He just shrugged. ‘Call it a hunch. Or maybe a whisper from someone who’s not quite done saying what they wanted to say.’
Rita’s mouth fell open. ‘Stan, was it you who’s been leaving messages for me in the Singing Tree?’
The friendly farmhand winked. ‘All I’m going to say to that question, Mrs Jory, is ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
Rita sped up to the High Meadow in the Jimny. The breeze was up. The sea in the distance looked like a shaken sheet, glinting in the morning light. She felt absurdly nervous.
The note was tucked into the crevice where the others had been. Folded neatly. Her name written on the outside, this time in handwriting she recognised.
She opened it slowly, hardly daring to breathe, and began to read.
Dear Rita,
‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
If you still feel what I think you feel, meet me here at sunrise on Sunday.
Here’s hoping.
Jago X
She stared at the words, her throat catching. Then, as she ran her fingers across the etching on Archie’s bench, the tears came. The wind whispered through the branches, like the tree was urging her to believe it would all be OK. She folded the note carefully, held it to her chest for a minute and then, slowly, reached for her wedding ring. With trembling fingers, she turned it once, twice, then slid it from her finger. For a moment, she simply stared at it in her palm, so small, and yet it had held so much. Then, reaching into the tree’s natural cubby hole, she placed the ring inside. Her voice cracked as she whispered to the wind, ‘I will always love you, Archie Jory.’
FIFTY-ONE
Later that day, Rita insisted Sennen and Thomas come with her in the Jimny to their favourite beach. As the little blue car rattled and bounced along the coast road, the three of them were jostled, laughter bubbling out, at each bend that was taken.
‘Is this thing even road legal?’ Thomas grunted, bracing a hand on the dashboard as they hit another dip and managing to stop his head from bashing the roof. ‘Why don’t you use Dad’s… the Land Rover, I mean, it must be a lot safer.’
‘Because Jimmy and I have a very close relationship,’ Rita announced, deftly parking up as near to the beach as she could. Thomas turned in his seat and exchanged a cheeky wink with his sister, quietly amused by their mother’s declaration.
The morning was humid and close. A blanket of low grey cloud hung over the bay, threatening a summer storm. The tide was far out, leaving behind a vast expanse of damp, rippled sand streaked with glistening seaweed and pools that reflected the dull sky. The air smelled faintly of the earlier rain.
‘Now I don’t want you to think your mother is going mad, although she clearly has recently, but we did this at our moonlight mantras session during the first retreat.’
Sennen glanced at Thomas, amused. ‘What is it? Cold-water swimming? I really don’t want to go in there on a day like this.’
‘Worse.’ Rita grinned, pulling a drawstring pouch from her coat pocket. ‘Woo-woo stuff.’
‘Woo-woo, what?’ Thomas frowned.
The beach was surprisingly quiet apart from a few dog walkers in the distance. Rita led them down towards the tideline.
‘Everyone picks a stone,’ she explained, handing the pouch to Sennen. ‘Then you hold it, and you say, or think, something you want to leave behind. Or something you’re ready to welcome in. Then you lob it into the sea.’
Thomas gave a dry smile. ‘And the sea magically fixes our lives?’
‘No, love,’ she said gently. ‘But it helps to say it aloud. To let it go.’
‘Can you imagine what Dad would have said about this?’ Sennen laughed.
‘Yes…’ Rita smiled, eyes misting as she clutched her pebble. ‘He’d probably tell us we were a bunch of sentimental fools and ask if he could go to the Winking Pilchard instead.’
