The Last Letter from Juliet. Melanie Hudson

of a farm track. The car took on an angle of about forty-five degrees and began to slip and slide its way up the track. Waves crashed against the rocks directly to my left.

      ‘Shitty death, Gerald! What the f—?’

      A couple of wheel spins later, to my absolute relief, a little white cottage appeared under a swinging security light. We pulled alongside and I switched off the engine, left the car in gear and went to open the driver door.

      ‘Don’t get out for a moment,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ll go in ahead and turn on the lights. It’ll give me time to shoo the mice away and make it nice and homely, that kind of thing.’

      ‘Mice?’

      ‘Only a few, and they’re very friendly.’

      I wiped condensation from the window and tried to peer out into the storm. ‘OK, but don’t be too long,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’ve stepped through one of the seven circles of hell!’

      ***

      The tour of the cottage was very short but very sweet. When Gerald mentioned that an elderly lady had left it as a 1940s time capsule, he wasn’t exaggerating. There were three bedrooms upstairs, which were pretty but functional, a downstairs bathroom, a good-sized kitchen and an achingly sweet lounge. Gerald lit the fire while talking.

      ‘I’ve stocked the fridge with enough food, milk and mince pies to take you through to the New Year.’ He glanced up. ‘Just in case.’

      ‘In case … what?’

      He stood and brushed down his trousers. ‘This is Cornwall. Anything can happen.’

      I took off my coat and lay it across the arm of a green velvet chaise longue, then crossed to the window to close the curtains. A photograph frame sat on the windowsill. The black and white image inside was of woman standing in front of a bi-plane, holding a flying helmet and goggles, smiling brightly, squinting slightly against the sun. There was a tag attached to the photo. I read it.

       Summer 1938. Edward took this. Our first full day together. Two days in one – fantastic and tragic all at once. Why can we never have the one, without the other. Why can’t we have light without shade?

      ‘Juliet was a pilot,’ Gerald said by way of explanation, turning to face me briefly while attempting to draw the fire by holding a sheet of newspaper across the fireplace. ‘She flew for the Air Transport Auxiliary during the war. They used to deliver all the aircraft from the factories to the RAF, that kind of thing. Amazing woman.’

      I nodded my understanding, still looking at the photograph.

      ‘Juliet handed the old place to Sam Lanyon last year, but he hasn’t got around to sorting through her belongings yet.’ Gerald rose to his feet. He screwed up the paper he’d used to draw the fire and threw it onto the flames.

      I put the frame down, closed the curtains and looked around the room … photos, books, paintings, odds and ends of memorabilia. There was a 1920s sideboard, I opened a drawer. It was full of the same forgotten detritus of someone else’s life.

      This was no holiday cottage, this was a home.

      Gerald turned his back on the fire a final time. It was blazing.

      ‘Anyway, you’ve a good supply of coal and logs so just remember to keep feeding it, and don’t forget to put the guard up when you go to bed – this type of coal spits!’

      He made a move towards the door. His hat and scarf were hanging on a peg in the little hallway. He grabbed them and began to wrap his scarf around his throat.

      ‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to stay here, Gerald?’ I was standing in the lounge doorway looking pensive. ‘Only it seems a bit … intrusive.’

      ‘Nonsense! It was Sam’s idea. He’s happy that it’s being aired.’

      Gerald turned to leave and attempted to open the door. The force of the storm pushed against him. My unease at the prospect of staying alone in an unfamiliar cottage perched precariously on a cliff side, unsure of my bearings, during one of the worst storms in a decade, must have shown on my face. He closed the door for a moment and walked back into the lounge, talking to himself.

      ‘On nights like this, Juliet always put her faith in one thing, and it never let her down.’

      I followed him. ‘What was that? God?’

      He opened the sideboard door and peered inside.

      ‘Ha!’ He took out a bottle.

      ‘Whiskey?’

      ‘And there’s a torch in there, too.’ He put the whiskey back and walked into the kitchen. I heard him open and close a few drawers before reappearing in the lounge with half a dozen candles. He handed them to me.

      ‘Just in case the electricity goes out. And the matches are on the fireplace so you’re all set.’

      The lounge window started to rattle.

      He straightened his hat and headed to the door. ‘This cottage might seem rickety, but it’s the oldest and sturdiest house in the village. It’ll take a bit more than Katherine to see her off now!’

      I picked up the car keys from the hall table and grabbed my coat from the lounge.

      ‘I’ll drive you home,’ I said.

      ‘No, no. I’ll walk back.’ He pulled his scarf tighter.

      ‘In this weather?’ I asked, only half concentrating, searching in my handbag for my phone. ‘Mercy, me! I have a signal!’

      Gerald paused at the door.

      ‘Put the keys down, Katherine. I’ll be fine. Listen, why don’t you leave your coat on and come with me to see my friend, Fenella. Poor thing. I promised her I’d pop in on my way home. She’s had a bit of a bereavement and isn’t coping very well.’

      ‘Husband?’

      ‘Worse. Dog. Her cottage is on the harbour. We can nip in and pay our respects, quick cup of tea, then make our excuses and go back to mine … via the pub. You might as well meet the enemy straight off.’

      I wanted to say, ‘Thank Christ for that. Yes please.’ But the curse of the twenty-first-century independent woman prevented me from throwing myself at his mercy. And I didn’t fancy the pub.

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said with a blasé shoulder shrug, taking my coat off one final time. ‘I’ll be absolutely fine.’ (Which is the exact phrase everyone uses when they are, in fact, sure that they will not ‘be absolutely fine’.)

      He put his hand on the door handle.

      ‘And how are you sleeping these days?’

      I shrugged.

      ‘Don’t tell me you’re still listening to Harry Potter audio books half the livelong night?’

      I shrugged again.

      Listening to Stephen Fry narrate Harry Potter was much better than tossing and turning all night. There was just something about the combination of the two – Fry and Potter – that made the world seem like a safe place again.

      ‘It relaxes me. And you must admit, you can’t beat a bit of Stephen Fry at bedtime.’

      Gerald laughed.

      ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, I suppose – but don’t tell George, you know how jealous he gets. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll be off. Just phone me if you need reassurance. Oh, and there’s WiFi here.’

      Result.

      ‘The code is …’ Gerald paused and delved into his coat pocket. He took out a scrap of paper. ‘… “tigermoth”, one word, all lowercase. And try not to worry. I wouldn’t leave you here if I thought it wasn’t safe.’

      Gerald