Four years later, early March
‘Rose, honey …’
Rose glanced up. Her mother was standing by the armchair with a china cup and saucer.
‘Here’s your tea.’ She wrinkled her nose while handing it over. ‘It’s that Yorkshire stuff you can stand a spoon in. I couldn’t find anything else.’
‘Gran wouldn’t have anything else,’ Rose said. ‘She loved a good strong cuppa.’
‘I brought some herbal with me just in case,’ her mother said, sipping a brew that Granny Marge would have described as ‘cats’ pee’.
The thought brought a smile to Rose’s face; one of the few that she’d enjoyed over the past few weeks since her grandmother had passed away. Even now, with her mother by her side, the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick more loudly than it had before, emphasising the emptiness of the space. Rose drank her tea, while her mother answered a phone call. Knitting still lay on the workbox; a pile of Mills and Boon paperbacks were piled by the armchair, with her grandmother’s tablet on top of them.
Rose didn’t think she would ever get used to her grandmother not being in that chair, even though it had been two weeks since they’d laid Granny Marge to rest.
Her mother had flown over for the funeral and stayed at the cottage since.
‘Sorry about that,’ Rose’s mother said as she finished her call. ‘It was one of the executive producers. I hate to say this, but I can’t stay here forever. I’m going to have to get back to work.’
Although Stella Vernon’s American accent had become more pronounced over the years, the East Anglian popped out from time to time, especially when she was agitated or upset.
‘It’s fine,’ Rose said mechanically. ‘I’ll be OK.’
Her mother patted her hand before surveying the sitting room. ‘At least your gran left you the cottage so you won’t be homeless. It must be worth quite a bit, even though it’s not actually in the city. I heard Cambridge house prices have rocketed.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been checking the property pages lately.’
‘You’ll stay here, then, not get a little flat in town?’
‘I couldn’t afford a dog kennel in town,’ Rose said, with an eye-roll. ‘The cottage isn’t worth as much as you think, and besides, I love it here.’
‘But surely you’d like to live in the middle of the action?’ Her mother wrinkled her nose and pulled her cashmere wrap tighter. ‘Especially in the winter. It’s freezing here!’
‘It’s still only March, Mum. You know how bitter the wind is in the Fens this time of year.’
‘I’ve gone soft, being out in LA. Surely you don’t cycle to college every day?’
‘I can take the car if it’s really bad but cycling to work helped me get fit after the transplant and I actually enjoy it. There’s nowhere to park in Cambridge these days anyway.’
‘Nowhere to park your car? Not even for a lecturer?’ Her mother laughed. ‘You are quaint, Rose.’
Quaint?
Before Rose could protest that riding a bike was not considered eccentric in Cambridge and that she was at the very bottom of the academic food chain, her mother had embraced her. ‘I’m truly sorry we lost Mum. I loved her even though we were never that close, and I can never thank her enough for taking you on.’
The unexpected display of emotion made Rose’s own tears spill over again and she held her mother tightly.
‘I’ll try to get back over here more often in future, honey,’ she said. ‘I promise. I might even get a job back in the UK. These few weeks have made me miss it – even the weather.’
The words brought a smile to Rose’s lips as she popped into the kitchen for some kitchen roll to wipe her eyes. When she returned, her mum was turning the pages of a paperback book that Marge had been reading the morning she’d died.
‘I’m glad Mum didn’t have a long illness,’ she said, with a break in her voice. ‘Easier on your gran but hard on you. Such a shock.’
Rose had thought this many times, but always came to the same conclusion. Her grandmother had died from a massive heart attack while working in her garden. Rose had found her when she’d come home from college to fetch a notebook. She shuddered at the memory of her grandmother on the cold ground though the paramedics had said it would have been almost instant.
‘She wouldn’t have had it any other way …’ Rose said. ‘She was clearing leaves from around the crocuses, her favourites … the first bright jewels that said spring was on its way.’
‘She loved that garden … Will you get a gardener in or do you have time to do it on all your holidays?’ Stella moved on swiftly, obviously keen to avoid dwelling on gloomy topics.
‘I have plenty to do in the “holidays”,’ Rose said patiently. ‘And I might not need a gardener because I’m thinking of renting out the cottage.’
‘Renting it? I thought you said you weren’t moving into town?’
‘I’m not, but I’ve seen a summer project I like the look of. It comes with a small grant and it would enable me to help run an archaeological project in conjunction with another university during the vacation.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a new dig at a really interesting site and it’s right up my street.’
‘I think that sounds like a cool idea. Give you a change of scene and a chance to meet new people,’ Stella said, by which she probably meant new men. ‘Where is this dig?’
‘In Cornwall,’ Rose said. ‘Down on the Lizard. It’s a great chance to do some research and learn more about the site,’ she added, squashing any idea her mother might have about her meeting someone on the dig.
‘Cornwall? How romantic and wild. How very Poldark.’
‘I doubt he’ll still be there …’ Rose said. ‘But I did think I might learn to sail. I always liked the idea. That is, if I can get the grant. I haven’t even applied yet. I haven’t had the heart since Gran died.’
‘I understand that, honey,’ her mother said briskly, ‘but you must move on. The most important thing is you getting away from this cottage and Cambridge. It’ll do you the world of good. Let’s face it, this whole place can be claustrophobic. I know you love it here and you’ve felt safe while you’ve been recovering but it’s time you spread your wings.’ Stella smiled. ‘Even if it is only to Cornwall … you know, your grandad loved Cornwall. He used to sail there when he was younger.’
‘I remember. Sort of. He took me out on a friend’s boat once but Gran didn’t come.’
‘She didn’t like sailing with him. She was always too seasick.’
