Kitabı oku: «The Last Letter from Juliet»

Dedicated to the inspirational and courageous women pilots who served with the Air Transport Auxiliary during the Second World War – the ultimate Attagirls!

Prologue

Read Me

This is a note to yourself, Juliet.

At the time of writing you are ninety-two years old and worried that the bits and bobs of your story have begun to go astray. You must read this note carefully every day and work very hard to keep yourself and the memories alive, because once upon a time you told a man called Edward Nancarrow that you would, and it’s important to keep that promise, Juliet, even when there seems to be little point going on.

In the mahogany sideboard you will find all the things you will need to keep living your life alone. These things are: bank details; savings bonds; emergency contact numbers; basic information about you – your name, age and place of birth; money in a freezer bag; an emergency mobile phone. More importantly, there are also your most precious possessions scattered around the house. I’ve labelled them, to help you out.

Written on the back of this note is a copy of the poem Edward gave you in 1943. Make sure you can recite it (poetry is good for the brain). And finally, even if you forget everything else, remember that, in the end, Edward’s very simple words are the only things that have ever really mattered.

Now, make sure you’ve had something to eat and a glass of water – water helps with memory – and whatever happens in the future, whatever else you may forget, always remember … he’s waiting.

With an endless supply of love,

Juliet

Chapter 1
Katherine
A proposal

It was a bright Saturday lunchtime in early December. I’d just closed the lounge curtains and was about to binge-watch The Crown for the fourth time that year when a Christmas card bearing a Penzance postmark dropped through the letter box.

Uncle Gerald. Had to be.

The card, with an illustration of a distressed donkey carrying a (somewhat disappointed-looking) Virgin Mary being egged on by a couple of haggard angels, contained within it my usual Christmas catch-up letter. I wandered through to the kitchen and clicked the kettle on – it was a four-pager.

My Dear Katherine

Firstly, I hope this letter finds you well, or as well as to be expected given your distressing circumstances of living alone in Exeter with no family around you again this Christmas.

Cheers for that, Gerald

But more of your circumstances in a moment because (to quote the good bard) ‘something is rotten in the state of Denmark’ and I’m afraid this year’s letter will not burst forth with my usual festive cheer. There is at present a degree of what can only be described as civil unrest breaking out in Angels Cove and I am at my wits end trying to promote an atmosphere of peace and good will in time for Christmas. I’m hopeful you will be able to offer a degree of academic common sense to the issue.

Here’s the rub: the Parish Council (you may remember that I am the chair?) has been informed that the village boundaries are to be redrawn in January as part of a Cornwall County Council administrative shake-up. This simple action has lit the touch paper of a centuries-old argument amongst the residents that needs – finally – to be put to rest.

The argument in question is this: should our village be apostrophised or not? If ‘yes’, then should the apostrophe come before or after the ‘s’?

It is a Total Bloody Nightmare!

It really isn’t, Gerald.

At the moment, Angels Cove is written without an apostrophe, but most agree that there should be an apostrophe in there somewhere, yet where? The argument seems to rest on three questions:

1. Does the cove ‘belong’ to just one angel (the angel depicted in the church stained glass window, for example, as some people claim that they have seen him) or to a multitude of angels (i.e. the possessive of a singular or a plural noun).

2. Does the cove belong to the angels or do the angels belong to the cove? (The minority who wish to omit the apostrophe in its entirety ask this question.)

3. Does the word angel in Angels Cove actually refer, not to the winged messengers of the Devine, but to the notorious pirate, Jeremiah ‘Cut-throat’ Angel, who sailed from Penzance circa 1723 and whose ship, The Savage Angel, was scuppered in Mounts Bay (not apostrophised, you will note) when he returned from the West Indies at the tender age of twenty-nine?

As you can see, it’s a mess.

Fearing the onset of a migraine, I stopped reading and decided to sort out the recycling, which would take a while, given the number of empties. An hour later saw me continuing to give the rest of Gerald’s letter a stiff ignoring because I needed to get back to The Crown and plough my way through an ironing pile that saw its foundations laid in 1992. Just at the point where Prince Philip jaunts off solo on a raucous stag do to Australia (and thinking that I really ought to write a letter to The Queen to tell her how awesome she is), I turned the iron off (feeling a pang of guilt at leaving a complicated silk blouse alone in the basket) poured a glass of Merlot, popped a Tesco ‘extra deep’ mince pie in the microwave and returned to the letter …

I expect you will agree that this is a question of historical context, not a grammatical issue.

I do not.

