on it was spidery and faint.
It had obviously been written much more recently than any of the other communications.
He caught his breath when he saw the brief message on it.
Ruan
Do better than I did
W
There was no doubt it was meant for him and from his uncle. It was typical Walter: terse, short, yet blunt in its meaning. It also made Ruan feel like crying.
Walter had known his own mind when he’d made his will yet hadn’t had the opportunity or capacity – or courage – to get in touch with his great-nephew and say it himself.
And even though Walter had asked Ruan to ‘do better’ than he had, what exactly did that mean?
Be more successful? Live a more fulfilling life – a more loving life?
Did his uncle mean he should make reparations to Tammy? Or Kathleen?
Ruan let out a groan that echoed in the silence of the caravan.
Walter’s notes and letters had provided fragments of answers to his questions while opening up many more.
The box was now empty but the lawyer in him prompted him to go through the documents again in case he’d missed anything.
The only thing he hadn’t really paid much heed to were a clutch of yellowing receipts for gardening supplies; clearly poor old Hicks had been forced to account for every penny he spent.
As he examined the receipts, he discovered a sheet torn from a small spiral-bound notebook among them, almost as if it had been hidden away. It was grimy with dirt and the writing was hasty, clearly written in anger with capitals and underlining, at times barely more than a scrawl.
He had to flatten the note on the table under the desk lamp to see it better.
He’d barely got halfway through when he had to stop, unwilling to touch it further, as if he’d be tainted by the poison it contained.
His chest tightened and he knew what people meant by a heavy heart, but he also knew what he had to do.
Because, no matter what wounds it might rip open, like Kathleen’s final letter to Walter and his doomed proposal, the secrets in that note weren’t his to keep.