Ranald willingly gave himself up to the advice of his doctors. If they said he needed three months in hospital to get himself back on an even keel, then that was what he would do.
Being there over Christmas and into the New Year was difficult, but the medical staff did their best to make the place feel homely, and Martie, Donna and Suzy all visited regularly. Reminding him that outside those walls the real world still went about its business.
Quinn also visited, and each time he did he apologised again for not realising the depths that Marcus and Rebecca had reached. Danny and Mrs Hackett, he assured him, were making sure everything was being looked after at Newton Hall until the doctors said he could return.
Newton Hall.
Could he go back there?
Of course he could. It was just a house, right? There were no ghosts. There was no Jennie. He could see now that it was all a product of his fragile mental health, and his willingness to adopt the burdens and delusions of his great-uncle; a combination that had made the illusory so, so real.
Eventually, the specialists all agreed that he had recovered and that he was no longer a risk to himself. He was reminded of the effectiveness of charting his moods, how to read them and what to do if they suggested he was at risk of another episode, and how the correct medicines, exercise and a healthy diet would help make sure that another collapse was reduced to a remote possibility.
The day came for him to return to Newton Hall and he was cheered that when he went downstairs to the main hospital entrance his taxi driver was the same man who took him home all those months ago. All those months. It felt like years. Almost as if it had happened to someone else.
Other than the chatty driver the journey to Newton Hall was very different this time around. The skies were a stark winter blue, the air looked sharper and the trees were bare.
What had also changed was Ranald himself. Older and shrewder. Calm and centred. He was a man of property. A man who knew his place. He was a Fitzgerald and proud of it.
He asked the driver to take him on a little detour before he went home. There was a small pile of letters he wanted to deliver, decades late, to their proper recipient. He’d had Martie collect them from Newton Hall and bring them to him on her last visit, along with the address of the man who should now be their owner.
With a churn in his gut at the thought of how huge this was going to be for Ken Welsh, he knocked on the old man’s door. It opened quickly.
‘Ranald,’ he said with some surprise. ‘You’re looking well. Have you been away?’
‘You could say that, Ken.’
The old man looked down at Ranald’s hand, at the folder he was holding. ‘Is that for me?’ he asked with an inquisitive smile. Then he stepped back, a wariness in his posture, as if he was afraid to come across as too friendly. ‘Want to come in for a cuppa?’ he said, almost grudgingly.
‘No, thanks,’ Ranald said, and turned his head to the side to indicate his waiting taxi. He coughed. ‘Remember that last time we spoke, you mentioned something about a letter from your sister, and I ran off like the hounds of hell were after me?’
Ken pulled his head in. ‘Aye. You weren’t quite yourself that day, son.’
‘Well, I found these up at the house…’ he held the folder out ‘… and thought you should have them.’
‘What’s that, son?’ Ken accepted the folder from Ranald. ‘What is it?’ he asked again as he opened it.
But one look at the handwriting and his question was instantly answered.
‘Oh my,’ he said. His bottom lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears. His right hand was over his mouth and it was shaking hard. He looked from the letters up to Ranald. ‘It’s our Jennie,’ he said as if he could scarcely believe his own eyes.
‘She wrote more than that one letter, Ken,’ said Ranald gently. ‘It’s to my shame that they were never delivered.’
‘Oh my,’ Ken said again, in a whisper. ‘Jennie.’ He stepped forwards and pulled Ranald into a hug, and Ranald could feel the force of the little man’s emotions, his body quivering within his arms.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Ken managed a whisper to the side of Ranald’s face.
‘I do,’ said Ranald. ‘Sorry.’
With that, he gently disengaged from the old man and turned and walked away up his garden path and climbed into the taxi.
Minutes later, the car stopped again, in that familiar wide drive, and after paying the driver Ranald climbed out. The front door opened and Danny and Mrs Hackett stepped outside to welcome him. The house looked like it had been sleeping, waiting for him to return before resuming its position in the world.
With a huge sigh Ranald realised just how much he was looking forward to being at home. The first thing he was going to do was jump in the pool. Then spend a few hours in the library before going up to his bed. Just then he looked up at the first floor windows. He wasn’t sure what grabbed his attention. Some movement behind the window? A flicker of sunlight? But there, behind the glass, just beyond the thick, dark drapes he saw her slight frame, her ageless, pale face, and a slender hand raised in greeting.