The Letter (24 page)

‘Are you OK?’ Graham asked.

‘What do you think?’ she responded, wearily.

‘I’m sorry, stupid question.’

‘No, I’m sorry, Graham, but please don’t keep asking how I am.’

‘Sure,’ said Graham. ‘Look, why don’t you come back and stay with me and Sheila. I don’t like to think of you in that house on your own. And what if
he
comes back?’

‘So what if he does. I
need
to see him. There are things we need to sort out.’

‘I can do that for you. You don’t ever need to set eyes on him again. After what he’s done.’

Tina held up her hand. ‘I have something I have to say to him, Graham. Something I should have said a long time ago.’

Her tone told him there was no point in arguing any further.

When they arrived home, Tina was taken aback at how cosy the place looked. Graham had cleaned the house from top to bottom and had even erected a small Christmas tree in the lounge.

She slumped down on the settee and struggled to take off her boots.

‘Here, let me,’ said Graham. He tugged the boots off and sat on the floor at Tina’s feet. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Lovely, thanks.’

A few minutes later, Graham returned with the tea tray and something else. ‘I found this.’

He handed Billy’s letter to Tina. She took it and observed its crumpled state. She folded it in half and then she noticed it. One word. One word in his childish scrawl was all he thought she deserved.

She stared at the word and it was a long time before she spoke. ‘He’s been back,’ she said simply.

Graham and Tina sat beside each other on the settee, the silence between them comforting rather than awkward. He chewed the end of his pen whilst he pondered over a crossword clue and she flicked absently through
Woman’s Weekly.
There were recipes for star-shaped Christmas biscuits, instructions on how to make your own crackers from the inside of a toilet roll and suggestions for last minute stocking-fillers. She let the magazine slide to the floor. As far as she was concerned, Christmas was cancelled and a magazine full of festive cheer was not going to change that. It was good of Graham to put up a little tree in the corner and she knew he had meant well, but she just wanted to tear it down and crush the cheap little baubles beneath her feet. She suddenly wanted to be alone.

She turned to face Graham. ‘Don’t you think you should be getting back to Sheila?’ The Christmas tree lights twinkled and the electric fire was glowing with heat. ‘I’m fine here now, honestly. You have been a wonderful friend to me, Graham, you really have, but you have your own life to be getting on with. You have to go back sometime.’

‘You’ve been through a lot, Tina. I just want to make sure you’re alright. I know I’m an old fusspot, but I’m worried that
he’ll
come back.’

‘He won’t. He’s lying low for a while I’m sure. Too ashamed to come crawling back.’

They both froze then as the doorbell rang out loudly. They stared at each other neither one daring to move. Tina was first to react. ‘I’ll get it.’ She began to struggle to her feet.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ said Graham, gently pushing her back down again.

At the front door, he peered through the window, but the frosted glass made it impossible to see who was calling. He put the chain on and eased the door open a little.

A rather striking, red-haired girl was standing there holding a casserole dish wrapped in a checked tea towel.

‘Oh, hi. I’m here to see Tina.’

She looked friendly enough so Graham took off the chain and beckoned her in. ‘And you are?’

‘Linda. Linda from work. Is she in?’

She peeped round the lounge door as Tina looked up. ‘Linda! Oh my God, come in. Thanks for coming.’ The two women embraced affectionately and then Linda took hold of both Tina’s hands and scrutinised her. ‘How are you feeling? I know it’s a daft question, but I don’t know what else to say. I’m hopeless in situations like this.’

Tina smiled. ‘You don’t need to say anything. You just being here is enough.’

Graham cleared his throat. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ He was standing there awkwardly holding the casserole dish.

‘Oh, just put it in the kitchen for now, please,’ instructed Linda. She turned to Tina. ‘I’ve made a Luxury Fish Pie for our tea.’ She fished around in her handbag and pulled out a bottle of
Blue Nun
.

She called after Graham. ‘And stick this in the fridge, would you?’

Tina was impressed. ‘You’ve made a fish pie?’

‘
Luxury
fish pie,’ Linda corrected.

‘What’s luxurious about it?’

‘It’s got prawns in.’

Tina laughed for the first time in what seemed an eternity. Graham smiled. ‘Look, you two must have loads to catch up on. I’ll get going now.’ He turned to leave.

