The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  The range has done its job and there’s plenty of hot water. I run a bath. A combination of low pressure, blocked pipes and an enormous cast-iron tub means this takes ages, so while the water spurts and splutters through the taps I fetch the folder of sketches and flick through them, my eyes narrowed critically. I’m fully prepared for these to be dreadful but to my delight they’re not bad at all.

  OK. I’m being modest. They’re good, very good, and I know they’ll be a great foundation for the first design. Rosecraddick Manor is exactly the right place to use as a setting. I can’t wait to go back and do some more sketching.

  First though I’ll need to apologise to Matt.

  I glance at my watch. It’s just gone nine. I’ll have my bath and then head over to the Manor and find him. I can take some photos in the sunshine too, which will help, and I’ll check out some other possible locations. If Matt’s free I’ll do my best to explain what happened last night. He’ll probably think I’m crazy – which is fair enough, since I’m starting to think the same – but I do owe him an explanation. He was being a friend and didn’t deserve to be walked out on.

  Quite what I’ll say I do not know. I guess I’ll have to take some time in the bath to figure that out. Most likely I’ll end up very wrinkly.

  “Matt’s not here today. I thought he might have told you.”

  Jill announces this as though she’s delighted to be telling me something I don’t know about Matt. I suspect this is exactly the case because she’s very possessive of him, always wanting to discuss history or mentioning her first-class degree whenever she gets the chance.

  “No. No, he didn’t.”

  A brief flash of triumph in her eyes confirms my suspicion.

  “Oh. I am surprised, since you two are so pally lately, eating dinner together and everything.”

  I should have expected this. Sue did tell me that Matt was Rosecraddick’s number one bachelor. By having supper with him in the pub I’ve probably made a few enemies.

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  Jill’s clearly desperate to keep me in suspense but her desire to share a tasty snippet of gossip is too strong to resist. “His daughter’s broken her leg. She fell down some steps last night, apparently, and it needs pinning. He’s gone to be with her in hospital. He’s beside himself.”

  Poor Matt. He hasn’t spoken much about his children but I remember his stricken face when he sat on the bench contemplating a Christmas spent apart from them. This will have broken his heart. I’ve been so self-absorbed. Maybe Matt needed cheering up last night? Did I think of that?

  Of course I didn’t. Grief can make you selfish.

  Jill’s busy running through today’s to-do list but I tune her out. I’m not going to scrub the cellar or clean the windows with vinegar or whatever other grotty task she’s lined up for me. I’m going to call Matt and apologise for running out on him, and then I’m going to get some material together for these pictures. The house will have to wait for a few days.

  “I was going to ask Matt about doing some sketches. I wanted to use the drawing room and the long gallery,” I say when Jill stops to draw breath.

  “Those are closed.”

  “I know but—”

  “So you’ll have to wait until he’s back, dear.” Jill turns her attention back to the pile of books she’s dusting, her white-gloved hands deft and determined. No speck of dirt stands a chance. “Now, there’s lots to do in the kitchen. Why don’t you start there?”

  Our conversation is over and there’s no way Jill will let me loose to sketch, so I make my excuse that I need to work. Not that this is an excuse. I have to work now that Moira’s committed me. Matt would understand if he was here. Leaving Jill stony-faced with disapproval, I walk back to the Rectory feeling rather deflated. I attempt to call Matt a couple of times but there’s no answer, so I leave a brief message apologising and sending him my best wishes. I don’t expect to hear back. He’s got enough to deal with.

  The Rectory feels very empty in the daytime, and as I drift around I realise just how much time I’ve been spending at the Manor. I throw a few more logs into the range, check the wood burner too and even call my mother to make more excuses about not coming home for Christmas. Once I’ve run out of things to do I face the fact that I can procrastinate no longer: it’s time to tackle the attic and put together a makeshift studio. With this new project of Moira’s to occupy me, I’ll need a decent space in which to work.

