Melanie Hudson - The Last Letter from Juliet

It is a Total Bloody Nightmare!

It really isn’t, Gerald.

At the moment, Angels Cove is written without an apostrophe, but most agree that there should be an apostrophe in there somewhere, yet where? The argument seems to rest on three questions:

1. Does the cove ‘belong’ to just one angel (the angel depicted in the church stained glass window, for example, as some people claim that they have seen him) or to a multitude of angels (i.e. the possessive of a singular or a plural noun).

2. Does the cove belong to the angels or do the angels belong to the cove? (The minority who wish to omit the apostrophe in its entirety ask this question.)

3. Does the word angel in Angels Cove actually refer, not to the winged messengers of the Devine, but to the notorious pirate, Jeremiah ‘Cut-throat’ Angel, who sailed from Penzance circa 1723 and whose ship, The Savage Angel, was scuppered in Mounts Bay (not apostrophised, you will note) when he returned from the West Indies at the tender age of twenty-nine?

As you can see, it’s a mess.

Fearing the onset of a migraine, I stopped reading and decided to sort out the recycling, which would take a while, given the number of empties. An hour later saw me continuing to give the rest of Gerald’s letter a stiff ignoring because I needed to get back to The Crown and plough my way through an ironing pile that saw its foundations laid in 1992. Just at the point where Prince Philip jaunts off solo on a raucous stag do to Australia (and thinking that I really ought to write a letter to The Queen to tell her how awesome she is), I turned the iron off (feeling a pang of guilt at leaving a complicated silk blouse alone in the basket) poured a glass of Merlot, popped a Tesco ‘extra deep’ mince pie in the microwave and returned to the letter …

I expect you will agree that this is a question of historical context, not a grammatical issue.

I do not.

As the ‘go to’ local historian (it must run in the family!) I attempted to offer my own hypothesis at the parish meeting last week, but can you believe it, I was barracked off the stage just two minutes into my delivery.

I can .

But all is not lost. This morning, while sitting on the loo wrecking my brains for inspiration, I stumbled across your book, From Nob End to Soggy Bottom, English Place Names and their Origins in my toilet TBR pile (I had forgotten you have such a dry wit, my dear) and I just knew that I had received Devine intervention from the good Lord himself, because although the villagers are not prepared to accept my opinion as being correct, I do believe they would accept the decision of a university professor, especially when I explain that you were sent to them by God.

So, I have a proposition for you.

Time for that mince pie.

In return for your help on the issue, please do allow me the pleasure of offering you a little holiday here in Angels Cove, as my very special present to you, this Christmas. I know you have balked at the idea of coming to stay with me in the past (don’t worry, I know I’m an eccentric old so-and-so with disgusting toenails)

True

but how do you fancy a beautiful sea view this Christmas?

Well, now that you mention it …

The cottage is called Angel View (just the one angel, note) and now belongs to a local man, Sam Lanyon (Royal Navy pilot – he’s away at sea, poor chap). He says you can stay as long as you like – I may have mentioned what happened to James as leverage.

Gerald!

The cottage sits just above the cove and has everything you could possible need for the perfect holiday (it’s also a bit of a 1940s time capsule because until very recently it belonged to an elderly lady – you’ll love it).

The thing is, before you say no, do remember that before she died, I did promise your mother that I would keep an eye on you …

It was only a matter of time.

… and your Christmas card seemed so forlorn … Actually, not forlorn, bland – it set me off worrying about you being alone again this Christmas, and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for us to look out for each other, as I’m alone, too – George is on a mercy mission visiting his sister in Brighton this year. Angels Cove is simply beautiful at Christmas. The whole village pulls together (when they are not arguing) to illuminate the harbour with a festival of lights. It’s magical.

But?

But … with all the shenanigans going on this year, I’m not sure the villagers will be in the mood for celebration. Please do say you’ll come and answer our question for us, and in doing so, bring harmony to this beautiful little cove and save Christmas for all the little tourist children.

Surely this kind of thing is right up your Strasse?

My idea is that you could do a little bit of research then the locals could present you with their proposals for the placement of the apostrophe in a climatic final meeting. It will be just like a Christmas episode of the Apprentice – bring a suit! And meanwhile, I’ll have a whole programme of excitement planned for you – a week of wonderful things – and it includes gin.

Now you’re talking

Do write back or text or (God forbid) phone, straight away and say you’ll come, because by God, Katherine, you are barely forty-five years old, which is a mere blink of an eye. You have isolated yourself from all of your old friends and it is not an age where a person should be sitting alone with only their memories to comfort them. Basically, if anyone deserves a little comfort this Christmas, it’s you. I know you usually visit the grave on Christmas Day, but please, for the build-up week at least (which is the best part of Christmas after all) come to Cornwall and allow yourself to be swaddled by our angels for a while (they’re an impressive bunch).

I am happy to beg.

Yours, in desperation,

Gerald.

P.S. Did I mention the gin?

Sitting back in a kitchen chair I’d ruined by half-arsedly daubing it in chalk paint two weeks before, I glanced around the room and thought about Gerald’s offer. On the one hand, why on earth would I want to leave my home at Christmas? It was beautiful. But the energy had changed, and what was once the vibrant epicentre of Exeter’s academia, now hovered in a haze of hushed and silent mourning, like the house was afraid of upsetting me by raising its voice.

A miniature Christmas tree sat on the edge of the dresser looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. I’d decorated it with a selection of outsized wooden ornaments picked up during a day trip to IKEA in November. IKEA in Exeter was my weekly go-to store since James had gone. It was a haven for the lost and lonely. A person (me) can disappear up their own backsides for the whole morning in an unpronounceable maze of fake rooms, rugs, tab-top curtains, plastic plants and kitchen utensils (basically all the crap the Swedes don’t want) before whiling away a good couple of hours gorging themselves on a menu of meatballs and cinnamon swirls, and still have the weirdest selection of booze and confectionary Sweden has to offer (what on earth is Lordagsgodis , anyway?) to look forward to at checkout.

And we wonder why the Swedes are so happy!

But did I really want to spend the run-up to Christmas in IKEA this year? (Part of me actually did – it’s very Scandi-chic Christmassy). But to do it for a third year in a row, with no one to laugh out loud with when we try to pronounce the unpronounceable Swedish word for fold-up bed?

(That was a poor example because a futon is a futon in any language and I really did need to try to control my inner monologue which had gone into overdrive since James died – I was beginning to look excessively absent minded in public).