The Last Letter from Juliet. Melanie Hudson

his heavy overcoat and placing it on an obliging hay bale before appearing by my side, full of enthusiasm.

      ‘In that case, think of me as your apprentice. How can I help?’

      ‘No one works on my aircraft but me, I’m afraid.’ I nodded towards the comic left abandoned on the bale. ‘Perhaps you could carry on reading your newspaper …’

      He laughed and returned to lounge on the hay bale while I worked away.

      ‘But why don’t you want to know what coddiwompler is?’ Edward asked as we sauntered, arms swinging, down the lane to the village, my hair still held back with a rag. I’d taken off my overalls but my flying jacket was a must. Yes, it was far too big and smelt of a mixture of fuel and cigars, but it was like being wrapped in Pa’s arms again, and I treasured it.

      ‘Because you made it up.’ I flashed him a quick smile as we walked down the lane.

      ‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway, because I think you’re a fellow coddiwompler, you just don’t know it, and that would be terrible.’

      ‘What would?’

      ‘To be one, and to never to know.’

      We arrived outside the village hall. He’d got me now. I stopped

      ‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’

      He shook his head.

      ‘It’s too late. We’re here.’ He leapt up the steps to the hall. ‘You’ve missed your moment. I’ll have to tell you later …’ He winked and opened the door for me to step inside. ‘Or tomorrow, when we go flying.’ I stepped through the door and as I did so our hands brushed, and not quite by accident, I thought.

      We spent the afternoon helping with the teas and making paper chains and Christmas cards with the children. Edward had a natural manner and was clearly the darling of the ladies’ committee. It was light. It was easy. It was fun. And as the afternoon moved on, I had the distinct feeling that E. Nancarrow was exactly the sort of man my mother had warned me to steer clear of.

      When the children began to disperse, we took a moment to wander away from the hubbub of the hall to sit on the harbour wall. We sipped whiskey from Edward’s hip flask and talked of flying. The inevitable moment came when we began to explore into each other’s lives more purposefully, to tentatively probe, to edge-in sideways.

      Edward began. He wanted to know the ins and outs of how a young woman, barely twenty years old, had spent her formative years as the child star of a flying circus, able to nip about the country in her own aircraft.

      I explained some, but not all, of my story …

      My father, Louis Caron, was a philanthropic and yes, a wealthy, man. He was the proud owner of the Caron Flying Circus, which meant that I had rarely spent more than half a day straight with my feet on the ground. On my twelfth birthday I was strapped to the wing of a Gypsy Moth and told to smile and wave at the crowd. I loved it.

      My mother was a descendant of French Romany Gypsies, albeit two or three generations removed, but she retained that air of exotic adventure about her and was a tigress of a woman. I didn’t take after her very much, I explained, except for a genetic disposition for slender ankles and copper hair. On my thirteenth birthday, Father argued the case with Mother that it was time for me to join the circus as a pilot – I had been flying duel-seated for years and could handle an aircraft as well as anyone he knew. I’d be wonderful, he said, and an asset to the show.

      Mother asked father to leave us alone for a moment. She sat me down in the garden and took a while searching under leaves until she found what she was looking for – a caterpillar. She held the caterpillar in her hand and began to talk of butterflies, explaining how caterpillars are happy enough, to begin with, with their little caterpillar bodies and caterpillar feet, because they don’t know any better, but eventually, there was an awakening within them – a realisation that it was time for a change, to evolve into a completely new being – to blossom, to fly. She said that the caterpillar, quite wisely, chose to spend some time alone before it flew – to cocoon itself in its own thoughts for a while – and then, when it was ready, it shed the trappings of adolescence and transformed itself completely by growing wings and, at just the right time, took to the skies and flew.

      She said, ‘Juliet. Your father has kept you a boy for far too long. It is time to shed your boy-like caterpillar frame, let go of those clumsy feet, hunched shoulders and flat-framed body. It is time to chrysalis into the woman your body is aching to become, which is why I have decided to send you to school – yes, there is no point arguing – for two years, with other girls your own age who can teach you how to become a woman. Join the circus now, by all means, but only on the proviso that, at fifteen, you will go to Paris and become a butterfly. Those are my terms.’

      I said nothing. There was no point arguing with Ma.

      ‘But listen to me, Juliet, and listen hard,’ she added. ‘When you do blossom into a woman, remember that there are two types of man in this world – the non-predatory and the predatory. With your gypsy looks and wild-hearted spirit I know that you will attract the latter, but you must promise me, my love, that when you marry, you will marry the former. Oh, toy with predatory men if you must, make love to them, tease them for your own entertainment, but never – never – marry a charming man, and remember …’ she tipped my face upwards from the chin at this point ‘… are you listening to me, Juliet? If you ever fall properly and desperately in love, remember that the first throws of love are nothing more than obsession, they are not love, not really. And never let a man know how deeply you love him, because once he has the upper hand, he will break your heart in a single moment and not even pause as he steps over your broken body to move onto the next.’

      Then, when I was fourteen, came the crash. Bereft, and dependent on Pa’s solicitor who was intent on carrying out mother’s wishes, I was sent to school in Paris and that’s where I met Lottie Lanyon, who took me under her wing and helped me through the darkest days of my life, never leaving me alone during the holidays, always taking me home to Cornwall, to Lanyon, and sharing her family with me, which is how I met Lottie’s brother Charles, the most non-predatory young man I had ever met. After a short courtship, I agreed to marry him.

      Edward listened while I told an abridged version of my story. At no time during the course of the whole conversation did I admit to my engagement or to my mother’s warning about fast men. Was this a deliberate omission on my behalf – absolutely.

      ‘On my fourteenth birthday – which is also Christmas Day, by the way – Pa took me into the little club house we had at our landing strip in Oxford and he gave me a good luck charm, to keep with me, always.’

      Still sitting on the harbour wall, I took my lucky charm out of my pocket and handed it to Edward. It was a compass, cased in gold.

      ‘It’s the most special thing I own – will ever own,’ I said, smiling at the thought of Pa.

      ‘It’s lovely,’ he said. ‘It’s a compass you say?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But it looks like a pocket watch.’

      He pressed a catch on the side to open the lid, revealing the compass.

      ‘Yes, it does, rather. But look … if you flick this tiny little lever, like this, and then turn the catch, the back of the compass casing opens rather than the front … see? And then you find that it’s not just a compass at all, but something else entirely.’

      Edward looked at it, confused. A needle was centred on the face, but rather than pointing to North or South, the only words written on this side were, Oui and Non.

      ‘It’s an heirloom from my mother’s side of the family,’ I explained. ‘They were travellers. This side of the compass acts as a kind of fortune teller’s trinket.’

      ‘How does it work?’

      ‘Well, let’s say you have a pressing question you desperately need