Anyway, I’m glad I found out what happened because nobody told meowtanything at the time and they all just acted like you didn’t exist. I remember once I asked my granddad where you’d gone and he belted me so I never mentioned it again. I know Iwerewas only young when you left but I really loved you and I used to love sitting on your knee when you read me stories and I loved it when you brought me sweets and took me to the pictures. You took me to see my first film, South Pacific, when I was only little. Do you remember? Anyway, for a while I thought you’d just dumped me and forgotten all about me and I must have donesummatsomething wrong. But you know what kids are like, they only think about themselves.
By the way, I hope you don’t think I’m being selfish by writing to you because you said in your letter you didn’t want me and our Julie to know. I should say I haven’t told her. We’re very close but very different. Our Julie’s sensible and has a posh job in an office, shewerewas never one to have her head turned by the lads, not like me. Anyway, if you wantnowtnothing to do with me I’ll understand. I just want you to know that the way you are doesn’t bother me. I don’t think anyone should be told they’re a bad person because of who they love. Mind you, I would say that because that’s kind of the reason I’m writing to you.
This isn’t easy to admit, Uncle Wilf, but I’m having an affair. I’ve been seeing this bloke called Gary for about a year now and it’s all built up and become this big thing and I don’t know what to do about it. Sorry, I should probably tell you about my husband first. Flamin eck, I really am making a mess of this.
My husband’s name is Martin but everyone calls himMart and I met him when Iwerewas 18 and he’s a mechanic which isn’t very exciting but he was dead fit and everyone said he was Manchester’s answer to Warren Beatty. All the girls fancied him and I wanted him for myself so they’d all be jealous. I sometimes wonder if part of the problem was I didn’t really know what to do with myself after school. I was always the pretty one and I was rose queen and everything and people used to say I should be a model and I did once get chatted up by this bloke who said he was an agent in London and he gave me a card with his number on it but my dad went berserk when he found out and ripped the card up and threw it away. I told you he was a dick. I work in a women’s clothes shop now and it’s alright because the clothes are nice and me and the girls have a laugh, especially when we go out for drinks. But when I first left school I was working in this crap shop selling old lady clothes with this boss who was a right bitch and I hated it. I think that may be one of the reasons why I got married when Iwerewas 20, I just wanted something else in my life, something more exciting and Mart was nice and I did think I loved him. The problem was, it all got dead boring dead quickly. I suddenly had all this housework and cooking to do and I can’t cook, honestly I could burn water. I’m crap at ironing too. And then I got up the duff and our Adamwerewas born and he’s going to be 12 this August and he’s gorgeous and dead clever and does really well at school and I love him to bits. And right from the start I loved having a baby and he was so cute but Mart never wanted to do anything exciting anymore, he just wanted to stay in. And he never kissed me or told me I looked nice except when he’d had a few pints and he wasn’t romantic or passionate and I just felt like I was invisible.
Then last year I was on this works do in town and I met this mega fit bloke called Gary. All the girls thought he looked like Michael Douglas and I’ve always fancied Michael Douglas, especially in that film Fatal Attraction. And he chatted me up and told me I looked nice and startedbuying me drinks and I felt like a film star. The funny thing was, I’d been chatted up by blokes before when I were was out with the girls but I’d never done anything about it because I wasn’t looking for it—I’m not a slag or anything. But for some reason it was different with Gary. We sneaked off and before I knew it hewerewas kissing me and I liked it and then he came into the shop a few days later and pretended to be buyingsummatsomething for his sister and asked if he could take me out. He took me to this Italian restaurant and it was dead posh and I felt like a film star again and thought he must really like me. A few hours later, he booked us a room in this hotel and we ended up in bed together and it was mega and afterwards I just couldn’t control myself. I knew I was in love with him and he always says he loves me and I know some people think it’s wrong what we’re doing but I don’t think it makes me a bad person because how can it if it feels right?
I think our Julie can tellsummat’ssomething’s going on, it’s probably a woman thing, although I’ve denied everything. And I do feel guilty about cheating on Mart but I can’t help it if I don’t love him anymore and anyway he hasn’t told me he loves me for years so maybe he doesn’t and that makes the two of us. And I feel dead guilty about lying to Adam, although I keep telling myself I’m only lying to protect him and this doesn’t change how I feel about him which it doesn’t because nothing would ever change that. But at the end of the day this thing with Gary makes me happy and I just want to be happy.