‘Wait,’ Tina said. She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head against his chest. ‘You know I couldn’t have got through this without you.’

Graham bent and kissed the top of her head.

‘I’m always here for you, Tina. Call me if you need anything, anything at all.’

She looked at him gratefully. ‘Thanks, I will.’

After the luxury of the fish pie and half a bottle of wine, Tina felt more relaxed than she had for a good while. She tucked her legs underneath her and hugged a furry cushion to her chest. Linda was always such a good tonic and was guaranteed to lift her spirits. They had just had time to warm the pie before the power was cut again, so now they sat in the lounge by candlelight.

‘Where do you think he is?’ ventured Linda.

Tina swirled the wine around her glass. ‘I honestly have no idea. He doesn’t really have any close friends and his mother hasn’t heard from him. Probably lurching from pub to pub in a drunken haze.’ She hesitated for a second before adding ‘Thanks.’

‘For what?’ asked Linda.

‘Not saying “I told you so.”’

‘Well, I won’t deny I haven’t
thought
it, but it’s the last thing you need to hear right now.’

For the second time that evening Tina jumped as the doorbell broke the silence.

‘Who’s that now?’ asked Linda. She noticed Tina struggling to her feet. ‘No, I’ll go.’

A few seconds later Linda reappeared accompanied by two young uniformed police officers.

Tina felt her scalp prickle as she stood to greet them.

‘Mrs Craig?’ one of them asked nervously.

‘Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?’ She fought to keep her voice steady.

The other policeman took over. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Your husband, Richard Craig, has been found… well, he’s been found dead.’

Even in her shock, Tina felt sorry for the young officer having to impart this news. ‘Dead?’

‘Yes. I’m really sorry, Mrs Craig.’

‘Dead?’ Tina repeated. ‘I mean how?...where?’

Linda placed her arm around Tina to steady her.

The policeman cleared his throat and looked down at his notebook. ‘Well, he was found by a man walking his dog down the towpath at the side of the Ship Canal.’

Tina clung to Linda for support as she felt her knees weaken.

‘I don’t understand. How can he be dead?’

The two policemen looked at each other and then the first officer spoke up again. ‘There will have to be a post-mortem of course, but early indications are that he choked on his own vomit.’

Tina gave a half-laugh. ‘Drunk, you mean? He was found dead in a ditch at the side of the canal because he was drunk?’

The policeman seemed embarrassed. ‘Well, nobody’s saying that at this stage.’

Linda took charge. ‘Come and have a drink, you’ve had a nasty shock. Let’s get you a glass of whisky.’

The irony was not lost on Tina. In a daze, she took the glass and brought it to her lips. The smell of the liquor brought back so many painful memories.

‘I feel cheated, Linda. I desperately wanted to see him again. I needed to see him and now he’s had the last word and I never got the chance to tell him how much…’

She threw the glass of whisky into the sink where it shattered, causing Linda to jump back in alarm. Tina was sobbing now and her whole body racked as she slid down the wall and onto the floor. She gritted her teeth as she spat out her next words. ‘And I never got the chance to tell him how much I
hate
him!’

PART TWO

Chapter 26

Vermont, USA, 1974

William Lane straightened his body and placed his hands in the small of his back. After a couple of deep breaths, he wiped his beaded brow with the back of his hand and took a long swig from his water bottle. In spite of the hard work it was his favourite time of year. The collecting of the sap from his sugar maples began in late February and ended roughly six weeks later as he collected the last of the sap buckets which had been strapped to the maple trees. The sticky amber liquid would now be boiled away until all that remained was the thick, rich syrup that his fellow Americans loved to pour over their breakfast pancakes.

He could hear his father splitting logs over in the garage and he felt a sudden rush of affection for the old man, accompanied by a good dollop of guilt for what he was about to do to his parents. They both worked so hard to provide a comfortable living for them all and, while their lifestyle was homely and relaxed, for all the hours they put in they deserved a greater reward. His parents would disagree of course. His mother loved running the guest house, she was a people person and treated their paying guests more like members of her own family.

William sighed and heaved the last bucket into the sugar shack. The fire-heated boiler was searingly hot now and the sugar sap was boiling away, reducing nicely. Once it had all been bottled and labelled with their own brand, ‘Lane’s Maple Syrup’, William knew that the time would be right. At least that was what his head told him. His heart was another matter.

