Clara stands on the platform at St Pancras. She clutches her heavy cloth bag so tightly her knuckles are white and her fingernails dig into her skin. It’s the first time she’s left England and she’s going to a country where she knows no one and doesn’t even speak the language. She’s booked a B&B and has a map and phrase book. But, having already tried to practise, Clara quickly discovered that Dutch was rather tricky. It didn’t flow off the tongue like French or Italian, it stuck in the throat. Every sentence seemed to employ vast amounts of guttural consonants that twisted and tangled in Clara’s voice box leaving her speechless.
Someone next to Clara coughs. She glances across her shoulder to catch an older man looking at her.
‘Excuse me, but are you quite all right? You seem a bit …’
‘Terrified,’ Clara supplies. ‘Yes, I suppose I am a bit.’
‘You’ve never been to Europe before?’
Clara shakes her head.
The older man – short and stout with a cloud of white hair, a reassuringly ancient face that speaks of wisdom and experience – smiles. ‘Isn’t the mind a funny thing? Some people cherish the known and are terrified of the unknown while others are quite the opposite way, scared of routine and craving what’s new and untested.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Clara says. ‘Though I don’t really have much knowledge of anyone else’s mind other than my own.’
‘Wait till you’re my age,’ the old man offers, as the train doors slide open and passengers begin filing on, ‘then you’ll know so much you’ll keep forgetting it all.’
Clara gives a little snort of laughter. ‘I doubt that.’
Joining the lines of people boarding the train, Clara hesitates at the step, then takes a quick, deep breath and walks through the doors.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says, following her on. ‘It seems to me you’re widening your world already.’
Clara nods, glancing around for her seat – she’s memorised the number, 56D, and has hopefully alighted on the correct carriage – and dearly hoping that the old man will be seated close by. Unfortunately, among the bustle of people and bags, she loses sight of him and finds her seat next to a suited businessman with his bespectacled face buried in the Financial Times. Clara sighs softly. Usually she’d relish not having to converse but, in her nervous state, she’d rather welcome the distraction. As a chatty travelling companion he doesn’t look promising.
Sure enough, he doesn’t say a word during the two-and-a-half-hour trip to Brussels. But, at the station, when Clara undergoes a minor nervous breakdown while trying to find the correct platform to transfer trains, he proves to be kind and helpful. Clara thanks him profusely and surprises them both by squeezing the businessman’s hand then dashing off towards the train bound for Amsterdam.
‘I’m so glad you’re back, Mum.’
Greer looks at Tilly and smiles. ‘Me too, dearest, me too.’
They’re sitting on the sofa (Tilly sitting, Greer hovering just above it) not really watching Thelma and Louise. They’ve seen the film nearly a hundred times and know virtually every line but still never tire of it – especially not of Brad Pitt. When Greer was very sick, in the final stages, Tilly would sit by her bed for endless hours while they watched (Greer drifting in and out of consciousness) their favourite films.
Often, in the last few weeks of her life, Greer would pretend to sleep but slowly turn her head towards Tilly, open one eye and gaze at her. She no longer had the energy to be furious at the fact that Tilly was being robbed of two mothers in one short lifetime; instead it just made her melancholy, the pain spilling out in tears that fell down her nose and soaked the pillow, before she tumbled back into true sleep again.
Now Greer again glances surreptitiously at Tilly, emotions once more threatening to overwhelm her, not sadness this time but joy. How could she have forgotten all of this life, all of this love? Death is a strange thing. The absence, the detachment, the serene emptiness of it. And she’s still finding settling back into the world, where everything seems dictated by desire, to be a rather difficult experience. It’s not helped, of course, that now her deepest desire seems to be for the musician.
When she was alive, Greer was overwhelmingly attached to Tilly. She’d put her to bed every night. She’d never missed a single night, not once. And every night, after she’d tucked Tilly in, after she’d switched on the bedside lamp, after she’d turned off the light, after she’d said ‘goodnight’ half a dozen times, Greer would whisper thanks to the woman who’d died, leaving a mother-shaped space for someone to step into and be charged with taking care of her daughter. Every night Greer thanked her stars that she was that woman.
