The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,32
biscuit make its precarious journey from cup to mouth. Surely Wagon Wheels were not designed for dunking.
‘Such a lovely man, Sam Lanyon.’ The Wagon Wheel hovered by her lips. ‘The ex-wife was an absolute dragon. Buggered off with another sailor, and all while Sam was away at sea, too. Horrible woman. He came back to an empty house. Kids gone. Just a note. Dreadful.’
She took a bite.
‘How awful. How long ago was that?’
She swallowed. ‘Ooh, ten years, give or take. Juliet was ninety then, but still going strong. Sam fell apart, but she kept him going, wouldn’t let him give in. Got him to go travelling for a bit. He’ll be home for good soon. After Christmas, according to Gerald.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s leaving the Navy and taking over his estate. Big deal round here, the Lanyons. But it’s time he settled here, I think. The old house sold years ago, but the estate still carries on. Sam is the sole inheritor. It was always the plan that he’d have his time in the Navy then come home and run the estate. That’s why Juliet insisted he spent time with the tenant farmers when he was young – learn their ways, you know. But she taught him how to fly when he was just a nipper, so I suppose he was always going to go off and spread his wings first. But he loves it here, though, so he does.’
Fenella silenced herself for a moment to dunk her Wagon Wheel again while I considered telling her the truth about my first night in Angel View – that I had sat up half the night reading Juliet’s memoirs. But I didn’t. I wanted to keep Juliet private for a little while and not risk her ruining the story for me with any little titbits here and there. We moved onto the apostrophe issue instead.
‘The cove is nothing more than a village of old folks and holiday cottages now. All the young ones have left or been priced out. Such a shame. And I don’t suppose the old folks have got anything better to do than argue. But not to worry,’ she said, taking my plate and emptying the dregs of the teapot into the sink, ‘because you’ve come to sort it all out for us, haven’t you, lovely?’
‘Hmm?’ I took my third slice of toast and started to butter. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose I have. Gerald wants me to come to some kind of dramatic conclusion at a meeting in the village hall, but now that he’s gone to Brighton, I’ve no idea what will happen.’ I twisted the lid off of a pot of home-made marmalade and spoke into the pot while scraping off a little mould. ‘I suppose all I can do is make some notes during the next couple of days, chat to a few people and then offer my hypothesis to anyone who wants to hear it …’
Fenella put the kettle back on the Aga and stood waiting for it to boil.
‘Hypothesis?’ She sniffed. ‘That won’t do. You need to be firmer than that or they’ll eat you alive. No, you need to tell them what to do, no argument. That’s what Gerald wanted. And they’ll listen to you if you’re firm – you should act a bit prissy. Gerald said you’re a history professor …’
Ah …
‘I’m afraid I’m not actually a professor as such. Just a teacher. Gerald has a tendency to …’
‘Play things up?’ She grabbed a tea towel and began to wipe some plates.
‘Exactly!’ I laughed. ‘My husband is … was,’ I corrected, ‘… the actual professor.’ I smiled thinking of James. ‘He’d have known exactly what to do. I gave up academia years ago when we got married. I think Gerald just wanted to add a bit of weight to my credentials with the professor thing.’
I glanced at the urn on the table. Fenella followed my eyes to their resting place. I smiled to show my silent understanding and noticed her eyes mist over. I swear I saw tiny little velvety strands of sadness seeping from her heart and winding their way across the kitchen into the little wooden box. The silence hung heavy. Fenella took a very large intake of breath through her nose and, try as she might to hold them back, within a few moments, the tears began.
‘I just can’t seem to able to pull myself together,’ she said, leaning her back against the sink and dabbing her eyes with the tea towel.