Ethan’s expression flashed from easy going to concerned. ‘Hey, are you alright? Come on, let’s get you out of the cold to catch your breath.’
‘S-sounds like a good idea.’
A moment later, they were safely ensconced inside the mahogany dash-boarded Allegro, sharing Albie’s thermos of hot chocolate to ward off the chill as he calmed down, breath gradually returning to normal. Ethan had thanked him for the kindness of the warming drink, and they’d turned their attention to exclaiming over the beauty of their surroundings while puzzling over how to reach their destination. As they had, the odd mist-fog had cleared as a beam of sunlight cut through the December murk, and the manor glimmered and shifted into sight before them.
Ethan gaped up through the windscreen, and Albie inhaled sharply, struck by a similar sense of wonder, but the younger man’s expression had flattened before resuming the approachable smile he’d arrived with. It was as if nothing unusual had happened, and he’d hopped out of the car before waving at Albie and mouthing,come on, let’s look around.
Alighting from his vehicle, Albie exhaled before pursing his lips at the sprawling property’s sudden reveal. ‘Hmm. Right, just me then.’
They’d wandered around the outside of the manor first, Ethan raving about the period features and walled garden to therear, as well as explaining the work he foresaw to turn the ex-care home’s interior into self-contained apartments. The manor held an expectant air, and as they walked and talked, only Albie seemed able to hear the subtle shifting of bricks and sealing of element-ravaged windows. He must be low on blood sugar, or late for one of his medications.
Since that visit, once all arrangements were made, the manor had been lovingly restored to its former glory. During those few short months, Ethan kept remarking it was happening with astonishing speed, and that the condition of the building was much better than expected for a place abandoned four decades before. But Albie had got used to the property’s little quirks, and some days, they even made him smile. Saying that, it’d been a nightmare figuring out how to ensure the workmen could find it and then running interference until it was used to their presence, going to-and-fro from his rented accommodation for the first four days.
He’d been able to move in a week ago and was now eating at the two-person table, wishing he wasn’t a party of one. After clearing up and fumbling his trainers off (Rose would’ve had his guts for garters for wearing them indoors), he settled on the faded floral sofa retained for nostalgic reasons, rather than comfort. Picking up a lined notebook and his gold retirement pen from the side table, he started on the first task of the afternoon.
Some people would think it was morbid, but it was merely practical. He’d started the routine in his twenties after losing his older brother during a classified exercise in Kota Tinggi during the Vietnam War. Eddie hadn’t left a note or any thoughts about how to mark his all too brief life. That was natural, because he hadn’t expected to die so young. No one did. But you could be gone so quickly, at the drop of a hat, or a twist of fate. Tomorrow was never guaranteed.
Although Rose once joked about the habit during their early years together because she’d deliver his eulogy if anything happened, he’d persisted. From the second time onwards, she’d sit on the arm of his chair, wanting to be part of the half-decade tradition. Peering over his shoulder as he wrote, adding a comment here or an embellishment there, the heat of her body would press against him, the flowery notes of her delicate perfume filling his senses. Her long, pale blonde hair tickled his cheek in the most delightful way, and he’d pause to bury his face in the crook of her neck, revelling in her pure English-rose loveliness.
He glanced sideways, but there was only an empty space where the love of his life should be, along with the sweet smell of beeswax used on their antique furniture. With a sad smile and a twitch of thick white eyebrows, he set out the humble beginnings to his existence.
Albie ‘never Albert’ Curville was delivered into the world on the brink of a new decade on 1 January 1940. Born into war, he experienced a fraught but loving childhood in beautiful south Devon. Growing up in a time when enemies brought death to our shores and waged battles in the air, he met his beloved Rose when she moved to his village as an evacuee…
Skipping ahead through them becoming friends and growing into something greater in their teens, he described his early teaching career in the ’60s before becoming a firefighter, mentioned Rose’s job as a paediatric nurse (bittersweet as they’dbeen unable to have children) and wrote about the clothes she’d crafted for local impoverished families on her beloved Singer sewing machine. Ending with how they’d undertaken helpful deeds in their community and enjoyed cycling the narrow twisting lanes to the local beach, he reflected on how it had been a simple life, but a good one.
