The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part 3

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  The Letter

  by

  Ruth Saberton

  First Edition

  Copyright

  All characters, organisations and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The opinions expressed in this book are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and / or legal right to publish all materials in this book.

  Copyright © 2018 Ruth Saberton

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Anthem for Doomed Youth

  What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

  Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

  Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

  Can patter out their hasty orisons.

  No mockeries for them now; no prayers nor bells;

  Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –

  The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

  And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

  What candles may be held to speed them all?

  Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes

  Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

  The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

  Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

  And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

  Wilfred Owen 1917

  The War Poems of Wilfred Owen: edited and introduced by Jon Stallworthy

  Chatto & Windus

  Reproduced here by the kind permission of The Wilfred Owen Association

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my Great-Aunt Ella and her fiancé, Arthur Sidney Bacon. Their sacrifices, and those of an entire generation, will never be forgotten.

  Prologue

  May 1914

  On her first night at the Rectory the old dream came again. It began, as it always did, with a moon the colour of honey slanting shadows across the counterpane while the night breeze enticed her out of bed. Somehow, she’d reach the window without her feet touching the floorboards, while her white nightgown billowed behind her like the sail of a stately galleon and bore her into the shadowscape.

  In the mysterious way of dreamers, she’d find herself transported to a quiet cove where the waves knew all her secrets, each breaker sighing when the water retreated over rock pools and sucked time-smoothed stones into the depths. The sand was wet and cool beneath her bare feet, yet her footsteps never made prints.

  She scarcely saw the cove. Her dreamer’s eyes were frantically searching for him – although who he was she didn’t know. She only knew that he had to be found and had to be kept safe. Nothing else mattered or would ever matter again. Sometimes she thought she glimpsed him just ahead, in a shimmer of moon-silvered hair and flash of pale limbs wading through the shallows, but no matter how fast she ran she could never catch up – and when she tried to cry out, her words were sewn up tightly inside her throat. It was always the same: no matter how hard she tried to call, he grew further and further out of reach.

  She knew that danger lay ahead, not in the greedy currents or the sharp-toothed rocks, but somewhere deeper and unknown. Dread dragged her to her knees and the waves lapped her nightdress, weighing the cotton down.

  It was always then that the strange purple clouds drifted across the moon, blotting out light and hope. The woods high on the hill grew as dark as grudges and the water dulled to pewter. She’d fly upwards, high over the cove until the cliff path was just a pale ribbon threaded through the gorse and the heather. The world dipped and span and now there would be heat and a dreadful stench of burnt earth. The sky was ripped with fire and flashes of light; shouting and screaming drowned out the rhythmic crashing of waves, and mud now covered her bare feet. All was wet and cold and cloying. Grave dirt threatened to suck her under, to seal her nose and fill her mouth. It was hard to know what would drown her sooner – the choking clay or the suffocating terror. She was afraid she couldn’t reach the person she sought, couldn’t pull him back and couldn’t save him from the gathering horror.

  In the dream she stood paralysed. What she saw she didn’t understand, but in her sleep her heart hammered as she stared into the abyss. The limbs of the burnt forest were charred skeletons against the bleeding sky. Sobs were torn from her throat as she pulled her way out of the sucking mud, her hands outstretched as she tried to reach him. But it was pointless: he always remained ahead of her and, every time, she could only watch as the smoke erased him.

  The wind blew, cold and spiteful, whipping her away with the ashes. She saw a village cowering beneath a hill, and at the crest of the hill a large mansion house with ivy-blinded windows. Its manicured gardens had become choked with creepers and its smooth lawns had been scraped by rough plough. A ghost, she passed unseen. Time and space expanded and then compressed, and she was aware of everything being present and yet hidden. What had been and what was still to come began unravelling before her.

  With the dreamer’s magic she found herself high on the cliffs with the grass frost sharp beneath her bare feet. Gulls wheeled above and the whole world was bathed in light. She had no sensation of walking but instead glided over the chilled grass, drawn to the summit of a path she felt she had climbed a hundred times before. Every twist and turn was as familiar as her own breath, each knotted root and exposed fist of granite an old friend marking the climb to the headland. In her dream the known and the unknown began to blur, twisting together like barley-sugar sticks until it was hard to tell each strand apart. Her feet carried her forwards but fear made her reluctant; in front of her loomed a granite cross, stark against the sky and casting a long shadow across the path. She tried to turn and flee but Morpheus planted his hands in the small of her back and drove her up the final incline.