As the ‘go to’ local historian (it must run in the family!) I attempted to offer my own hypothesis at the parish meeting last week, but can you believe it, I was barracked off the stage just two minutes into my delivery.

I can.

But all is not lost. This morning, while sitting on the loo wrecking my brains for inspiration, I stumbled across your book, From Nob End to Soggy Bottom, English Place Names and their Origins in my toilet TBR pile (I had forgotten you have such a dry wit, my dear) and I just knew that I had received Devine intervention from the good Lord himself, because although the villagers are not prepared to accept my opinion as being correct, I do believe they would accept the decision of a university professor, especially when I explain that you were sent to them by God.

So, I have a proposition for you.

Time for that mince pie.

In return for your help on the issue, please do allow me the pleasure of offering you a little holiday here in Angels Cove, as my very special present to you, this Christmas. I know you have balked at the idea of coming to stay with me in the past (don’t worry, I know I’m an eccentric old so-and-so with disgusting toenails)

True

but how do you fancy a beautiful sea view this Christmas?

Well, now that you mention it …

The cottage is called Angel View (just the one angel, note) and now belongs to a local man, Sam Lanyon (Royal Navy pilot – he’s away at sea, poor chap). He says you can stay as long as you like – I may have mentioned what happened to James as leverage.

Gerald!

The cottage sits just above the cove and has everything you could possible need for the perfect holiday (it’s also a bit of a 1940s time capsule because until very recently it belonged to an elderly lady – you’ll love it).

The thing is, before you say no, do remember that before she died, I did promise your mother that I would keep an eye on you …

It was only a matter of time.

… and your Christmas card seemed so forlorn … Actually, not forlorn, bland – it set me off worrying about you being alone again this Christmas, and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for us to look out for each other, as I’m alone, too – George is on a mercy mission visiting his sister in Brighton this year. Angels Cove is simply beautiful at Christmas. The whole village pulls together (when they are not arguing) to illuminate the harbour with a festival of lights. It’s magical.

But?

But … with all the shenanigans going on this year, I’m not sure the villagers will be in the mood for celebration. Please do say you’ll come and answer our question for us, and in doing so, bring harmony to this beautiful little cove and save Christmas for all the little tourist children.

Surely this kind of thing is right up your Strasse?

My idea is that you could do a little bit of research then the locals could present you with their proposals for the placement of the apostrophe in a climatic final meeting. It will be just like a Christmas episode of the Apprentice – bring a suit! And meanwhile, I’ll have a whole programme of excitement planned for you – a week of wonderful things – and it includes gin.

Now you’re talking

Do write back or text or (God forbid) phone, straight away and say you’ll come, because by God, Katherine, you are barely forty-five years old, which is a mere blink of an eye. You have isolated yourself from all of your old friends and it is not an age where a person should be sitting alone with only their memories to comfort them. Basically, if anyone deserves a little comfort this Christmas, it’s you. I know you usually visit the grave on Christmas Day, but please, for the build-up week at least (which is the best part of Christmas after all) come to Cornwall and allow yourself to be swaddled by our angels for a while (they’re an impressive bunch).

I am happy to beg.

Yours, in desperation,

Gerald.

P.S. Did I mention the gin?

Sitting back in a kitchen chair I’d ruined by half-arsedly daubing it in chalk paint two weeks before, I glanced around the room and thought about Gerald’s offer. On the one hand, why on earth would I want to leave my home at Christmas? It was beautiful. But the energy had changed, and what was once the vibrant epicentre of Exeter’s academia, now hovered in a haze of hushed and silent mourning, like the house was afraid of upsetting me by raising its voice.

A miniature Christmas tree sat on the edge of the dresser looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. I’d decorated it with a selection of outsized wooden ornaments picked up during a day trip to IKEA in November. IKEA in Exeter was my weekly go-to store since James had gone. It was a haven for the lost and lonely. A person (me) can disappear up their own backsides for the whole morning in an unpronounceable maze of fake rooms, rugs, tab-top curtains, plastic plants and kitchen utensils (basically all the crap the Swedes don’t want) before whiling away a good couple of hours gorging themselves on a menu of meatballs and cinnamon swirls, and still have the weirdest selection of booze and confectionary Sweden has to offer (what on earth is Lordagsgodis, anyway?) to look forward to at checkout.

And we wonder why the Swedes are so happy!

But did I really want to spend the run-up to Christmas in IKEA this year? (Part of me actually did – it’s very Scandi-chic Christmassy). But to do it for a third year in a row, with no one to laugh out loud with when we try to pronounce the unpronounceable Swedish word for fold-up bed?

