Chapter Fifty-Two
When the Horizons exhibition was only days away, a small package arrived at Potters Newsagents, addressed to Jacob.
The postman’s arrival coincided with a van delivery of forty-eight cans of fizzy drinks and three boxes of crisps, so it was a while before Jacob got around to opening it.
The other reason for the delay was because he recognised the handwriting as his father’s.
Their last conversation hadn’t gone well and Jacob had a feeling that this package would not be good news.
As it turned out, he was only half right.
Once the shop was quiet, Jacob ripped it open and tipped the contents onto the counter. Out slid a bundle of old letters, tied together with blue wool, and wrapped around the bundle was a typed covering letter. He read that first.
Dear Jacob,
Possibly you are surprised to hear from your father by old-fashioned letter. However, that seems to be the Warburn way – to hide things away but leave a paper trail to explain ourselves after the event.
Thank you for inviting me to the exhibition in Portheast. I see The Guardian is calling it ‘A rare opportunity to see a gem of modern art’.
But the real reason you’ve asked me is to meet this Evelyn Silver. I will not be coming and I hope these letters will help explain why.
However, I have tried to make amends in a different way. I suspect you will accuse me of throwing money at a problem and you wouldn’t be wrong.
The Lanyon painting is nice enough, but there’s no way it’s worth the sum I paid. Even the art dealer looked shocked, but when I explained it had a personal significance he didn’t quibble. Why would he, when he was in line for a percentage?
A windfall for Evelyn Silver has been long overdue. She has been paid a stipend in perpetuity but today it’s almost worthless – my father Jasper hadn’t considered inflation when he set it up all those years ago. I hope this evens things out a little, at least on the financial front.
As for the moral side of things, well not all deficits can be paid off.
In his defence, my father Jasper was a callow eighteen-year-old when he met Evelyn’s mother, Cora-May.
Their love affair started in the summer before he went up to Oxford.
She was in service at Warburn Hall and he was the son and heir, but from what I gather, their love was genuine.
Given that he later tried to win her back, I suspect his ardour never waned.
He and my mother, Catherine, got engaged while he was at Oxford and the marriage was intended to draw a line underneath the business with Cora-May. Except it didn’t work. And I can tell you, growing up in a loveless marriage wasn’t much fun.
My father’s dalliances continued: men of his class and generation saw it as their birthright, hence the family pied-à-terre in Pimlico. In all honesty, that flat still comes in handy.
When I cleared out Warburn Hall – I had no desire to take up residence in that draughty, dark place – I found these letters, written by my father to Cora-May. This was when I first learned of Evelyn’s existence.
The first letter was sent in 1964 and the last in 1987. Interestingly, they were all inside a larger envelope with his name on the front, as if they had been returned as a job lot, with the final letter still sealed.
They tell one side of the story, but another side was my own unhappy childhood due to my parents’ empty marriage.
For these reasons, I cannot bring myself to meet Evelyn Silver.
There are six letters in all, enclosed.
Regards, Simon Warburn
His father had always taken a perverse pride in never changing his mind, so Jacob wasn’t entirely surprised by his words, but they left a deep ache in his chest. Jacob pulled on the end of the blue wool and the stack of letters came free. He read them in order.
20 September 1964
My dearest Cora-May,
I hope your stay in St Agnes is proving comfortable. The home comes recommended and my father says there are wholesome activities and a chapel for daily prayers.
I wish I were permitted to visit, but when you return with our baby in November I will be waiting for you. Father wants me to take up my place at Oxford in October, but I will talk to him again and appeal to his better side. What decent person could deny true love?
There is a pretty estate cottage in Cowell that I have my eye on for the three of us. It will be a simple but perfect life. I have a little money saved and I am writing poems and I hope to make a living from them one day.
Are you grown big? Is the baby kicking? I wish I could be with you, but Father says the mother and baby home is a better option: you will be well looked after and no local gossip will sully our future.
Just think, by Christmas, our baby will be born and we shall be married. My love, I cannot wait.
Love, Jasper
28 November 1964
My sweet Cora-May,
A baby girl! How wonderful. My heart is broken that you are not yet well enough to come home with her. Father says the home is the best place for a new mother to recover. Is the food good? Is she thriving? Let us each think of a name for her and compare notes when you are well enough to travel.
My love, stay strong. In the end, Father made it very hard for me to wait for you at Warburn, and so I write to you from Oxford. You know Father.
I feel sure that he will soon see reason. I long to return to Warburn and to you.
All my love, Jasper
2 December 1964
Dear Cora-May,
I know that by now tomorrow’s arrangement has been explained to you.
Please remember it is only temporary. While you remain weak and I am busy with my studies, this seems a practical solution.
Besides, Father will not hear otherwise.
If I go against him, we will have nothing: no home, no funds. Please, let’s give this idea a go.