I don’t know why I’m telling you all this but I think maybe all the creeping around and keeping it secret is starting to be too much and I just need to get it out of my system. I suppose I also know you won’t think I’m a bad person because people said you were a bad person but you knew you weren’t and you were doing the right thing and look how it turned out for you. Maybe that’s why I think you’ll be able to help and will know what I should do. What do you think, Uncle Wilf? Should I leave Mart so I can be with Gary? Allhell would break loose but I think it would be worth it. Am I right, do you reckon?
I hope you’re still happy with your Arnaldo and he still loves you and makes you feel special like my Gary does. And I know this letter’s rubbish and I am crap at writing but I want you to know that not everyone in our family hates you. And like I said, I wanted to say sorry for them. Even if you are annoyed at me for writing (but I hope you’re not).
With lots of love and kisses from,
Your niece, Suzanne x
I sit on the bed, blinking.
I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, that I’m suffering from a concussion or am regaining consciousness and haven’t quite come round.
At the same time, Mum has burst back into my head exactly as I remember her and I can see her facial expressions and hear her voice much more vividly than I have for years. She’s written on thin, lined paper that’s been pulled out of a spiral-bound notepad, with what looks like a cheap blue biro, the pressure she exerted making her imprint come through to the other side. Her handwriting is more rounded and frilly than Wilf’s, with circles over thei’s, but it’s also sloppy—even sloppier towards the end of the letter. But it all fits the mum I remember: it’s all unmistakably her.
My head’s spinning with adrenaline and I struggle to fill my lungs.
I hold the letter to my nose and try to breathe it in, but it doesn’t smell of Mum. It doesn’t smell of Silk Cut cigarettes or Nivea hand cream.
Come on, Adam, get a grip.
Although I am shocked to hear about the affair, in some ways it doesn’t surprise me at all. I remember suspecting something was going on, something I couldn’t quite understand, but sensing very clearly that Mum was pulling away. Now it occurs to me, I probably started to feel abandoned even before she died. When she did, the knife just twisted in farther.
Suddenly, all the happiness and security I’ve felt over the last few days has been snatched away from me. All my anxieties and insecurities have come crashing back and my head’s flooding with questions. What does this mean about Mum’s death? Surely it can’t be a coincidence that she wrote to Wilf just two months before she died?
From outside, I hear the sound of Archie’s little feet clattering up the stone steps. “Adam!”
The sound of his voice hits me like a second truck from the opposite direction.
He bangs on the exterior door to the big lounge.
I ram the letter back in the envelope, replace both envelopes on top of the pile, and close the shoebox.
“Coming!” I call out.
I quickly tidy the box under the bed, telling myself it’s a good thing to be forced to take a break before reading the next letter.
This is a lot to process. Alotto process.
“I thought it would be nice for us to watch the sunset together,” says Theo, as the five of us sit down on the castle wall. “For us to say goodbye to the day.”
I don’t think Theo realizes the expression he’s using—an expression I’ve used on him—comes from my mum. He doesn’t realize I’ve been thinking about her all evening. He doesn’t realize I’ve been tormenting myself, going over and over what she revealed in the letter, wondering how it affects what I’ve always thought, what I’ve always suspected.
Even so, he sensed something was wrong. A couple of times he took me to one side and asked if I was OK but I just fobbed him off. There’s no way I can tell him—not yet.
Probably because he knows how much I love watching the sunset, after dinner Theo suggested we all come up here. Now we’re halfway through August, the sun is setting earlier and there’s no conflict with Archie’s bedtime. But I’m worried this is only going to make me feel worse. Because watching the sunset always makes me think about Mum.
I look out at the orange sun arching closer to the mountain, afew thin stripes of cloud streaking around it. At the mountain’s foot shimmers the unusually clear sea, its surface smudged by what I can only assume is a boat. Behind the mountain that embraces the sea, the sky burns a much deeper orange, like the embers of our barbecue.
