Barbara Taylor Bradford - Letter from a Stranger

As he walked in the direction of the post office, the boy held the letter tightly in his hand, proud that he had been given such an important task by his father’s employer. He was only ten, but everyone said he was capable, and this pleased him.

A light, balmy breeze wafted inland from the sea, carrying with it the hint of salt and the sounds of continuous hooting from one of the big cruise ships now ploughing its way down the Bosphorus, heading towards the Black Sea and new ports of call.

The boy hurried on, intent in his purpose, remembering his instructions… the letter must be put in the box marked ‘International’. It was going to America. He must not make the mistake of using the one that was for domestic mail. He was soon leaving the shoreline behind, walking up the long road called Halk Caddesi. The post office was at the top, and within minutes he found the letter box marked ‘International’ and dropped the letter in the slot. He then retraced his steps.

When the Bosphorus was in his line of vision once more, the boy began to run; he was soon pushing open the gates of the yali, heading for the kitchens. He found his father preparing lunch, and dutifully reported that he had posted the letter. His father picked up the phone, spoke to his employer, then ruffled his son’s hair, smiling down at him. He rewarded him with pieces of Turkish delight on a saucer.

The boy went outside, sat on the step in the sunshine, munching the delicious sweetmeat. He sat there daydreaming, had no way of knowing that the letter he had just mailed would change many lives forever. And so drastically they would never be the same again.

The writer of the letter knew this. But the consequences were of no consideration. Long ago, a terrible wrong had been done. The truth was long overdue. Finally it had been revealed, and if there was retribution then so be it. What mattered most was that a wrong had been righted.

Read it a hundred times; it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of meaning that once unfolded by surprise it went.

Robert Frost: The Figure a Poem Makes

The view from the second-floor terrace was panoramic, and breathtaking. Justine Nolan, who knew it well, was nevertheless always startled when she saw it, even after a short absence, and today was no exception.

She leaned against the white-painted wooden railings, gazing out at the sweeping line of the Litchfield Hills flowing towards the distant horizon. Their thickly wooded slopes rolled down to verdant meadows; beyond them Lake Waramaug, set deeply in the valley, shimmered in the sunlight like a great swathe of fabric cut from cloth of silver. As usual, Justine caught her breath, filled with intense pleasure that she was back at Indian Ridge, the house where she had grown up and spent much of her life.

It was a clear bright day, with a blue sky and bountiful clouds, but there was a snap in the wind, a hint of winter still, and it was cold for April.

Shivering, Justine wrapped her heavy-knit red jacket around her body as she continued to devour the view… the white clapboard houses, so typical of Connecticut, dotted here and there on some of the meadows, and to her right, set against a stand of dark-green trees, three silos and two red barns grouped together in a distant field. They had been there for as long as she could remember, and were a much-loved and familiar sight.

Unexpectedly, a flock of birds swept past her, unusually close to the railings, and she blinked, startled by them. They soared upward in a V, a perfect formation and quite beautiful. She stared after them as they flew higher and higher into the haze of blue, and then turned around and went back into the house.

Picking up her overnight bag, which she had dropped on the landing a few minutes earlier, Justine carried it into her bedroom and immediately unpacked, putting away sweaters, trousers, shoes, and her toiletries bag. Ever since childhood she had been neat, very tidy in her habits, and it was her nature to be well organized. She hated clutter, which had to be avoided at all cost.

Glancing around the bedroom, smiling to herself, she experienced a sudden rush of happiness. She loved this room, and the entire house… some of her happiest times had been spent here at Indian Ridge, especially when her father was still alive. She and her twin had adored him.

She was glad her mother had kept the house, and that she and her brother Richard could continue to use it at weekends, as well as for long stretches in the summer. It was their mutual escape hatch, a safe haven and a place where they could relax from their busy schedules in New York.

For the past month Justine had stayed in Manhattan, working on the last stage of her newest documentary about Jean-Marc Breton, the world’s greatest living artist, supervising the cutting with the director and the film’s editor. It had been arduous – long days and nights of work; hours and hours and hours filled with tension, stress, anxiety, good and bad surprises, friction at times, and some disappointments. But when they had viewed the final cut, and not without some trepidation, they had been jubilant. The film, which they had considered to be problematical right from the first day of shooting because of the temperament and dictatorial attitude of their subject, had turned out to be good. Very, very good, in fact, much to their collective relief.

Now Justine prayed that the network would feel the same when she screened it for them next week. Miranda Evans, the head of documentaries for Cable News International, would view it with total detachment, which always pleased Justine and her team. Miranda brought no prejudices or preconceived ideas into the screening room, which was why Justine trusted her judgement. That impartiality was a rare quality. Miranda had believed in her right from the start, and had funded most of the Blood Diamonds documentary, another tough subject.

Suddenly, worry edged into her mind. She took a deep breath and pushed it away. The film was excellent, and it was the final cut. And that was that.

She shook her head, grimaced to herself, wished she could let go of a project the moment it was at an end. But she couldn’t; it always took her time to move on. And then she automatically went into a different mode, was filled with deflation, anxiety and a sense of loss.

She had mentioned this to Richard last night, and he had started to laugh, understanding exactly what she meant. Her twin and she were very much alike. He had pointed out that she was going up to the house to mentally and physically replenish herself, and fresh and exciting ideas would soon pop into her head when she was completely rested. And with that he had ended their phone call on a somewhat teasing note.

He’s right, of course, she decided, as she went out of her bedroom and down the stairs. Nobody knows me like he does, just as I know him inside out. She felt a small trickle of sadness running through her when she thought of Richard’s wife, Pamela, who had died two years ago of cancer.

To the outside world Richard was calm, strong and stoical, in control, but she knew how heartbroken he was inside. He kept up a good front, and ploughed on doggedly, because of his five-year-old daughter Daisy. She planned to look after them both this weekend: mothering one, and being a loving companion to the other.

At the bottom of the staircase Justine turned right, walked towards the small sitting room overlooking the lawn, which she also used as an office, mostly to do the household accounts and bookkeeping.

She had settled Daisy in there when they had arrived from New York half an hour ago, and her niece was still sitting at the desk with her box of crayons and colouring book spread out before her.