The Last Letter from Juliet

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But it was only when I scrolled to the bottom of the webpage that I noticed and recognised the name of the blogger–Sam Lanyon.

My head tipped to the angle of a questioning puppy.

Sam Lanyon? The Sam Lanyon, Juliet’s grandson? It couldn’t be, could it?

With my interest in this family suddenly piqued to even greater heights, despite the early hour of the morning and itchy eyes, I huddled closer to the fire, wrapped the shawl tightly around my shoulders and read on.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_1bfcb871-322e-503f-9e91-03253826fd23)

Juliet

19 December 1938

Flying with Edward

The morning after the pre-wedding party I woke with a desperate desire to jump into my Tiger Moth, fire up the engine and fly right away.

I had behaved foolishly. I’d begun to flirt, to toy, and what good ever came of that kind of shenanigans?

What happened?

I was unmasked, shown to have behaved like a fool, and I deserved it.

Having been standing in the hallway with Charles, welcoming guests to the Lanyon Christmas party, I was utterly gobsmacked when, of all people, Edward walked in. I had no idea that he was at all acquainted with the Lanyons. He hadn’t said he was attending the party that afternoon. Perhaps, thinking me single, he had wanted it to be a surprise.

He arrived at eight. I saw him before he saw me, walking through the door, smiling, naturally at ease, a happy and contented man. I wondered momentarily, as I stood there, my heart in my shoes, waiting to greet him, if Edward had known I was Charles’ fiancée all along and if the attraction between us had been on my part only. That I had misunderstood his interest in me.

But when Charles introduced me to Edward as the future Mrs Lanyon, my heart broke to see that he had not known. Edward tried to hide his confusion, before quickly walking away and disappearing into the gathered crowd. He spent some of the evening with Lottie before retiring back to the village early, with the excuse of a headache and an early start the next day. We did not speak that evening, which was both a relief and an overpowering disappointment.

The following morning, having arranged with cook to breakfast before the house had risen and having previously arranged with Jessops for fuel to be delivered to the barn, I dashed to my aircraft, desperate to fly.

I was not surprised to find Edward there, waiting. He was sitting on his adopted hay bale, a blue and white striped scarf wrapped tightly around his face, no dog with him, no Beano and he’d clearly been on no more than nodding terms with sleep.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about Charles?’

Because I’ve fallen in love with you …

‘I’m not sure. Does it matter?’

Edward didn’t answer.

I busied myself around the aircraft, avoiding eye contact. We fell silent, unsure how to behave, how to speak. A few jerrycans of fuel were hidden at the back of the barn, exactly where Jessops, now amiable thanks to the cider, had left them.

‘You’re going flying?’ Edward jumped down from his lofty position on the bale.

‘Yes … I needed to clear my head and I knew …’ I stopped pouring fuel into the tank for a moment.

‘You knew I’d be here.’

‘I thought you might be.’ I put down the can and smiled up at him. ‘I promised you a trip and I’d like to honour that promise, if I may.’ I glanced out of the barn. ‘And it may be cold, but it is a beautiful day, after all.’

He smiled too. ‘It is indeed a beautiful day and I’d love to go flying with you.’

We spent another ten minutes preparing the aircraft before pushing my beautiful yellow Tiger Moth out of the barn.

‘Put these on,’ I said, handing him goggles and helmet before showing him where to place his feet on the wing. ‘It will be very cold up there and the clouds are bubbling out to the west, so it might be a bit bumpy.’

I leant across him to tighten his straps and secure him in the seat. He took me by surprise by taking my bare hand in his gloved one.

‘Listen, I think you’re amazing and beautiful and fascinating. But I know you’re spoken for. We can be friends, can’t we. Just for a little while? I’m not a reckless fool, Juliet. Not really.’

