59 Memory Lane. Celia Anderson
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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.
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.
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