Julia Stretton, formerly Julia Stanley, was born in Wolversham. She was the daughter of the business man, Hubert Stanley, who lost his fortune after being sued by his former partner. Her funeral will take place on Thursday at St Michael’s and All Angels Church in Wolversham. Mourners are welcome to attend.
“You know about Aunt Marcy?”
“Know what about her?” Nan eyed me.
“This couple stayed here. Donald and Julia Stretton. Marcy had saved a bunch of letters. I didn’t realise Julia died.”
Nan stood up and stretched. “Marcy had secrets. Over the years, I discovered a few, especially when she got older and her friends that she’d grown up with were few and far between.”
“Did you know about the letters?”
She headed to the door. “This was a local mystery. Occupy your mind with it. Find out a little bit more about how life isn’t black and white.”
I read the next of Marcy’s letters next, my hair still wet against my thin dressing gown, my body still quietly aching. Occasionally my thoughts would drift to Gabe, but I didn’t analyse. I didn’t wonder if he was thinking of me, or whether we’d have a repeat. We’d see. And I lost myself in a piece of history that had almost stopped existing.
Dear Alice,
I was so excited to receive your letter! It sounds like you’re having a smashing time in Cardiff and I wonder if you find Arthur a little more than interesting. If you can, I’d love to receive one of his books, even though I’m not sure I’ll find time to read it this summer. I do hope you aren’t planning to stay there permanently though. It’s strange here without you, although I doubt we’d have had much time to drink our teas and sit on the beach given the busyness of the guesthouse.
I saw Donald again last night. It feels strange to call him Donald rather than Mr Stretton, but Mr Stretton seems odd too. I feel as if I know him a little already even though we’ve only spoken briefly. I don’t quite understand it. The sky, as it does at the height of summer, had changed rapidly from blue to black, and only a few stars were visible, such was the cloud cover. It’s still my routine to take a walk most nights across the beach, to smell the fresh sea air and take in the clarity that night time brings with it. You used to tease me about doing this, but it’s still one of the few ways I can still my mind before I go to sleep. The day had gone much as usual, the chores had been done and I had cleaned the vacated rooms thoroughly. It was a task Clara used to do, although even four years later I’m still unaccustomed to the task and I really dislike cleaning up after people- some are just so untidy and dirty, especially the ones who look so grand.
The evening’s the only time I have to myself. Yesterday was filled with other people and their problems. Peter at the inn had been short staffed at lunchtime so I had found myself helping out there. The talk was of Donald Stretton and his visit to the village, about how much damage he could do to the jobs of men who worked on the boats and whether his father would decide to share his stake in the boats and to whom. I said nothing all day, merely smiling and nodding appropriately. I knew it didn’t do to gossip, and even if I had told Jennifer of what he had said, she wouldn’t go blathering to anyone. If we were reputed to be gossips then no one would want to stay at the guesthouse.
Some of the women who came in at lunchtime were full of wanting to know how Mrs Stretton had been dressed, and what the fashions were like that she chose to wear. I answered honestly until Martha Grey asked what Mrs Stretton had gone to the doctors’ with. Then I pretended that I knew nothing at all. It was amazing how quickly the slightest bit of news runs across the village. But then it surprises me what news manages to stay well-hidden too.
Donald was dressed in a shirt and slacks when I saw him last night. He was barefoot, carrying his shoes in one hand as he walked the water’s edge. His face was lit by the moon and he carried a thoughtful expression on his face. Still there was no Julia. This has stopped surprising me. She reminds me of one of the wives in a Victorian novel, where they are pale and sallow and can do very little.
I was sitting on the rocks, my usual post, where I could see the boats as they sailed away from the jetty, night fishing. The lighthouse was flickering, Walter having gone to his position for the night, warning the sailors of the treacherous rocks below. He hasn’t changed; he was asking about you the other day.
The night was still, the wind little more than a gentle breeze, one of those nights when we would’ve giggled and ran around the garden if we were still children. I could hear callings of birds not yet settled for the night and I wondered about my father who had gone out of one of his rare fishing trips, still unable to permanently keep his feet on dry land, however much my mother fretted when he was on the water.
I was aware that Donald could not see me. Hidden in shadows, I had a good view of the scene, lit by a crescent moon and the lighthouse’s beacon. He didn’t know I was there. I studied his form, his head was held higher than it had been this morning and the previous evening; he looked more relaxed, more confident. One hand was in his trouser pocket, the other still holding his brogues. He had turned and was looking out toward the sea, the waves toppling in to shore with the irresistible pull of the moon. I stood and felt really quite uncomfortable watching him, as if I was a spy for the men at the inn. I clambered down from my spot and began to walk stealthily to him and the sea, the area, my territory, giving me confidence.
“Mr Stretton,” I said, alerting him to my presence. “It’s not often anyone walks around here at this time.”
“Marcy,” he said to me. “I thought I was alone.”
“I apologise if I am intruding, sir,” I said, not meaning it. This was my time on this beach.
“Don’t,” he turned toward me. “It’s nice to have the company. I’ve spent much of the day without anyone to talk to.” He smiled and the moon dimmed further.
“How is Mrs Stretton?” I asked, although I found I was not missing her company.
“She is not too bad. The doctor could find little wrong with her. He told her the sea air would help strengthen her constitution, but that is not one of her concerns. She has spent much of the day asleep or reading in bed,” he said. His tone was grim and lacked the patience it had had in the morning.
“Perhaps she would be better for some company,” I suggested. “She should come down to the sitting area after breakfast. There are several ladies who meet there at that time; some play bridge and some simply talk. I’m sure she would enjoy it.”
“I will suggest it to her,” he said, not smiling. “Maybe she will partake. Maybe she won’t. It will depend on her mood.”
I smiled, knowing that he would not be able to see my expression. It sounded that he frequently suffered at the hands of his wife.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I intend to take a look at my father’s boats and put the men out of their misery. I suspect that many of them are fearing for their jobs,” he said, giving me a conspiratorial smile.
“The boats have never looked so clean,” I said. “Your visit will clearly have done some good. I don’t think it does any harm to have them cease being so complacent from time to time.”
“I agree,” he fell silent for a few seconds while a gull called noisily overhead. “If you don’t mind me asking, Marcy, where were you educated?”
