Page 56 of The Christmas Letter

Chapter Eighteen

Holly led him back the way they’d come and through the glass building again, but instead of heading towards the car, she led him onto a tarmac path on a perfectly mown, seemingly endless lawn, a line of trees running along each side – a mix of horse chestnuts, oaks and London planes, their leaves that brilliant early summer green. Jack didn’t have to turn to look at the castle behind him – he could feel the presence of it, like it was alive, watching everyone.

‘I think I remember reading about this. This is the Long Walk, right?’ Holly nodded. ‘So I’m pretty sure they replanted these – the trees, I mean. They used to be elms until the Dutch elm disease in 1980. Which means the trees are only around forty years old.’

‘Only?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Not a long life, for a tree – they’ll be here standing long after us, if no one tears them down.’

They kept walking. The sun was getting lower now, turning the sky a faint pink.

‘Why didn’t you pursue it?’

He glanced down at Holly. ‘Huh?’

‘Gardening. Or landscape gardening, whatever. Why didn’t you ever try to do it as a job?’

‘Well, it’s not that easy a career path. Hard to get into it, hard to make money. Not very . . .’ – he waved a hand in the air, looking for the right word – ‘secure, I suppose.’

‘But if you love it, then isn’t it worth it?’

Jack looked at her pointedly. ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘What do you mean?’ But she said it too quickly, and looked away, straight up through the trees, along the long, straight path.

‘You love art – why did you give it up?’

She said nothing for so long, he didn’t think she was going to answer. When she did speak, her voice was so low, he had to strain to hear it. ‘I was in a car crash. Three years ago.’

He sucked in a breath.

She continued, still staring straight ahead. ‘It wasn’t half an hour after we bumped into one another. It’s why I never called – I meant what I said, I did lose the cup with your number on it.’

He was staring at her now, he realised – but she wouldn’t look back at him.

‘My sister was in the car,’ she whispered. ‘She was pregnant, I don’t know if you remember?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Anyway, I was driving.’

His heart stuttered.

‘I got distracted by my phone, and another car came straight at us. I braked, but not in time, so we crashed. And my sister miscarried.’

‘I . . .’ But his throat felt thick, and he had to swallow. ‘Jesus, Holly, I’m so sorry.’

‘She hasn’t spoken to me since that day.’ Her tone was even, but her face was pale and she was staring hard at the concrete in front of her. ‘My sister. Because she blames me.’ Holly came to a stop, turned to face him, and lifted her gaze to his – her green eyes made greener out here. ‘So I know what it’s like.’ Her voice lifted, became louder, firmer. And something sparked in those eyes of hers. ‘To be the one responsible. I know what it’s like to be blamed.’

He thought of what he’d said to her, in March. That Emma had killed his dad. The word he’d used, the way he’d said it. He hadn’t thought – he would never have been able to guess. Was this what had drawn them together, his grandmother and Holly? He couldn’t think how, but it seemed impossible – two car crashes, both of them driving, both of them losing someone. ‘I’m so sorry, Holly,’ he said, his voice quiet. ‘But . . . But if the other car was coming at you, was it really your fault?’

She cocked her head. ‘Couldn’t you say the same about Emma?’

He took his time to answer, not wanting to say the wrong thing. ‘She ran into something,’ he said slowly. ‘She crashed into a tree at the side of the road. It’s not the same thing.’

But there had been another car, hadn’t there? It had been winter, dark and rainy outside, and he could remember the incoming car lights, the sound of a horn. He still wasn’t sure of the order of things. He’d had nightmares about it, over and over, for months afterwards, and it had become difficult to separate what had actually happened and what was made worse by the dreams. But he did remember Emma swiping the keys out of his dad’s hands as they came down the stairs together that day.

‘I’ll take those, Richard, don’t you think?’ Then Emma had winked at Jack. ‘Come on, my boy, don’t want to be late. I want to hear if you’re as good as your dad keeps telling me you are.’ She ruffled his hair when she reached him, seemed to sense his nerves, even though he said nothing. ‘Don’t worry. I’m tone deaf anyway, so I’ll think it’s brilliant no matter what.’

‘What does tone deaf mean?’ Jack asked.

‘It means you don’t want to listen to her singing in the shower,’ his grandad had said, getting up from where he was sitting in the living room and joining them all. He’d tended to do that, his grandad – stay out of the way, wait in the background. Jack barely had any memories of him. He hadn’t even gone to his funeral. It was something he’d felt uncomfortable about, afterwards, but he’d been at university when he got the news. His mum had found out about the funeral and though she hadn’t been going, she’d wanted to tell him, just in case. He’d used the excuse of being too busy, of not being able to make the trip on short notice. But really, he hadn’t wanted to go down that rabbit hole – hadn’t wanted to open up the past when he was successfully starting his adult life. He really should have gone, he thought now.