Jake turned off the lights and went upstairs to bed. Leo wasn’t in the cottage, so Jake assumed he’d slipped through the cat flap in the rear kitchen door and gone back to Fen’s. He had to smile to himself at Poppy’s reaction to the cat. She really liked Leo and the feeling was mutual, judging by Leo sticking close to her all evening.
Jake had been almost jealous of the way Poppy ran her fingers through Leo’s fur as he sat next to her on the sofa. As they’d chatted, he kept imagining himself in the same position and then telling himself off for having such rogue thoughts. She did look lovely, though, with more pink in her cheeks now she was safely on dry land and had had a few hours to rest.
While waiting for her to arrive, Jake had set up his laptop and worked on the images he’d taken in New Zealand, selecting the best for the magazine that had commissioned him. He didn’t want to be caught out by Poppy in the middle of eating his dinner, so he’d prepared the fish pie but waited before turning on the old electric oven. When there was still no sign of her at past eight o’clock, he’d wondered whether to call at the studio to see if she was OK but decided she might have needed more time to herself. He’d also had to start cooking his dinner.
He’d taken another swig from the bottle and smelled the fish pie, starting to bubble in the oven. If you’d asked him earlier today, before Poppy had arrived, he’d have been relieved not to have any more contact with his new tenants. So he was surprised to find he felt quite disappointed that she hadn’t shown up.
His heart had started beating quite quickly when she’d finally turned up at his door and he remembered now how suddenly important it had seemed that she’d accepted his offer of dinner. They’d laughed together – he’d enjoyed her company and looking at her.
‘Actually, our meeting brings back the only good memories of that day …’
This was true … If only she didn’t remind him of that day at all.
And he’d meant it when he told her that things were getting better for him but recovering from grief – and guilt – was painfully slow. Three steps forward and two back on a good day. Climbing up a ladder out of the pit of despair and emerging into the light before slithering down a great long snake back into darkness. He didn’t want to stay in that dark hole. He wasn’t actively trying to stay there – was he?
He’d never even intended to talk to her about Harriet’s death, but he’d realised that if he didn’t, someone else would and he couldn’t bear that. Even so, he’d said so much more than he’d planned to … He could kid himself that the beers had given him the courage to tell Poppy the bare facts about Harriet’s death, but he also knew that he’d instinctively felt she was someone he could talk to. Perhaps it was knowing they were two lonely souls and in their own ways, strangers on St Piran’s, but for different reasons.
He switched on the lamp in the bedroom of the cottage, stared at the packing crate of paintings again. Goodness knows where Archie had found it; it looked like it might once have been used to hold goods from a ship. Most things were recycled on the islands, so it might have had several former owners before Grandpa. It was roughly the size of the modern cardboard packing crates that removals people used, except it was made of old pine. The lid had been tacked down with small nails to keep the contents secure.
He’d need pliers to open the lid, he thought, when he examined it more closely. The envelope addressed to him had been placed inside a plastic bag – one of those zip-lock sandwich bags – and taped to the top with parcel tape, which was yellowing.
Should he at least open the letter, to find out what his grandpa wanted to do with them?
He stared at the crate again.
If only he’d never found it or come back to St Piran’s, he wouldn’t have been tempted to open it. He shouldn’t open it if Archie really had intended it to be read after his death, but …
He peeled the parcel tape from the top of the crate, removed the plastic bag and took out the envelope … Why not read it now, while his grandpa was alive? What point was there in waiting until someone was gone to say the things you needed to say? He loved Archie and his grandpa loved him. Why not face up to what was in the letter now?
He thought back to his conversation with Poppy about Harriet – and hers about Dan – it had been a day of unexpected revelations …
Jake opened the envelope and carefully drew out the contents.
There were two sheets of blue writing paper, covered on both sides in his grandfather’s elaborate flowing style. Archie had been brought up in an era where neat handwriting was considered more important than the words you actually wrote. School had stifled his creativity, he’d said, and he’d left the moment he was legally able, at just fifteen. Initially he’d worked in the boatyard next to the studio, which, of course, had still been a boathouse then, and learned to repair and paint the boats. However, art had always been his first love and he’d managed to teach himself to paint and had sold a few pictures until he’d taken the plunge to become a full-time artist. Now, here he was, approaching the end of a long life, about to reveal who knew what to his only grandson.
