The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,49

into a lovely bed, warmed by an electric blanket and for the first time in two years of bedtimes, didn’t need Harry Potter to help me drift away.

Chapter 17

Katherine

Troubled angel

Pulling back Juliet’s lounge curtains the following morning revealed a damp and grey day. I remembered Sam’s email and decided to turn the house over in the hope of finding Juliet’s compass.

For three hours I searched. I emptied every drawer and opened every cupboard. I looked in boxes stored under the bed and scrambled with my arse in the air into deep packing boxes stowed neatly in the loft. In the course of my search, I stumbled across many of the little notes Juliet had written in order to remember her life. I began to collect them on the kitchen table, but no matter how hard I looked, the compass was nowhere to be found.

At lunchtime, after a final frisk of the elf to see if he was harbouring it within his stuffing, I flopped onto the chair with the elf on my lap and accepted defeat. I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting Juliet and had wanted to appear at Lanyon like an old friend and conquering hero, brandishing the compass, thereby ingratiating myself with her immediately. Now I would have to appear at her side as an empty-handed stranger.

With a disappointed sigh, I put the elf back on the shelf, grabbed my coat and hat and headed out of the door.

I was halfway up the street when, a hundred yards up the hill, a man that wasn’t Noel or Percy dashed out of a cottage.

After being accosted by the scarecrow and the tin man it was safe to assume that this must be the lion. He raised a finger as if to say, ‘Ah, just the very person.’ But I wasn’t in the mood for Oz today, and so took on the vague expression of a woman who had just remembered she had something really quite important to do, made a swift exit to the right, which happened to be into the churchyard, darted into the sanctuary of the church and adopted the type of countenance my surroundings promoted, reverent.

I am not a religious woman (correction, I am not a religious woman unless circumstances are such that I find myself required to pull out the Church of England card – weddings, christenings, funerals) but I took a seat in the second to front pew and decided to take a moment to look around. It was lovely little church – cold, but lovely – and unlike the village, was decorated for Christmas in the most beautiful, understated, traditional way, with swags of winter foliage and a simple tree. But the aspect of the church that interested me most was the stained-glass window that sat to the right of the alter. It depicted a young man with blue eyes and long golden hair who was surrounded by animals. He had the most enormous angel wings tucked behind him and was looking up into the clouds questioningly – troubled – presumably asking God a question.

My phone pinged in my pocket.

Gerald: George is on the mend! Any luck and we’ll be home for Christmas. Keep your chin up, lovely. Hope you’re making friends. Any decision on the apostrophe yet?

Me: Brilliant news. Stop nagging about the apostrophe. It’s all in hand, sort of.

I put the phone back in my pocket, looked at the window again, took the phone out, and sent another text.

Me: Why didn’t you tell me Juliet is alive?

Gerald: I never said she was dead.

Me: Just asking – no particular reason. Do you believe in angels?

Five seconds later …

Gerald: Yes, I bloody well do! Doctors and nurses. Surrounded by them here. Why?

Me: I’m popping up to see Juliet. Sam Lanyon wrote and said she believes in angels. I was just wondering if everyone except me knew about angels and I was the only one who didn’t, like a secret I’ve not been included in.

Gerald: I think you’re spending far too much time alone – it’s unhealthy. And I hope you’ve bothered to put a brush through your hair today, you never know who you might bump into. Ooh, doctor just walked in. Got to go

Me: This is the twenty-first century! You can’t say that kind of thing to women anymore. Who cares if I look like rat shit?

G: Smarten up, buttercup!

Well, that was helpful.

He wasn’t quite finished.

P.S. I just had text from Geoffrey (Parish Council chap – not Noel or Percy).