59 Memory Lane

скачать книгу бесплатно


Listening to the comforting clatter of cups and saucers, May breathes a sigh of relief. Julia will have ignored the serviceable mugs on their hooks. She’s got style. ‘And maybe a fig roll, dear?’ May calls. ‘They’re in the tin on the dresser. Next to the teabags.’

Julia’s soon back, and settles the tray on a low table. She pours their tea without asking if May wants her to be mum, and soon they’re sipping away as if they do this at May’s cottage every day. The first part of the mission is accomplished. Now for the next steps.

‘I’m relieved you’re feeling better. I wonder if your blood pressure needs checking?’ says Julia, frowning. ‘Sometimes if it drops suddenly, you can keel over. It happened to me once or twice when I was carrying Felix. I really thought I was going to find you flat on your back with a head wound, or something.’

‘You’ve got a very lively imagination, dear,’ says May. ‘You should write a novel.’

‘I often wish I could. I have to make do with reading them.’

‘You should have a try. You’d need one of those USPs, though.’

‘A what?’

May sighs. She’d thought Julia would be well up on publishing terms, with Emily being in the business. ‘Unique Selling Point. I heard them talking about it on the radio when they were interviewing that lady who wrote a story about the girl looking out of a train window?’

‘I haven’t read that one. What’s it called?’

May snorts. ‘Er … Girl on a Train?’ she suggests.

Julia shakes her head. ‘No, never heard of it. What could I have for a UFO then?’

‘USP, dear. I’m not sure.’

May thinks for a moment. ‘How about your letters? They’d make the perfect starting point for a book,’ she says, clapping her hands together.

‘My letters? Why would anyone want to read a story about Don’s family? I mean, they were a friendly bunch, I’ll give them that, but not very interesting.’

‘Think about it, Julia. Those 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.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_e8d8441d-2243-5912-8b64-6732a92e4e93)

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.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_5a634ee0-a4fa-52f0-8536-7186373cc28f)

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 spoons.’

‘Come on, dear, spill the beans. I won’t be offended. You’ve given me the cold shoulder for years. I just want to know why, that’s all. Because you’re not the sort of person to be stand-offish for no reason, I know that now.’

There’s a long silence, but May can be patient when she needs to be. Eventually Julia clears her throat. ‘I suppose it all goes back to Charles.’

‘I thought as much.’

‘But really, I don’t see why we have to drag bad memories up after all this time. Can’t we just draw a veil over it?’

‘Well, we could, if I had some idea what it is. And what’s Charles got to do with you not liking me?’

Julia gets up and goes over to the window. With her back to May, she says, ‘I told you, it’s not about whether I like you or not. Look, I’m not ready for this sort of talk just now, May. It’s hard enough to get through the days without Don. I can’t tackle any more emotional memories. Can’t we just get on with the letters?’

May sighs and gives in. They start to work their way through the heap, putting the photographs on one side. The rush of memories is potent, and May is soon overwhelmed. She realises she mustn’t start reading the letters properly otherwise she’ll be comatose before long, so she settles for just checking the dates. Even so, she can tell her face is giving her away. She can’t stop smiling.

‘We’ve done enough for now,’ says Julia, after an hour of intense sorting. ‘I’ll just read you a bit of this one, though. It’s from Elsie.’

She clears her throat.

Thanks for having us to stay again, Don. I know it wasn’t one of our more successful visits. Blame Will and his weird moods for that. I can’t believe he dashed off like that before the holiday was even over. I had to come home on the train alone, which wasn’t much fun, and to think he hitch-hiked all that way in the middle of the night! I still haven’t got to the bottom of it, and now he’s jacked his job in and gone off to Ireland. It’s that Catholic Church at the root of it. He’s never been the same since he turned his back on the Methodist chapel and started going to Mass.

‘What’s all that about?’ May asks. Something’s tugging at her memory, and it’s making her feel sick.

‘I have no idea. The date’s 15 March 1963. Does that mean anything to you?’

May closes her eyes, suddenly dizzy, and Julia leans forward.

‘You look a bit … well, Emily would probably call it “spaced out”. Are you OK to work a bit longer or shall we have a break?’

May really is feeling quite peculiar now. The thought of a little lie-down on the bed is very tempting. March 15 1963. Her eleventh wedding anniversary. And the day after Charles drowned.

