I was definitely going to need Botox. My whole face was crunched into the shape of a question mark.
‘Again … why?’
It seemed perfectly obvious to Fenella. She sighed and spoke in the tone a teenager uses when explaining how to use the iPad to his mum. ‘When I do this with Gerald, I stand in my front bedroom with the window open and listen for the bell … when I hear it, I know he’s on his way back, which is when I dash down to the harbour to grab the bag of seaweed. Gerald calls it a … what’s the word … a covert operation.’
Utterly ridiculous.
‘Tell me Fenella, just a thought, but has Gerald usually had quite a bit of gin to drink by the time he canoes off into the moonlight.’
She shrugged.
‘He might have had the odd tipple, here and there. It is Christmas.’
I managed to yank the wetsuit over my left shoulder and wriggled around a bit in an attempt to persuade the whole thing to rest in a more comfortable position. ‘Ok, fine,’ I said. ‘But just leave the poor thing intact and I’ll take him with me. I’ll shake him as I paddle back.’
I put on the socks and wellies (I was pretty sure wellies and canoes didn’t usually mix, but I was well-past the point of caring) and five minutes later saw me ready for my mission and standing at the door with a life jacket over my shoulder and an elf under my arm, not quite an Attagirl, but not so very far off, I thought.
***
I was so right. Wellington boots do not mix well with a canoe. Not one bit. They were full of water by the twenty-metre point. The good news was that the moon was so full and so bright, I could easily see where I was going without the head torch and had harvested a bag of seaweed (the special kind my arse!) in less than half an hour.
We didn’t waste any time on pleasantries when I brought the canoe alongside the harbour wall and with a sudden outburst of Herculean strength, Fenella hiked the canoe and paddle out of the water, stowed it next to a gig boat and had grabbed the bag of seaweed out of my hand (with a swift backwards glance over her shoulder) before I had time to remove my life jacket. She dashed into the house leaving me to follow on behind. I walked into the kitchen to find a very large pot of water boiling on the Aga. She tipped the seaweed onto the kitchen table and took two pairs of scissors out of the drawer.
‘Get snipping,’ she said. ‘Small sections, like this …’
She cut a piece of seaweed roughly two inches square and held it up for me to examine. Seemed simple enough. A pile of freezer bags sat on the worktop. She grabbed one.
‘Put two pieces of seaweed into each bag, squash the air out of the bag, seal it and put the bag in the pot – we’ll weigh the bags down later with a tin of beans.’
‘How long do the bags stay in the pot?’
‘About twenty minutes,’ she said, already processing the seaweed like an automaton.
I put the scissors down and removed my life jacket.
‘Ok. Just give me minute to get changed,’ I said, moving towards my clothes that lay over a kitchen chair.
‘No time for that!’ She waved the scissors in my direction absently. ‘You’re fine as you are. Time’s money!’
Now, I didn’t know where the dear old lady I met that morning had gone, but she seemed to have been replaced by a mafia don. I took a stand by sitting down.
‘Well, at least give me time to get out of these wellies, Fenella.’ I began to remove my right boot. ‘My feet are like ice and I’m sorry, but my hands couldn’t actually hold a pair of scissors properly at the moment even if I tried. I’m frozen through.’
She put down her scissors and shuffled into the back room, reappearing almost immediately with a knock-off pair of Ugg boots and a gin bottle with Christmas Spirit written on the label.
‘Put them on then,’ she said, a little brusquely, I thought, ‘and stand by the Aga for a moment. But don’t heat up too quickly or you’ll get chilblains.’
My feet slipped into the wool-lined boots like they’d been given a first-class ticket to heaven – a really fluffy heaven. A heaven where little feathery angels fed you chocolate and selected the best programmes on Netflix while massaging your shoulders. Fenella put the bottle on the table.
‘Last year’s gin,’ she said with a wink (what was it about Fenella’s particular brand of gin that led everyone who drank it to wink) before filling a small pan with milk and placing it on the Aga top plate. ‘But first,’ she said, opening a cupboard and taking out a purple container with Cadbury written across it, ‘let’s get something warm inside you. Cream and a flake, do you?’