  She couldn’t read them but she knew there were names written here. Somewhere was the name of the person she’d been searching for, someone she didn’t yet know but ached to find. Her hands stretched out to touch the rough stone, only for it to dissolve beneath her fingertips. Once again he was out of reach, as insubstantial as the sea fret swirling in across the water. And yet, even as she thought this, the fog began to thicken. Like a cold shroud it wrapped itself around her, smothering and blinding her, until her screams hurl
ed her into gasping wakefulness.

  At least here nobody would come running.

  Sitting upright in a tangle of sweat-drenched sheets, bewildered and afraid, she drew the eiderdown around her shoulders and hugged her knees against her chest. The dream told of something she didn’t understand. Now that dawn was breaking, the nightmare was fading as it always did, until she could only recall that she’d been searching in the wrong place and had let somebody down. He was lost forever and it was all her fault.

  He was forgotten.

  She shivered, certain that this dream was a warning. Whoever he was, when she found him she must never let him go.

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chloe

  The Old Rectory overlooks the graveyard and I’m having trouble getting past this fact. I know I’m being ridiculous. This is a rectory, so it stands to reason that the house is near a church and, by association, a graveyard. These weathered tombstones with their time-blurred inscriptions and crumbly lichen coats are hardly new arrivals. They were here when I viewed the property in August and they’ll still be here when I’m long forgotten, so opening the curtains and seeing them again shouldn’t have come as a shock.

  I suppose I just hadn’t realised the churchyard was quite so close.

  I know this sounds crazy. Of course I knew that Rosecraddick’s Old Rectory is next to St Nonna’s, but in high summer, with the clifftop house brimming with light and the leafy garden tumbling away to deep blue sea, the sight of the tombstones didn’t jar quite as much as it does now in the November gloom. I barely noticed them because I was so enchanted by the sparkling water and dramatic cliffs beyond them. From the sitting room I could see all the way to the headland war memorial; sailing boats were stitched along the horizon and when I raised the sash window warm air trembled with birdsong and the scent of honeysuckle. This was such a world away from rumbling lorries and main roads that I fell instantly in love. This was the place, I’d decided. It was a healing spot. A haven. A space filled with peace.

  Maybe I’d be happy again if I lived here?

  In November the Rectory’s still peaceful. There’s no place quieter than a graveyard and I had longed for quiet. It’s just that there’s a certain irony in having positioned myself next door to such stark visual reminders of mortality. It’s going to be tricky not to think about loss when its markers stand metres from my front door.

  I take a deep breath and try my best to turn this negative into a positive – something my counsellor, Perky Pippa, is very keen on. There’s always good to be found in a situation, Chloe! I’m not convinced about this. It’s pretty hard to find a bright side to losing your husband. I guess I can give up shaving my legs and eat toast in bed and never watch football again, but these things hardly compensate, do they?

  Anyway. What kind of positives would Perky Pippa draw from having to look at a graveyard every day? Well, I suppose at least the headstones don’t have the same potential to floor me as unexpectedly coming across something of Neil’s or finding myself idly thinking I must ask him to fix the catch on the kitchen window. These gravestones aren’t personal. They don’t record my tragedy. They didn’t end my world.

  Losing my husband ended my world.

  It’s the little things that make grief so utterly unbearable. It’s standing in the supermarket aisle frozen with the realisation that you’ll never buy him another birthday card because there’ll never be another birthday, or finding a stray football sock curled up with the dust bunnies under the bed. How long I sat on the bedroom floor clutching that sock to my chest I couldn’t say, but I do know that the daylight bled away, shadows filled the room and the marching stripes of passing headlights swept the wall before my tears stopped.

  How could something so real as the love we’d shared just vanish? It doesn’t make sense.

  Some people might find the familiarity of home comforting, but for me every memory was another loss, every recollection another death. The rawness would never heal if I stayed in our home. Being faced with reminders of the life I’d chosen and hoped for was too painful. The sofa we’d picked up from Gumtree. The hideous lime paint in the hall, which Neil thought was beautiful. The spare bedroom we’d tentatively earmarked as The Nursery. Memories, dreams and a future snatched away from me filled that flat. I couldn’t think there. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even paint anymore.

  And this was when I knew I had to leave. If I can’t paint, I don’t know who I am.