Greer had been pregnant once in her life, as a teenager. At first she’d been scared and had hoped that ignoring the situation might make it go away. But the first time she’d felt her baby move she’d started wanting it to stay. As the months passed, Greer’s attachment had grown and when she at last went into labour her excitement – before the searing pain kicked in – fizzed over into bubbles of joy that burst open in the hospital corridors, making the nurses giggle.
But, thirteen and a half hours later, when her baby finally slid into the world, the sterile room wasn’t pierced with infant cries. And Greer had been too stunned by pain to do anything but wait while medical staff darted about. She didn’t know to be worried. She’d never experienced birth before, so she didn’t know what normal procedure was. And so, when they finally placed her daughter, wrapped in a thin pink cotton blanket, in her arms and started to explain, Greer wasn’t listening. She was staring at her baby girl, so achingly small, so heart-contractingly beautiful: big fluttering green eyes that didn’t focus, bump of a nose, tiny bow mouth, dusting of dark red hair and minute fingers that wrapped themselves tightly around hers and held on as long as they could.
Now Greer reaches for Tilly across the sofa. But, of course, her transparent fingers slip right through her stepdaughter’s solid hand and Greer sighs. Or she would have, if she had the breath to do so. Instead the strain of a sigh rises up and shakes through her spirit. The inability to touch is difficult. It’s funny, really, what the living take for granted – their five senses – while Greer is left with only three. She can’t taste, since she doesn’t eat, and she can’t touch. Naturally, she couldn’t miss this while dead but now that she’s back in a world dominated by senses she misses them both enormously. Touch, most of all, but taste too. Greer was always an eater. She adored food and had looked forward to the moments when it would punctuate her day. Now she watches listlessly while Tilly and Edward eat dinner (decidedly sub-par compared to the meals she’d always cooked, though she’s tactful enough not to comment on this) wishing she could have a bite of buttered toast or baked potato. Perhaps it’s a good thing that Edward’s culinary skills are pretty basic then, since his offerings don’t infuse Greer with the depth of longing more splendid fare might.
‘Hey, girls,’ Edward says, poking his head around the living-room door. ‘What are you up to?’
Greer looks up but Tilly doesn’t take her eyes off the TV.
‘Haven’t you seen this a thousand times?’ he asks, without waiting for an answer.
Greer nods, smiling apologetically. In the past she would have made a joke about the infinite allure of Pitt, but now guilt – exacerbated by the fact that she actually is lusting after another man – silences her.
‘Brad Pitt is totally gorgeous, Dad,’ Tilly says. ‘You just don’t get it.’
Amused, Edward catches Greer’s eyes and rolls his own.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he says, ‘to help me navigate the turbulent waters of the teenage years.’ He steps across the room to the sofa and bends down to kiss the air above her head. ‘And, of course, because I missed you like hell.’
Greer looks up at him, smiling again, more lovingly this time.
‘Me too,’ she says, because it’s true. She just wishes it was the whole truth.
Clara stands on tiptoes, looking out of the little attic window at the rain. It’s pouring down in thick sheets, promising to soak to the bone anyone who dares to venture outside. Clara finds this oddly comforting: not only does the weather remind her of home but it’s a little like an invisibility cloak. People don’t stop and chat in the rain, they barely even look at each other, hurrying face-to-the-ground to their destinations. It’s in sunshine that you have to meet people’s eyes and return their smiles and slow down to appreciate your surroundings. Clara isn’t such a fan of summers – though, fortunately, in England it rains for most of the summer months too.
