My dearest Violet,
I’m not entirely sure if I’m doing the right thing, but in order to honour Monica’s memory, I’m going to do it regardless and leave the choices and decisions up to you.
Now – I’m dead, darling. No point beating around that particular bush; I must be, or you wouldn’t be reading this letter. I know I should have dealt with this sooner, but I’m afraid I wasn’t brave enough – Pandora’s box, and all that. Should have talked to your mother perhaps, but the right time never really presented itself. Or maybe I never looked for it. She’s too much like me for her own good, my Della; I don’t think she’d want this.
Are you ready? Here comes the formal bit.
Violet Monica Spencer, I hereby bequeath to you the property known as number 6 Swallow Beach Lido, and the Birdcage Pier, also at Swallow Beach.
I don’t know what you should do with the pier. Renovating it might not be an option; might be better to set fire to the damn thing and let it go out in a blaze of glory. Seriously my love, there may or may not be value in it. Do as you wish. The flat will have value I’m sure, although I expect it’ll need a lick of paint after all these years.
Tell your mother I’m sorry. I lied only by omission, but it was still a deception to let her think I’d sold up and cut our ties with Swallow Beach. Truth told, I don’t think her memories of the place are happy ones, mine neither, and I didn’t want to burden her. So it comes down to you. I have no sentimental attachment, so if you can sell up and make some money, do so without thinking twice. It pleases me to think that some good might come of it, and I’m sure your grandmother would feel similarly.
Bonne chance, child.
Grandpa Henry xxx
Violet stared at the spikily handwritten letter from her recently deceased beloved Grandpa Henry, unsure what it all meant. She’d heard of Swallow Beach, of course, from a couple of old photographs and the very occasional reminiscence when her mother had had a glass or two of wine, but as far as she knew it was part of her family’s history, not present.
She glanced up towards the house, aware her mother was up there in the kitchen right now reading her own letter from Henry, probably explaining all of this to her too. He’d lived in the Victorian villa next door for as long as Violet could remember; her family’s connection to Swallow Beach lay in the past, a lifetime ago. Another read through of the letter did little to shed any light, so Violet sighed and let herself out of her workshop at the end of her mum’s garden and made her way up to the house in search of answers.
‘Mum?’
There was no sign of her mum in the kitchen, nor on further exploration in the living room, dining room or study. Frowning, Violet called out again, running her hand over the familiar curve of the smooth mahogany handrail as she headed upstairs.
‘I’m up here.’
Violet tracked her mother’s voice to the small, twisting attic stairs.
‘In the attic?’ she called, even though there was no need because the sound of something being dragged overhead made it clear. ‘What are you doing up there?’
Like most people, her parents used their small eaves room for storage. Childhood toys that were too precious for Violet to part with, suitcases that only saw the light of day a couple of times each year, shelves full of dusty school projects and old CDs. And sitting in the middle of it all on the bare board floor, Della, Violet’s mum, pulling old photograph albums and yellowed paperwork out of a large, blue-and-white-striped cardboard storage box.
‘I’m guessing this has something to do with Grandpa Henry’s letter?’
‘Silly old goat,’ her mum muttered without looking up. ‘I can’t believe he never told me he hadn’t sold the place.’
Violet dropped down on her haunches and touched her mum’s shoulder. ‘Mum? What are you looking for?’
Her mother looked up at last, her blue eyes red-rimmed from crying.
‘What’s the matter?’ Violet said, startled. Her mum wasn’t a crier; she’d only cried once since Grandpa Henry died and she’d loved him beyond words. ‘Was it the letters that upset you?’
‘I’m not upset,’ Della said. ‘These—’ she jabbed her finger towards her eyes ‘are tears of bloody anger. How dare he land this on you?’
Violet tucked her chin-length, blue-tipped hair behind her ears, trying to read between the lines and work out what was really going on.
‘What are you looking for?’
Her mother didn’t answer, just pulled an unfamiliar black leather album from the box and blew the dust from the cover. She didn’t open it straight away, just held it in her lap and sighed heavily. ‘This belonged to Monica. My mother.’
Della so rarely spoke of her mother that Violet was stumped for what to say.
‘She loved that bloody pier.’
Again, Violet was lost. What was all this about a pier?
