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‘No, no. It’s good news, actually. Which is why I’m ringing you this early. I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. We’ve got a hearing date for the appeal. It looks like we’ll be able to get Stephen out of there sooner than we thought. He’ll still be there a for a while but hopefully not quite as long.’
Denise put her hand to her mouth. She almost didn’t dare believe what she was hearing. She took a breath then spoke as calmly as she could. ‘When will you be able to tell him?’
‘As soon as I can, I will. I’ll make an appointment to go and see him. And I’ll keep you informed as soon as I have any more news.’
‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Mr Sawyer.’
She felt elated and exhausted all at the same time. All of her letters to Stephen had gone unanswered. None of her phone calls had been returned. She’d seen him only once since he’d been sent to prison; he’d refused to see her after that. They’d sat opposite one another in the large visiting room, Denise desperately trying not to show how horrified she was at his appearance, how horrified she was at the surroundings.
In turn, he’d barely said a word to his mother at that meeting, turning his head to one side to hide a violet bruise on his cheekbone. His knee hadn’t stopped moving up and down and his knuckles were scratched raw. He had looked so vulnerable to his mother and all her instincts screamed to get him out of there. But there was nothing she could do except try to reassure him he wouldn’t be there for evermore, encourage him to keep his head down and do as he was told. Most of all, she had tried to remind him that she loved him and would be there waiting for him when he came home.
Denise put the phone back down and sat up. She put on her slippers and went to make herself some tea. There, on the table where she’d left it, was the letter that had arrived the day before, a small white envelope with her name in handwriting she hadn’t recognised on the front. She took her cup to the table by the window, opened the envelope and took the letter out to read it again.
Dear Mrs Hirst,
My name is Flora. Billy Fraser was my brother. I’m sorry if this letter comes as a shock to you, I honestly don’t mean it to, but I’m wondering if you might be able to help me.
I’m trying to come to terms with Billy’s death. I loved him so much and miss him terribly, every single day. I know I can’t change what’s happened, much as I wish I could. But daring to think like that only makes it more painful.
I’m hoping that talking to you might help me move forward just a little. It’s not that I’m expecting you to say anything to make things better. In fact, I don’t really know what I’m hoping for, but I think I saw you in the churchyard a while ago. And it made me think that things can’t have been easy for you either.
Anyway, please don’t feel you have to reply but if you ever do think you might be able to meet me, let me know at the address above.
Yours sincerely,
Flora Harper
PS. I hope you don’t mind me finding out your address. I promise I won’t write again.
Denise sat and looked at the letter for a while with shaking hands, reading the whole thing over once more, then she folded it and put it back on the table. All this time she’d thought the woman she’d seen at the graveyard couldn’t possibly have known who she was. She’d felt guilty for being there, almost as if she was invading the other family’s space, their own private grief. But something had made her want to go. And she had known she couldn’t move on until she did. Deep down, Denise knew she owed it to the woman to agree to meet her.
* * *
Tilda sidled up to Flora in the playground. ‘Have you written the letter yet?’
‘Yes, a few days ago, actually. She’ll have received it by now. I’ve not heard anything, and I probably won’t, but at least it’s done. And I feel better just for doing it.’ Flora had been trying not to think about it too much, but her heart had jumped when she’d heard the postman that morning. ‘I sort of don’t want to know how you do it but you’re very good at online stalking.’ Flora raised her eyebrows at Tilda.
‘I should do it professionally, really.’ Tilda laughed, then looked round and leaned into Flora. She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve also found out some other stuff, about someone else, but I can’t tell you what yet.’
‘Oh, come ON, you can’t do that!’ Flora laughed. ‘Who’s it about?’
‘No, I’m sworn to secrecy. But you’ll find out soon enough.’ Tilda pretended to zip her mouth.
‘You’re terrible, Tilda.’ Flora gently prodded her friend on the arm.
‘Thank you.’ Tilda beamed.
‘That’s not a compliment, believe it or not. Right, where are those kids? I’ve got to get them sorted: gymnastics tonight.’ Flora rolled her eyes.
‘Lucky you. I’ve got two hours by the side of a football pitch and it’s bloody freezing.’
The children ran out of school and across the playground like animals being let out of a zoo.
‘Hi, Mum!’ Pip ran towards Flora, a great plastic model in tow.
‘Wow, what’s that?’ Flora tried to look enthusiastic.
‘The Eiffel Tower!’ Pip tried to hold it upright, the weight of the plastic bottles making it collapse on its side.
