One Cornish Summer With You, page 22
‘Definitely.’
‘Good. Is there anything else we can do for you?’
Conscious that he’d taken up too much of their day already, Ruan reluctantly said, ‘No thanks, but thank you for your time, and to your whole team for everything.’
He walked back across the forecourt towards the car park, catching the scent of the roses in the air and wondering if Walter had noticed it, even at the end. Did they leave his window open or wheel him out here so he could enjoy the flowers? He should have asked while he had a chance.
‘Mr Mitchell!’ Helen was carrying a cardboard box and Ruan met her halfway across the car park. ‘I’m sorry but I’d forgotten about this. Kyra reminded me. Your uncle didn’t have many personal possessions, but we decided to keep and store these for a while after he died, just in case any of his relatives did get in touch. I don’t know if any of them will be of any help to you, but you never know.’
‘They might be,’ Ruan said, taking the box. ‘Thank you again.’
‘I hope they help.’
He opened the box and saw it contained some cards, letters and photos. His fingers itched to open them and read everything inside.
Back at the caravan, even before he opened the box, Ruan went online and ordered a gift hamper to the care home staff. Not only did he want to draw breath and think about all he’d heard, he also wanted to make a tiny gesture of thanks to the strangers who’d cared for and comforted his uncle. He couldn’t do their job, he realised, and thank God they were there for all the people whose relatives weren’t able to care for them at home and for people like Walter, who had no one.
Walter. Dying in his room, with a few kind but unrelated professionals holding his hand.
What a waste of a life. Ruan had never wanted his own to end like that, even though, from his own job, he was aware it was an all-too-common scenario. He wanted a family and friends, not to care for him in his old age, but to care about him, to remember him – and, if he had children, to hold that memory and carry on any legacy he hoped to create.
He’d never even considered such a prospect until he’d been given the house and met Tammy.
The two events had combined to remind him of his mortality and what he truly wanted from life.
Though he’d known Tammy only a few weeks, he couldn’t deny how hard he’d fallen for her. Meeting her and delving into Walter’s past had made him reframe his perspective. Maybe he was simply maturing. His experiences of late had brought pleasure and pain – and insight. For that, he should thank Tammy. He wanted her to be part of his future even though she had hinted that their relationship should be based on fun.
Now he’d screwed up even the ‘fun’ aspect and felt helpless to fix it. Only Tammy could decide if she would trust him and feel able to cast aside her own fears and take a chance on him.
Yet there was something he could do about his own doubts and ignorance, and he hoped that the answers lay in the past.
He opened the cardboard box and took out the first document.
The last thing he’d expected was for it to be a letter from his own father, dated just before Walter had called in at his parents so many years earlier.
Dear Walter,
Thanks for letting me know you’ll be in the area next week. I must admit Fiona and myself were surprised to hear from you after all this time but if you want to call in then you’ll be welcome. I’m sorry you’ve been unwell but hope your appointment goes well in Bristol.
Robert
Not very welcome, Ruan noted, refolding the letter. He hadn’t been welcome at all a few years later. Walter was seriously old school to write to arrange to visit his parents rather than pick up the phone. Or maybe he didn’t have his parents’ number or even have a phone? That would be very Walter.
Ruan opened several more letters – a few were barely more than notes. One was to a plumber, berating him for ‘shoddy workmanship’ on the boiler repairs at Seaspray. Another piece of paper appeared to be a shopping list for tinned foods Ruan didn’t even know existed: Fray Bentos steak and kidney pudding, tinned pink salmon and evaporated milk. The next seemed insignificant at first until Ruan’s interest was caught by the instructions.
They were to the gardener, addressing the poor guy by his surname as if he was a servant. He must have decided not to send it, or Hicks had thrown it back at him.
Hicks
Make sure you pay attention to the Rambling Rector while you are in the garden this week. And don’t butcher it this time or I’ll be dispensing with your services.
Walter Cavendish
There was one other letter that seemed to be significant. It was written on blue writing paper and folded inside a faded blue envelope. Ruan recognised the stationery: Basildon Bond. His granny and grandpa used to use it and let him doodle on the sheets when he went round to see them.
The envelope had been sent from Cornwall. It was flat and, unlike the other notes and letters, had obviously been carefully treasured, perhaps kept inside a document folder.
Written in blue ink, the handwriting was flowing and cursive, reminding him of old legal documents – although the hand seemed less assured towards the end.
Ruan spread it carefully on the tabletop, sensing that this letter, above all the others, needed to be treated with respect.
May 21st 1958
Dear Walter,
It pains me to write this but I needed to explain why you will find the house empty when you return from London.
I’m sorry to tell you that this will be the last letter you will receive from me.
I’ve decided to make a fresh start somewhere a long way from Cornwall where I don’t know anyone. Mum and Dad are coming with me. I won’t include our address. It’s better that we make a clean break. I’m sorry if you’re hurt by this but it’s for the best. You’ll understand one day and you’ll get over me. I hope you’ll meet someone else. I hope you can open your heart to someone and give it freely – since you couldn’t with me.
