I’m greeted by the sight of half a dozen boxes piled up in Ewan’s hallway. One is full of books, autobiographies and books on antiques for the most part, as far as I can see. Not my taste in reading, but clearly Caroline liked them. Another box is piled high with knick-knacks and other possessions, ornaments, her mobile phone, her iPad, a set of expensive-looking speakers, a collection of fancy wine glasses. There’s a small, velvet-covered box on thetop, which I assume contains her jewellery.
Caroline’s CD collection is stacked in a third box, and spills over into a fourth. I knew her taste in music, I heard it often enough through the open windows when I was in my garden. She had a fondness for Bon Jovi, Nickelback, The Script, Kaiser Chiefs, and all those are represented here. The rest of Mike’s choices seem to be her clothes. By no means all of them, Ewan will need to make a trip to the Barnardo’s shop in the village, I expect. I daresay I’ll help him with that. If he wants me to.
“Did you get everything? Ewan won’t mind if you want to come back another time.”
“No, this is it. I left the rest upstairs. It’s all tidy.”
“Okay. Do you need a hand to load this lot into your car?”
“Thanks. You can take the clothes if you would. I’ll manage the books and other heavy stuff.”
Between us it doesn’t take long to stack the boxes in the huge rear of Mike’s Volvo. Mike has already let the rear seats down so there’s plenty of room. He could easily take more stuff if he wanted, but he does seem adamant that he has all he came for. The driver’s window glides down and he waves to me as he reverses out of the drive. I give him a final salute as he disappears along the road taking what’s left of Caroline with him.
The end of an era, and I can’t say I’m sorry.
I turn and go back into Ewan’s house. I wander upstairs, stopping at the door of what used to be Caroline’s room. It’s ajar, so I push gently and step inside.
Mike told the truth, he has left it tidy. The cosmetics are still on the dressing table, but now arranged in a neat row. It’s as though Mike picked them up, perhaps considered adding them to his collection, but thought better of it and replaced them.
I open the wardrobe door. Maybe half the clothes are gone. The bookcase against one wall is virtually empty, the dressing table cleared. I open the top drawer to find thatempty. The second one too. I crouch to check the bottom drawer.
This is where Mike has stored the stuff he left behind. He’s left a copy of the National Trust Handbook from 2013, a pile of magazines, a rolled-up poster sporting a picture of the Grand Canyon. I wonder if Caroline ever went there.
I lift the magazines to find a small stack of birthday cards underneath. I recall Caroline had a birthday about six weeks before her death; perhaps these were her last cards. I wonder if Mike even knew they were here—surely he’d have wanted these. These are personal.
I lift the cards out and spread them on the bed.
For a wonderful daughter.
To my sister, on her birthday.
Happy birthday to a dear friend.
For the One I Love, on her special day.
I stare at the collection in front of me, my stomach churning.The One I Love?I know messages on cards are cheesy, not heartfelt. People just make do with whatever they can find on the newsagents’ rack. But Ewan told me, on more than one occasion, that he did not love Caroline. So why, then, was he sending her a card just weeks before she died, saying that he did?
My fingers tremble as I pick the card up, the black front embossed with a metallic red heart. It certainly looks the part. Lover-like. Affectionate. Sexy. I open it to read the message scrawled inside. The familiar handwriting leaps off the inner page, screaming at me.
For my dearest, beloved Caro, on your birthday.
I love you, and I can’t wait until we can be together for good.
Yours always.
E
I drop the card, my heart lurching. I cover my mouth with my hand, the gesture instinctive, my disbelief absolute. No. It can’t be. No!
No, no,no!
Not Ewan’s handwriting.
This card came from Ed.
My Ed. My husband, Ed.
How? Why? When?