Clara glances back at the bed where the thick folder of letters sits atop the patchwork quilt. The room is very small, with just enough space for a single bed, a tiny table and chair, but Clara takes comfort in its smallness – snug and close like a hug. Today she has an appointment at The Amsterdam Archive of Paperphilia, one of the curators having promised to take a look at her letters, and she doesn’t want to be late. Fortunately, she’s brought a raincoat and umbrella and an oversize oilcloth handbag in which to house her letters. So she slips her city map into the bag, along with her purse, room key and, finally, very carefully, reverently, the folder of letters.
Stepping onto the slick paving stones of the street, Clara walks slowly, umbrella in one hand, map in the other, bag slung tightly across her chest. She plans on walking all the way, not trusting her abilities to navigate public transport without ending up somewhere else entirely. She’s worked out that it’ll probably take about an hour to reach her destination, taking into account the careful stepping necessitated by the heavy rain.
In fact, it takes Clara nearly two hours to find the Archive, having taken several wrong turns and wandered down a few too many streets more than once before realising what she’s done. Unfortunately, the street names – Helmersstraat, Herengracht, Honthorststraat, Hobbemastraat – don’t make navigation the simplest of tasks, especially with the downpour of rain. And, by the time she finally reaches the steps of the Archive, Clara is nearly weeping with relief. Fortunately, she’s not late, having planned on arriving an hour before she needed to, so she’s now exactly on time. And absolutely soaking wet.
Hurrying up the stone steps as safely as she can without slipping, Clara shakes off her sodden umbrella and wraps it up, still dripping, and tucks it under her left arm. Then she shakes herself, like a dog who’s just clambered out of a river, sending raindrops scattering. Finally, as dry as she can possibly make herself in a minute, without the aid of any towels, Clara pushes through the thick glass doors and into the dark foyer.
After announcing herself at the check-in desk (trying to ignore the slightly scathing look of the receptionist, clearly unhappy at the puddles collecting under Clara’s feet) she sits on a wooden bench a few feet away. Just as soon as she’s sat, Clara stands as a gentleman, probably in his early fifties, wearing a corduroy suit and gold eyeglasses balanced atop his long nose, strides towards her, arm outstretched and smiling.
‘Ms Cohen, what a pleasure.’ His voice is soft and low and warm. ‘I’m Mr Akkersijk, and don’t worry, I don’t expect you to attempt pronunciation.’
Clara swallows a smile. ‘Thank you,’ she says, shaking his hand. ‘I’m sure I would butcher it dreadfully. But it’s a pleasure to meet you, anyway. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ he says. ‘Anything of an epistolary nature fascinates me, especially that which is historical. Please, follow me.’
Mr Akkersijk turns and his long, thin legs take him quickly through a door and down a corridor. Clara hurries after him. When they reach his office he gestures for her to sit in the only other chair apart from his, then slides behind his desk.
‘So, Ms Cohen, what do you have for me?’
He sits forward, his voice keen as a schoolboy’s and Clara sees that he wasn’t exaggerating his passion for letters. She opens her bag slowly, partly to prolong her enjoyment of his endearing eagerness and partly to postpone the possible disappointment if her letters don’t meet his expectations.
Carefully, she slides the folder across his desk as Mr Akkersijk leans forward to claim it. She watches Mr Akkersijk as he reads the first, then the second letter. She’s strangely charmed by him, by his total absorption, how he mouths the words as his eyes follow the sentences, the way his fingers twitch, as if unable to contain his energy, his excitement.
As he continues to read, turning the pages precisely and delicately, not once looking up, Clara is surprised to find herself begin to feel something else – charm and interest are slowly threading together to form a tentative, incomplete attraction. Clara frowns. Mr Akkersijk is possibly a decade older than she and not exactly handsome. And yet … He has a quality about him she’s never seen before. It’s so unusual, in fact, that it takes her a little while to make sense of it, a way of being usually only seen in young children and canines: an unreserved delight for life.
Finally, Mr Akkersijk looks up.
Quickly, Clara flicks her glance from his face to the letters.
‘Well, Ms Cohen,’ he says, his voice now quite giddy with glee. ‘I do believe you have some very special letters here.’