I don’t mean that to sound bitter, only honest. I realised some time ago that I would never be enough for you. You are an ambitious young man who wants to get on in the world. I’m an ordinary girl from a humble home who simply wants to settle down and bring up a family. That would have been more than sufficient for me.
I think that will never be enough for you and that is why you don’t seem to be able to return the kind of love and affection I would be willing to offer you.
I can’t say much more. There’s nothing left to say.
Wishing you all the very best,
Yours with affectionate thoughts,
Kathleen
Ruan read Kathleen’s letter several times over before sitting back with a sigh of complete confusion. It was clear that Kathleen had been in love with Walter, yet he hadn’t been in love – or enough in love – with her. She’d given up on him and left Cornwall to live with her parents somewhere. Going by the date, Walter would only have been a young man then, with his whole life before him.
Judging by the fact he’d kept the letter, surely he must have regretted losing Kathleen. With a heavy sigh, Ruan delved deeper into the box and found a small notebook with a stained navy leather cover. It looked as if it hadn’t been opened for decades. Carefully, he prised the pages apart and there at the heart of the book, pressed between two of the leaves, was a flower with another tightly folded piece of paper.
It was a rose, and the head was so fragile that it crumbled even as Ruan unfolded the letter: and when he read on, it seemed a symbol of Walter’s thwarted hopes and perhaps his grip on any chance of happiness.
This time, the note was full of scrawled phrases, crossed out so hard that the nib had made a hole in the paper and there were blots everywhere. Walter had written it in a state of high emotion – his distress and frustration were clear.
Dear Kathleen,
I don’t know how to say this. I’m the worst person in the world to say it, which is why I’ve put it in a letter.
My dearest Kathleen
I’m not the one for honeyed words. You of all people know that so I’m going to come right out with it.
I’d be the happiest man alive if you would do me the honour of becoming my wife.
My dearest Kathleen,
I feel I have to write down a sentiment I feel I would never have the words to express adequately.
Would you do me the honour of
No. NO. I CANNOT DO THIS!
Ruan set the abandoned proposal aside and placed the fragments of the rose in an empty bowl, feeling despair at all that he’d read. Had Walter bought the roses for Kathleen, intending to propose but never being able to find the courage? Or picked them later in life as a very bittersweet memento? Was that why he was so angry with Hicks for hacking at the rosebush?
Had he tried to find Kathleen? Or had he simply accepted she’d left him and retreated into his house?
Feeling that the letters had only opened up more wounds rather than provided healing, Ruan walked outside and looked up at the house, imagining all the secrets, lies and misery it had witnessed over the decades – especially since Tammy and her parents had left.
She’d said they’d been so happy there, in the early years, playing in the sun in the garden and swimming in the cove. Could such a place ever be happy again after what he’d read?
He’d been allowed a glimpse into the backstory of his benefactor that involved a lost love and a wounded and embittered character who had only himself to blame. Kathleen’s reference to Walter being an ambitious young man resonated too – but was that enough for Walter to have recognised a kindred spirit in Ruan himself? Or had Walter been thinking of the day he’d found a young boy helping his mum in the garden?
With a sigh, Ruan returned to sifting through the contents of the box when a piece of white notepaper, clearly newer than the rest, attracted his attention. The writing on it was spidery and faint. It had obviously been written much more recently than any of the other communications. He caught his breath when he saw the brief message on it.
Ruan
Do better than I did
W
There was no doubt it was meant for him and from his uncle. It was typical Walter: terse, short, yet blunt in its meaning. It also made Ruan feel like crying.
Walter had known his own mind when he’d made his will yet hadn’t had the opportunity or capacity – or courage – to get in touch with his great-nephew and say it himself. And even though Walter had asked Ruan to ‘do better’ than he had, what exactly did that mean? Be more successful? Live a more fulfilling life – a more loving life?
Did his uncle mean he should make reparations to Tammy? Or Kathleen?
Ruan let out a groan that echoed in the silence of the caravan.
Walter’s notes and letters had provided fragments of answers to his questions while opening up many more.
The box was now empty but the lawyer in him prompted him to go through the documents again in case he’d missed anything. The only thing he hadn’t really paid much heed to were a clutch of yellowing receipts for gardening supplies; clearly poor old Hicks had been forced to account for every penny he spent.
As he examined the receipts, he discovered a sheet torn from a small spiral-bound notebook among them, almost as if it had been hidden away. It was grimy with dirt and the writing was hasty, clearly written in anger with capitals and underlining, at times barely more than a scrawl.
He had to flatten the note on the table under the desk lamp to see it better.
He’d barely got halfway through when he had to stop, unwilling to touch it further, as if he’d be tainted by the poison it contained.
His chest tightened and he knew what people meant by a heavy heart, but he also knew what he had to do.
Because, no matter what wounds it might rip open, like Kathleen’s final letter to Walter and his doomed proposal, the secrets in that note weren’t his to keep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Tammy almost dropped the fused glass sculpture she was wrapping for a customer.