(That was a poor example because a futon is a futon in any language and I really did need to try to control my inner monologue which had gone into overdrive since James died – I was beginning to look excessively absent minded in public).

But did I want to spend Christmas in IKEA this year?

Not really, no.

But the problem (and Gerald knew this, too) was that if I left the house this Christmas, then it would mark the beginning of my letting go, of starting again, of saying that another life – a festive one – could exist beyond James. If I had a good time I might start to forget him, but if I stayed here and kept thinking of him, if I kept the memories alive, re-read the little notes he left me every morning, if I looked through photographs on Facebook, replayed scenes and conversations in my mind, then he would still be here, alive, in me. But if I go away, where would that lead? I knew exactly where it would lead – to the beginning of the end of James. To the beginning of not being able to remember his voice, his smell, his laugh – to the beginning of moving on.

And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

But still …

I knocked back the last of the Merlot while googling train times to Penzance and fished out the last card in a box of IKEA Christmas cards I’d abandoned to the dresser drawer the week before. It was the exact replica of the one I’d already sent him, a golden angel. I took it as a sign and began to scribble …

Dear, Uncle Gerald,

You are quite correct. This kind of thing is indeed ‘right up my Strasse’. Rest assure there will be no need to beg – I shall come!

I arrive in Penzance by the 18.30 train on the 17th and intend to stay (wait for it) until Boxing Day! By which time I am confident that, one way or another, I will have found a solution to your problem. DO NOT, however, feel that you have to entertain me all week. It’s very good of you but actually – and quite selfishly – this trip could be a blessing in disguise. I have been racking my brains for an idea for a new book – a history project to keep me going through the rest of the winter – and I have a feeling that hidden deep within the midst of Cornish myth and legend, I might find one.

Please thank Mr Lanyon for the offer of use of his cottage – I accept!

How are the cataracts, by the way? Are you able to drive? If so, I wonder if you could meet me at the station?

With oodles of love,

Your, Katherine

P.S. Wouldn’t it be funny if ‘The Cataracts’ were an old couple who lived in the village and I would say, ‘How are the Cataracts, by the way?’ And you would answer, ‘Oh, they’re fine. They’ve just tripped off to Tenerife for Christmas.’

P.P.S. Take heart in knowing that there is nothing simple about the apostrophe. It is punctuation’s version of the naughty Cornish pixie, and seems to wreak havoc wherever it goes. There is a village in America, for example, where the misplacing of the apostrophe led to full-scale civil unrest and ultimately, the cold-blooded murder of the local Sheriff. Let us hope for your sake that the situation at Angels Cove does not escalate into a similar scale of brouhaha!

P.P.P.S. Gin? I love you.

Chapter 2
Katherine
The last station stop

It turned out that the residents of Angels Cove were expecting not one, but two Katherines to arrive in Penzance on the evening of 17 December. My namesake Storm Katherine – a desperate attention seeker who was determined to make a dramatic entrance – would arrive late with the loud and gregarious roar of an axe-wielding Viking. Trees would crash onto roads, chicken hutches would be turned upside down, and the blight of every twenty first century garden – the netted trampoline – would disappear over hedgerows never to be seen again (it wasn’t all bad, then). I hoped Uncle Gerald wouldn’t see my concurrent arrival with Katherine as some kind of omen, but really, how could he not?

Stepping onto the train in Exeter, despite the forecast weather, I was excited. By Plymouth I was beginning to wonder if it had all been a dreadful mistake – the locals would want to chat, and the woman in the shop (there was always a chatty woman in a shop) would glance at my wedding ring and pry into my life with a stream of double negatives: ‘Will your husband not be joining you in the cottage for Christmas, then? No? Well, it’s nice to have some time away from them all, eh? And what about your children? Will they not be coming down? No children? Oh, dear. Well, never mind …’

That kind of thing.

By Truro, I’d decided to turn back, but Katherine’s advance party had already begun to rock the carriages, and by the time St Michael’s Mount appeared through the late afternoon darkness – a watered down image of her usual self, barely visible through the driving rain and sea fret – my excitement had vaporised completely. Gazing through the splattered carriage window, I was startled by the sight of my mother’s face staring back at me. Only it wasn’t my mother, it was my own aged reflection. When had that happened? Anxious fingers rushed to smooth the lines on my mother’s face, which could only be described as tired (dreadful word) and I realised that, just like St Michael’s Mount in the winter rain, I too was a watered-down image of my usual self, barely visible through a veil of grief I had worn ever since the morning James had gone.

