Copyright © 2021 Kathryn Hughes
The right of Kathryn Hughes to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by
HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
This Ebook edition first published in 2021 by
HEADLINE REVIEW
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitiousand any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 6596 8
Author photograph © Robert Hughes
Cover images © Susan Fox/Trevillion images (box), Galya Ivanova/Trevillion images (flowers) and Shutterstock
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Kathryn Hughes
By Kathryn Hughes
About the Book
Dedication
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Discover more from Kathryn Hughes
About the Author
Kathryn Hughes is the internationally bestselling author of The Letter, The Secret, The Key, Her Last Promise and The Memory Box.
Her novels have been translated into 28 languages.
Kathryn lives with her husband near Manchester and has a son and a daughter.
Visit www.kathrynhughesauthor.com to find out more about Kathryn, follow her on Twitter @KHughesAuthor or find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/KHughesAuthor.
Praise for . . .
‘Storytelling at its finest with characters that come alive and a plot that dances with intrigue. An absolutely first-class read that does not disappoint’
Prima
‘A gripping read’
Woman & Home
‘Gripping and heartbreaking’
Woman’s Weekly
‘Warm and witty, with super characters’
My Weekly
‘Her Last Promise is a beautifully written story of epic proportions that will sweep you up and carry you along on a tsunami of emotions’
Cal Turner Reviews
‘Full of emotion and full of beauty. There are moments that will leave you bereft and moments that will make you smile with joy. An all-round fabulous read’
Emma’s Bookish Corner
‘Her Last Promise is such a beautifully written and thought-provoking novel’
The Writing Garnet
‘Her Last Promise is a well written family saga with all the right ingredients for an epic and enjoyable story’
Jaffa Reads Too
‘A wonderful, enthralling story; one that I didn’t want to end’
Lesley Pearse
‘A heartbreakingly powerful read’
Sun
‘Unputdownable with a twisting plot’
My Weekly
‘A fabulous read’
Woman’s Weekly
‘A must-have’
Sunday Express
‘Impeccably researched’
Daily Mail
‘An intriguing and emotional tale with some surprising twists that will keep the reader absorbed throughout. Another winner’
People’s Friend
‘Shocking, stirring’
Woman
‘A very atmospheric, heartbreaking and intriguing read that will shock and surprise you’
Alba in Bookland
‘An emotional and intriguing read . . . Keeps you guessing right to the end’
People’s Friend, 5*
‘Gripping’
Good Housekeeping
‘Heart-warming and optimistic’
Jen Med’s Book Reviews
‘A gripping and moving family drama that will tug at the reader’s heart’
Writing magazine
‘A moving, emotional tale which will bring tears to your eyes and also a smile, this is a perfect Sunday afternoon read. Loved every bit of it!’
Peterborough Telegraph
‘Pulled me in right from the first page . . . I really enjoyed this book’
Rea’s Book Reviews
‘I so thoroughly enjoyed this book, it was filled with all kinds of mystery, family secrets, [and] characters that really stood out’
Read Along With Sue
‘One that you just HAVE to finish’
Hollie in Wanderlust
‘A wonderful, uplifting story’
Lesley Pearse
‘Autumnal Sunday afternoons were invented to read
heart-tugging novels like this’
Red
‘This moving love story had everyone talking . . . Get set to be hooked’
Look
‘A beautiful story . . . I didn’t want to put it down’
Reviewed by Fran
‘A moving story of love, loss and hope’
Bella
‘You will find it hard to put down. I cried buckets of tears reading it’
Books With Wine And Chocolate
‘Beautifully written and incredibly poignant. You cannot fail to fall for this story’
The Last Word Book Reviews
‘The story kept me gripped . . . A breath of fresh air, and just what I needed after a long day in the office’
Here.You.Me
By Ka
thryn Hughes
The Letter
The Secret
The Key
Her Last Promise
The Memory Box
About the Book
Some love stories can’t be forgotten . . .
Jenny Tanner opens the box she has cherished for decades. Contained within are her most precious mementoes, amongst them a pebble, a carving and a newspaper cutting she can hardly bear to read. But Jenny knows the time is finally here. After the war, in a mountainside village in Italy, she left behind a piece of her heart. However painful, she must return to Cinque Alberi. And lay the past to rest.
