“It sounds as if I should put what makes you happy before what makes me happy.” The words were out before I’d thought too much about them.
“I didn’t mean that!” I heard the sharpness in her words.
“That’s what it sounds like. I get you and Mum and Nan would love it if I moved back. But if I came home just because of that, I’d resent you all if I wasn’t happy. Think about it. And think about how you say things.”
I did stand up now, and walked away before she could say anything, the day suddenly seeming cooler, despite the sun. I loved my sister and I knew that her heart was in the right place. She’d been the one who listened to me cry down the phone when I was homesick and heard the envy in my voice when she told me about events that were happening on the island which I’d missed.
She’d never wanted to leave, and she’d never understood why I had to.
I headed into Marcy’s old room, the boxes containing some of her belongings still there. Mum had left them for me to look through when I was ready, which I hadn’t been sure would ever happen. I sat down and opened one, taking out the contents and perusing through. There were old photographs and books, some jewellery that was tarnished and a folder of letters.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened it, taking out the first sheet. Marcy had never married, staying in the same village all her life and rarely leaving the island. She’d arrived here well before my Nan, growing up here as a girl after her dad died. She’d been the youngest of several and had been our rock, the village’s rock really. One with several sharp edges but an amazing view when you took the time to sit with her and get to know her thoughts.
I hadn’t yet dealt with my grief for her. I’d shed no tears and I wasn’t sure what would happen when I did or how I would hold myself up.
I felt the age of the paper with my fingers, fragile, light. The paper smelled musty and old, a little damp. Inside was my aunt’s name, writing in a cursive script that was no longer taught with a type of pen no longer used. The paper was thick and soft and for a moment, I felt closer to her. She’d written in this, spent time pouring words into it. She may never have meant for any of us to read it – hell, I could hear her now telling me to keep my nose out of others’ business.
I turned over the first page without guilt. She would understand that need to capture memories of her. I ran my finger over the blue ink, imagining her sat at her desk in her room, writing down her thoughts of the day, telling what had happened. And I started to read.
Dear Alice,
I hope you’re enjoying the summer in Cardiff. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in a big city like that, how busy it must be with all those people. I’m not sure I would like it although it would be nice to leave the island occasionally. The guesthouse is full for the summer though, so I have to work most days. Jennifer is working too, which is good for everyone. All the guests really like her, she’s so chatty and friendly. I feel a tad young compared to her and I can never talk to people like she can.
We have a married couple staying for the summer: Donald and Julia Stretton. Donald is the son of the Henry Stretton who owns the jetty and the pier, as well as a dozen fishing boats. Donald is meant to be running his father’s businesses on the island so he’s here for the summer to get to know the place and check up on the managers and captains, to make sure they’re doing their jobs right. I felt a bit nervous of him because he’s important, but Charlie Nelson, the baker’s son who’s just moved back, said that he’s a good man and nothing to be bothered about. I’m not sure I trust Charlie. I wondered if he was trying to seem like he wasn’t afraid of anyone to show-off. He’s asked me if I want to go dancing with him. I know you’d tell me to go, to have some fun and Charlie has always been good to look at, plus he can dance! But I told him I need to help out at the guesthouse.
You’ve missed a ton of gossip! Frankie, the postman, has finally proposed to Gwendolyn, but she turned him down! He’s apparently going to ask her again – must be mad, the fool, but he’s been in love with her since he was a lad. Leonard Davies has moved back home with his new wife. She’s lovely and apparently she knows Julia Stretton too. I thought she would have airs and graces like Mrs Stretton, but she’s nothing like that, thankfully. She wants to have a ladies’ bridge club where we can play cards. I hope it goes ahead because I miss our cards afternoons when we used to play for toffees.
Someone said that Don Stretton is looking to cut wages when he takes over from his father to increase profit. I’ve heard a few more pieces of gossip about him as well; someone said he’s very arrogant and I heard Lindy Griffiths say that he was a divorcé, not that anyone cares anymore.
They seem smitten with the island. I saw him walking along the beach early this morning when the tide was out. He was standing on the sand when I was coming back from the bakers with the bread for breakfast, watching the fishing boats coming in from their night’s trawling.
I don’t know what made me think it, but he looked so lonely down there. I know they say he’s arrogant, but I can’t see it. He’s just another man.
Anyway, I have to finish this now if I want to make up three of the rooms and make it in time to the post office before Frankie collects the letters.
Send me a postcard from Cardiff!
Yours,
Marcy
I put the letter back,puzzled. This Marcy wasn’t one I was familiar with. She sounded naïve and young, but then I suppose she had been once, just I like had, until things had changed. Laughter echoed outside; guests I hadn’t met yet. And then a man’s voice that I did know.
Gabe.
“You will be at at the barbecue tonight, won’t you? I mean, it won’t be the same if you’re not there.” The accent was Australian and very female.
I took hold of Marcy’s book and headed out, seeing a slim blonde with legs that were far too long. Were leg extensions an actual thing? She was following Gabe, who was without a T-shirt and wearing boarding shorts. I felt hotter than I needed to, trying not to watch where they were going as I left Marcy’s room and went into mine through the outside entrance. The adjoining doors had been locked for months as she would wander into my room and become confused or tired. I left her folder of letters on my dressing table, the fact that it was dust free suggested my mother had been in cleaning. Or rooting.
Gabe’s voice echoed down the garden, his sentences punctuated with the banging of his hammer. Catrin had told me bits about him: he was here to stay, it seemed, integrating himself into the community without giving much away about his history. She had dug, searching for information, which was only her second favourite pastime after watching reality TV shows, but she didn’t have too much to say. Apart from the fact that he had gotten carnal knowledge of several tourists that passed through.
She didn’t judge him. She’d have been struck with several blades of lightning if she had, given that was her summer form until she’d met Anders. And my brother had done the same as soon as he’d learned how to deviate from irritating women to charming them.
I found a couple of bottles of water in the kitchen and then headed towards the summerhouse, hearing music being played. Everything around me seemed swimmy and unsteady, the noise of the music and the birds and the sea merging into one.
There was a bench near the rose garden that my grandfather had made years before, a plaque in its centre commemorating my grandparents’ anniversary and I headed to it, each step feeling like I was at the end of a marathon. I dropped the water on the ground and sat down, leaning forward to lower my head, focusing on my breath like the therapist had told me to do, counting the seconds of each inhalation, lengthening the exhalation, trying not to focus on the thoughts that were fluttering haphazardly around my head.
I felt an arm go round my shoulders and a warm body become my bookend.