I hadn’t needed an alarm call that morning. I’d been laying on my side for hours, tucked into the foetal position, the left side of my face resting on a tear-stained pillow, my eyes focused just above the bedside table, fixed on the clock.

I watched every movement of Mickey Mouse’s right hand as it made a full circle, resting, with a final little wave, on the twelve.

Mickey’s voice rang out—

‘It’s time, time, time, to wake up! It’s time, time, time to wake up!’

I’d never known if Mickey had been supposed to say the word ‘time’ three times, or if at some point over the past umpteen years he had developed a stutter, but I silenced him with a harsh thump on the head and lay staring at the damp patch on the ceiling we’d never gotten to the bottom of, just to the right of the light fitting.

I wanted to lay there and consider that phrase for a moment – ‘it’s time’. Two little words with such a big meaning.

It’s time, Katherine.

How many times had I heard those words?

My father had said them, standing in the kitchen doorway on my wedding day. He’d taken my hand with a wonderful smile and walked me to the car, a happy man. We were followed closely behind by my Aunt Helena, who was frothing my veil and laughing at Mum – who did not approve of the match – and who fussed along behind us, arguing about … I think it was art, but it might have been cheese. And now, twenty years later, the exact same words were used by Gerald, to direct me out of the house. To force me, my insides kicking and screaming for release, to slide into the long black car that waited in the yard – the car that would take us to James’ funeral, the sort of funeral that has the caption ‘But, dear God, why?’ hovering in the air the whole day.

I turned my back on Mickey and ran my arm across the base sheet on the other side of the bed. If only there was still some warmth there. An arm to curl into, a woolly chest to rest my head on. But the sheet was cold, and like everything else in my house in Exeter, retained the deep ingrained memory of centuries of damp.

But if I just lay there and let the day move on without me …

It’s time, time, time, to wake up!

Mickey again.

I stretched. Ridiculous thought. Mickey was right. The day wouldn’t move on, not if I didn’t wind the cogs and drop-kick the sun through the goal posts. I threw my legs out of bed, sat up, patted Mickey, apologised for hitting him on the head and I kissed him on the face. Poor thing. It wasn’t his fault James had been killed, even if he did insist in shouting at me every morning in his overly polite, American way.

It’s time, Katherine.

But that was the thing with travelling alone on a train, there was simply too much time to think. Trains were just one long rolling mass of melancholy, the carriages filled with random, interconnected thoughts. Travel alone on a train with no book to read and an over-thinker can spend an entire journey in the equivalent of that confused state between sleeping and waking.

And then the guard broke my reverie.

Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving in Penzance. Penzance is the last station stop. Service terminates at Penzance. All alight at Penzance.

It was pretty obvious I needed to get off.

The train slowed to a final halt at the station and the last of the passengers began to stir. I grabbed my laptop case, put on my winter coat, hat and gloves and trundled to the end of the carriage in the hope that my suitcase would still be there. It was time to step out onto the platform, find Uncle Gerald, and head out into the storm.

Chapter 3
Katherine
A cottage by the sea

I stepped down onto the platform and stood still for a moment, my eyes searching through a river of passengers, before catching sight of Uncle Gerald, who was waving his multi-coloured umbrella like a lunatic and working his way upstream.

My heart melted. Uncle Gerald had been a steady presence in my life as a child, and although I had hardly seen him during my adult years, the bond that was formed during those childhood visits – nothing overly special, just a kind smile and couple of quid for sweets tucked into my sticky fingers – had never gone away. It was a bond that represented the safety and easiness of family. A bond that is usually lobbed into the back of the dresser drawer, stashed away, forgotten and allowed to loiter with the unused Christmas cards, nutcrackers and Sellotape, until the day came along when you actually needed it, and you opened the drawer with a rummage saying to yourself, ‘I just know I left it in there somewhere.’

Gerald rested his umbrella against my suitcase and put his arms around me.

I wasn’t expecting the sudden onset of emotion, but he represented a simpler time. A happy time. A time of singing together in the kitchen with Mum. The Carpenters.

‘Rainy Days and Mondays’.

I started to cry.

He patted.

‘Now then, none of that, none of that.’

‘Oh, don’t mind me, Uncle Gerald,’ I said, trying to smile while rifling through my handbag and coat pockets for a tissue. ‘Train stations and airport lounges always do this to me. I swear they’re the portals used by the tear fairies to tap directly into the tender places of the soul.’

Gerald handed me a folded blue handkerchief.

I opened the handkerchief and blew my nose.

He smiled. ‘Still over-dramatic then?’