After a troubled upbringing, Candice Barnes dreams of a future with the love of her life – but is he the man she believes him to be? When Candice is given the opportunity to travel to Italy with Jenny, she is unaware the trip will open her eyes to the truth she’s been too afraid to face. Could a place of goodbyes help her make a brave new beginning?
This book is dedicated to the thousands of real-life ‘Candices’ who work so tirelessly in our care homes, especially during the most challenging of years.
1
2019
White rabbits. Those were the first words I uttered this morning. For as long as I can remember, I’ve said those two words on the first day of every month. It’s supposed to bring you good luck, and even though that might sound crazy, today’s my one hundredth birthday, so who knows?
Some people call my living so long a miracle, but I think it’s more likely preordained from the minute we’re conceived rather than a triumph of human spirit or a medical marvel. Or anything to do with rabbits. It was always meant to be this way. When I was twelve, the doctors said I’d be lucky to see twenty. I’ve outlived them all. I’ve given fate a helping hand along the way. Looked after myself as best I can. I don’t do things to excess, but I don’t deny myself too much either. I have a vanilla slice every now and then, a quarter of jelly babies, that sort of thing. Well, you’re a long time dead, after all. I’ve heard some folk credit their old age to a tot of whisky each night. ‘Just a wee dram,’ they’ll say, even though they’ve never been anywhere near Scotland. I prefer the odd gin myself. Bog-standard gin, none of this new-fangled stuff. I believe there’s one flavoured with rhubarb and ginger, if you can believe that. Anyway, fate, destiny, call it what you will, here I am about to clock up a century. You don’t need to worry, though. Ancient I may be, but I still have all my marbles. I’m not one of those unreliable narrators. You can trust me.
The room’s normally tastefully decorated, all soft caramel, taupe and fern, with squashy sofas that give you a giant hug as you sink into them. Tonight, though, it’s garlanded with pastel-coloured paper chains, the sort kids make in primary school. I suspect they’ve been made by members of the Craft Club. Three silver balloons, a number one and two zeros, gently sway above the air vents. Black-clothed tables are sprinkled with glittery stars, which some poor soul will have to clear away in the morning. They’ll be stuck in the carpet until Christmas, no doubt.
In the corner, a four-tiered cake towers over the makeshift dance floor, way too many candles anchored in the icing. This is Frank’s doing; only he could come up with such an ostentatious offering. We’ll be eating Victoria sandwich for weeks.
Can you picture a hundred-year-old woman, I wonder? I’ll furnish your imagination with some details if you like. Let’s see now. My once honey-blonde hair is now silver, but you’ve probably worked that bit out. Granted, it’s nowhere near as thick as it used to be, but what there is of it is cut into what Candice informs me is a ‘graduated messy bob’.
The skin on my hands is translucent and spangled with liver spots, the blue veins clearly visible. Hands are always a giveaway. Hands and neck. Arthritic knuckles mean my rings will have to be cut off my fingers when I eventually shuffle off, and beneath my nail polish (yes, really), my ridged nails are yellowing. I won’t go all lyrical on you and try to find a word to describe my eyes, because nobody has ever been able to decide if they’re blue or green. Depends what mood I’m in. There’s a slightly cloudy look to them these days, though.
People say I’m lucky with my complexion, and I suppose some of it is in the genes, but I’ll let you into a little secret. I’ve been using a special cream on my face for nigh on eighty years. Down on the farm when the cows’ udders became sore and cracked, we used to rub on a thick, calming unguent. Yes, you read that right. My secret to good skin is chapped-udder cream. You’re welcome. I’m fortunate with my teeth as well. Oh, they’re not as white as they once were, obviously, but at least they’re still in my mouth and not in a glass beside my bed. Back in the day, I used to stick my finger up the chimney and rub soot into them. I’ve never shied away from using a bold lipstick either. Well, why not accentuate your best feature? The colour I’m wearing tonight is Ruby Woo by somebody called Mac. Candice bought it for me. I hope it wasn’t too expensive, because she doesn’t earn a lot. She bought me a five-year diary, too. The optimism of youth is staggering sometimes.
I’m wearing a plain black immaculately tailored dress. That level of couture doesn’t come cheap, let me tell you, but fortunately the two old dears who work at the charity shop have no idea what they’re doing. A tenner they wanted for it. A tenner, I ask you! Now, I’m not one for ripping off charity shops, so I gave them thirty and left them dithering over what to put on the newly naked mannequin.
