‘Thanks for your help, Emmie. I cannot imagine how my little brother persuaded you to spend a Monday night scrubbing bird crap off a barn wall, but I’m very grateful.’
‘To be fair, I didn’t know scrubbing crap would be involved. But really, it’s the least I can do,’ I mumbled as she ruffled Pip’s hair and left.
‘Did you come and help because you felt obliged to?’ Pip asked, twisting around to face me. ‘When Lily invited you to stay, she didn’t expect anything in return.’
‘Maybe. But she didn’t expect me to injure one of your cows, either.’
‘That’s why you’re here?’ Pip asked, his forehead creasing with concern. ‘Emmie, no one blames you for what happened.’
‘That’s not true. They might forgive me, but your family definitely blame me. And I feel especially horrible about it because I know it wasn’t me.’
Pip looked at me steadily through the dusk. ‘Ah. I can see why that’s worse.’
Him not questioning my conviction, gently pointing out that I must be mistaken, because there was no other explanation, made my throat constrict. Being believed –trusted –gave me the courage to explain.
‘Growing up, forgetting something or making a mistake that proved I was unreliable –irresponsible– was nearly unforgivable. Mum would respond with this crushing mix of disappointment, disgust and bafflement. Like, “Why would you do this, Emmaline? I don’t understand why you chose to let us down. I thought you cared about Parsley’s”, or our home, or my education, or whatever else it related to. She’d not outright punish me, but I’d have to complete pointless, petty tasks until I’d “earned her trust” back. When I was about eight, she made me clean every black speck off all our huge oven shelves because I got absorbed in a book and the dinner burned. It took hours. Another time, I had to write out the instruction manual for our dishwasher by hand when I used the wrong setting. Scrubbing the barn wall would have been right up her street.’
‘So, you learned not to forget things.’
‘Yes. To listen and follow instructions to the letter. I have a lot of flaws. But saying I’ll do something and then a few minutes later not doing it isn’t one of them.’
Pip stretched out his legs, the movement causing his bare arm, still warm despite the night air, to brush against mine, goosebumps rippling up my skin.
‘Sounds like your mother could have made a good Siskin farmer. The punishment should not only fit the crime, but every other crime you might have committed.’
I flinched before I could catch myself.
‘Maybe if she’d been allowed to run things. Unlike me, she was far better at giving orders than following them.’
Pip pointed out the long-eared bats swooping in and out of the eaves above us, and the conversation eased into lighter topics. Mum had always scorned therapy as for the weak-willed, or attention-seekers. As I sat here, the relief of having shared something painful and personal with what I hoped was a genuine friend – as if a secret shame had been wiped clean – was what I imagined it must feel like.
As Pip walked me home – not because I might leave a gate open, he was clear to point out, but in case there were more tourists wandering about who might cause similar problems I could otherwise get the blame for – I couldn’t help wondering what else my mother had been wrong about.
I could have felt angry with her. I probably did, somewhere below the grief and the thrill of realising that I didn’t have to pretend I agreed with her any more.
Most of all, since I’d opened that box of letters, when it came to my mother, I simply felt sad.
4 April 1988
My sweet Nellie,
Another anniversary – two years I have had the joy of being your husband! – so time for another letter. While you’ve made it clear there won’t be any children who might one day get to read our love story, perhaps there will be nieces and nephews to enjoy these letters instead. And you mustn’t mind the comments from Da. Richard will inherit the farm – it’s his job to produce an heir! I chose you, and your happiness will always come first.
A lot has changed in a year, hasn’t it? Now you’re the one working every hour God sends, while I feel my way through the concrete and brick jungle that is Nottingham. I’m grateful for a few days of work, but for the most part, it seems the only person in this city who isn’t frantically rushing from one important matter to another is me.
It turns out I had taken for granted living in a place where everyone knows who you are and all about your business.
But listen to me moaning on more like a farmer discussing the price of beef than a grateful husband writing a love letter to his bride!
Let me try again:
The other night, you asked if I miss the island, and my immediate answer was of course, it was my home. But from the first time we met, my home has been with you, and you are more beautiful to me than a thousand Siskin sunsets. You are my family, now, Nellie. Our love is the land in which I cultivate a life I am forever grateful for. My harvest shall always be your smiles, your touch, your trust.
I will meet you from work this evening, if I don’t get lost on my way to the restaurant!
With faith, hope and love
G
