Chapter 31 #2
I hope you’re still happy with your Arnaldo and he still loves you and makes you feel special like my Gary does.
And I know this letter’s rubbish and I am crap at writing but I want you to know that not everyone in our family hates you.
And like I said, I wanted to say sorry for them.
Even if you are annoyed at me for writing (but I hope you’re not).
With lots of love and kisses from,
Your niece, Suzanne x
I sit on the bed, blinking.
I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, that I’m suffering from a concussion or am regaining consciousness and haven’t quite come round.
At the same time, Mum has burst back into my head exactly as I remember her and I can see her facial expressions and hear her voice much more vividly than I have for years.
She’s written on thin, lined paper that’s been pulled out of a spiral-bound notepad, with what looks like a cheap blue biro, the pressure she exerted making her imprint come through to the other side.
Her handwriting is more rounded and frilly than Wilf’s, with circles over the i’s, but it’s also sloppy—even sloppier towards the end of the letter.
But it all fits the mum I remember: it’s all unmistakably her.
My head’s spinning with adrenaline and I struggle to fill my lungs.
I hold the letter to my nose and try to breathe it in, but it doesn’t smell of Mum. It doesn’t smell of Silk Cut cigarettes or Nivea hand cream.
Come on, Adam, get a grip.
Although I am shocked to hear about the affair, in some ways it doesn’t surprise me at all.
I remember suspecting something was going on, something I couldn’t quite understand, but sensing very clearly that Mum was pulling away.
Now it occurs to me, I probably started to feel abandoned even before she died.
When she did, the knife just twisted in farther.
Suddenly, all the happiness and security I’ve felt over the last few days has been snatched away from me.
All my anxieties and insecurities have come crashing back and my head’s flooding with questions.
What does this mean about Mum’s death? Surely it can’t be a coincidence that she wrote to Wilf just two months before she died?
From outside, I hear the sound of Archie’s little feet clattering up the stone steps. “Adam!”
The sound of his voice hits me like a second truck from the opposite direction.
He bangs on the exterior door to the big lounge.
I ram the letter back in the envelope, replace both envelopes on top of the pile, and close the shoebox.
“Coming!” I call out.
I quickly tidy the box under the bed, telling myself it’s a good thing to be forced to take a break before reading the next letter.
This is a lot to process. A lot to process.
“I thought it would be nice for us to watch the sunset together,” says Theo, as the five of us sit down on the castle wall. “For us to say goodbye to the day.”
I don’t think Theo realizes the expression he’s using—an expression I’ve used on him—comes from my mum.
He doesn’t realize I’ve been thinking about her all evening.
He doesn’t realize I’ve been tormenting myself, going over and over what she revealed in the letter, wondering how it affects what I’ve always thought, what I’ve always suspected.
Even so, he sensed something was wrong. A couple of times he took me to one side and asked if I was OK but I just fobbed him off. There’s no way I can tell him—not yet.
Probably because he knows how much I love watching the sunset, after dinner Theo suggested we all come up here.
Now we’re halfway through August, the sun is setting earlier and there’s no conflict with Archie’s bedtime.
But I’m worried this is only going to make me feel worse.
Because watching the sunset always makes me think about Mum.
I look out at the orange sun arching closer to the mountain, a few thin stripes of cloud streaking around it.
At the mountain’s foot shimmers the unusually clear sea, its surface smudged by what I can only assume is a boat.
Behind the mountain that embraces the sea, the sky burns a much deeper orange, like the embers of our barbecue.
I have a clear memory of Mum and I watching the sunset a month or so before she died—around the time she wrote Wilf the letter I’ve just read.
I remember her saying that if she ever had to go away it wouldn’t mean she didn’t love me, that she’d never stop loving me.
That’s why I’d always thought she must have taken her own life: I thought she must have been trying to prepare me.
She knew I was gay and was so repulsed by it, she couldn’t bear to be near me, she couldn’t bear to go on living.
As everyone at school called me a dirty queer and everyone acted as if being gay was the worst thing ever, that seemed to me to make perfect sense.
At my side, Theo lets out a relaxed, contented sigh. “Right, let’s think of all the things we did well today and all the things we want to do better tomorrow.”
“I liked playing with Spaghetti!” cheeps Archie, sitting on my other side. “And on my swing!”
Theo grins. “Superb, squirt. But people don’t have to tell us if they prefer to keep it to themselves.”
We all fall silent and gaze out at the sunset.
But I become fixated on what I realize is its imperfection.
If I could just shift the sun over to the right, it’d be hovering directly above the sea—in the center of the V made by the mountains—its reflection on the waves forming a perfect straight line, until it disappears behind the horizon.
“Now, aren’t we lucky to be doing this together?” says Theo, softly. “Not everyone gets to say goodbye to the day with the people they care most about.”
Like a body blow, I realize just how much I miss my mum. All of a sudden, I start crying.
“Sorry, Adam,” says Callum.
I knuckle the tears out of my eyes but they keep falling. “‘Sorry’? What for?”
“For being so hard on you,” he says. “When we first got here.”
“Oh.” I’m taken by surprise.
“I’m sorry, too,” says Mabel. “I wasn’t very nice, either.”
“That’s OK,” I manage. “Although apologies accepted. Thank you.”
Archie shuffles closer to me and takes hold of my hand.
“We want to make up for it,” Callum announces. “Me and Mabel wondered how you’d feel about us doing your digital marketing.”
“For this place,” clarifies Mabel. “Callum could do the website and I could do the social media.”
“We’ll do a mint job, I promise,” says Callum.
The two of them look at me, eagerly.
I sniff back my tears. “I’m sure you would.”
“So what do you say?” chips in Theo. “Is that a yes?”
I force out a smile. “Yes, brill. And thank you. That’s really exciting.”
Archie squeezes my hand. “If you like, we can play Top Trumps tomorrow. Dad’s got me a new pack in Italian. ‘Awesome Animali’!”
I no longer have to force myself to smile. “You’re on.” I let out a breath. “Guys, I’m sorry I got emotional.”
“Don’t apologize,” insists Theo.
“I was just having a moment,” I go on. “But it’s lovely to be here. And you’re right: we are lucky to be doing this together.”
I squeeze Archie’s little hand and realize this hasn’t made me feel worse at all. It’s made me feel much better. Even if the sunset is imperfect.
I notice Archie’s glasses are dirty. I let go of his hand, lift them off his nose, and clean them on my T-shirt. And I hold them up to inspect the lenses in the light of the setting sun.