My eyes widened to dinner plates.
‘Cream and a flake would do me very nicely, thank you, Fenella.’
Feeling warmer just at the notion of hot chocolate I picked up the scissors and, like the obedient worker bee I’d become, started to snip.
***
It was one a.m. when, still buzzing with the night’s shenanigans, I turned the key to Juliet’s cottage. It was cold inside (those old-style Economy 7 heaters never did cut the mustard), but after the heat of Fenella’s kitchen (Did I say kitchen? I meant sweatshop!) and two glasses of Christmas Spirit, I was happy to cool down a little. Needing to take a moment to calm my brain before heading upstairs to bed, I flashed up the laptop to check if Sam had written back. He had.
Hi, Katherine
Thank you for your email. I’m so pleased you got in touch because I’m afraid I need your help, but more of that in a moment, because, to put you out of your misery straight away – yes, I am happy for you to read Juliet’s memoirs.
A bit late now.
Reading your email, I had the feeling you believe Juliet to be dead … this is not the case.
What? Never!
Juliet will celebrate her one hundredth birthday this Christmas Day. She lived at the cottage with increasing amounts of help until a couple of years ago when finally (kicking and screaming) she moved into a local care home for the elderly. The care home is called Lanyon, which is a name you will no doubt recognise from her memoirs. Lanyon House is our ancestral home, but was sold by Juliet in the 1970’s. In returning to Lanyon she has gone full circle, which far from being wonderful, is, I fear, the last thing Juliet would have wanted to do, but there was no other workable solution.
I received an email from the manager at Lanyon this morning explaining that Juliet has become agitated. She is desperate to find a particular item that belonged to her father – a compass that looks like a pocket watch. It seems she has mislaid it. I wonder … could you please have a good nosy around to see if you can find it – I’m sure you will. It’s probably got a label on it, knowing Juliet. If you find it, would you mind nipping up to Lanyon (someone from the village will give you a lift, although it isn’t too far to walk), explain who you are – Juliet is aware that you are staying at the house for Christmas – and take it to her. Also, would you mind sitting with her for a while?
Not at all. I’d bloody love it!
Her body has been frail for some years, but her mind has remained as sharp as a new pin and you should find her excessively good company, depending upon the extent of the reported agitation.
Please tell her that I’m trying my best to get back for Christmas. I was only supposed to be temporarily detached to cover for a crew member who left the ship due to an unexpected bereavement, but three weeks later, I’m still here. Juliet and I made a pact several years ago that if she managed to live so long, I would reward her by taking her flying in the Tiger Moth on her one hundredth birthday – Christmas Day – and she is holding me to it. The aircraft in question is the very same yellow Tiger Moth her father gave her for her birthday, all those years ago. It is stored at an old airfield called Predannack, just down the road from Lanyon. When I made the pact with Juliet, I thought the chance of her living to one hundred unlikely, but this is Juliet Caron we’re talking about and I should have known better. The thought of taking her flying at her age petrifies me, but she is absolutely determined to go.
>
Do carry on reading her story. Gerald told me you’re a professor of history and once wrote a book. Perhaps one day you could do something with Juliet’s story, too?
Best wishes,
Sam
P.S. Gerald said you’re going to find an answer to the apostrophe question (poor you!). You could do worse than to ask Juliet … she believes in angels, by the way.
P.P.S. Yes, I am The Last Coddiwompler. What did you think to my blog?
My mind whirred. Not only was Sam the same Sam Lanyon who had written the blog, but most importantly, Juliet was alive! And I would actually meet the lady whose story had begun to mean so much to me.
I slid happily into a lovely bed, warmed by an electric blanket and for the first time in two years of bedtimes, didn’t need Harry Potter to help me drift away.
Chapter 17
Katherine
Troubled angel
Pulling back Juliet’s lounge curtains the following morning revealed a damp and grey day. I remembered Sam’s email and decided to turn the house over in the hope of finding Juliet’s compass.
