Dear Gully,
Thank you for your letter. I must admit, I’d been worried I’d said too much in my previous letters. I guess they became what I said they would not – a form of therapy. I’ve never been a writer – that was Ivy. My medium was always pictures, photographs, but it’s hard to convey this weight of grief through photos.
I have tried it, taking pictures of Ivy’s things, using images of her within them. I’m actually pleased with how what I’m doing now is working, but it looks more like a celebration of her life, or the celebration ofalife rather than a depiction of my grief.
But then I’m not sure what grief is? It changes every day. Some days it’s a gap that remains there no matter what I do or how many walks I take or how many times I meet with friends or find joy in something. That gap is still there. I remind myself that I didn’t talk to Ivy every day; sometimes we’d go a week without speaking, or longer if she was deep in the writing cave, but the gap is that she isn’t there for me to talk to. That phone call will never come. I won’t see her name come up on the screen of my phone ever again.
Or is grief that the world doesn’t seem as bright anymore? I’ve fallen out of love with my bright filters, the ones that wouldadd vivacity to any scene. Nowadays I’m working in muted colours; sepia and washed-out scenes.
I need to be able to see colour again. For many reasons, for my work and for me, I need to have that light.
Ivy had been seeing someone on and off for about three years before she came to Puffin Bay.
When she left London to come and stay with you, they were very much off – the man she’d definitely been in love with had gotten engaged to someone else. He was the son of a friend of our father’s, and Ivy had known him since she was a teenager. I even think he was the first person she slept with.
Their relationship wasn’t healthy, because they effectively used each other. When either of them were single, they’d seek the other out. A bit of emotional blackmail and whatever relationship the other was in was over, and Ivy and Keane were back on.
It generally lasted a few months and then they’d decide they were better as friends, which usually coincided with one of them meeting someone else.
Until Keane went out with his boss’ daughter, which sounds very cliched, but having met them together, it wasn’t. It was genuine and I could tell that Keane was with the person that was his one.
Ivy saw the same thing. I have a text from her that she sent a few months before she moved to Puffin Bay that she’d moved into a non-Keane era and she was good with that. She didn’t resent him or his fiancée, she got it. But she was still broken-hearted, although she would’ve gotten over it eventually.
She said nothing more about it. She was never cross with Keane for finding someone else. I did wonder if she was relieved because it finally broke the cycle, which they both knew wasn’t good for them. She had the sense not to send an engagementpresent but I knew she messaged Keane wishing him well, and she meant it.
My sister was a good person.
Considering our parents, it’s probably a surprise that either of us could function, as our childhood wasn’t conventional. I don’t know what she told you about us growing up.
The coroner’s verdict was a relief. I didn’t want to think that she’d chosen to end her life, and honestly, I didn’t think Ivy would do that. She would take risks though. I think if my sister could’ve grown wings she’d have climbed the tallest mountain she could find and soared off it, without even having checked that she could fly.
I asked her once about the black diamond routes she’d ski and that she’d pay no heed to the conditions. I asked her if she was afraid.
She’d told me she couldn't be afraid, because what was there to fear, and she’d laughed. If the worst happened, she wouldn’t know.
I’d mentioned that we would know, and we’d be left without her, to pick up the pieces and she’d told me then that she was born under a lucky star.
I guess that star burned out.
Far, far too soon and now I have the rest of my life without my sister.
It’s weird. Writing that down has made me grab the tissues and sob like a baby. I’ve tried holding it together all the time, putting that resolutely British brave face on it, then every so often I’ll have a crying jag that exhausts me but the world seems a little smoother afterwards.
Grief reminds me of taking a long boat journey across a giant sea. There are moments of calm, where things seem serene, thenall of a sudden a storm comes from nowhere and I’m having to search for a life jacket to stop me from going under.
And this sounds like I’m fishing for help, and I’m not because we’ve met the grand total of once, but I have no one here who understands what this ride is like. My dad isn’t likely to live much longer.
I hope he doesn’t live much longer. He has no quality of life; no recognition of anyone and no ability to look after himself. His speech has gone. He wasn’t aware of Ivy’s death, which is a blessing.
My mother is thousands of miles away and is drinking herself into an early grave. I’m waiting for a phone call any day to tell me she’s been admitted somewhere and I don’t think she’ll want to come out.
My friends are great, but they don’t know Ivy. They may have met her once or twice but none of them knew her, so they’re sympathetic, but there isn’t a common language to talk about her.
So when that storm comes in, and my boat is almost being turned upside by those waves, there’s only the life jacket that I put on myself. There’s no one to pass it to me.
I know you have people, your brothers, your friends. I envy you but I’m not jealous. Please don’t make the mistake I did with Ivy and take them for granted.
I’ve enclosed some prints of photos I’ve been working on. Let me know what you think.
