‘James said Mick made this?’ I inquire.
‘Yup, he was always tinkering away on something. He had a knack for making things that weren’t just plain ol’ boxes,’ she replies with a smile.
Raising an eyebrow, I ask what she means by that.
She taps the frame and says, ‘This isn’t just a picture frame; it’s a secret box. We used to call them monkey puzzle boxes growing up; they were where we’d stash our money or jewellery – anything you wanted kept safe.’
I’m instantly intrigued and can feel my curiosity pique. Moya smiles knowingly, as if she can tell what I’m thinking and hands me the box to inspect more closely.
Time seems to slow as I fiddle with the frame, searching for any sign of a secret panel or hidden lever. As my fingers trace over the intricate patterns and notches of the object, I struggle to find any answer. I peer more closely, examining each groove for some sort of opening mechanism. My fingers linger on the edge of the frame as I wonder if I should risk using a hammer to try to smash it open. But I daren’t destroy it – it’s a treasure chest, a puzzle, a piece of Mick’s heart, waiting to be discovered.
A spark of inspiration comes over me, and I press on a decorative knot with both thumbs. Suddenly, a small, well-concealed drawer springs open, revealing a weathered envelope marked ‘To Rose’.
I take a deep breath as Moya and I cautiously look at the treasure. The weight of the decision to read the letter in the absence of its intended recipient sits heavy on our shoulders. We exchange a solemn glance.
‘Do you want to read it on her behalf?’ Moya asks me.
I delicately peel the ageing paper to reveal the faint ink of what lies beneath. And immediately I’m taken aback. The way the capitals are written and how the cursive flows is so familiar. I now see why James was so taken aback by me signing myname that day; my penmanship is almost indistinguishable from Mick’s.
Breathing deeply, I scan the words, and I feel the world shift under my feet.
Dear Rose, if you’re reading this, I’m gone… but you’ve returned and you’ve remembered our special place, where I’ve thought of you every hour of every day of my life since I met you all those years ago. My love for you remains eternal.
I hope you cherish the house by the lake and find solace in our memories there as I have. I want you to know that you have had my heart all along and you always will.
Until we meet again, forever yours, Mick x
I rest the letter on my lap, feeling a heavy tug in my gut, a tight knot of sadness for the man behind the words who poured out his heart, only for it to remain hidden and unanswered.
A mix of emotions washes over me – sorrow, longing and the faintest flicker of hope. The words on the page paint a vivid image of the love Mick held for my mother. Held for her his whole life.
Moya’s breath falters, and I look up to see her eyes brimming with tears that threaten to spill over. The weight of the loss and the unfulfilled love story between Mick and Rose hangs between us, filling every nook and cranny of the caravan.
I look again to the handwriting – the curves and loops with subtle flourishes, the uncanny similarity to mine. It all makes sense now – the inheritance, the undeniable familiarity that draws me towards him, to this place. My heart quakes as the truth unfurls, like a bolt of lightning striking my chest, so bright and so glaringly obvious that there’s no way of not seeing it.
‘Moya?’
Tears pool in her wide, sad eyes, and she looks up at me, trembling, anticipating my next question even as I steel myself to ask it.
‘Is Mick my father?’
Her mouth moves as she offers a slow nod, but no sound emerges. She seems to struggle for the right words for a long moment before finally whispering, ‘But he never knew.’ She averts her gaze and looks towards the floor.
I slump back in my seat, feeling a mix of confusion, disbelief and frustration. My heart feels heavy with sorrow, unable to fathom how my mother could have abandoned such a perfect life. The life she had with Mick, my actual father, in this picturesque Irish village. And why she never told me about him.
Moya rubs her temples. ‘Mick loved her. He loved her more than anything.’
‘Then why didn’t they stay together?’
‘Rose was a dreamer, always chasing the next big adventure. She was never content to stay in one place for long. And Mick… he was a homebody; he loved his life here. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving, even for a short while.’
Moya pauses. ‘It’s complicated,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Mick was from a respectable family and your mother was… well, she wasn’t from his world. Rose was a free spirit; she didn’t believe in conventional things like marriage and family. She wanted to explore the world and have adventures. Mick’s family were very traditional – they wanted him to settle down. We travellers have a different outlook, a different way of life. It was never going to work out between them, not in the long run.’ She shakes her head as if to rid herself of regret, of deep sadness.
I sit in silence, digesting everything Moya is telling me, my mind racing. So much has happened in the last few weeks, and I’m struggling to process it all.
‘So, they just gave up?’ I ask eventually. It’s hard to hear that my parents hadn’t loved each other enough to fight for their relationship.
‘Oh no, they didn’t give up. They fought, tooth and nail, but sometimes you have to accept that something isn’t meant to be. And, in the end, Rose did what she thought was best for you.’