You may still have the cottage in Cowell. It is for you and your parents. As for the baby, I have met the perfect couple to help us out. He’s a decent chap who has put his studies on hold to do some research and his fiancée is a sweet thing.
They are to be married and Father has agreed to set them up in a nice house in Portheast, where Edwin can continue his research. They will look after the baby and treat her as their own. The local doctor will collect her soon. He is a family friend and utterly trustworthy.
It is agreed, the baby will be referred to as a foundling.
With love, Jasper
12 May 1966
Dear Cora-May,
As you may have heard, I am to be married to Catherine Beaumont. Our families go way back. I hope you are keeping well and the cottage is to your liking.
The child is thriving, according to the doctor. She will be given a suitable upbringing.
Best wishes, Jasper
28 October 1987
Dear Cora-May,
I was very sorry to hear of the death of your husband, Gilbert Larkwood. Fishing is an honourable profession, but not without its dangers.
I hear you have a fine son named Robert and I hope he is some comfort to you. Catherine and I also have a son of a similar age, Simon. He’s twenty-two now and a chip off the old block.
But Cora-May, there is no love in my marriage. I have only been in love once and that was with you. Please let us try again? My father is an old man and he’s ruled my life for too long. I wish I had been braver all those years ago.
Our child is a young woman now and I hear she will soon take up a job locally, as curator of the new museum, so it was for the best. She had opportunities you could not have provided.
If you will consider my proposal, please write back.
Those summer days with you were the best I’ve known.
Jasper
12 December 1987
Dear Cora-May,
This is the last letter I shall write. I am sorry for surprising you like that, but when I saw you sitting on a bench on the quay I was compelled to come over.
It seemed you were looking out for someone, but clearly it wasn’t me. I only wanted to declare my desire to be reunited, but you made your feelings clear: it was too little too late.
Unfortunately, Portheast being a small town, we were seen talking and word got back to Catherine. I have a plan to win her over, though. I’ve bought her a rather nice painting – a recently discovered Alfred Wallis. She’s a lucky woman.
Cora-May, I accept your rebuttal, but your words wounded me and they have run around my head all week. You said, ‘The day you took away my daughter, you broke me in two’.
One day, I hope those broken pieces may mend.
Yours, Jasper Warburn
While Jacob had few illusions about his father, these letters revealed a very different side to the genial grandfather he remembered fondly yet, it turned out, had barely known.
Jacob reassembled the letters and retied the blue wool.
It was time, he decided, to draw his own line under what his father blithely called ‘the Warburn way’.
He carried the package the short distance to Portheast Antiques, where he found George Rook busy painting a pine cabinet.
‘I need some advice,’ he began. ‘These letters tell the story of Evelyn’s past.’
George set down his paintbrush and read the letters, taking his time.
‘Well, they are quite the find,’ he said.
‘Shall I show them to her?’ Jacob asked.
‘Of course.’
‘And what about this one?’ He handed George the covering letter from his father.
‘Tricky,’ George pronounced. ‘Not the mystery buyer we imagined.’
He resumed painting the cabinet with long, even strokes. ‘It might feel kinder to hide it, but I think there have been too many secrets in Evelyn’s life already.’
With the exhibition imminent, Jacob decided that the sooner Evelyn knew the truth the better and he showed her the letters that afternoon. First, he handed over the bundle written by Sir Jasper and he watched as her expression moved through joy to confusion and then pain.
‘Poor Cora-May,’ she said quietly. ‘Alone, believing he would come.’
‘I know.’
‘And her words: “broke me in two”.’ She covered her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a while. ‘Anyway, I think they’re rightfully yours so it’s up to you what you do with them.’
She gave a brief nod.
Jacob cleared his throat. ‘Then there’s this one, from my father.’ He passed it over but this time as Evelyn read, her expression remained impenetrable. She passed it back with a weary smile. ‘The mystery buyer is revealed.’
‘It probably feels like you’ve been deceived, yet again.’
Her answer surprised him. ‘Not in the least,’ she said smartly. ‘To be honest, it’s a relief.’
‘How so?’
‘The Warburn family wronged Cora-May and myself. As time travel is not an option, I accept the money as compensation. In truth, I was starting to feel bad that an art lover had paid over the odds for the painting. Simon Warburn? Not so much.
‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘everything about that painting brings me pleasure. It speaks of open skies and a yearning for freedom and, best of all, it ended up in my museum because of my mother Elsbeth. I think it spoke to her.’
Evelyn deftly secreted the old letters in a drawer of her desk and turned a key. ‘Now, since you’re here, you can make yourself useful,’ she said, passing him a broom. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got an exhibition to put on.’
Jacob looked at his father’s letter, which Evelyn had left on her desk.
‘Erm, what shall I do with this?’
Evelyn, who was already polishing her cabinets with unusual force, looked round. ‘I have a system now,’ she said. ‘Beside my desk, you’ll find two bin bags. Unless you object, I suggest you put it straight into the one marked Rubbish.’