Melanie Hudson - The Last Letter from Juliet

‘Yes … I needed to clear my head and I knew …’ I stopped pouring fuel into the tank for a moment.

‘You knew I’d be here.’

‘I thought you might be.’ I put down the can and smiled up at him. ‘I promised you a trip and I’d like to honour that promise, if I may.’ I glanced out of the barn. ‘And it may be cold, but it is a beautiful day, after all.’

He smiled too. ‘It is indeed a beautiful day and I’d love to go flying with you.’

We spent another ten minutes preparing the aircraft before pushing my beautiful yellow Tiger Moth out of the barn.

‘Put these on,’ I said, handing him goggles and helmet before showing him where to place his feet on the wing. ‘It will be very cold up there and the clouds are bubbling out to the west, so it might be a bit bumpy.’

I leant across him to tighten his straps and secure him in the seat. He took me by surprise by taking my bare hand in his gloved one.

‘Listen, I think you’re amazing and beautiful and fascinating. But I know you’re spoken for. We can be friends, can’t we. Just for a little while? I’m not a reckless fool, Juliet. Not really.’

I finally looked him in the eye which was, as I suspected, lethal. A naughty Cornish pixie must have jumped my shoulder just then, because I suddenly realised that there really was only one way to go …

‘Not a reckless fool?’ I said (with a very definite flick of the hair and twinkle in the eye) ‘how very disappointing. I have a sudden fancy to run through my stunt routine today, which is why I’m making sure your straps are nice and tight, and only a reckless fool – or maybe a true coddiwompler – would even begin to consider jumping on board for that kind of a ride …’

His face came alive. His whole body sparked with energy, with life.

‘I lied,’ he said, putting on his helmet. ‘Show me what you’ve got, Miss Caron! If we’re going to go down, let’s do it in style!’ He snapped on his goggles with a flourish. ‘I’m ready!’

For the next twenty minutes Edward was taken on the ride of his life. The chill from the wind was fierce, but as we flew low and slow over Angels Cove, children ran out to wave at us, racing the little aircraft as we flew parallel with the road. I flew half a mile out to sea and performed only part of my stunt routine – a tick-tock stall and a few loops – but not too much, it wouldn’t do to turn Edward’s stomach and embarrass him.

On landing back at the field, I taxied the aircraft to just outside the barn and cut the engine. I jumped out once the propeller had stopped and leant across Edward to unstrap him. The cheeks on his face burned red but his eyes were as bright as shiny new pins.

Edward jumped out, ripped off his goggles and helmet and just stood there, looking at me and smiling – half madman – before picking me up, spinning me around and finally placing me, very gently, on the ground again.

‘That was incredible, Juliet. Thank you. Thank you so very much.’ He handed me the goggles and hat. Still on a high from the flight, he babbled on about the joy of flying while we pushed the Tiger Moth back in the barn.

‘I wonder, do you have time to come to the village again for tea? They’re having a Christmas lantern parade on the twenty-third and I seem to have been roped in again to make lanterns and decorate the church, and you seemed to enjoy our afternoon in the hall. I have a feeling you’d love it. What do you say?’

I wanted to go. I wanted to go so very, very badly, but I shook my head, leant against the wing and sighed.

‘I’m sorry, Edward, but I can’t.’

He stepped in, too close for mere friends.

‘Why can’t you?’

I shook my head and smiled resignedly.

‘I think we both know why.’

He stepped closer still and leant in to brush my cheek with his lips. ‘In that case, thank you for the flight,’ he whispered. ‘It was wonderful.’ He stepped back. ‘Consider the debt paid, Miss Caron.’ And then, without looking back, to my absolute surprise, he walked away.

The candles were half their original size and surrounded by pools of wax when I place the manuscript on the sofa beside me, disappointed at Edward for walking away, and cursing Juliet for letting him go.

But it was time to stop reading. Not just because I needed to sleep (although, what did I know of sleep any more? Sleep had become a fitful irrelevance since James had died) or because my phone battery was down to ten percent and I wanted to save a little just in case the roof really did blow off, but because now that I was engrossed in Juliet’s story, I wasn’t sure about the – what to call it – moral correctness? – of reading someone else’s private memoirs, even if that person was no longer around to care. The only answer was to email Sam, the grandson – the coddiwompler? – and ask his permission to read on. I had ventured to Cornwall looking for a historical story to tell and it looked like I had found one, but that suddenly didn’t seem important, because looking into the lives of these strangers tonight had led me to throw side-glances towards my own story which, as Gerald knew, had not just stagnated, but stopped. Juliet was leading me somewhere – I just didn’t know where that somewhere was.

***

I poked my head out of the candlewick bedspread at about ten a.m. the following morning and promptly ducked under again once my nose had direct contact with the cold. I had two options, stay warm under the bedcovers but starve to death, or face the cold and risk hyperthermia. The second option won by a narrow margin leading me to jump out and dance on the spot while throwing open the curtains – a bright, wintery, sunshiny glow flooded the room. I stopped dancing and stared. What a difference a few hours could make, and what a view.

James would have loved this.

Wall-to-wall ocean broken by three little granite islands that sat in the bay.

So here were the famous Angels, splattered with tiny flecks of white, as if God had gone on a paint flicking frenzy. I put my glasses on and realised the white flecks were actually seagulls, presumably taking a well-earned rest after the stress of the storm. The sea was a little swollen still, but it seemed Katherine had moved on to terrorise pastures new, leaving a bright winter morning in her wake.

I turned on a wind-up radio that sat on the windowsill at the top of the stairs and tried the bedroom light. Still no power. Allowing as short a time as possible for my bare skin to feel the sharpness of the cold, I dressed in the previous day’s clothes and headed down the stairs, pausing to sit on the bottom step to check my phone for messages and contact Gerald regarding the day’s agenda.

Uncle Gerald had beaten me to it.

Terrible news. George has had a heart attack. Have rushed to Brighton in Land Rover – used the spare key as didn’t want to disturb. Have spoken to Fenella and she’s going to look after you – you are not to sit home alone moping! Will text when I know more about George as there is talk of a stent being put in. So very sorry to love and leave. Have a fabulous time. Don’t forget about the apostrophe, will you? Oh, and best keep a beady eye out for Percy and Noel who will no doubt try to cajole – they are leaders of opposing camps! X

My first thought was obviously, ‘Poor George …’ but my second thought was very definitely … ‘Bollocks!’

‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.’

And, ‘Bollocks to the bloody apostrophe, too!’

Sitting on the bottom step of the stairs I stared at the door, just as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas came on the radio. Alone again for Christmas after all.