letters are what you might call an archive. Who else has a treasure trove like that to draw on?’
‘I’m not sure if Don would like us to use his personal things like that. They belong to the family. They’re private.’
‘Oh, come on, dear. All the folk who wrote the letters are dead now, or pretty much, aren’t they?’
Julia flinches, and May curses herself for being tactless. She pats Julia’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. But I could help you to sort them and plan a story based around them. Andy could catalogue them properly. He might even type some of them out if you ask nicely. He does all sorts of useful clerical jobs at the garden centre – he’s very organised.’
‘Do you really think so? Andy’s already read quite a few of them. He seems fascinated.’
‘I do. It’d be a joint effort. We could make a start straight away. They need sorting, don’t they? You and Andy could come here to do it and Tamsin could play outside where we can all see her. It’d be fun.’
Julia’s looking interested now. ‘I wonder …’ she says.
Emily sits at her desk on the fifteenth floor reading Andy’s latest email and quietly panicking. It’s a huge relief that Colin has been encouraging about her trip to England, when she explains the reason behind it. His own elderly uncle is beginning to have memory problems too, wandering around in the night in his dressing gown and slippers.
‘Just do it, Em,’ he says, when she’s poured out her worries. ‘But if you could clear your desk and sort those last few meetings this week, I’d be eternally grateful. Family first, though, always. Never forget that. And the West Country in June will be heaven. I’m deeply envious, darling.’
Emily hugs him and thanks her lucky stars for an understanding boss. She knows Devon-born Colin isn’t like most New York City high flyers, with his taste for Scrabble, loud pullovers and flamboyant socks. He often claims to be pining for all things British, and never fails to have a tray of Earl Grey and Fortnum & Mason biscuits served on the dot of half-past three every day, whomever he happens to be with in the office.
The email is giving Emily a cold feeling in her heart, although it starts well.
‘Hi Emily,’ Andy writes.
I thought I’d fill you in on what’s been happening. I expect your gran’s told you about the huge stack of letters she’s found? Well, May (you remember her, of course you do, what am I talking about, you’ll have known her for years) has just suggested that I help catalogue them all. The letters are fantastic – they go right back to the fifties. And – get this – your gran wants to write a book based on them. I’ve got to say I don’t reckon she’s up to it at the moment but it’d be a bad idea to put her off at this stage. Anything that brings her out of herself a bit’s got to be good. We can always rethink later.
Anyway, looking forward to seeing you to talk about Julia and how she’s been – I’ve got a sitter for my little girl, Tamsin, because although she’d love to meet you, she doesn’t miss a trick and would be sure to report back to May and Julia on what we discussed, probably word for word! Not that we’ll be whispering secrets or anything, but I thought I could take you out for dinner, maybe? There’s a great little seafood place along the coast, and Monday is their quiet night. Cockleshell Bay – have you been there? It’s run by a lovely couple of guys, George and Cliff.
I’ll be in touch when you’re here. The formidable gang of two has already started sifting through the letters but that needed to be done anyway, so if you think I’m interfering and want me to mind my own business, I will. Julia’s been muttering about family secrets, but I’m not sure what it’s all about. Maybe she’s filled you in already? I hate to tell you this but I’m getting more and more worried about her. I’m glad you’ll soon be here. Yesterday I found her in tears because she couldn’t remember Don’s sisters’ names and she’d forgotten whether she’d had breakfast or not. Am I wrong to encourage the crazy book idea?
See you soon, sorry to flap – I want to help but I don’t know what to do for the best any more.
Andy
Emily rubs her eyes and yawns. If only she could transport herself to Pengelly right now, without the effort of getting through a mammoth workload, flying to England and driving all the way to Cornwall on a hot afternoon. To be sitting on the beach, listening to the sound of the waves and looking forward to scones and clotted cream for tea would be perfect.
Her incoming email alert pings and Emily’s stomach lurches. Max hasn’t been in touch again since her last text. She kind of hopes he’ll just leave her alone now, but her bruised pride would like him to protest more at the sudden end to their affair. The message is only Colin, though, checking she’s not forgotten yet another meeting this afternoon. Deep joy. Roll on Pengelly, and the smell of salt water and tar instead of over-sanitised office air, lightly scented with artificial citrus tones. The sooner the better.
It’s an ugly phrase, but May’s mother would have described her as being ‘as happy as a pig in muck’ these last couple of days. She and Julia seem to have called a truce (although whatever old annoyance was ruffling Julia will have to be tackled at some point, May supposes) and made a proper plan to join forces in their quest to make it easier for Andy to catalogue the letters. May is still smarting at the way Julia seems to think that family life and motherhood are solely her own territory, but if May doesn’t want to dig up the past in a big way, she’s going to have to take it on the chin.
May’s done a bit of gentle probing over the last day or two and now she knows for sure that Charles is the root of whatever is bugging Julia, but further than that she can’t fathom, as yet. What can he possibly have done to make Julia so antagonistic, even after all these years and, whatever it was, why does Julia blame May for it? Charles was a law unto himself. May was never able to influence him.
The next day, as they’ve planned, Julia turns up with the first batch of letters in a shopping basket. She proceeds to potter back and forth all morning bringing more, while May makes endless pots of tea and provides chocolate digestives and fig rolls every now and again.
‘This is the last lot,’ Julia gasps, as she puts the basket down on the dining table with a thump. ‘I thought I was never going to get to the end of them.’
May sits back, deeply content. With the letters here, she has no need to worry about where her next memory fix is coming from, and she’s got the prospect of a companion every day, if she wants one. The idea of Julia as a friend is growing on her, and now she’s wondering why she’s let the other woman get away with being so snooty over the years. Somehow, she has to get past this ancient burning resentment.
‘Julia, can I ask you something?’ she says.
‘Fire away.’
‘Even before the incident with the soup spoons, you didn’t seem to like me much. I’ve been wondering what I did to annoy you?’
Julia’s cheeks are pink as she meets May’s gaze. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I didn’t like you … and I probably jumped to the wrong conclusion about those old