  I make a mug of coffee and, scooping up the fan heater, scale the stairs. The attic door creaks open and instantly I’m bathed in glorious light from either side, both land and sea. I was right. Even on a dull day this room will still be bright enough to work in. The days are getting shorter and although it’s only lunchtime the cedar tree throws a long shadow across the front lawn. Nevertheless, the attic’s still perfectly usable. I feel the same tingle of excitement I felt yesterday when I drew the view from the tower room.

  I know I can work here. Maybe things will be all right?

  From here I can just make out the rooftop of the manor house through the lacework of naked trees. One of those windows glittering through the knotted branches must belong to the room where I was drawing yesterday: the room where Kit Rivers – for I’m certain it was him – once scratched a daisy onto the windowsill. It’s strange to think that he must have gazed across and seen the very window I’m staring through now.

  The hairs on my forearms stand up.

  I must be chilly. Rubbing at my arms I turn my attention to plugging in the heater and getting to work. This was once a bedroom, maybe even several, and it’s full of a jumble of old boxes, chairs spewing stuffing, and various other odds and ends of broken furniture. I drag as much of this as I can to the far side of the attic, sending disgruntled spiders scuttling into corners and making myself sneeze as I disturb several decades’ worth of dust. I’m getting good at this now. If the painting doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll get a job as a removal woman?

  I unearth an old table with a wonky leg, then shift it to the middle of the room, where the light floods it from all angles. I’ll place my easel here and loop string across the beams so that I can peg my paintings and photos up. There’s no running water here, so I’ll have to carry that up in a jug – but there is an ancient washstand that will come in handy for rinsing brushes when I use watercolours. Finally, I salvage a saggy floral armchair, which I can imagine curling up in. As I stand back to admire my handiwork, I decide that I already like this space. It may have hideous eighties flock wallpaper and an even older brown and orange carpet that gives me a headache, but it feels as though it belongs to me.

  I take a break for some toast and more coffee, followed by some reloading of the range, before returning to the attic. The sun’s lower now but the room has a lovely golden glow. The walls turn peachy and dust motes twirl in the light like ballerinas. All feels warm and still, as though I’m suspended in honey. Nearly done. Just one last task.

  I flex my fingers. Time to peel back the ghastly carpet. The corner has already lifted and peeking out, like a shy girl glimpsing the world from beneath her fringe, is a beautiful wooden floor. I’m going to pull the migraine-inducing carpet up and let the floorboards breathe.

  This is my plan, anyway, but ripping up a carpet that’s been undisturbed since the seventies isn’t as easy as it sounds. The underlay’s stuck in several places and it takes a lot of tugging and swearing for me to even peel back a third of it. I’ll be here for hours at this rate and my fingers are already sore.

  I sit back on my heels and push my hair behind my ears. My hands are black with grime and the air’s thick with dust. I’m hot, dirty and contemplating leaving this until tomorrow when something catches my eye. One of the half-uncovered floorboards seems to be higher than the others. It’s close to the skirting but it doesn’t lie flush to the parallel board. Intrigued, I crawl forwards and push the carpet back further until the whole area’s uncovered. This reveals a loose board where t
he nails have been removed. It’s a crude hiding place, the sort I made behind my bedroom sink when I was a teenager, and out of curiosity I curl my fingers around the edge and try to lift the wood. My nails scrabble for a hold and splinters dart into my fingertips, but all for nothing – the board doesn’t budge. It’s only when I fetch a palette knife from my painting kit and use it as a lever that the board starts to come up.

  Heartened, I wedge the handle of a paintbrush into the gap, followed by a succession of thicker brushes until my fingers can claw underneath. Now I have greater leverage and I prise the board up, preparing myself for spiders and silverfish to come scuttling out. There are several of these, but my attention is drawn to the rusting lid of what looks like a tin, rather than to creepy-crawlies. I go to switch on the light, then return to the void in the floor, where I lean forwards and peer in. Sure enough, inside this home-made hiding place, nestled between joists that are garlanded with spiders’ webs, is a dented and very old biscuit tin.