For three hours I searched. I emptied every drawer and opened every cupboard. I looked in boxes stored under the bed and scrambled with my arse in the air into deep packing boxes stowed neatly in the loft. In the course of my search, I stumbled across many of the little notes Juliet had written in order to remember her life. I began to collect them on the kitchen table, but no matter how hard I looked, the compass was nowhere to be found.
At lunchtime, after a final frisk of the elf to see if he was harbouring it within his stuffing, I flopped onto the chair with the elf on my lap and accepted defeat. I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting Juliet and had wanted to appear at Lanyon like an old friend and conquering hero, brandishing the compass, thereby ingratiating myself with her immediately. Now I would have to appear at her side as an empty-handed stranger.
With a disappointed sigh, I put the elf back on the shelf, grabbed my coat and hat and headed out of the door.
I was halfway up the street when, a hundred yards up the hill, a man that wasn’t Noel or Percy dashed out of a cottage.
After being accosted by the scarecrow and the tin man it was safe to assume that this must be the lion. He raised a finger as if to say, ‘Ah, just the very person.’ But I wasn’t in the mood for Oz today, and so took on the vague expression of a woman who had just remembered she had something really quite important to do, made a swift exit to the right, which happened to be into the churchyard, darted into the sanctuary of the church and adopted the type of countenance my surroundings promoted, reverent.
I am not a religious woman (correction, I am not a religious woman unless circumstances are such that I find myself required to pull out the Church of England card – weddings, christenings, funerals) but I took a seat in the second to front pew and decided to take a moment to look around. It was lovely little church – cold, but lovely – and unlike the village, was decorated for Christmas in the most beautiful, understated, traditional way, with swags of winter foliage and a simple tree. But the aspect of the church that interested me most was the stained-glass window that sat to the right of the alter. It depicted a young man with blue eyes and long golden hair who was surrounded by animals. He had the most enormous angel wings tucked behind him and was looking up into the clouds questioningly – troubled – presumably asking God a question.
My phone pinged in my pocket.
Gerald: George is on the mend! Any luck and we’ll be home for Christmas. Keep your chin up, lovely. Hope you’re making friends. Any decision on the apostrophe yet?
Me: Brilliant news. Stop nagging about the apostrophe. It’s all in hand, sort of.
I put the phone back in my pocket, looked at the window again, took the phone out, and sent another text.
Me: Why didn’t you tell me Juliet is alive?
Gerald: I never said she was dead.
Me: Just asking – no particular reason. Do you believe in angels?
Five seconds later …
Gerald: Yes, I bloody well do! Doctors and nurses. Surrounded by them here. Why?
Me: I’m popping up to see Juliet. Sam Lanyon wrote and said she believes in angels. I was just wondering if everyone except me knew about angels and I was the only one who didn’t, like a secret I’ve not been included in.
Gerald: I think you’re spending far too much time alone – it’s unhealthy. And I hope you’ve bothered to put a brush through your hair today, you never know who you might bump into. Ooh, doctor just walked in. Got to go
Me: This is the twenty-first century! You can’t say that kind of thing to women anymore. Who cares if I look like rat shit?
G: Smarten up, buttercup!
Well, that was helpful.
He wasn’t quite finished.
P.S. I just had text from Geoffrey (Parish Council chap – not Noel or Percy). He says you’re avoiding him! Have told him you are deep in research and cannot be disturbed. He’s arranged the village meeting for 2pm Boxing Day – you can deliver your verdict then.
I knelt at the altar, looked up at the angel and said a little prayer for George (and for a miracle answer to the apostrophe question to appear). I’ve never been sure what to do on leaving an altar, but on films they always seem to sign a cross across their face and chest and reverse out, so I copied that. I raised my coat collar to avoid detection, felt my stomach growl and rather than head to the care home at lunchtime (surely the worst time to pitch-up) I slunk down the hill and knocked on Fenella’s door (she was bound to feed me up). Twenty minutes later I was sitting at the table enjoying yet another hearty meal and listening to a Christmas CD.