  To everyone else I’m still Chloe Pencarrow, but there’s a nervousness about the way they talk to me, as though they’re afraid the wrong comment will cause me to shatter. I’ve become someone who makes them feel awkward and a little bit guilty-smug that my bad fortune isn’t theirs. Some avoid me as though death might be contagious and others find it tricky now that I’m no longer in a neat couple. I’ve thrown their dinner-party planning into chaos, that’s for sure.

  I’m not being paranoid. Neil and I had a busy social life and I thought we had lots of close friends, but more than two years on most of them have drifted away and the invitations have dried up. I don’t blame them. Our friends’ lives have moved forwards while mine stopped on a May night in an airless hospital ward. They have babies now and school runs and play dates to organise, exciting new worlds to explore with similar-minded people who can share their experiences. I don’t fit in anymore and probably never will, because my life swerved and took a different path.

  After Neil’s funeral, life returned to normal for everyone else and there was a new version of normal for me too. Gradually people stopped asking how I was or calling by to check that I didn’t have my head in the oven (no chance, as it was an electric one and not much good for suicide). Everyone assumed I was coping. Which I was, of course – outwardly, at least. Inside I was rocking and screaming at Fate that it was unfair, and hurling myself against imaginary walls. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat and whenever I picked up a sketchbook my fingers felt as though they were made of rubber. I lasted for ten months by going through the motions, until one day something in me broke. The doctor signed me off work and said that I was under too much stress.

  I’ve never been signed off work in my life, but then again I’ve never been a widow before either. It seems I’m in for new experiences whether I like them or not.

  A widow. I still have trouble getting my head around the fact that I’m officially a widow. Widows don’t drive convertibles or go running – and they won’t have been thinking only recently that it’s time to add a folic acid supplement to their diet. When I think about widows, I picture elderly women clad in black, with crêpe-paper skin and scores of grandchildren they stuff full of sweets. They’ve lived long, happy lives with their husbands and managed to achieve all the things they dreamed about. Widows have thousands of memories to comfort them when they wake with a start in the small hours. Widows aren’t thirty-two years old with less than three years of marriage to sustain them through the decades that yawn ahead. So how on earth can I possibly be one?

  But I am.

  I’m a widow.

  That’s a fact. Neil’s gone and taken with him the life I thought I’d be leading. Everything that came before his death now seems like time spent living in a foreign land. Some fragments of the language still float through the memory, and the landscape’s familiar, but it isn’t home anymore. No matter how much you might ache to go back, you can never return. You can never recapture the past.

  So a new beginning’s what I need. A new place for this new version of me. A place to start over on my own. Never mind the gravestones. They’re the least of my problems.

  “Is everything all right with the property, Mrs Pencarrow?”

  The letting agent stands in the doorway regarding me with a worried expression. I smile at her apologetically.

  “Sorry, I was miles away. The place isn’t quite as I remembered it.”

  She bites her lip and nods. “I know it’s a little unloved, but the last tenant left
several months ago and houses in Cornwall don’t do well when they’re empty.”

  There’s a ladder in her tights and her suit is cheap and shiny. The clipboard stuffed with particulars quivers in her hands. I feel sorry for her, a junior member of the team, sent down from Truro to hand the keys over and make sure the new tenant signs the paperwork before coming to her senses and running a mile. I’m surprised they didn’t make me sign the contract the minute I said I was interested. If I hadn’t sold my flat, meaning that living with my parents is my only other option, I’d be running too.

  It’s no surprise the Rectory hasn’t let easily. It’s in a beautiful spot with gorgeous views, but it’s completely dilapidated. Apparently it belongs to an elderly man who’s gone into a nursing home and who clearly hasn’t touched the place since the eighties. It’s too far gone to attract holidaymakers, although I should imagine the minute he passes away it’ll be snapped up by somebody from London; whoever buys it will doubtless paint the front door sage and do up the interior with driftwood sculptures and twee sailing boats on every available surface. Still, even with the graveyard’s proximity, there’s something about it I like. I want to be here. That hasn’t changed.

  “The property’s great,” I say, and relief chases across her face like sunshine over the sea. I’m not fibbing: it is fine for me. If I’d wanted comfort, power showers and central heating, I wouldn’t have sold our flat in Pinner. An avocado bathroom suite and flock wallpaper are a fair exchange for losing heart-twisting memories and endless echoes of happier times.

  “I know Mr Sargent hasn’t done much with the place for a while and it needs a little modernisation – but the views are wonderful, aren’t they?” The letting agent is looking happier now. “The New Rectory isn’t nearly as nice. They really knew how to build houses in the old days, didn’t they?”