Natalie was taking her duties to heart. Since the committee meeting at Mel’s, she had toured the local villages, putting up posters, finding where the expats were holed up for the winter, explaining their mission over cups of coffee or glasses of wine. The personal touch was paying dividends, with promises of donations, tins for Clive’s tree and attendance at the carol concert in support of their Christmas appeal.
Sometimes the old colonel accompanied her because he knew many of the older residents, who were glad of a visit and a chance to catch up on gossip and news from England. ‘Good to get out myself, young lady. I’m getting too lazy, these days, and out of puff if I sing too loudly. There’s quite a buzz among the locals about the idea of a shelter,’ he said.
‘We’re banking on support from everyone, and so far, so good, with only a little opposition about who should be the recipients. I’ve enjoyed having your company on these jaunts. I’d no idea there were so many of us foreigners living in the hills, so many interesting artists and retired people, plus some younger families on smallholdings.’
‘You can count me in any time.’ Arthur smiled. ‘Pity old Elodie Durrante is no longer with us. She would have whipped every one of her fans into donating. Such a character… Long before your time, of course.’
‘At least Ariadne and Hebe have a place to stay, thanks to her retreat. I hear they’ve found some memoirs. Simon’s a retired editor and keen to help get them in shape.’
‘You can’t beat a generous northern soul. Elodie had a voice like a rusty foghorn, smoked like a chimney, but never lost her roots. She could drink the bar dry, and had a face leathered by the sun. The old girl was no beauty but quite the philosopher in her own way. I never forgot what she once told my dear wife. “Darling, we go through life with two bags to put most of our problems in. One is for time and the other is for money, but some struggles won’t go in either bag. They are the hardest to carry.”’
Natalie nodded. Since her spat with Della she’d known only too well that time or cash wouldn’t sort out her own heartache. ‘It’s not easy to get rid of excess baggage,’ she said, with a sigh.
‘After the war I found it hard to forget the suffering I’d seen, the misery I lived through and the good men I’d lost. It’s wearing to drag that sack of grief around, like a ball and chain. Good memories can help us to change, though. If we can dwell on happier times we shared with those we’ve lost, we honour them. Focusing on the future, not the past, helps us let go of the other stuff.’
‘You’re quite the philosopher yourself,’ Natalie observed. ‘Easier said than done.’
‘That’s where rituals come in handy, you know, honouring the seasons of the year, celebrating with good food and friends, lighting a candle in a church, setting the little boats down a river, seeing off all those demons. It’s an act of willpower, but it can be done. It all comes back when I put pen to paper. Now I think of my pals with a smile, remembering the pranks and jokes, the banter and the good times. They aren’t lost to me, because they live within me and will do until the day I snuff it. Writing out my experiences helped me. The bad stuff I tore up and burned.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Natalie murmured. ‘You’ve just helped to rattle all the bones in my own backpack.’ Could it really shift her own bad memories and guilt, lessen the sack of coal she was carrying round her heart? If she wrote everything down on paper, all the angst she was feeling, named her shame and put a match to it?