I nodded.

‘That’s my girl!’

We both laughed and sniffed back the emotion before heading out into the wind and rain. We dashed to the car and he handed me the keys. ‘You wouldn’t mind driving, would you? Only I spent the afternoon in the Legion …’

***

The drive to Angels Cove took a little over half an hour. It was a fairly silent half hour because Uncle Gerald slept while I battled the car through the beginnings of the storm, luckily the sat nav remembered the way. The road narrowed as we headed down a tree-lined hill. I slowed the car to a halt and positioned the headlights to illuminate the village sign through the driving rain.

I nudged Uncle Gerald.

‘We’re here.’

He stirred and harrumphed at sight of the sign.

‘Perhaps now you can see why I asked for your help,’ he said.

I failed to stifle a laugh.

The sign had been repeatedly graffiti-ed. Firstly, someone had inserted an apostrophe with permanent marker between the ‘l’ and the ‘s’ of angels. Then, someone else had put a line through the apostrophe and scrawled a new apostrophe to the right of the ‘s’, which had been further crossed out. The crossings out continued across the sign until there was no room to write any more.

‘This all started at the beginning of November, when the letter from the council arrived. The average age in this village is seventy-four – seventy-four!– and they’re all behaving like children. I’ve got my hands full with it all, I can tell you. Especially on Wednesdays.’ He nodded ahead. ‘Drive on, straight down to the harbour.’

‘Wednesdays?’ I asked, putting the car into gear.

‘Skittles night at the Crab and Lobster.’

‘Ah.’

We carried on down the road, the wipers losing the battle with the rain and I tried to remember the layout of the village. I recalled Angels Cove as a pretty place consisting of one long narrow road that wound its way very slowly down to the sea. Pockets of cottages lined the road, which was about a mile long, with the pub in the middle, next to the primary school which was a classic Victorian school house with two entrances: BOYS was written in stone above one entrance and GIRLS written above the other.

The road narrowed yet further before opening out onto a small harbour. I stopped the car. The harbour was lit by a smattering of old-fashioned street lamps. Waves crashed over the harbour walls. The car shook. Although Katherine had not yet arrived with the might of her full force, the sea had already whipped herself up into an excitable frenzy.

Gerald pointed to the right.

‘You can’t make it out too clearly in the dark,’ he said, staring into the darkness. ‘But the cottage you’re staying in is up this little track by about a hundred yards … or so.’

I glanced up the track and put the car into gear.

‘You ready?’ he asked.

‘Ready? Ready for what?’

‘Oh, nothing. It’s just a bit of a bumpy track, that’s all.’ He tapped the Land Rover with an affectionate pat, as if he was praising an old Labrador. ‘No problem for this little lady, though. Been up that track a thousand times, haven’t you, old girl? Onwards and upwards!’

I set off in the general direction of a farm track. The car took on an angle of about forty-five degrees and began to slip and slide its way up the track. Waves crashed against the rocks directly to my left.

‘Shitty death, Gerald! What the f—?’

A couple of wheel spins later, to my absolute relief, a little white cottage appeared under a swinging security light. We pulled alongside and I switched off the engine, left the car in gear and went to open the driver door.

‘Don’t get out for a moment,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ll go in ahead and turn on the lights. It’ll give me time to shoo the mice away and make it nice and homely, that kind of thing.’

‘Mice?’

‘Only a few, and they’re very friendly.’

I wiped condensation from the window and tried to peer out into the storm. ‘OK, but don’t be too long,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’ve stepped through one of the seven circles of hell!’

***

The tour of the cottage was very short but very sweet. When Gerald mentioned that an elderly lady had left it as a 1940s time capsule, he wasn’t exaggerating. There were three bedrooms upstairs, which were pretty but functional, a downstairs bathroom, a good-sized kitchen and an achingly sweet lounge. Gerald lit the fire while talking.

‘I’ve stocked the fridge with enough food, milk and mince pies to take you through to the New Year.’ He glanced up. ‘Just in case.’

‘In case … what?’

He stood and brushed down his trousers. ‘This is Cornwall. Anything can happen.’

I took off my coat and lay it across the arm of a green velvet chaise longue, then crossed to the window to close the curtains. A photograph frame sat on the windowsill. The black and white image inside was of woman standing in front of a bi-plane, holding a flying helmet and goggles, smiling brightly, squinting slightly against the sun. There was a tag attached to the photo. I read it.

Summer 1938. Edward took this. Our first full day together. Two days in one – fantastic and tragic all at once. Why can we never have the one, without the other. Why can’t we have light without shade?

