Page 50 of The Love Letter

Zoe staggered to the sitting room and sank onto the sofa. She stared into space for a while, reliving every second of the past forty-five minutes. Then the demons began threatening to invade her mental tranquillity, whispering their doubts and warnings about the ramifications of breaking the promise she’d vowed to keep forever.

No . . . Not tonight.

She wouldn’t let the pastorthe present torture her. She would take this moment and wrap its pleasure and its peace around her for as long as she could.

Joanna woke at eight on Sunday morning, unaccustomed these days to the quiet of the countryside – no shouting from the street outside or car alarms – just silence. She allowed herself a delicious stretch in the comfortable old bed, before climbing out and dressing, then shivering her way down the stairs. She donned her coat, which hung over the banister at the bottom, and went to stir the glowing embers of yesterday’s fire, adding firelighters, tinder and logs to try to banish the god-awful cold.

There was so little time, she thought, staring at the boxes, and such an impossible mountain of documents still upstairs in the attic. At this rate, she’d need weeks to go through them carefully and systematically. Beginning again on the second box, she set to work.

At eleven o’clock, Marcus finally appeared, his face creased from sleep, an eiderdown wrapped round his shoulders. Yet somehow, he still managed to look attractive.

‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’ Joanna smiled up at him.

‘Been up long?’

‘Since eight.’

‘Blimey, the middle of the night. Still at it, I see.’ He indicated the half-empty box next to her.

‘Yep. I’ve just found some unused clothing coupons from 1943.’ She flapped the pieces of paper at him. ‘I wonder if Harvey Nicks would still accept them?’

Marcus chuckled. ‘No, but they must be worth a few bob in their own right. I think Zoe and me’ll have to seriously wade our own way through that stuff soon. Tea? Coffee?’

‘I’d love a coffee.’

‘Right.’ Marcus shuffled out in the direction of the kitchen. Joanna, in need of a break, followed him and took a seat at the old oak table.

‘I don’t think your grandfather started collecting stuff until the mid-nineteen thirties, which is a real pain, because the biographies are all very vague about his childhood and early adulthood. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Not really.’ Marcus lifted the range’s hob cover and put the stove-top kettle on to boil. He sat down opposite her and lit a cigarette. ‘From what I know, he was born somewhere near here and ran away to London town to tread the boards at sixteen. At least that’s the folklore, anyway.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t marry again after Grace died. Ninety-five years is a long time for just one marriage of eight years.’

‘Ah, well, that’s what true love can do for you.’

They sat in contemplative silence for a couple of minutes until the kettle whistled from the hob and Marcus stood up to take it off and pour the hot water into a mug. ‘There you go.’ He put a steaming coffee in front of her, and she held the mug to her chest.

‘Your poor dad, losing his mother so young.’

‘Yeah. At least I had my mum around until I was fourteen. The women in our family seem to be accident prone, while the men thrive and live to grand old ages.’

‘Don’t tell Zoe.’ She took a sip of the coffee.

‘Or any future wife of mine, for that matter,’ Marcus added. ‘Anyway, are you going to take time out for a traditional Sunday roast, or do I have to go by myself?’

‘Marcus, you’ve only just got up! How can you eventhinkabout beer and roast beef!’

‘I was thinking of you, actually, and how hungry you must be.’

‘Really?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. Okay then, I’ve got enough to write a half-decent article now anyway. I was wondering, though, whether you’d allow me to take one photo that I found with me to put in the article? It’s of Sir James, with Noël Coward and Gertrude Lawrence – really atmospheric of the era. I thought the idea of having a photo of him as a young actor would mirror nicely the fact that the memorial fund is for the young actors of today. I’d send it straight back, of course.’

‘I don’t see why not. I’ll have to okay it with Zoe before you print it,’ Marcus replied.

‘Thanks. Now –’ Joanna stood up – ‘can you help me bring down another box?’

At one o’clock, Marcus pulled Joanna to her feet and bundled her into the car, ignoring her protests.