The last thing she’d expected was for Ruan to walk into the gallery in the middle of a working Monday. She’d batted away the two messages he’d sent her since their row last week, saying she needed more time. They’d been polite and restrained – reminding her of the contrast between Ruan and Sean – yet she still hadn’t felt able to meet him face to face.
Even though she now understood why he’d delayed telling her about the house for a couple of extra days, Davey’s diagnosis had taken up all her energy. She felt overwhelmed by her concerns for him and what the future might hold – while the tentacles of the past were trying to drag her back to painful times she’d tried to escape.
She caught his eye and somehow kept up her sales patter, taking the payment and saying a cheery goodbye. Meanwhile Ruan pretended to browse the paintings. Even from behind, Tammy could tell his shoulders were stiff with tension.
As soon as they were alone, he approached the desk. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you, but I’ve found something and I think you should see it. I visited the nursing home where Walter spent his final years and they gave me a box of letters and notes.’
‘Oh?’
‘Can we go somewhere quiet?’ he asked. ‘Is Davey in?’
‘No but I can close for lunch in ten minutes and meet you in the flat. Do you want to go up? Why do I need to see these letters?’ she added, unable to wait.
‘There’s a note from your dad to Walter. I think you should have it,’ he said solemnly.
The tiny hairs on her arms stood on end. ‘I’m closing now,’ she said and turned the sign on the door. ‘Go up.’
A minute later, she walked in on Ruan as he was staring out of the window at the harbour.
‘What’s in this note?’ she asked, dreading yet wanting to see it.
Ruan unzipped his document wallet and removed a small sheet of notepaper. Tammy recognised it. Her dad used to buy the cheap notebooks from a pound shop in Penzance.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ruan said, putting it into her hands.
It might have been half a minute; it might have been much longer. Tammy couldn’t tell. All she could see were the vicious words in that note: the threats, the warnings and angry accusations.
She sat down heavily on the sofa and forced herself to look at it again.
Walter
I’m WARNING you.
You got what you wanted: our home. You finally forced us out of Rosewarne and now you can revel in it. I hope you rot there.
I’ll take my share of the blame for losing it. I let you lead me into temptation and it’s too late to go back now but I WON’T let your poisonous lies about Debbie and Davey ruin everything else.
I will never believe what you said. Never about her or him or my daughter’s parentage.
Neil
PS Stay away from all of us or you’ll be SORRY.
‘Are you OK?’ Ruan sat by her side, his hand on her arm. ‘It’s a shock but I’m sure it’s all lies. I am so sorry but I had to show it to you.’
Tammy put the note on the coffee table. Her fingers were trembling, as if Walter’s poison had seeped into her veins and paralysed her. Her mind made leap after leap, realising the implication of the letter yet desperate not to believe the bombshell it contained.
‘How – how long have you had this?’ she murmured.
‘Only a day. I didn’t know what to do with it – or the other letters I found, but I knew I needed to give it to you. Walter was a piece of work. Whatever he’d said to your dad, I’m sure it was a load of malicious lies calculated to hurt him as much as possible.’
‘You don’t know it was lies!’ she blurted out, feeling sick.
‘No. No, I don’t.’
‘I’m sorry. I – I don’t mean to be angry with you. It’s just – it’s such a shock. I’m grateful you brought it over so soon.’
He didn’t smile but nodded. ‘I’m sorry it’s so upsetting but I had to show you.’
She nodded and took a breath before saying, ‘I guess you’re thinking the same as me about what it implies?’
Ruan sat down opposite, glancing at his hands before finally meeting her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to think and it’s pointless speculating because Walter was a bitter and twisted man, tainted by the past.’ He leaned forward and continued softly: ‘One of the other letters was from Walter’s girlfriend, Kathleen, telling him she was leaving him because he couldn’t or wouldn’t show her the love and affection she needed.’
‘That makes sense at least!’ Tammy burst out. ‘As for this one from my dad to Walter … I think …’ She forced herself to give voice to her darkest fears. ‘… that Walter had been implying my mum and Davey had an affair.’
‘Whatever Walter said, we don’t know for sure when this all happened,’ Ruan countered, sounding like the lawyer he was. ‘And everything he did say or write to your father could all be – probably is – a complete pack of lies.’
Even though she was sitting down, Tammy felt as if the ground was falling away beneath her; she had a strange sense of being detached from her body. ‘Even if Walter was being malicious, if Dad even suspected Davey and Mum had been having an affair before they split up, it would explain why he was so unhappy. He might even have been told this just before he died. It could have tipped him over the edge.’
Ruan touched her arm briefly. ‘Please don’t take this as proof that Davey and your mum had an affair.’
‘But it might be true. There’s no smoke without fire, is there?’ She covered her mouth with her hand, as if she didn’t want to voice the thought in her head. ‘I might be Davey’s daughter. Dad might not be my birth father and I’ve never known. It could be why Davey has always acted like a father to me.’
‘If that’s true, Davey and your mum would have had to be – close – over thirty-two years ago.’
‘It’s possible. What if Walter found out years later or kept their affair to himself? What if he found out I was Davey’s? What if Mum or Davey told him and he decided to use it to hurt Dad?’