The next section was a familiar refrain and bit deeply, but he forced himself to pen it, as hard as it was to see these inked loops and lines on a page.
Best friends, spouses and lovers for over forty years, Rose and Albie were separated when she died in a tragic accident in 2007. Delivering his wife’s eulogy to an overflowing church, Albie finished his tribute by stating, ‘I haven’t lived an extraordinary life, but I will always, always remember I once had an extraordinary love.’
Moisture clouded his vision, and the pen clattered onto the oak floor. ‘I miss you, Rose,’ he gulped. They’d loved each other with ferocity, passion and a completeness he couldn’t imagine feeling again. He’d left Devon for several reasons. One being, it hurt more as the years passed to walk along sunny streets trodden together, not less. Living alone in the home they’d created as newlyweds had become unbearable, and on following the removals van out of the neighbourhood, a part of him exhaled. Not realising he’d been slowly suffocating. What he hadn’t known was that it would be equally melancholy at Beaubrook Manor without her, even though it should bring him comfort. He longed for her companionship, and she deserved to live heremore than anyone, but the possibility had been cruelly snatched away forever.
He set aside the notepad as something shifted near the window and warm sunlight flooded the room. Perhaps now wasn’t the right time for this. No point in getting distracted by his grief when he should be concentrating on what lay ahead. Patting his unruly hair, he straightened his shoulders. ‘Come on, Albie, pull yourself together.’
Heaving himself off the sofa, he re-adjusted his maroon trousers and tugged down the collar of his sky-blue shirt, sliding his feet into tasselled leather moccasins rather than battle with trainers again.
He must face forward, and given the enormous task ahead and help required, maybe he wouldn’t be on his own much longer. Yes, there was a meeting to attend, people to become properly acquainted with… and a very important promise to keep. Rose had always said aside from love, there was nothing so important as kindness, and he’d found that to be true time and again, so he must believe it.
Besides, the stakes were too high if he was proven wrong.
CHAPTER 2
Tori
Dear Diary/Journal/Whatever bloody hell this is…
This was a stupid idea. Don’t even know why doing it. Therapist clearly loopy because how is writing down what happened going to help? Just want to forget. Blot out everything, make it stop— no, please, hurting me?—
Come on Tori, deep breaths. Can do this even if you can’t see point… Besides, have always loved books and words, made a living telling other people’s stories. Just turns out writing your own isn’t so easy… Nothing else has worked though. Will moving over a hundred and fifty miles south make a difference? Even on drive here, dark thoughts made hands clench around steering wheel, knuckles straining against skin. Ignored calls and voicemails. No way am I doing it, they can’t make me?—
There was a knock on front door earlier.
Shit.
Sound of feet in corridor. Next-door neighbour, old guy with riot of white hair and blue eyes in crinkled face? Looks bit likeIan McKellen. Hope he’s not do-gooder type, always knocking. Last thing I need is Gandalf-the-bloody-Grey making nuisance of himself.
Urgh. What’s happened to me? Don’t like this person. Used to be social, fun… happy. Now anxiety clouds everything and want to hide behind closed curtains all day. Not fair, whathetook from me, what he did. Am no longer the Tori who gloried in colour and bustle, flicking black spiral curls, wearing tight-fitting clothes and multitude of chunky jewellery. Am scared the girl who was part of large, obnoxiously loud Italian-rooted family is gone for good.
Knocking repeated. They weren’t getting the message. If someone doesn’t answer door, they’re out or don’t want to be disturbed. Just WANTED TO BE LEFT ALONE. Didn’t want to go to meeting about weird contract signed when dad helped me buy this place.