Rose pictured herself at the helm of a yacht, cutting through the waves. It seemed glamorous and exhilarating and so very far from the flat Fenlands of the cottage.
‘I think you should go,’ Stella added firmly.
‘Well, I still haven’t even got the grant yet and I’d need to find tenants to rent this place. I want to help someone who can’t afford accommodation in the city. Maybe some nurses or junior doctors.’
Stella waved a hand dismissively. ‘You’ll have a stampede! When do you have to start this new project?’
‘I’d have to go down in May and stay until the start of the new term in late September.’
‘Go for it,’ her mother said, then went quiet, examining her polished nails. ‘While we’re on the subject of new starts and Grandma, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you since she died.’
‘What?’ Rose jumped on the comment and goose bumps prickled her skin. She’d heard that tone before. It was edged with guilt and reminded her of times her mother had had to break the news her visit home would be delayed or even cancelled. Rose had learned to live with the disappointment, but it still stung from time to time.
‘Your gran gave me a letter for you.’
Rose’s cup trembled in the saucer. ‘A letter? What?’
‘She gave it to me at Christmas when I flew over. She told me she wanted me to keep it and give it to you if “something happened to her”. I told her not to be so silly, of course, but I was a bit worried about her.’
‘You never told me you were worried.’ Rose spoke slowly, reeling that her grandmother had left the letter in the hands of her mum, not Rose directly.
‘No, because she asked me not to and I respected her wishes.’ Stella’s voice rose in frustration, but she tempered it. ‘I was going to hand it over before the funeral, but we were both feeling so raw after Mum died, so I thought I’d wait until a calmer moment and well, this feels like it.’
She got up and retrieved a leather tote bag from under the coffee table. From inside, she produced a pale blue envelope, the kind that no one sent now but which Rose recognised instantly as her grandmother’s favourite stationery.
‘I took it back to the States with me in case you found it and I’ve kept it in my bag ever since. It’s a bit shabby now.’ She handed over the slightly dog-eared envelope to Rose.
‘I still don’t understand why she didn’t give it to me herself …’
‘Because she didn’t want to worry you. I’ve no idea what’s in it. You can read it now or wait until I’m gone.’
Rose held the letter, choked with emotion. She had to be alone to read it. ‘Do you mind if I wait a little while?’
‘Of course not. I have a Zoom chat with a producer planned anyway and I need to prepare,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you some space.’
Stella left the room with a squeeze of Rose’s arm. Rose was still shocked that her mum had kept the letter a secret, but it was typical of her gran not to want to worry her. She wondered what it contained, and how she’d cope with reading the contents while her emotions were all over the place.
Yet the voice of her gran was in her ear, telling her to be brave.
She made another, much stronger cup of tea and took it into the little sunroom that overlooked the cottage garden. Already she knew she had to read the message right there and then. No point putting it off: her experience with her illness had taught her that it was best to seize the moment.
After taking the letter from the envelope, she unfolded the two sheets of paper and read her gran’s neat hand:
Dearest Rose,
If you’re reading this then I’ll probably be gone – unless your mum hasn’t been able to keep it a secret, of course. That wouldn’t surprise me. Please don’t grieve too much for me. I’ve had a long and joyful life and that’s been largely because of you. I know you don’t really remember your grandad, but he’d have been so proud of you.
It has been the biggest joy of my life to see you recover from your illness and go on to achieve your dream of being an archaeologist. I know it’s what you always longed for. My, I spent so many nights reading all those Horrible Histories books to you and trying to stop you from digging up other people’s gardens to find buried treasure.
Rose smiled through her tears.
The day I sat in the audience in the Senate House to watch you get your PhD was the proudest of my life. To call my granddaughter “Dr Vernon”, and see you bursting with happiness, will live with me to the end of my days.
Of course, we’ve had some dark times too. Rose, only now can I tell you how worried I was about you, and how my whole existence would have meant nothing if you hadn’t received your transplant. I would have jumped off a cliff in a heartbeat to save you. I know your mum would have too – in fact, she told me. Even if she wasn’t able to let you know how worried she was, I promise you it was true.
I also know that you’ve wanted to contact your donor for a long time, to thank him for the gift he gave you. I didn’t think it was a good idea at the time and I was worried it might tempt fate. That will sound silly now you’re well, but I was scared it was too soon and that things could still go wrong. I was also worried that if you didn’t hear back, you’d be hurt and disappointed.
Well, lately, I’ve changed my mind and I think you should contact him. Time has passed and you’re ready to move on now.
So I say you should go for it. Write to him and see if he’ll meet with you. Thank him from me, whoever he is and shake his hand. Thank him for saving your life – and making mine worth living.
All my love,
Gran
XX
It took Rose a good hour before she was ready to face her mother after reading the letter – half an hour of tears and the same again wandering in the garden, composing herself. The crocuses were past their best and the daffodils were blooming as the cycle of the year moved on. Soon there would be tulips and then the hawthorn would burst out in May … Time marched on and Gran was right: it was time to seize the moment.
Rose went inside, hearing muffled conversation from above in the spare room where her mother was having her Zoom meeting. She’d already decided she wouldn’t show the letter to her mum, but she might tell her a little about it – but perhaps not the part about contacting her donor.
Her mother might not understand or try to interfere or dissuade her and Rose wanted to make her own mind up without any influence.
Without further ado, before she could chicken out, she marched into the sitting room and opened the bureau. In one of the wooden pigeonholes, she found the remaining few sheets of blue writing paper, and took them into the sunroom, where the spring sun had warmed the room. Outside, the tête-à-tête daffodils her gran had planted nodded their heads in the breeze. A more fanciful person than Rose might have imagined they were telling her to go ahead: that the time was now right.
She picked up her pen and began to write.