I finally looked him in the eye which was, as I suspected, lethal. A naughty Cornish pixie must have jumped my shoulder just then, because I suddenly realised that there really was only one way to go …

‘Not a reckless fool?’ I said (with a very definite flick of the hair and twinkle in the eye) ‘how very disappointing. I have a sudden fancy to run through my stunt routine today, which is why I’m making sure your straps are nice and tight, and only a reckless fool – or maybe a true coddiwompler – would even begin to consider jumping on board for that kind of a ride …’

His face came alive. His whole body sparked with energy, with life.

‘I lied,’ he said, putting on his helmet. ‘Show me what you’ve got, Miss Caron! If we’re going to go down, let’s do it in style!’ He snapped on his goggles with a flourish. ‘I’m ready!’

For the next twenty minutes Edward was taken on the ride of his life. The chill from the wind was fierce, but as we flew low and slow over Angels Cove, children ran out to wave at us, racing the little aircraft as we flew parallel with the road. I flew half a mile out to sea and performed only part of my stunt routine – a tick-tock stall and a few loops – but not too much, it wouldn’t do to turn Edward’s stomach and embarrass him.

On landing back at the field, I taxied the aircraft to just outside the barn and cut the engine. I jumped out once the propeller had stopped and leant across Edward to unstrap him. The cheeks on his face burned red but his eyes were as bright as shiny new pins.

Edward jumped out, ripped off his goggles and helmet and just stood there, looking at me and smiling – half madman – before picking me up, spinning me around and finally placing me, very gently, on the ground again.

‘That was incredible, Juliet. Thank you. Thank you so very much.’ He handed me the goggles and hat. Still on a high from the flight, he babbled on about the joy of flying while we pushed the Tiger Moth back in the barn.

‘I wonder, do you have time to come to the village again for tea? They’re having a Christmas lantern parade on the twenty-third and I seem to have been roped in again to make lanterns and decorate the church, and you seemed to enjoy our afternoon in the hall. I have a feeling you’d love it. What do you say?’

I wanted to go. I wanted to go so very, very badly, but I shook my head, leant against the wing and sighed.

‘I’m sorry, Edward, but I can’t.’

He stepped in, too close for mere friends.

‘Why can’t you?’

I shook my head and smiled resignedly.

‘I think we both know why.’

He stepped closer still and leant in to brush my cheek with his lips. ‘In that case, thank you for the flight,’ he whispered. ‘It was wonderful.’ He stepped back. ‘Consider the debt paid, Miss Caron.’ And then, without looking back, to my absolute surprise, he walked away.

Chapter 9 (#ulink_fc41caf8-be72-5fbf-b652-ebbf042a494c)

Katherine

18 December

Poor George

The candles were half their original size and surrounded by pools of wax when I place the manuscript on the sofa beside me, disappointed at Edward for walking away, and cursing Juliet for letting him go.

But it was time to stop reading. Not just because I needed to sleep (although, what did I know of sleep any more? Sleep had become a fitful irrelevance since James had died) or because my phone battery was down to ten percent and I wanted to save a little just in case the roof really did blow off, but because now that I was engrossed in Juliet’s story, I wasn’t sure about the – what to call it – moral correctness? – of reading someone else’s private memoirs, even if that person was no longer around to care. The only answer was to email Sam, the grandson – the coddiwompler? – and ask his permission to read on. I had ventured to Cornwall looking for a historical story to tell and it looked like I had found one, but that suddenly didn’t seem important, because looking into the lives of these strangers tonight had led me to throw side-glances towards my own story which, as Gerald knew, had not just stagnated, but stopped. Juliet was leading me somewhere – I just didn’t know where that somewhere was.

***

I poked my head out of the candlewick bedspread at about ten a.m. the following morning and promptly ducked under again once my nose had direct contact with the cold. I had two options, stay warm under the bedcovers but starve to death, or face the cold and risk hyperthermia. The second option won by a narrow margin leading me to jump out and dance on the spot while throwing open the curtains – a bright, wintery, sunshiny glow flooded the room. I stopped dancing and stared. What a difference a few hours could make, and what a view.

James would have loved this.