The conversation consisted mainly of me asking questions.
Yes, Fenella did believe in angels – hurrah – but then clarified this by explaining that they usually came in the form of dogs. But to be very clear, not Chihuahuas, who were the spawn of Satan. She refused to explain why.
She had no opinion regarding the apostrophe and had decided in bed the night before that she cared even less about the issue. I was to forget about it until Boxing Day then make up the first thing that came to my mind (those idiots on the council would never know the difference!).
My questions turned to Juliet.
I confessed that I was reading her war memoirs and explained about the email from Sam asking me to look for a golden compass, which I had failed to find.
‘Sorry, Lovey,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ve known her for years, spent lots of time up there having a good old chinwag, but she never mentioned any compass to me. I’m sure you’ll find it, though. You’ll just have to have a good look see.’
I studied Fenella across the table. I wondered if she was alive during the war. She looked like she might be old enough. How old was she? Seventy? Eighty? Hard to tell. She was fresh faced though, whatever her age. Must be all that gathering of the seaweed over the years … it was either that or the gin. She read my mind.
‘I was just a kiddie during the war, you know.’
My eyes widened. ‘Never! You don’t look old enough, not even nearly.’
She stood to turn on the radio because the CD had started to stick, took the boiling kettle off the Aga and made a fresh pot of tea
‘Well, they always did say I had the best complexion in Cornwall,’ she said, ‘and the best legs, ‘o course …’
Legs? She was tiny!
‘Did you live here during the war,’ I asked, standing to take the milk jug out of the fridge.
‘Yes, in this house.’
I sat down while Fenella delved into the biscuit tin.
‘Really? You’ve lived here all that time?’
‘I have. Mother lost both her brothers – they were a bit younger than her and she’d always mothered them – on the same day at Dunkirk, but she’d been told they were together when they fell, so she had that to comfort her, at least. Father worked on the farms.’ Fenella glanced out of the window. ‘He worked for Juliet�
��s crowd up at Lanyon – reserved occupation, you see, farming – so he was saved from all the fighting, thank goodness. But Mother never got over losing those two boys. Never. Poor woman.’
Her eyes misted over and she stared up at the dead dogs, just as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas came on the radio. That bloody song (not the Chihuahuas) really was the spawn of the devil! I stood and crossed to the windowsill.
‘Do you mind if I change the station, Fenella?’ I asked. ‘I can’t abide Christmas songs. The happy ones remind me that I’m on my own, and the sad ones are just too bloody depressing.’
‘Of course, you can, lovey. How about a bit of Radio 3?’
‘How about I just turn it off?’
I sat back down and picked up my teacup. The newfound quiet in the room was harder to listen to. It needed filling. Fenella tipped her head to one side and smiled.
‘It’s a difficult time, Christmas,’ she said. ‘Gerald was hoping you’d buck up a bit this year. Shame he had to go away, and I’m not much company for you, not really.’
Now I just felt bad.
‘But you are! You’re the best company I could wish for, honestly.’ I fixed a bright smile across my face. ‘And I’ve met Noel, too, and Percy and his wife …’
She didn’t look convinced.
‘I am cheery – honestly! I’ll find my Christmas spirit this year, you’ll see!’
She leant forward and winked.
‘Lucky for you I can help out on that front …’
She rose slowly and shuffled sideways to the back room, returning with Christmas spirit already bottled in her hand (I should have known from the wink). ‘Let’s get some of this down you with a nice bit of grapefruit tonic and you’ll soon be singing along to Christmas songs.’
I doubted it, but who was I to argue. I looked at the clock. The sun was just over the yard arm … I poured the gin into two large glasses.
‘What was Christmas like back then?’ I asked. ‘During the war, I mean.’
Fenella took a frozen piece of grapefruit out of the freezer and popped it into my glass, it fizzed.
The Last Letter from Juliet Page 12