I’m looking around the room, scanning faces for those I recognise. I’m not even sure who all these people are, and don’t like to ask. It’s my guess they’ve been drafted in from somewhere to make up the numbers. Some people will go anywhere for a free buffet. The lights have been dimmed, but I can still make out Frank over in the corner, sitting in a wing-backed chair.
Frank’s my best friend in here now. He only moved in a few months ago, and at first he was a bit distant, but I won him over in the end. I give him a little wave and he doffs his imaginary cap in return. What else can I tell you about him? I can’t say he’s the nicest person on the planet, because I haven’t met everybody, but I’m confident he would make the podium. He’s devilishly handsome, with his geometrically manicured moustache. I think he must use a ruler and nail scissors to get that Errol Flynn effect. His eyes are still as blue as a cornflower and his hair’s thick, white and wavy, as though it’s been piped onto his head by a Mr Whippy machine. I’m rather envious of his hair. He’s young, too, somewhere in his eighties, so obviously I’m too old for him. In any case, I’m not his type. Frank was with his Ernest for fifty-eight years, married for the last four. He even took Ernest’s surname and they were known as Mr and Mr Myers. That’s true love, that is.
For some inexplicable reason, the music has been cranked up to a foundation-crumbling volume and has a dreadful bass I can feel deep inside my ribcage. It’s as though someone is stamping on my chest. I shan’t moan about it, though. If there’s one thing that shows your age, it’s asking folk if they can turn the music down.
My fingers fumble with the gold clasp on my patent leather handbag. It’s just like the one Her Majesty carries. I often wonder what she has inside hers. A quarter of lemon sherbets, or some Polo mints for the horses, perhaps. After all, she doesn’t need to carry money or house keys, but it’s always with her, tucked into the crook of her elbow, never out of her sight. She’s sent me a card, you know. It’s a picture of herself in a canary-yellow suit with the obligatory matching hat. She’s pleased to know I’m celebrating my hundredth birthday and sends me her best wishes. She looks good for her age too.
Oh, watch out, Candice is coming over. She has her fingers in her ears and tuts towards the ceiling.
‘Hello, Candice.’
‘Who are you talking to, Jenny? I’ve been watching you muttering away to yourself. First sign of madness that is, talking to yourself.’
‘Oh, I’m just reflecting, love. Don’t go fretting about me.’
‘I’ve asked them to turn that racket down a notch. Now, can I get you a refil
l?’
‘Go on then, you’ve twisted my arm. I’ll have another glass of that fizzy stuff.’
‘Your lipstick’s bleeding a little. Hang on, I’ll fix it with me tissue.’
She dabs her grotty tissue onto her tongue then wipes it round my mouth as though I’m a sticky little kid. She means well, but I’m perfectly capable of fixing my own lipstick, thank you very much. I’m not being unkind, honestly. Candice is a sweet girl and I’m rather fond of her. I know this job’s only a stopgap for her. She’s desperate to do some beauty course or other, and she seems to be the main breadwinner in her household. She lives with her boyfriend, who sounds like a waste of space to me, but she’s smitten. It’s all ‘my Beau this’ and ‘my Beau that’. At first I thought she was being a bit of a drama queen, but it turned out Beau’s his actual name, can you believe? At least Candice says it is. He’s a musician. A struggling one, but a musician all the same. I bet he’s really called Keith or something.
She’s coming back over now with two glasses of ersatz-champagne balanced in one hand and a plate of buffet fodder in the other.
‘Here you go, Jenny. A couple of salmon and cucumber on brown, a Scotch egg, and a few of those little tomatoes you like.’ She flicks a napkin over my lap, then perches on the arm of my chair and takes a sip of her drink. ‘A hundred years old, eh? What’s it like being a centurion?’
‘I’ve no idea, love. I’ve never been a Roman soldier.’
‘You what?’
‘I’m a centenarian.’
‘Oh, right. Well, anyway, I just can’t imagine living that long.’
The lights have been turned up and the music is now playing at an acceptable supermarket level.
‘By the time you’re my age, Candice, it won’t be that unusual. I can’t imagine it’ll warrant a card from the monarch, whoever he is. How old are you now?’
‘I’ll be twenty-three this year.’
‘So, you were born in what, ninety-six?’
She leans in and gives me a playful shoulder charge. ‘Yes, wow! Nowt wrong with your brain, is there? You’re dead clever, you. I wish I were that good at maths.’
The Memory Box Page 1