The paper trembled as Jake started to read.
Dear Jake,
If and when you open this, I’ll have gone to that great gallery in the sky. Actually, I’ll probably be in St Piran’s churchyard, if they’ll have me. Doubt they’ll let me in to the posh seats though, I’ve not been an angel, as you may find out over the next few months.
Don’t grieve for me, Jake. I can’t bear the thought of you crying over me. God knows, you’ve shed enough tears since you lost Harriet. Sorry if me saying that makes you angry or upset, but you know, it’s been a while now since the poor girl went, and life is very very short. After I lost my dear Ellie, I was the same. I went into a dark place nothing and no one could bring me out of. I neglected your dad and never thought how much he might be hurting too. You can ask him if you like …
Jake shook his head and dropped the letter on the bed.
He had tried to get over Harriet’s death. Who had the right to tell him how long he should grieve for? Of course his grandpa knew grief; he had been married to Ellie for twenty-five years when she died from a sudden brain haemorrhage and, yes, it was awful and tragic, but at least they’d had time together and started to bring up a family.
Jake’s dad, Tom, had said very little about his own mother dying. It wasn’t something they discussed, and why would they? Jake hadn’t known her, sadly, and his father probably found it too painful, especially if Grandpa had withdrawn from him. Maybe Jake should ask his mum more about that time: although she obviously hadn’t known his dad then, he might have talked to her about it. She’d been amazing with him when Harriet died. Three years had enabled him to realise how wonderful and supportive both his parents had been, and many of his friends.
He read the first few lines again.
I’ve not been an angel, as you may find out over the next few months.
What the hell did that mean? And did that mean he wouldn’t find out now, because Grandpa Archie was still alive? He’d like to say ‘very much alive’, but he wasn’t so sure.
‘Oh, Grandpa …’ He heaved a sigh. Archie had every right to leave the letter. It had been Jake’s own choice to open it now when it was never intended to be read until his grandad had passed away. Jake had also guessed correctly that the contents would rip open his own freshly healing wounds. He might have known Grandpa wouldn’t mince his words.
It was too late to put the genie back in the bottle though. He scanned the next few lines, willing himself to stay calm.
I love your dad and you, and your mum. I’ve been blessed to have a wonderful loving family, but you are my greatest joy, Jake.
‘Shit. Grandpa. Don’t do this to me.’ Despite his efforts, Jake’s eyes stung and he had to force himself to read on.
And so, I’ve decided to leave you some of my favourite pictures. Now, I can see your face. Hear you cursing. Why me? You know why. Because you always understood me. We’re kindred spirits. We’re both creative, and no matter how much I love your dad, he won’t understand like you do. These aren’t my best work – I’ve never flattered myself than any of my work lived up to the actual power of the real place or how I wanted to express it – but they’re pictures that mean a lot to me. I’ve had them kept back from sale for a while now.
They’re of places that I love the most. Places that have made me feel happy – and sad – places that have reminded me of people I love. I know you’ve fallen out of love with St Piran’s and the isles and I understand why. Harriet lost her life here: now you see only darkness and misery in the midst of beauty. That’s sad, Jake, and I want to help you feel differently about our home again.
I’m not sure if my plan will work, and I’m sad to think I might be causing you pain, but I have to try. Please take a look at the pictures. You’ll know why I chose them. Smile and laugh, and cry if you have to. Honour Harriet’s memory and then try to move forward, holding her in your heart – and me too if you can. Think of me with affection and forgive me. And, if you can, forgive our Little Cornish Isles.
With love,
Grandpa x
Jake made no attempt to stem the flow of tears. He’d learned long ago it was pointless. He laid the letter on the bed before his tears wet the paper and walked into the bathroom. He blew his nose and washed his face, knowing he’d probably have to wash it again before he’d finished his blubbing.
He went back into the bedroom, clutching a handful of loo roll, lay on the bed and closed his eyes. He was already a wreck after reading the letter. What fresh wounds might be uncovered if he opened the pictures? He definitely wasn’t ready to open the crate yet and look at the paintings.
After a couple of minutes, he folded the letter in four and slipped it in the top pocket of his camera bag. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while so he went downstairs and switched on the TV to try and blot out his thoughts.