I walk through the gate and glance up at my inheritance.Blue Catchis a two-story grey stone cottage with a pitched roof surrounded by a garden. The trees rustle in the warm autumn breeze and some birds make noises. Apart from that, it’s very quiet.
Uncomfortably quiet.
My world is full of sound. The only quiet I like is the moment when the audience holds its breath and waits for the conductor to signal to the orchestra, and we begin to play. And sometimes – if we’re very lucky – there’s a moment of silence at the end of the music when the audience is too affected to realise they should applaud.
But the silence of this island is constant. Nothing is going to happen. Why had Liam chosen this place? So much I didn’t know about my twin, it seems. Maybe in this silence, a place where no one knows me, I’ll have some time to catch up with myself and how I feel about what happened.
I fold the photocopy and tuck it into my breast pocket before walking up the stone steps to the front door. I fish for the keys inside the envelope from the lawyer and unlock the door. Three cards lie on the flagstone floor – post for my brother which he will never open.
Again, that tightness in my chest. I pick them up and walk inside leaving the door wide open to let in fresh air. The house smells of wood and a faint scent of trees. The entrance leads straight into a wide sitting room with a beamed ceiling and two bay windows. It’s dark; thin rays of light shine through the slats of the wooden shutters. As soon as I open them, sunlight floods in.
The room is sparsely furnished with one large sofa, a coffee table near the fireplace, and a bookcase which has no books. Considering how ill my brother must have been toward the end, there should have been some clutter, maybe half-drunk cups of tea on the table, or a discarded blanket on the sofa. But no, the room is clean and tidy as if no one had ever lived here.
I glance down at the cards in my hand. The first is a simple, white postcard with a dark blue coat of arms on the front: La Cannette Post Office. On the back, a handwritten note tells me that all Liam Hazelwood’s post is being kept safe at the post office and if Mr. Hazelwood’s brother would like to collect it, he could come any time at his convenience.
It’s the first time anyone has referred to me as Liam’s brother. As if it’s my turn to play second fiddle to him.
The other two cards, surprisingly, are addressed to me.
The first is a beautiful photograph, a section of beach with a white bird swooping low over the sea, its dark grey shadow mirrored in the water. On the edge of the frame there’s a blurred figure, a naked man running toward the sea. It takes me a moment to realise the figure is Liam.
The short message on the back says:Cold water swimming, Easter, last year.
When had my brother been a fan of naked swimming? What else didn’t I know about his life?
The third card also has a beautiful photograph. This one shows a sunny sky, seen through the leaves of a weeping willow as if the photographer had lain on the ground to take the picture.
The printed message on the back says:
"This was Liam’s favourite tree. Your brother was a much-loved member of this community and will be greatly missed. We will do our best to welcome you here. Please do not hesitate to ask for anything you need."
Several signatures are below. Millie, George, Adam, Pierre, Gabriel, Ann, Laura, Mrs B.
And one last signature in a slightly shaky hand,Du Montfort.
I remember Lord Du Montfort from the funeral. The elderly man in the wheelchair who had been Liam’s primary patient. He gripped my hand and spoke warmly. At the time, still in shock, I barely took in half the names as people offered condolences. I remember Millie, face wet with tears as she hugged my mother.
I turn the card again to look at the photograph, the sun sparkling through leaves. Yes, Liam would have liked that. There is a small line in the lower corner in faint type:Gabriel Evans Photographer.
A quick check shows the same photographer’s credit on the back of the other picture. Someone who knew my brother and cared for him had taken these pictures and had made them into cards. I drop the cards on the small table.
The trip to the post office can wait a day or two. I don’t feel ready to face anyone just yet.
The sitting room has nothing else. Liam’s personal things must be upstairs in the bedroom.
Before I can find the stairs, there’s a knock. I’d left the door open so this, no doubt, is one of the neighbours passing by.
“Hello, Mr. Hazelwood.” A man calls, coming in.
It’s the lawyer – what was his name? – the one who handled probate on the island. He came to London to meet with me and sign the paperwork that transferred ownership of Liam’s cottage.
“Welcome to the island.” He wipes his feet on the doormat and walks in not waiting for me to invite him.
“I won’t take much of your time.” He lays a briefcase on the coffee table and clicks it open. “I’m here to fulfil instructions left by your late brother.”
He takes out a large envelope with great care bordering on reverence. “He wanted you to receive this as soon as you moved here.”
As soon as?