  I’m about to pick it up when it occurs to me that, by doing this, I’m intruding into somebody’s private belongings – belongings someone once went to great lengths to hide. It scarcely matters that whoever owned this tin is probably long dead. Whatever is in here isn’t mine. Should I be prying? Are they watching me from the shadowy corners? And, if so, are they willing me on or are they angry?

  The room feels charged. My breath catches in my throat. I can’t leave this hidden. It meant something once and it’s part of the history of this place: it’s evidence from a long-gone age. Whatever’s in this tin might teach us about that time and about ourselves too. That’s what Matt would say, surely? Where’s the difference between opening this tin and reading Tommy’s exercise books or trying on moth-eaten feather hats? Neither the exercise books nor the hats were mine, but in finding and logging them I was able to add a little more detail to the Manor’s history.

  Buoyed by this thought, I lift the tin out and wipe the dirt away with my sleeve.

  It is a biscuit tin, just as I thought. It’s mostly copper-coloured, but with a pretty design of soaring bluebirds and pink blossom. Whose fingers last touched this? Who closed the lid, lowered the tin into its hiding place and then pushed the section of board back? Did they know they would never see it again? It looks old, certainly last century, and as I lift the lid I have a strange sensation that I’m travelling back in time to the moment when it was last opened.

  Somebody’s treasures are in here. Worthless in money, but priceless in the way that only sentimental belongings can be. There’s a thick notebook with a leather cover, a faded red ribbon tying a curl of blond hair, a marble bottle stopper, some seashells, an envelope addressed in an elegant sloping hand, and a daisy chain. Dried almost to dust and ready to crumble, yes, but instantly recognisable. A daisy chain.

  A Daisy chain.

  The realisation of what this means is like a shaft of sunlight. I don’t need to look any further or open the notebook. I know exactly what this is. With trembling fingers, I gently replace the long-dried flowers into the tin. I know I’ve stumbled upon something very private. Something that once meant the world.

  Captivated, I carry the biscuit tin to the armchair and sit down. Then I open the notebook.

  Daisy Alice Hills

  1914

  Diary

  My teacher’s eye recognises the round and confident style of a young hand, the writing neat and well formed with elaborate loops and flourishes. The ink is pale brown and faint, but the nib was once pressed firmly into the paper, scratching the words into life – as though with the force of her pen Daisy Hills was claiming every blank page.

  Daisy Hills.

  Daisy.

  Of course. Why didn’t it occur to me before? This was never about a flower. This was all about a girl.

  Kit Rivers’ girl?

  Maybe.

  Without even reading a word I’m certain she must have been. This unknown girl, this Daisy whose diary rests in my lap, was never far from Kit’s thoughts in life; even in death she was close, judging by the window in St Nonna’s. It’s all been about her. Daisy Hills might have vanished from history, been erased from the official story of Kit Rivers, but someone made sure they left clues behind. They’ve been waiting for us to work out what these meant, that’s all.

  With the knowledge that I’m holding something very precious, I turn the first page and begin to read…

  Part 2

  Chapter 1

  Daisy, May 1914

  Daisy Hills stood on the platform, watching her train become a grey smudge feathered with smoke, hoping somebody had remembered she was arriving today. The fellow passengers who’d alighted alongside her at Rosecraddick Halt had already been collected by gigs and traps, and there’d even been a very smart carriage pulled by beautiful bay horses and driven by a groom in green and gold livery. As much as Daisy had longed to ride in it, she’d known straight away that it hadn’t been sent for her. Vicars couldn’t afford such luxury, and in any case such a carriage wouldn’t have been sent to fetch a humble doctor’s daughter. Her godfather, the Reverend Cutwell, was far more likely to send a farm cart. A carriage would encourage vanity – and vanity was a sin.

  On the rare occasions when her godfather had visited them in Fulham, he’d struck Daisy as strict. With his mutton-chop sideboards, swirling black robes and bushy grey brows, he resembled a distinguished gentleman from the old Queen’s time. When her godfather had last visited, four years ago now, Papa had warned Mama that under no circumstances was she to mention women’s suffrage. The Reverend apparently had very strong opinions on such matters and would not be impressed, Papa had said, and although she wasn’t pleased Mama had tried to keep the peace.