Wall-to-wall ocean broken by three little granite islands that sat in the bay.

So here were the famous Angels, splattered with tiny flecks of white, as if God had gone on a paint flicking frenzy. I put my glasses on and realised the white flecks were actually seagulls, presumably taking a well-earned rest after the stress of the storm. The sea was a little swollen still, but it seemed Katherine had moved on to terrorise pastures new, leaving a bright winter morning in her wake.

I turned on a wind-up radio that sat on the windowsill at the top of the stairs and tried the bedroom light. Still no power. Allowing as short a time as possible for my bare skin to feel the sharpness of the cold, I dressed in the previous day’s clothes and headed down the stairs, pausing to sit on the bottom step to check my phone for messages and contact Gerald regarding the day’s agenda.

Uncle Gerald had beaten me to it.

Terrible news. George has had a heart attack. Have rushed to Brighton in Land Rover – used the spare key as didn’t want to disturb. Have spoken to Fenella and she’s going to look after you – you are not to sit home alone moping! Will text when I know more about George as there is talk of a stent being put in. So very sorry to love and leave. Have a fabulous time. Don’t forget about the apostrophe, will you? Oh, and best keep a beady eye out for Percy and Noel who will no doubt try to cajole – they are leaders of opposing camps! X

My first thought was obviously, ‘Poor George …’ but my second thought was very definitely … ‘Bollocks!’

‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.’

And, ‘Bollocks to the bloody apostrophe, too!’

Sitting on the bottom step of the stairs I stared at the door, just as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas came on the radio. Alone again for Christmas after all.

There was only one thing for it – I’d go back to bed for an hour and bury myself in both the snuggly covers and the embrace of my new friends – Juliet and Edward. Hoping that their paths would surely cross again.

Chapter 10 (#ulink_177157b1-4f2d-506f-b6a3-dfcd1bc5a103)

Juliet

22 December 1938

The promise

Dear Juliet

On second thoughts, I’m not entirely sure the debt is paid completely. The children are making lanterns in the hall from eleven and as the future lady of the manor, I thought it probably your wish – your duty – to help out. Lunch on the beach afterwards as a thank you?

Yours, the incorrigible coddiwompler,

E. Nancarrow

P.S. If you come, I’ll tell you what a coddiwompler is.

P.P.S. Wrap up warm!

The Christmas Card was hand-delivered by a young boy shortly after breakfast. I was having coffee with Lottie in the lounge when Katie handed it to me. I recognised the card. Edward had made it in the village hall during our afternoon together, when we sat with the children, in a moment of perfect happiness. I dare not open it and yet to leave it unopened would draw suspicion from Lottie.

Lottie glanced up from her book. I opened the card and feigned a smile.

‘It’s from Jessops,’ I said. ‘To thank us for the cider.’

I returned the card into the envelope, both gleefully happy and torn apart, made my excuses by explaining to Lottie that I really must return to servicing the aircraft– that sticky rudder came to my rescue again – and I explained that I would be out for the day. No one batted an eye at this. All they had ever known me do was walk for miles along the Cornish coast and tinker with my aircraft. As the Lanyons were neither walkers nor flyers, I had often spent much of my time during the day in Cornwall alone gathering my thoughts and healing my broken heart.

I dashed to my room to read the card again – slowly this time, drinking in every word. There was such a cocky confidence about his invitation and a secret intimacy, too. If Charles were to read it, he would think nothing untoward, but what Edward was really asking was to be alone with me one final time before I married.

There was only one thing to be done.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I pulled on my flying jacket over my best trousers, blouse and cardigan and headed, as fast as my feet could carry me without actually running, down the road to Angels Cove.

I lost the final piece of my heart to Edward that day. And yet, the very next day found me standing on a small table in the garden room at Lanyon, with Katie fussing around me with pins in her mouth adjusting Lottie’s cream cashmere suit. Lottie and Ma Lanyon looked on. I tried my best to smile, but my mind was a whirlpool.

