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Meanwhile, Oliver had sent her several messages. Which made it harder, because they were friendly and casual. But then again, he was sending her something most days.
Which meant he hadn’t just forgotten about her, she supposed.
During the day she could kind of focus on other things, but at night, lying in her bed, the memory of his lips, his eyes, his hands giving her so much pleasure, had her crying herself to sleep more than once.
There was still a week before school term started so she kept busy. She got in her little car and drove down to Wiltshire. Her parents were politely interested in her holiday shots. “Oh, gosh, it looks very barren, dear,” her mother said as she made a pot of tea and brought out scones to a backdrop of green Wiltshire hills and the smell of pig manure. Felicity didn’t show her the one of Oliver and her on the beach together. Couldn’t.
Dad took her out and showed her how Maisie, his prize sow was going. Almost ready for entering into the West country show. “She’s a giant, Dad,” she said as the sow gave her a strangely knowing look out of eyes buried in pink flesh. It had never been quite the same between her and Dad since she hadn’t been able to help on the farm. Felicity couldn’t fault her parents, of how dedicated they’d been that first year of her treatment, coming and going up to the Marsden Hospital in London, but neither of them were the kind of parents who relished the more obligatory side of parenting.
Unlike Henry.
Which meant that next, she drove to Cambridge to see Henry. Gabe was off in London on an acting job, so they drank Pimm’s in the twilight, just the two on them on the patio overlooking the weir and the stretch of the river winding its way through the formal gardens to the woodlands beyond.
When Henry asked her about her trip with Oliver, she tried to evade his eyes. But Henry, unlike her mum, was astute about affairs of the heart.
“It got rather complicated,” Felicity said with a little shrug.
Henry reached over and patted her hand. “It usually does. But like I said to Alice, when she got herself into a pickle with Aaron, it’s always best to be honest about your feelings.”
“I’ve tried to write them down,” she gulped miserably. “I just don’t seem able to do it in an email.”
“Then write him an old-fashioned letter. I’ve always thought writing by hand connects emotions to the page so much better.”
They sat sipping their drinks. “Do you still remember what you said to me when I was at my lowest?” she asked.
Henry smiled. “The world breaks everyone, but afterwards many are strong at the broken places.”
“I wrote those words in my journal. It’s helped me ever since, to get through the tough times.”
“I’m so glad, my dear,” Henry said. “Ernest Hemingway always cuts to the chase, I find.” He eyed her over the top of his glasses, his brown eyes full of wisdom. “Write a letter to Oliver. Whatever happens, you will have shared your truth. And you will know it has been received. You owe that to both of you.”
So when she got back home, Felicity got started. She bought some Bonds writing paper and a packet of envelopes. And she started to write what she couldn’t put down in hard, impersonal words on a computer screen.
She couldn’t write much at a time—her heart felt like a small bird struggling to break through the shell of an egg. Naked and newborn, and weak, like if she stood, she’d stumble. But she managed a few lines every night.
Dear Oliver… When I came to Australia I was set on having the adventure of a lifetime… That adventure, with you, turned out to be so much more than I’d ever imagined…
Writing a letter, she realised, felt so much more solid and meaningful than an email. Proof that this had been the most wonderful time for her, the happiest few weeks of her life.
Henry was right; when words were written on the page, they conveyed a piece of your soul.
Nevertheless, it was hard to lay her soul bare, particularly knowing that her feelings might not be reciprocated. It took all her courage, and lots of thinking and chewing on the end of her pens, so she’d really not got very far when the photos started to appear on her phone.
A pink hat stuck at a jaunty angle on a gate post.
With slightly shaking thumb and forefinger, she enlarged the photo on the screen. Her eyes widened. It washerpink hat. The one she’d left Graham to give to his daughter. How very peculiar. For a brief moment, she frowned, her mind flying back to Australia to recall where this photo could have been taken.
Then she noticed the border collie sitting at the bottom of the shot, against a background of vines, and of course, she remembered. Freya and Luke’s beautiful home in Adelaide.
Hat and I are visiting good friends,read the message.
She messaged back immediately
Felicity:How come you’ve got my hat?
Oliver:It found me.
This was very strange indeed. But something in her chest lightened in that moment, like a nail had been removed from a piece of wood blocking her heart.