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_1a38efd3-962a-5bf7-9028-48950ca1aa9b)

The hire car smells vaguely fishy, and also as if someone’s been smoking in it. Maybe it was previously lent to a kipper manufacturer? It’s started making rather strange clunking and creaking noises after fifty or so miles, but Emily ignores them and eventually the sounds die away.

The last fifty miles are the worst. Even with the radio playing full blast, it’s hard to stay awake. She passes the time thinking about holidays past. Long days by the sea, making sand castles when she was younger, shell-gathering later, hanging out with the local kids and visiting some of the more friendly villagers. May Rosevere has always been Emily’s favourite. May has an endless supply of slightly scandalous stories about her neighbours and a wicked sense of humour. Not only that, she let Emily rootle through her jewellery box and try everything on. Better still, her biscuit tin seemed to be bottomless.

At last she reaches Pengelly after more than five hours’ driving with only one short break. As she coasts down the main street, she remembers how her grandfather always met her by the pub on the green, and jumped into the car to travel the last couple of hundred yards with her. She was never able to give him an exact time of arrival, so he waited on a bench outside. He never minded how long he sat there.

The awful realisation hits her, once again, that Gramps is gone for good. There are so many things to miss about him: the way he hugged her as if she was the most important person in the world; the happiness in his voice as he said, ‘You’re home, Little Em!’; the sparkle of those blue eyes so like her own – all gone.

Blinking hard, she sees a tall figure sitting on the rickety seat outside the Eel and Lobster. Gramps’ bench. Her heart skips several beats and she slams the brakes on, causing the Range Rover behind her to toot madly. The man in it gives her a V sign as he screeches past, but the figure on the bench is on his feet now and giving one back.

It’s not Gramps – of course it’s not. Emily never thought it was, really. She winds her window down.

‘Hello, Andy,’ she says, rubbing her eyes.

‘Oh, hello, Emily. I was afraid I’d miss you going past.’

‘No chance of that with the noises this car’s been making. But it got me here eventually.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you just yet. I’ve only just started my pint. Fancy joining me for one?’

He holds up his glass, beaded with moisture. It’s true, he’s not made much headway into it yet. Emily’s taste buds spring back to life after the long, fetid drive. It’s been ages since she’s drunk anything but tonic water with a mean-spirited splash of vodka and a lot of ice and lemon to bulk it out. Even at the most lavish publishing parties she’s gone easy on the prosecco in case she misses vital undercurrents or starts to babble to an important client.

‘What about the car?’ she says, rather feebly. ‘I’m driving. I know it’s only down the road, but I’d hate to fall at the last fence. It’s been a long day.’

‘Geoff at the pub says it’s best if you park it up here anyway, because May’s car park’s full. Your grandpa’s old banger’s taking up all the space on the drive at number sixty, and the battery’s flat so we haven’t got around to moving it yet. The garage is full of all sorts of junk … I mean, things being stored.’

Emily laughs. ‘Junk is about right. OK, I’ll park in the corner under the oak tree – then if it’s hot tomorrow I won’t singe my legs getting in.’

She drives into the car park and tucks the car away as neatly as she can. Her bag isn’t heavy – she was determined to travel light this time – but Andy’s already reaching an arm out to take it from her.

‘You look shattered,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you go and sit round the back so we can see the harbour and you can have a slurp of my beer while I go and get you one of your own. Or would you rather have some wine? They do quite a good sauvignon blanc.’

‘Beer would be brilliant,’ says Emily, doing as she’s told.

The view is spectacular. Stretching out to one side she can see the curve of the sandy beach, and to her right are the harbour walls, encircling a row of little boats. She can hear the mournful cry of the gulls and the hammering noises of someone making repairs to a wooden dinghy dragged far up onto the pebbles.

Pengelly in early June. Emily can’t remember ever arriving at this time of year. Christmas breaks, school holidays and snatched weekends here and there during her working years haven’t prepared her for the freshness in the air and the timeless magic of a Cornish village without too many visitors, although as tourist spots go, this place has always been a bit off the beaten track. It’s cloudy now but the breeze is warm on Emily’s face and a sense of peace steals over her. Soothed, she reaches for the glass and has downed more than half Andy’s beer before she realises how fast she’s drinking.