I have often wondered if human attraction works in the exact same way as magnetic attraction and if this is why it is so utterly impossible to repel someone you are deeply attracted to. I knew I shouldn’t see Edward again and yet the pull towards him was beyond my control. If the universal law of magnetism was involved, then it really wasn’t my fault.

It was weak excuse but all I had.

And here was another – just as the north pole of one magnet will attract toward the south pole of another, so will the same polarity force each other apart, and I wondered if, with the introduction of Edward, Charles and I no longer attracted but repelled each other. In the evenings at Lanyon I tried my utmost to be near to him, to hold onto him, to be in love with him, but I couldn’t. And the more I thought of Edward, the more Charles became pushed away. The physics of magnetism then, was my feeble excuse for my behaviour that day, my excuse for dashing to Angels Cove at the first possible moment, hoping to find Edward in the village hall.

But Edward was not in the hall. He was, I was told by a lady trimming the Christmas tree, most likely at his cottage, Angel View, a whitewashed cottage up a little track to right of the harbour. And it’s got the best view in the village – said another lady who was hanging off a ladder hanging paper chains in the hall.

I had not yet been to Edward’s home. Our meetings, although inwardly intimate – certainly intimate inside my thoughts and dreams, and I’m certain intimate inside of his – had been kept purely on a friendship footing, which meant keeping away from the privacy of his house. There had been no talk of love, no snatched kisses, no hand holding, just lots and lots of fun. Which was why, as I approached Edward’s cottage, I felt nervous. I stood there for a moment, just short of the cottage and stared out to sea, at the islands, my confused thoughts bouncing around my head. The tide was out and the Angels – the three granite mounts I had used as a navigational aid just a few days before, when life had been so much simpler – stood proudly in the bay. They were larger when the tide was out and it was odd, but as I stood there and looked out to sea, with my coat fastened tightly against the freshness of the Cornish breeze, I wondered how on earth they had been given such a name and thought that ‘angel’ was far too beautiful a word to have been adopted for these ragged-looking islands, which seem to hide in every nook and cranny, some dark and foreboding secrets.

My thoughts returned to the present and to Edward and also to a story that Edward needed to be told. And yet it was a story I couldn’t possibly tell him – a story I had promised never to tell. It was a story that promised to tie me to the house – to Charles and to Lottie – forever. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

***

From the moment Lottie and I met, we were inseparable. We were for each other the sisters neither of us had ever had and despite my early misgivings, I loved my time in Paris and even felt the tug of my French ancestry calling me home. I spent every holiday with Lottie at Lanyon and became a welcome member of the family. Ma and Pa could not have been kinder and I became, without question, an accepted and loved member of the family. Those holidays at Lanyon were days of a privileged, gentrified youth – sailing on the river, a game of tennis, riding, croquet on the lawn – and although the loss of my parents could knock me sideways into a deep depressive abyss without a moment’s notice, bit by bit, although the weight didn’t lift completely, the grief became lighter as the months and years passed on.

My dream of flying as a career was not forgotten, but very definitely put on hold while I reluctantly did exactly what my mother had wanted me to do, transform into a lady. Ultimately – inevitably, perhaps – Lottie’s brother, Charles, became part of the package. I suppose it was expected from the get-go that Charles and I would marry, and so when Charles kissed me one balmy June afternoon in 1938, I kissed him back with the mechanical acceptance of a woman who had known for some time that this moment would come and accepted it.

This, I said to myself, was love.

Love was two people who got along and, after an appropriate amount of time, kissed, and after a further appropriate amount of time, married and perhaps had children. It was a steadier romance than Lottie and I had imagined during our nights reading novels at school, but I didn’t mind. My passion was reserved for flying and unlike Lottie, I had never actively looked for romance or expected anything other than that one day, I would perhaps marry the kind of man my mother had instructed me to marry – the non-predatory kind, the kind who would adore me to eternity.

Charles, very definitely, fit the bill.