‘Juliet was a pilot,’ Gerald said by way of explanation, turning to face me briefly while attempting to draw the fire by holding a sheet of newspaper across the fireplace. ‘She flew for the Air Transport Auxiliary during the war. They used to deliver all the aircraft from the factories to the RAF, that kind of thing. Amazing woman.’

I nodded my understanding, still looking at the photograph.

‘Juliet handed the old place to Sam Lanyon last year, but he hasn’t got around to sorting through her belongings yet.’ Gerald rose to his feet. He screwed up the paper he’d used to draw the fire and threw it onto the flames.

I put the frame down, closed the curtains and looked around the room … photos, books, paintings, odds and ends of memorabilia. There was a 1920s sideboard, I opened a drawer. It was full of the same forgotten detritus of someone else’s life.

This was no holiday cottage, this was a home.

Gerald turned his back on the fire a final time. It was blazing.

‘Anyway, you’ve a good supply of coal and logs so just remember to keep feeding it, and don’t forget to put the guard up when you go to bed – this type of coal spits!’

He made a move towards the door. His hat and scarf were hanging on a peg in the little hallway. He grabbed them and began to wrap his scarf around his throat.

‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to stay here, Gerald?’ I was standing in the lounge doorway looking pensive. ‘Only it seems a bit … intrusive.’

‘Nonsense! It was Sam’s idea. He’s happy that it’s being aired.’

Gerald turned to leave and attempted to open the door. The force of the storm pushed against him. My unease at the prospect of staying alone in an unfamiliar cottage perched precariously on a cliff side, unsure of my bearings, during one of the worst storms in a decade, must have shown on my face. He closed the door for a moment and walked back into the lounge, talking to himself.

‘On nights like this, Juliet always put her faith in one thing, and it never let her down.’

I followed him. ‘What was that? God?’

He opened the sideboard door and peered inside.

‘Ha!’ He took out a bottle.

‘Whiskey?’

‘And there’s a torch in there, too.’ He put the whiskey back and walked into the kitchen. I heard him open and close a few drawers before reappearing in the lounge with half a dozen candles. He handed them to me.

‘Just in case the electricity goes out. And the matches are on the fireplace so you’re all set.’

The lounge window started to rattle.

He straightened his hat and headed to the door. ‘This cottage might seem rickety, but it’s the oldest and sturdiest house in the village. It’ll take a bit more than Katherine to see her off now!’

I picked up the car keys from the hall table and grabbed my coat from the lounge.

‘I’ll drive you home,’ I said.

‘No, no. I’ll walk back.’ He pulled his scarf tighter.

‘In this weather?’ I asked, only half concentrating, searching in my handbag for my phone. ‘Mercy, me! I have a signal!’

Gerald paused at the door.

‘Put the keys down, Katherine. I’ll be fine. Listen, why don’t you leave your coat on and come with me to see my friend, Fenella. Poor thing. I promised her I’d pop in on my way home. She’s had a bit of a bereavement and isn’t coping very well.’

‘Husband?’

‘Worse. Dog. Her cottage is on the harbour. We can nip in and pay our respects, quick cup of tea, then make our excuses and go back to mine … via the pub. You might as well meet the enemy straight off.’

I wanted to say, ‘Thank Christ for that. Yes please.’ But the curse of the twenty-first-century independent woman prevented me from throwing myself at his mercy. And I didn’t fancy the pub.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said with a blasé shoulder shrug, taking my coat off one final time. ‘I’ll be absolutely fine.’ (Which is the exact phrase everyone uses when they are, in fact, sure that they will not ‘be absolutely fine’.)

He put his hand on the door handle.

‘And how are you sleeping these days?’

I shrugged.

‘Don’t tell me you’re still listening to Harry Potter audio books half the livelong night?’

I shrugged again.

Listening to Stephen Fry narrate Harry Potter was much better than tossing and turning all night. There was just something about the combination of the two – Fry and Potter – that made the world seem like a safe place again.

‘It relaxes me. And you must admit, you can’t beat a bit of Stephen Fry at bedtime.’

Gerald laughed.

‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, I suppose – but don’t tell George, you know how jealous he gets. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll be off. Just phone me if you need reassurance. Oh, and there’s WiFi here.’

Result.

‘The code is …’ Gerald paused and delved into his coat pocket. He took out a scrap of paper. ‘… “tigermoth”, one word, all lowercase. And try not to worry. I wouldn’t leave you here if I thought it wasn’t safe.’

Gerald kissed me on the cheek and stepped out into the wind.

