The week before Christmas brought a bizarre spell of warmth and sunshine that was like spring.
In the lane, snow is glistening . . .
In the lane, snow was not glistening. In the lane, or at least in Truesdale Street, cats were sleeping on sunny windowsills and people were drinking beer on their patios. Someone in a house further down the street even had a barbecue one evening. Meg could smell the greasy smoke as it drifted in through her open window with their laughter.
On television, there were reports of early snowdrops and lambs. Scientists were trotted out to talk about the state of the ozone layer and how much time we had now before the world came to an end.
Walking in a winter wonderland.
Hers was the only house in the street without decorations and a tree glowing in the front window. She had not sent anyone a card yet and she did not feel like it. The few she had received lay in a little pile on the kitchen table.
It was a charade and she did not want to be part of it. She wandered among the city centre crowds, feeling as if she were watching it all from a distance.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas . . .
Everyone had let her down in the end. What was the point of it all, of being restored to a life that was empty and hopeless? Alone and depressed, she did not think about the future any more. Or the past. Nothing mattered.
Then, on 20 December, she got another letter from the Everetts and everything changed again.
The letter came in a large brown envelope which also contained a second envelope, smaller, with her name on it.
Dear Meg
It was good to get your letter. It gave us a lot to think about.
I’ll get right to the point. You asked us if we’d send you a copy of Paul’s last letter to us. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. As I’m sure you understand, that little letter is a very significant thing for me and my wife to have. To say it has sentimental value is an understatement. My wife keeps it in a box in her closet along with some of Paul’s other papers and she just won’t let it out of the house, not even for me to take it away and photocopy it. Apart from that, I have to say that I felt a bit strange about it myself, the idea of making a copy of something that’s so personal to us.
Maybe this doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to you but bereavement and emotion are powerful forces and it just didn’t feel right to us. Nevertheless, we started thinking more about you. The thing is, we have no objection at all to your seeing the letter. As a matter of fact, we’d like you to see it. We’d like to see you, too, like we mentioned before. That’s why we’ve taken a bit of a liberty. In the enclosed envelope you’ll find something that I hope you’ll be able to accept. If you can’t, well then there’s no harm done.
In the envelope, there’s an open ticket for a return flight with Aer Lingus from Belfast to Boston. I made some inquiries from a travel agent friend of mine and I discovered that there’s a flight to the US every Thursday. This ticket is valid until the end of January which isn’t the busiest time on that route. If you decide to come, all you have to do is contact your local Aer Lingus office and get yourself a firm reservation. And if you don’t want to come, then just send the ticket back to me and I’ll get a refund.
Portland’s only about an hour and a half’s drive from Boston on the I-95. We really do hope you’ll accept this invitation. My wife and I aren’t getting any younger. I’ve got problems with arthritis and we’re just about to move out of this apartment and go to a smaller place, right after Christmas. But you can still write back to this address and it will get to us. Or you can call.
What do you say, Meg? It would be the best present we could have.
Best wishes and a Happy Christmas,
Laurence Everett
She looked at the top of the page. This time they had left a phone number.
She opened the second envelope and took out a flimsy airline ticket written in ballpoint. It weighed hardly anything but she felt that it represented an awful lot.
Laurence and Marcie Everett wanted to talk to her every bit as much as she wanted to talk to them. She wondered what they looked like, how old they were. He had arthritis. Maybe he was quite elderly, seventies, eighties? It was impossible to tell from the writing.
They had made a big decision, a big effort. They had taken an enormous, adventurous step. She looked at the ticket. She had made the first contact with them and this was the outcome. It was nothing like she had expected – but then what had she expected when she had written blindly to them those months ago?
Should she go?
No matter what Laurence Everett said, she knew that if she turned them down they would feel hurt and snubbed. Nevertheless, the thought of flying across the Atlantic, into the unknown, to meet two complete strangers whose son had been murdered, filled her with doubt.
But seeing them, meeting them face to face, was the only hope she had left of getting anywhere near the truth.
She had to think about it. Still, she should not leave it too long. They would be anxious to know. She imagined them listening for the phone, watching for a letter, waiting for her to decide.