‘Don’t rush, Val,’ Kenny said crossly.
I laughed. ‘He tells her they talked about his uncle the first time they met, and that’s obviously enough for Elsie, because she immediately starts opening up.’
‘She knows who he is,’ Joyce said. She moved her chair a little bit closer to mine. ‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I only know it’s Elsie because I recognised her writing from little notes she’s made under some of the entries. None of these letters are signed and the writing is terribly small.’
‘It might not be Elsie at all,’ a voice said from the other side of the room. I glanced over to see Helen sitting alone by the television. It was muted but she was staring at the screen anyway, though I had the impression she was listening carefully to our conversation.
‘Sorry, Helen? I didn’t quite hear what you said.’
‘I said, the notes might not have been left by Elsie at all.’
I was a bit put out by that suggestion. ‘Well, I’ve got no proof, but like I say I recognised the writing.’
‘You said the writing was very small.’
‘It is.’
‘So you might be mistaken.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Oh give over, Helen,’ said Joyce. ‘It doesn’t matter really, does it? What matters is the story.’ She turned to me. ‘So what happens once she knows who he is?’
‘This is the cute bit,’ I told her. ‘They start sharing stories about each other.’
‘Like what?’ Kenny moved his chair this time. Honestly, they’d all be sitting on my lap soon.
‘Mostly about the war actually. Elsie …’ I emphasised the name deliberately to annoy Helen who was still pretending to be engrossed inA Place in the Suneven though she couldn’t hear it. ‘Elsie talks about losing her brother. She’s still being cautious, and I can see she doesn’t want to get into trouble so she doesn’t name him in the letters, but we know that Elsie did have a brother who died.’
Joyce gave Helen a little triumphant look over her shoulder.
‘What else?’
‘Shall I read something?’ I asked. ‘It’s my favourite bit.’
‘Yes please.’ Val looked pleased and I was glad that hearing these stories from long ago was perking her up a bit.
‘It’s the chap writing here. He says he knew he couldn’t join the Army because of what happened with the seagull. He writes that it was the seagull that made him realise he didn’t want to kill anyone directly.’
I knew I was milking it, but I paused for dramatic effect and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Helen stiffen. She was definitely listening.
‘What happened with the seagull?’ asked Mr Yin slightly breathlessly.
I cleared my throat and began to read. ‘I grew up in Lytham St Anne’s …’
‘That’s a seaside resort in the north-west,’ Joyce told Mr Yin. ‘We used to go there on our holidays. My brothers would play football in the sand dunes for hours.’
I glared at her and she stopped talking. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
‘We lived in a big house right opposite the beach. It was a bit run-down and bits were always falling off it, because of the winds that came racing across the sea and battered the front of the house.’
‘He’s quite poetic, isn’t he?’ Kenny commented. ‘Nice turn of phrase.’
Wondering if I’d ever get to the end, I carried on: ‘One day I came home from school to find my mother in a state. She said there was a seagull in the back garden that had a broken wing and that it was hopping about and squawking. She asked me to go out with a spade and finish it off.’
Helen was sitting bolt upright in her chair, no longer pretending to watch telly. I had no idea why she was being like this, but there was nothing I could do about it. ‘I went out into the garden,’ I said, reading carefully. ‘But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bash that seagull over the head and kill it.’