‘I’ll pop up tomorrow morning once the storm’s gone through,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got a fabulous programme of events all worked out, people to meet, things to do! And lock the door behind me straight away. It’ll bang all night if you don’t.’

‘I will,’ I shouted back, down the lane. ‘And, thank you!’

With the door locked and bolted, I walked into the lounge, sat on the sofa and stared into the fire, unconsciously spinning my wedding ring around my finger. The lights began to flicker, and in the kitchen, another window rattled. I grabbed my laptop from the hallway, logged onto the WiFi and – for at least five seconds – thought about doing a little apostrophe research (or any research that might lead me in the direction of a new project and take my mind off the storm). I closed the laptop lid.

Tomorrow. I’d do the research tomorrow.

I grabbed the remote control, flashed the TV and Freeview box into life and pressed the up button on the volume. The closing scenes of a Miss Marple rerun sounded-out most of the noise of the storm. Now all I needed to do was make a cup of tea, rustle up dinner and settle down to a spot of Grand Designs (the harangued couples who mortgaged themselves to the hilt and lived in a leaky caravan during the worst winter on record with three screaming kids and another on the way while trying to live off the land and source genuine terracotta tiles in junk shops for a bathroom that wouldn’t be built for another five years … they were my favourites).

With the closing credits of Miss Marple rolling down the screen, I walked through to the kitchen to make dinner. It was the real deal on the quintessential cottage front – not a fitted cupboard in sight – and very pretty, with French doors at the rear. A circular pine table with two chairs sat at the opposite end of the kitchen to the French doors, underneath a window. A golden envelope addressed to Katherine Henderson, C/O Angel View, sat on the table. I opened the envelope and took out the Christmas card.

Another angel, they were everywhere this year.

Dear Katherine

Just a quick note to welcome you to Angel View and explain about the house, which until recently belonged to a very special lady called Juliet Caron – my amazing Grandmother. You will find that her personality is still very much alive within the cottage walls. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to decorate the cottage for Christmas before you arrived, but you’ll find lots of decorations in the loft if you want to make the old place feel a bit more Christmassy.

Most importantly, please make yourself at home and have a wonderful time.

Yours,

Sam Lanyon

P.S. … you may find that a particularly vigilant Elf has already pitched up and positioned himself in the house somewhere. He always kept a beady eye on Juliet at this time of year. Give him a tot of whiskey and he’ll be your friend for life!

Smiling, I rested the card against a green coloured glass vase filled with yellow roses and took a cursory glance around the kitchen. There he was – sitting on a shelf, looking directly at me with his legs crossed and auspicious expression on his face.

I crossed the room to take a good look at him.

‘Hello, Mr Elf,’ I said, cheerily. ‘You needn’t worry about me. As Eliza Doolittle once said, I’m a good girl, I am … unfortunately!’

A few half-burned candles were scattered around the worktop and also on the windowsill. I took the matches from the lounge and lit them. There was a notepad and pen on the worktop, as if waiting for the occupier to make a list, and a very pretty russet red shawl was draped over the back of one of the chairs. I picked up the shawl and ran it through my fingers – it smelt of lavender and contentment. A luggage-style label had been sewn onto the shawl at one end. It read—

This was Lottie’s shawl – her comfort blanket. You wrapped Mabel in it on the day Lottie died.

Feeling a sudden chill, I took the liberty of wrapping the shawl around my shoulders and began to put together the makings of dinner – cheese on toast with a bit of tomato and Worcester sauce would do. I took an unsliced loaf out of the breadbin and opened the drawer of a retro cream dresser looking for cutlery. Sitting on top of the cutlery divider was a hard-backed small booklet with a large label attached to it. Another label? I took out the booklet and ran a finger over the indented words, First Officer Juliet Caron, Flying Logbook.

I turned the label over. With very neat handwriting, it read:

This is your flying logbook, Juliet. It is the most significant document of your life. Look at it often (whenever you use cutlery will do) and remember the times when you were happy (Spitfires), the times when you were stressed out (Fairey Battle – awful machine), the times when you had no idea how you survived to fly another day (like that trip in the Hurricane when the barrage balloons went up just as you were leaving Hamble) and that terrible day you tried to get to Cornwall with Anna – the one entry you wish you could delete. Other than the compass, this is your most treasured possession.

My rumbling tummy brought me back to the moment. I filled the kettle, stepped over to the fridge and noticed a laminated note stuck to the door with ‘Read Me’ written on the top. I read it, expecting it to be instructions from Sam, or Gerald.

It wasn’t.

