Keep your hands off him and spare both of you the embarrassment
I was shaking so hard, it took three attempts to get a screenshot. I sat propped against my headboard, attempting to sip my tepid tea until the panic galloping through my bloodstream started to slow down and my brain unscrambled itself into a few distinct thoughts:
I now knew that the bike, the milk, probably the gate, were not coincidences.
I also knew why – someone wanted to scare me away from Pip.
Despite nothing romantic happening with him, outside my own fervent imagination, someone was feeling mistakenly jealous and threatened enough to take some seriously bizarre action.
Did this mean they were dangerous? Unstable? Or just especially determined to marry him?
I might have wondered whether this person, who knew Pip far better than I, had seen, heard or been told something that implied Pip might be more interested in a serious relationship than the ease with which he’d accepted our need to stay friends had implied.
But then again, given that this person had made disturbingly little effort to hide her identity as being Celine, I readily dismissed this. The Hawkins sisters had been clear that when it came to Pip, she was irrational.
At least now I had actual evidence, and so could do something about it other than conduct endless inspections ofthe yellow bedroom and avoid being alone on the farm. I would show Lily in the morning – if nothing else, she could corroborate the sender as Celine, or else fill me in on any other women harbouring a secret obsession with her brother.
After a long time going round and round how things would play out over the next few days, I reached for the escape of another letter. The first one was more of a note so I ended up reading the next one written by my mum, too. It heartened me to remember that I was a Brown. Competent, capable and utterly unflappable. Or at least I knew how to pretend to be.
As with the previous few, there was no address on the first envelope, simply, ‘Nellie’.
4.00 p.m.
Nellie,
I’ve called the restaurant three times and got no answer. I’ll try again from the station, but if I wait for you to come home, I’ll miss the last train. There’s been an accident with the new combine. Richard is seriously hurt. They’re airlifting him to hospital in Wales but he might not last the night, so I’m going straight there.
I love you,
G
10 August 1988
Gabriel,
I have given up waiting for you to call (or get a phone installed in the farmhouse!). I know this harvest must be even more gruelling than usual, with Richard still in hospital, and your mother with him, but could you perhaps spare me a two-minute phone call to reassure me that you have not also been crushed beneath the combine? You know I cannot rely onyour father to inform me should anything happen to you, his loathing of me having only intensified since I ‘stole you away’.
How is your brother? Did they manage to save his leg? You must all be questioning what to do about the farm. I cannot help wondering about your thoughts on the matter. I suspect that letting go of the land after seven generations may feel almost as bad as losing a leg.
You once said that your home was with me now. But despite your efforts to hide it, I know a part of your heart remains on the island.
What I mean to say is – I appreciate that there is far more at stake than a barley harvest. If you need to stay longer while your family decide what to do, I understand.
Although that does not make missing you any easier.
The flat is as forlorn as the eastern coves in February without you.
Nellie.
When I came downstairs for breakfast, the children were all eating soft-boiled eggs with buttered toast. Malcolm was packing up lunchboxes while Lily – well, Lily appeared to be self-combusting in front of a pile of boxes.
‘Emmie!’ Beanie called. ‘Do you want an egg from Pecky, Hopper or Pooper?’
‘I don’t know. Which would you recommend?’
‘Not Pooper,’ she replied with absolute solemnity.
‘At risk of failing the guest trial, would you mind making it yourself?’ Lily asked, wringing her hands. ‘The rest of the ingredients are here, and I need to figure out where to put them. I knew it would be a lot, but having them here is giving me Braxton Hicks contractions. Plus, the florist called to say thata third of the irises have been crushed in transit, are we okay with carnations instead. Celine has decided the bridesmaids need to perform some choreographed dance down the aisle. The rehearsal for which consists of watching a YouTube thing and a half-hour video call. I’m not booty-popping in church, even without a baby bump. And if this wedding wasn’t enough drama, some fiend has left a three-star review on TripAdvisor, describing Sunflower Barn as “meh”. If you’re going to write a fake negative review for a non-existent trip, why wouldn’t you go all out with a one star?’