  And I must do the same, Daisy told herself as she stood on the platform. It was kind of her godfather to invite her to stay and she must do her very best to make sure she didn’t upset him.

  Daisy’s godfather was an old family friend and Papa had lodged with him when he was an undergraduate at Oxford. Reverend Cutwell had long since moved to a parish in Cornwall and Charles Hills had settled in London. Their paths seldom crossed nowadays, but Papa recalled him with fondness and the Reverend was certainly a devoted godfather, regularly writing to Daisy to enquire after her spiritual welfare. Daisy was more than a little jealous of her brother’s godfather, who was always good for ice creams or a penny. These may not secure entry to heaven but they were a lot more fun than having to memorise Bible verses and be on her very best behaviour.

  Daisy had never visited Cornwall before, but Papa had gently explained that it was a quiet place, rather old-fashioned, where the radical ideas of the city would seem somewhat alarming. Daisy really hadn’t understood this four years ago but now, at the practically ancient age of sixteen, she thought she did. Daisy had once overheard Cook say that Mama was a “bluestocking”, which had confused her for a long time given that Mama’s stockings were woollen and black.

  “That’s an old-fashioned name for a woman who’s intelligent and enjoys intellectual pursuits,” Mama had said when Daisy asked her to explain. “It’s much easier to be scornful than to admit that women like us are men’s intellectual equals. Not everyone thinks like your dear Papa, my love.”

  Daisy had beamed at the “like us” comment. She was immensely proud of her pretty and clever mama, who’d studied at Oxford and often argued the case for women’s suffrage. An avid reader herself, Daisy was determined to be just like Mama when she grew up. Maybe she would write too? Daisy loved to write and for as long as she could recall had kept a diary, which she updated every evening. The early entries were all very dull and mostly about what pudding Cook had produced at dinner, but Daisy had always been sure that once she grew up they’d become far more exciting. She could scarcely wait to see what happened.

  Standing on a deserted railway platform on a beautiful May afternoon, listening to the trembling calls of wood pigeons and wondering if the stationmaster would ever return, Daisy was very gl
ad that her twelve-year-old self hadn’t known what was ahead. There’d been an awful lot to write about since then, but excitement wasn’t always such a good thing after all.

  Daisy bit her lip. She wasn’t going to dwell on that. Mama was dead, Eddie had been sent away to public school, Papa was sad and tired, and she was lucky to still be alive – even if she was stranded on an empty railway platform. It was time to count her blessings. That was what their nursemaid, Meggie, used to say when she made Daisy and Eddie kneel down to say their prayers: they had to think about all the good things to be thankful for. As she squinted into the distance, feeling disconcerted by all this emptiness and space after a lifetime spent gazing at rooftops and chimneypots, Daisy did her best to dredge up a few blessings. Surviving polio was one, and surviving with just a limp and a weakened leg was another. Maybe this counted for two or even three blessings? Lots of the other patients in the sanatorium hadn’t been as lucky. Neither did many of them have a godfather who lived by the sea and who was willing to have them come and stay for fresh air and saltwater bathing. Papa said these things were what she needed – and although Daisy had wept bitterly to leave him and her home, with all its memories of Mama, she knew that in all matters medicinal Papa was always right. Some of the other doctors might scoff at his ideas but she was still alive, if thin and weaker, wasn’t she? And if Papa said that fresh air, good country food and saltwater swimming were what Daisy needed, then she didn’t doubt him for a minute. Yes, she was lucky that her godfather was willing to have her come to stay.

  So her godfather was another blessing, Daisy decided as she dragged her trunk along the platform. She was very fortunate to have this chance to become strong again. If she had to do some light duties around the house, help to clean the church and keep her opinions on women’s suffrage to herself, those would be small prices to pay. Perhaps if she had some spare time she could also ask to borrow a bicycle. Such exercise would probably strengthen her leg and she’d have some fun cycling along the lanes. With this idea in mind, she felt slightly less downcast at being marooned in Cornwall.