While the kettle was boiling, I read a letter which began:

This is a letter to yourself, Juliet …

So that was what all the labels were for … Juliet had been frightened of losing her memory. I took the letter off the fridge and turned it over.

Where Angels Sing, by Edward Nancarrow

When from this empty world I fall

And the light within me fades

I’ll think, my love, of a sweeter time

When life was light, not shade

With bluebirds from this world I’ll fly

And to a cove I’ll go

To wait for you where angels sing

And when it’s time, you’ll know

To meet me on the far side where

We once led Mermaid home

And finally, my love and I

Will be, as one, alone

And at that moment, after pouring water from Juliet’s kettle into Juliet’s cup, sitting in Juliet’s house and wearing Juliet’s shawl, I felt an overwhelming sensation of being swaddled, that Juliet and I were somehow linked. Gerald would blame my overactive imagination, of course, but I really did feel that I was supposed to come to Angels Cove this Christmas.

With my dinner quickly made and eaten, I set up camp in the lounge and, trying to ignore the other Katherine who was hammering at the door to get in, I decided it was time for Kevin McCloud (such a lovely man) to transport me into his TV world of Grand Designs, into other people’s lives – happier, family lives – where dreams really do come true (and maybe a tot or two of that whiskey wouldn’t go amiss either).

Glancing into the sideboard I was mesmerised – it was an Aladdin’s Cave of memorabilia, of yet more labels. Next to the whiskey was a wad of faded A4 paper held together by green string. The top sheet had the typewritten words,

Attagirls!

The war memoirs of Juliet Caron

Lest she forgets

I untied the string and peeled back the top sheet to reveal a letter.

1 June 1996

My dear Sam

How is life at sea treating you? I know I say it too much for your liking, but I’ll say it again – I’m so very proud of you (and a little jealous of all that fabulous flying, too!).

Anyhow, I’m sure you must be busy so I’ll get to the point because I’m worried, Sam. Worried that my older memories are starting to fade and that one day soon they may leave me completely. Sitting here in my little cottage, able to do less and less each day, watching the tide ebb and flow, I have felt suddenly compelled to remember and record what happened in my life during the war. I read somewhere that if you wish to tell a story of war, do not tell the basic facts of the battle, but tell instead of the child’s bonnet removed from the rubble of a Southampton street, or the smell of twisted metal from a burnt Hurricane crashed by a friend, or the lingering smell of a man, robbed of his prime by typhus, as he lays in a strange bed in a foreign land, dying. I’m not sure I shall be able to do this, but even so, I have begun to write everything down. My friend Gerald is helping me. I aim to write one instalment per month – the first one is written already and attached – and send you copies as I write them. It’s an heirloom, I suppose, for you and your children (or if nothing else to give you something sensational to read during those long nights at sea!).

As you read each instalment, remember that my words will be as accurate as my aging mind allows them to be. Certain days stand out more than the rest. Just lately, I find that I can remember 1943 like it was yesterday, and yet events from yesterday elude me as if set in 1943. But what is truth of any situation anyway? I really do feel that life is made up of a constant stream of living, punctuated only by that otherworld of sleep. The fact that we choose to put a time and date to everything is merely a paper exercise. I used to think that once a moment is gone, it is gone forever, resigned only to memory. But now – now that I can no longer take my memory for granted – I realise that this is not the case. Love, for example, once thought lost, can be captured forever, just so long as someone out there strives to keep the memory of that love alive.

And so here is the first in a series of my memories that consist only of certain vivid days. They are memories of a time when suddenly, for a woman, absolutely anything (both the good and the desperately bad) became possible.

Anyway – enough of my ramblings!

Drum roll, please …

‘Ladieeeees and gentlemen! Lift your eyes to the heavens and prepare to be amazed, to be wowed and bedazzled! Here she is … the fearless! The death-defying! The one and only – Juliet Caron!’

I rested the letter on my knee just as a crash outside coincided with the sudden outage of the lights and the television turned to black. The glow from the fire provided sufficient ambient light for me to reach into the sideboard and find the torch, but the battery must have been an old one because the torchlight was weak and to my disappointment, within a few seconds, petered out.

Determined to take on some of the inner strength of the remarkable woman who had written a note to herself at ninety-two years old to never give in, I surrounded myself with candles, stoked the fire and wrapped the russet shawl tighter around my shoulders. And despite knowing that I shouldn’t waste my phone battery on a little light reading, not tonight of all nights, I got myself cosy on the sofa, abandoned Harry Potter, enabled the torch on my phone and began to read.