Epilogue
Two Years Before
Emily swept along the blue-carpeted corridor into the open-plan office, cursing the spring shower which had erupted as she’d parked.
Her suit was soaked, and running to the front entrance of the drab building only left her red-faced on top of wet.
Her nine-year-old twins, Enrique and Mathieu, hadn’t been much help this morning, raising her stress levels as they squabbled over breakfast and somehow managed to make the morning routine more torturous than usual.
She’d practically kicked them out of the car as she’d pulled up outside their primary school, saying through gritted teeth, ‘Have a great day, love you!’
Throwing her handbag on the desk, she ran a hand through her hair and swore when a piece of scrambled egg fell out. She’d be having stern words with her sons tonight about food fights.
Of all the days to end up in damp clothes and sodden shoes though…
Today’s office refurb had been booked for months.
Stripping her suit jacket off and rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, she walked into the storage room where the last few pieces of furniture needed to be checked for items to be either kept or discarded.
Despite the rain, it was muggy, so she cranked open a window before grabbing a cardboard box and moving over to the ancient wooden desk used by a predecessor before retirement.
Kneeling on the floor, she rifled through draws, throwing empty biros, paperclips, and old compliment slips in the bin.
Government budgets were stretched, but not so much they needed to use ancient stationery.
Reaching the bottom drawer, she found it jammed and frowned.
Tugging on it did nothing, other than prove irritating.
Maybe something was caught in the runners.
Standing up, she braced one foot on the edge of the desk for leverage and gave the drawer a sharp yank.
Sometimes you needed brute force. With a creak, it came completely free of the desk, and she staggered back, nearly falling over.
Heaving a relieved breath as she regained her footing, she put the drawer down and gazed at the envelopes scattered across the scuffed floor tiles.
Most had been opened, tatty and faded. Crouching, she picked through them, scanning the contents and either binning the junk mail or putting anything sensitive in a pile for confidential shredding.
The last envelope was pale blue and had a ragged crease running along the centre of it, making her think it had been jamming the drawer.
Shrugging, she tore it open and unfolded the matching paper inside, finding it covered with graceful penmanship.
No one she knew wrote letters anymore, other than her late grandmother.
Mobile phones and email had made things more efficient, but she couldn’t help feeling something had been lost along the way.
Her forehead pleated as she noticed the date. May 2006. It had been sitting for so many years undiscovered, waiting for someone to find it.
To Whom it May Concern,
You don’t know me, but it’s taken quite a lot of effort to track this department down as the one I should be writing to. I have a very important question to ask, and hope that whoever you are, you’ll give it serious consideration.
First though, I need to tell you a little about myself. It’s all about context, you see.
I was lucky enough to spend some of my youth, and all my adult life, in Devon.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever visited but it’s a lovely county, full of narrow winding leafy lanes, fertile fields and coastal views.
However, it’s not the home that holds my heart.
The place I will always consider my true home is the Georgian manor I was born in, at the meeting of the Dorset/Hampshire border near the New Forest. I spent the first seven years of my life running through the high-ceilinged hallways, skipping around the grand ballroom, and smelling the sweetness of the roses in the walled garden on the back lawn.
The river was my tinkling, sparkling companion as an only child, a wondrous creature I lay on the banks of, dreaming of a bright future.
It won’t surprise you to hear I was a happy child.
The Beaubrook family, who were nobility, built the manor in the late 1790s and over the years its doors were opened to unwed mothers, orphans, and people who’d fallen on hard times.
In short, those who most needed to be shown generosity and kindness.
My mother used to say kindness permeated the building’s walls, and occasionally there was the whisper of an unknown presence, its countenance warm.
I felt it regularly, even as a young child.
It’s a very special place. Made even more so when in the 1930s, a village was built at the foot of the hill the manor rests upon.
It remained with the family for several generations, until both the manor and cottages were requisitioned during the Second World War for soldiers to train and live in.
We were given only a few weeks’ notice of their intentions and had no choice in the matter.
Leaving was our only option, and our legacy wasn’t seen as important in the battle to win the war.
Losing our home was devastating, and I still remember my mother crying every day as she packed, and my father’s stoic, white-knuckled silence.
We left before most of the villagers did, unable to face seeing such a magical place overrun with strangers.
At the time, my parents were told once the war was over, everything would be returned to them.
But that didn’t happen. Instead, it was left empty for decades after it had served its purpose, before the manor was leased to a care home provider (I’ll concede that’s at least fitting, if it was going to be used for anything).
Over the years, my parents campaigned to have Little Beaubrook returned to our family, but their pleas fell on deaf ears.
They are both dead now, and I have picked up the mantle on their behalf.
I am hoping this time is going to be different. I am hoping that in reading this letter, you will listen and finally return what rightfully belongs to us.
My husband Albie always says we have an extraordinary love, and in one way I agree with him, but on the other hand, it’s the kind of love everybody deserves in their lifetime.
We’ve been happy together for over forty years, so that tells you something about the strength of our bond.
However, if I am honest – and Albie knows this – I love the manor and village as much as I do him.
There is an invisible string tying me to both, a constant tugging that will only cease when I’m back where I belong.
The Beaubrook family crest is not bedecked with some fusty old quote.
The Latin motto is what I was taught growing up - choose kindness, every day.
It has stood me in good stead. Helping others has brought us immense joy, as well as changing people’s lives for the better.
Albie and I have gladly lived a life of service.
You can choose now to show the ultimate kindness. Please, please, give my home back so we can restore it to its former glory.
I hope you will find it in your heart to make the right choice.
Yours faithfully,
Rose Curville
‘Oh my God, how amazing, but how sad.’ Emily clambered to her feet, brushing tears away. Rose’s story firmly put her own domestic stresses in perspective.
Spinning around, she hurried along the corridor and burst into her boss’s office, clutching the blue paper.
‘Gah!’ Carrie jolted in her chair, black coffee sloshing over the edge of her Thank F*ck it’s Friday mug. ‘What’s the matter, Em?’ Seeing her deputy’s face, she frowned. ‘Have you been crying?’
Emily thrust the letter at her. ‘Yes. You need to read this. Now.’
‘All right.’ Intrigued, Carrie put her reading glasses on, reading Rose’s letter while Emily paced a new rut in the carpet. After an eternity, she lifted her gaze to her deputy’s face, expression sombre. ‘Okay. I get it. But this is dated 2006. Don’t you think it’s all a bit late?’
Emily bit her lip, ‘Surely, it’s never too late to do the right thing.
I think we should choose kindness, when we can.
Also, you were only saying last week it’d be good to do something altruistic to reset our employer brand.
’ She paused. ‘I know there’ll be proposals to write, meetings to hold and costs to consider, but it would be worth all the hard work, wouldn’t it?
To give a gift to someone that’d mean so much to them?
And to bring life back to a forgotten village? ’
Carrie nodded with the decisiveness Emily admired so much, which had seen her fast-tracked to a senior leadership position. ‘Yes, it would be worth it. You’re right, let’s choose kindness.’
They looked at each other, and smiled.
THE END