‘No islander would have done that.’ Lily looked pensive for a moment before shaking it off with a shrug. ‘Must have been a tourist. Perhaps they found an old bottle on Minke Beach and decided to empty it out.’
A bottle of gone-off embalming fluid? And again, it didn’t explain why they’d omitted to get any on the crossbar or wheels. But I didn’t have the same unquestioning faith in islanders as my host. I lived in a village. I knew how feuds and petty grievances could fester. Maybe someone had been offended about not being invited to the party? What I also knew was that it was a rental bike on Hawkins Farm. On the off chance this had been intentional, it surely didn’t have anything to do with me.
Malcolm left for a run shortly after Lily.
‘I’ll not be back for a couple of hours.’
‘Wow. That’s a decent run.’
He winked, stretching out his hamstring. ‘To the Island Arms. Three miles each way. Lily’s messaged to say the kids are happy, so they’ll be stopping out a while longer, too. If you go out, leave the key under the purple shell.’
‘I was planning on sitting in the garden for a bit.’
‘I was planning on visiting for a stag weekend and heading back to marry my lass in the valleys. This island makes a mockery of plans.’
I accepted his parting offer of a glass of wine – it was well into the afternoon, and I was on holiday, after all – and tried to pretend I didn’t feel like a complete imposter, reclining on an outdoor sofa in my shorts and sunglasses, then opened up the brown envelope.
Three smaller, plain white envelopes were inside.
Disappointing, considering Mum’s box had contained nine. Unsurprising, considering the likelihood of her writing any letters at all.
I opened up the first one and scanned it for a date.
Seeing her precise handwriting, using the thick, black pen she’d insisted upon writing with right up until she died, triggered a tidal wave of grief and homesickness that threatened to suffocate me.
Pressing the letter against my chest, I forced my gaze towards the climbing rose, fixing on a bee buzzing amongst the yellow and peach blooms that were already open. Breathing in slowly, I focused on the blend of aromas – warm grass, the chicken coop,wine and pollen. Gradually, as my breathing settled, I tuned into the hen’s comforting clucks, an aeroplane whirring in to land on the other side of the island, a distant moo.
‘Okay. Are we quite finished with the overdramatics?’ I lessened the pressure of my hand, as if it made any difference, and took another peek at the cream notepaper, making sure I read only the date.
It was 1988. Two years after the previous letter I’d read from Gabe. I checked the others, but they were both later the same year.
I slipped them back into the brown envelope, reeling from the discovery that they had been communicating for at least four years, and turned to the other pile, unable to wait to read the next chapter in their story.
4 April 1987
My darling wife Nellie,
I had to stop there, take another few breaths and a good slurp of wine. The photograph had made it pretty clear that she’d gone through with the wedding, but to have it confirmedin writing that Mum had been married was still a jolt. I sat for a minute, trying to picture her with Gabe. Laughing, cuddling on the sofa together at the end of a long day. Tucked up in bed. Then again – Pip had told me that he was twenty-nine, so Lily must have been born only six years after this letter.
Was it more accurate to picture them bickering, knocking heads over the million things Mum held her pig-headed opinions on? Blazing rows or days of moody silence?
Either way, Mum being married was still mind-blowing.
A letter for our anniversary, seeing as I’ll be up with the dawn again this morning, and quite possibly incapable of forming a coherent sentence when I return. I know this year has been a big change, leaving your city and starting afresh. There must be so much you miss. Supermarkets. Cinemas. Bus stops on every corner. But now Ma and Da’s shock has worn off, I hope you are starting to feel more settled. Farm life takes some getting used to, I’d imagine. There’s a lot taken for granted when you grow up amongst cows and wheat, riding a tractor before most kids try a bike. But you’re doing grand. Better every day. Ma even asked if I could trouble you for your pastry recipe (she couldn’t possibly ask you directly – you’ll have learned there’s no stubborn pride like an island woman’s when it comes to her kitchen). And waking up with your strawberry hair spread across my pillow, coming home to the warmth of your arms – well – I don’t imagine that unbridled pleasure will ever fade. You, here on my island, my farm – our land, and one day our children’s. The only thing that could make me happier is knowing you are as home here as I am. Soon, my love (I know – you’ll feel a lot better once the other cottage is finished and you can have your own stovetop!).
Save me an anniversary kiss for when this weary farmer returns.
I shall think of you every moment of the day, and it will spur my efforts so that I can be home as soon as I can.
With faith, hope and love,
Your grateful husband,
G
Like in all Gabe’s letters, his devotion shone through every paragraph. But, unlike the others, in between those heartfelt lines, I detected some teething problems for the newly-weds. I could guess how Gabe’s family felt about him turning up with a ‘mainlander’ wife. An independent city girl who would havedetested being expected to slot into another woman’s household. While the farmhouse was a decent size, I couldn’t imagine it was easy for the couple to enjoy much time alone together, either. For a brief, mad second, I wondered what it would be like for me to move into the farmhouse with Pip, while his parents still slept in the master bedroom, Aster in the ground-floor snug that he’d told me about, Richard in an annexe tacked onto the back of the house.
After a lifetime living with Mum’s established order, plus two years fending for myself, I couldn’t begin to fathom how I’d handle new rules, customs and family dynamics.
