‘There’s a letter for you, Freya.’
Evie has propped it up against the honey pot on the kitchen table. We both recognise the writing on the envelope.
I take a mug of tea and Mum’s letter out into the garden. The rain’s stopped but the grass is still sodden, so I go into the greenhouse and drink my tea there, sip by slow sip, among the tomato plants and the red peppers. I can’t remember the last time Mum wrote to me. It makes me nervous, seeing the small neat writing in black ink across thick white paper. Has she something she wants to tell me, that she didn’t dare say out loud, on the phone? Hands trembling, I pull the pages out of the envelope.
Dear Freya
It was lovely to get your postcard. I’m so proud of you, getting on with island life this summer by yourself. Evie tells me bits and pieces when she phones. I was sorry to hear about Gramps being ill. How is he now? Evie says you are making all the difference to them, being there.
It has been very strange in this rented house with just your dad and me. Lots of time for thinking and talking. We haven’t even unpacked all the boxes. It all feels very temporary. I’ve been to see a possible house for us to buy: smaller than our old one, but with lovely views and a big garden (all a mess, and the house needs lots of work, of course!) and only a walk from the city centre, which you would like. We are both going to see it again tomorrow, I hope. I think it will be a new start for us all. A different house, without all the sadness of our old one.
This next bit is hard to say. Here goes.
I know the way I’ve been so wrapped up in my own grieving for Joe has been very difficult for everybody, especially you. I’m so sorry I’ve not been able to help you more, Freya. So very sorry. It’s like I’ve been in the bottom of this deep black well. I’m slowly climbing back out of all that now, bit by bit. It takes a long time, doesn’t it? But moving out of the old house seems to have helped me take the first few steps. I have decided to go back to work in September, part-time to begin with, which has pleased your dad no end.
I am missing you so much! We think it would be a good idea for both of us to come over for the holiday weekend. Evie seems to think so, too. So I will see you soon, darling. I thought we might do something to remember Joe, together, on the day. August 25th. As a family. What do you think? I can hardly believe it’s been a whole year.
Sometimes it’s easier to write things down. I know you’ll understand that, my dear, brave daughter.
Dad sends lots of love (he’s sitting here in the kitchen with me, having coffee, though he’s supposed to be working).
With all my love, Mum
I read the letter over at least three times. It makes my eyes sting with tears, and my heart aches, reading her words, but I can’t help but see all the times she writes that tiny word we: Dad and her, together. They are going to look at a house together. They are coming here, both of them. Right then, when she was writing to me, they were sitting together in the kitchen, having coffee.
So much has happened in a few weeks. It’s happening for me, here on the island, my heart beginning to mend, and it seems as if it’s happening for them, too.
My hand trembles when I finally get down to writing back. I practise in my notebook first, so I don’t make mistakes. It seems important to find exactly the right words, but it’s so difficult.
Sometimes it feels as if Joe is right beside me. I hear his voice, or I catch sight of him on the rocks below as I go across the cliffs at Wind Down. I dream about him night after night. He is everywhere on the island, because this is a place where he was happy, and felt like he belonged, and that’s why it will be good for you and Dad to come here too.
I think about him all the time, but new things happen too. Good things. I’ve made some new friends, really special friends . . .
If we do something for Joe (What? Say poems? Talk about him? Best memories? Funny memories? Float candles on the water?), I think we should do it in a way that’s quiet but not sad. Not too sad, anyway. Nothing complicated: just remembering the real Joe.
But I don’t send it. The words stay in my notebook.