A month later, with the late April sunshine warming up the soil, all the maple syrup bottled and distributed, William sat on his suitcase and bounced up and down as he grappled with the buckles. Once the suitcase had surrendered and was securely fastened, he swung it from his bed and placed it by the door. He patted his jacket pocket and felt the reassuring bulk of his passport and plane ticket. His mother’s warm voice floated up the stairs.

‘Will, honey. You must have some breakfast before you go. I’ve made blueberry pancakes. Come and eat them while they’re still hot.’

As William dragged his suitcase down the stairs his heart was heavy with anguish. He had waited for this day for a lifetime and now it felt like a betrayal of his mother’s love. His parents had nurtured him for the past thirty-one years and now he was kicking them in the teeth. They deserved better.

The smell of the fluffy pancakes flooded his nostrils as he entered the warm kitchen. His mother turned and smiled as she wiped her hands on her apron.

‘There you are. Come on and sit down, I’m just about to dish up.’

William pulled out a chair slumped down. He rested his head in his hands and hunched his shoulders like an old man. His mother laid her arm across his back and then ruffled his hair as though he were a nine-year old.

‘Come on, Will. You’ve waited a long time for this day.’ She managed to keep her voice steady.

William looked up and met her eyes, his own moist with tears which threatened to spill over at the slightest kind word from her.

William cleared his throat. ‘I feel like I am betraying you. You and Dad.’

His mother sat down beside him. ‘We’ve been through all this, William. Your father and I support you fully. We will always be your parents and will always love you. You are our precious son and it pains me to see you struggling for inner peace.’ She patted the back of his hand. ‘I just pray you find it.’

A sudden gust of wind nearly took the back door off its hinges as Donald Lane stomped into the kitchen, a rifle slung over his shoulder, a couple of dead rabbits in his free hand.

‘Morning, son. How you doin’ today?’ Even with his New York drawl, his father struggled to make the question sound casual.

‘OK, I guess, Dad.’

‘What time’s your flight from Idlewild?’

William shook his head and managed a smile. ‘It’s JFK, Dad. It’s been JFK Airport for the past eleven years.’

Donald grunted and laid down his rifle on the table. ‘Same thing.’

‘The flight’s not until this evening but I’m setting off shortly. Dirk’s giving me a lift. We’ve got a few hours on the road and I want to arrive in plenty of time.’

Donald turned to his wife. ‘Coffee on, Martha?’

She placed a steaming cup in front of him and they all sat in silence round the table.

William had known from an early age that he was adopted. During his idyllic childhood in New England, the fact had never been relevant to him though. His adoptive mother and father were the kindest, most honest, God-fearing people you could wish to meet and the fact they had never been blessed with children of their own made William question the very existence of the God they worshipped so dutifully. If anyone had been born to be a mother it was Martha Lane, so why God had chosen not to bestow the joy of their own child on the couple posed something of mystery to William.

The first three years of his life had been spent with his natural mother in a convent in Southern Ireland, where he had been born. He had always been aware of this fact, his adoptive parents had made no secret of it, but he could not remember much about his ‘real’ mother or the place he had lived as a toddler. Then, one day when he was around ten years old and they had all moved into the farmhouse in Vermont, his mother was polishing the wooden floors with Sunlight soap. She was down on her hands and knees scrubbing furiously as the lather foamed around her. William walked in and saw his mother from behind. The hunched-over figure clad in a grubby apron and with a scarf wrapped around her head could have been anyone and for a minute William was confused as to who she was. Then the smell of the Sunlight soap wafted over, filled his nostrils and stunned him into inertia. He was literally rooted to the spot. The lemony, soapy smell had transported him back to his beginnings with a jolt. He could suddenly visualise a long corridor, filled with young girls on their knees as they scrubbed and scrubbed the floor until it shone like a mirror. A sob had emerged from his throat as he fled the room. On another occasion some years later, his then-girlfriend, Jenna, a girl not known for her culinary skills, had cooked him a romantic meal. As he forked through the mound of greying, runny mashed potato complete with hard lumps where she had missed with the masher, he put his cutlery down and stared out of the window.