At the time of writing you are ninety-two years old and worried that the bits and bobs of your story have begun to go astray. You must read this note carefully every day and work very hard to keep yourself and the memories alive, because once upon a time you told a man called Edward Nancarrow that you would, and it’s important to keep that promise, Juliet, even when there seems to be little point going on.
In the mahogany sideboard you will find all the things you will need to keep living your life alone. These things are: bank details; savings bonds; emergency contact numbers; basic information about you – your name, age and place of birth; money in a freezer bag; an emergency mobile phone. More importantly, there are also your most precious possessions scattered around the house. I’ve labelled them, to help you out.
Written on the back of this note is a copy of the poem Edward gave you in 1943. Make sure you can recite it (poetry is good for the brain). And finally, even if you forget everything else, remember that, in the end, Edward’s very simple words are the only things that have ever really mattered.
Now, make sure you’ve had something to eat and a glass of water – water helps with memory – and whatever happens in the future, whatever else you may forget, always remember … he’s waiting.
With an endless supply of love,
Juliet
Chapter 1
Katherine
A proposal
It was a bright Saturday lunchtime in early December. I’d just closed the lounge curtains and was about to binge-watch The Crown for the fourth time that year when a Christmas card bearing a Penzance postmark dropped through the letter box.
Uncle Gerald. Had to be.
The card, with an illustration of a distressed donkey carrying a (somewhat disappointed-looking) Virgin Mary being egged on by a couple of haggard angels, contained within it my usual Christmas catch-up letter. I wandered through to the kitchen and clicked the kettle on – it was a four-pager.
My Dear Katherine
Firstly, I hope this letter finds you well, or as well as to be expected given your distressing circumstances of living alone in Exeter with no family around you again this Christmas.
Cheers for that, Gerald
But more of your circumstances in a moment because (to quote the good bard) ‘something is rotten in the state of Denmark’ and I’m afraid this year’s letter will not burst forth with my usual festive cheer. There is at present a degree of what can only be described as civil unrest breaking out in Angels Cove and I am at my wits end trying to promote an atmosphere of peace and good will in time for Christmas. I’m hopeful you will be able to offer a degree of academic common sense to the issue.
Here’s the rub: the Parish Council (you may remember that I am the chair?) has been informed that the village boundaries are to be redrawn in January as part of a Cornwall County Council administrative shake-up. This simple action has lit the touch paper of a centuries-old argument amongst the residents that needs – finally – to be put to rest.
The argument in question is this: should our village be apostrophised or not? If ‘yes’, then should the apostrophe come before or after the ‘s’?
It is a Total Bloody Nightmare!
It really isn’t, Gerald.
At the moment, Angels Cove is written without an apostrophe, but most agree that there should be an apostrophe in there somewhere, yet where? The argument seems to rest on three questions:
1. Does the cove ‘belong’ to just one angel (the angel depicted in the church stained glass window, for example, as some people claim that they have seen him) or to a multitude of angels (i.e. the possessive of a singular or a plural noun).
2. Does the cove belong to the angels or do the angels belong to the cove? (The minority who wish to omit the apostrophe in its entirety ask this question.)
3. Does the word angel in Angels Cove actually refer, not to the winged messengers of the Devine, but to the notorious pirate, Jeremiah ‘Cut-throat’ Angel, who sailed from Penzance circa 1723 and whose ship, The Savage Angel, was scuppered in Mounts Bay (not apostrophised, you will note) when he returned from the West Indies at the tender age of twenty-nine?
As you can see, it’s a mess.
Fearing the onset of a migraine, I stopped reading and decided to sort out the recycling, which would take a