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With the dishwasher whirring contentedly in rinse mode, George sat at the table again and took hold of his mum’s hand. ‘You going to tell me what was in that letter?’
Sally shifted and delved in her pocket. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You can read it, but as I said in Aldershot, you mustn’t tell Owen. He doesn’t need this.’
George unfolded the crumpled notepaper. The letter began:
My darling Dormie,
‘Dormie?’ He looked up and lifted his eyebrows at his mother.
‘Pet name, I guess.’
‘Hmm.’ George went back to reading.
I so wish I could visit you before Christmas, my darling, but work is keeping me in London. I am so sorry. Please forgive me. Write and tell me how you are and let me know how the boy is doing at university. You’ve not mentioned him in recent letters. I hope that doesn’t mean there is something wrong.
I’ve enclosed a cheque which should help with the costs. But the boy, please don’t forget to write about him. You tell me so little… I’m sorry, I do not mean to put you under pressure. I understand you are not well. I know it is difficult for you, but I have a right to know. Do I not?
‘What do you think he means by that? Why does he have a right to know about Owen?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sally shook her head.
‘Perhaps he’s an uncle or something. Maybe.’ George looked uncertainly at his mother and added. ‘That could be a reason for his interest in Owen. The man might just be an uncle or even a cousin, some distant relative. That would explain the physical similarity.’
‘Read on,’ Sally said. ‘I think the next part clarifies that he was a lover, not a relative.’
My darling Elizabeth, I so wish we could live a normal life. You know I’d marry you in a shot, now that I’m free. I’ve told you enough times since David and Sarah died. And I’ll pay for any medical treatment needed to make you well again.
The writing grew untidy and jagged, as if the writer was consumed with emotion.
I know, I know.His pen had scratched the paper, piercing it at one place. You’ve never been well. You say the doctors can’t do anything, I know, but I can’t go on like this for much longer, Lizzie. I really can’t.
George turned the notepaper over. The writing style had changed again, almost as if the writer had taken a deep breath to control his emotions before he finished the final paragraph:
Whatever you decide, whatever you do, I will stand by you, even from a distance, if that is all there is.
He signed offwith all my love, H.
George put the letter down on the table and stared at it as if it was radioactive.
Sally whispered. ‘It is a love letter, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, seems so,’ George nodded. ‘But who is it from? Who is H and why can’t he go on? Was he warning her he would end things if she… I don’t know, if she didn’t pull herself together, accept medical help… was he going to end it with her? What do you think? Could this be the reason she hanged herself?’
Sally downed the remaining whisky in her glass. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Shouldn’t we show it to Owen?’
‘No!’ Sally refilled her glass. ‘Whoever this person is, we don’t really know if his interest in Owen didn’t die with Elizabeth.’
‘But hewasinterested. The bit about the cheque almost reads as if it should help with Owen’s university expenses, and the photograph, the resemblance…’
‘We don’t know for sure that the photograph is H.’
‘I suppose not… but.’
‘Listen, Georgie, the police will have checked out family connections. If there was a long-lost uncle or cousin, he would have been contacted. No one has been in touch with us. That seems to close that door.’
‘Hmm.’ George pushed at the letter with his index finger.
