The Last Letter

Florence ran out into the garden with the envelope in her hands, and Nigel understood everything before she could speak. From her face. From the way she was holding the envelope — in both hands, the way Mum had held the yellow rose.

"Kat's not answering," Florence said, once he'd read what was written on it. "I've rung four times."

"I know where she is."

He did. Seven years ago, after Dad's funeral, Katherine had vanished from the wake for two hours, and he'd been the one who found her then too. Under the old yew in St Mary's churchyard, on the bench beside the fresh grave, back straight and eyes dry.

He walked through the dark town. The night was cold, the first properly autumnal one, and Katherine had gone out in nothing but a blouse.

She was sitting on the same bench. Arms wrapped round herself, back straight. Eyes dry.

Nigel took off his jacket without a word and put it round her shoulders. Then he sat down beside her.

"She's right," Katherine said without looking at him. "Flo. I've turned into Mum. Only without the—"

"You haven't turned into Mum," Nigel said. "You always were Mum. From the very start. You held everything together so it'd be easier for the rest of us. Same as she did. It's just that now we know what it cost her. And I don't want it costing you the same."

Katherine was quiet for a long time.

"I told Flo I'd give you my share. That I'd go and count in London." Her voice cracked. "Nige, there's nothing to count in London. I've got a forty-square-metre flat and a job where nobody's asked me how I am in twelve years. And every Sunday at nine I rang Mum. It was the longest conversation of my whole week."

He took her hand. It was ice cold.

"Flo's found a letter," he said. "From Mum. To the three of us. Dated the sixteenth of August."

Katherine finally turned to him.

"We didn't open it without you," said Nigel. "And we won't."

Florence was waiting in the kitchen. When they came in she stood up, and for a moment the two sisters just stood facing each other — with everything that had been said an hour ago hanging between them.

"Kat, I—"

"Don't," said Katherine. "You were right. Not about everything. But you were right."

Florence crossed the kitchen in two steps and put her arms round her. At first Katherine didn't move, and then she hugged her sister back — tightly, properly.

The three of them sat down at the table. Katherine picked up the envelope, looked at her brother and sister — and instead of opening it herself, she held it out to Nigel.

"You," she said. "This time, you."

Nigel opened it. Two sheets, written on both sides. Mum's handwriting, firm and even. She hadn't been in a hurry.

"My darlings,

It's Sunday, seven in the morning, and I'm sitting in the kitchen with my coffee, finally writing what I should have told you thirty years ago. If you're reading this, then once again I didn't manage it in time. Forgive me. It seems to be the story of my life: I put off everything that matters, as if I had all eternity ahead of me.

Before you, I had a son. His name is Thomas. I had him in seventy-four, when I was nineteen. His father, Johnny, went off to Australia the moment he found out. My parents took me to St Agnes' near Norwich, and there I signed the papers. They told me it would be best for the baby. I believed them. And then for forty years I couldn't forgive myself.

Your dad knew. I told him before the wedding, under the apple tree, and he said it changed nothing. He was the best man I ever knew. He found Thomas for me when I couldn't bring myself to, and I only read his letter after the funeral. Too late to thank him.

I borrowed against the house so Thomas could have his operation. I don't regret it. I'm sorry that it's your inheritance. But the house is only bricks, and he is your brother.

There's a man who knows about all this and has been threatening me. Derek Pierce. He wants the house, and he thinks my shame is his key to it. Don't be afraid of him. I'm begging you. I'm not ashamed any more. I can't bear any more shame than truth — and I don't want you to have to carry it either.

Katherine. Sweetheart. You became the eldest at five, when Nigel was born, and you've never let yourself stop. You don't have to hold everything. You don't have to be strong for us. I rang you every Sunday to hear your voice, not your reports. Be happy, Kat. That's all I ever wanted for you.

Nigel. When I wrote 'Don't expect it back' next to your two thousand, I didn't mean the money. I didn't expect you to become anyone else. You were always exactly who I hoped you'd be. Kind. That's enough. It was always enough.

Flo. At Christmas, when you fell asleep on the sofa, I looked through your phone — forgive a nosy old woman. I saw your sunset on Skye. Sweetheart, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Show it to people. Stop hiding beautiful things in case someone says they're too much.

And to all three of you. Thomas is your brother. He's kind, a bit stubborn like Nigel, clever like Kat, and he has Flo's eyes. Don't hide him. Don't do what I did. Please, be a family — all four of you. That's the only thing I'm truly leaving you. The rest is small things.

I'm going to go and prune the roses now. This evening I'll ring Thomas and tell him I'm writing to you. And tomorrow I'll ring you. All three of you. And finally tell you everything myself.

I love you so much. I always have. Even when I said nothing — especially then.

Mum."

Nigel finished reading and couldn't lift his eyes.

The morning of the sixteenth of August. Coffee. Roses. "And tomorrow I'll ring you."

She'd gone out into the garden with her secateurs — and never come back in.

Katherine was crying — for the first time Nigel could remember, not quietly but loudly, raggedly, the way children cry. Florence held her from one side, Nigel from the other, and they stayed like that until the lights went out in the houses across the road.

Then Katherine straightened up, wiped her face on her sleeve, and put on Mum's blue coat.

"She said, 'Don't be afraid of him,'" Katherine said. Her voice was hoarse, but it held. "I was afraid. All week. Not of Derek — of everyone finding out. But Mum wasn't ashamed any more. Why should I be?"

She took out her phone, found the number and put it on speaker.

Three rings.

"Katherine." Derek, sleepy, satisfied. "I knew you were a sensible woman."

"Mr Pierce," said Katherine. "The answer's no. Tomorrow at nine we're going to the police. At twelve — to the Kent Herald. Ourselves. First. We'll tell them everything: about our mother, about our brother, about St Agnes'. And about you. Especially about you."

The line was silent.

"You'll regret this," Derek said at last.

"Mum's already given you her answer to that," said Katherine. "'I'm not ashamed any more.'"

She hung up.

The kitchen was silent. Then Florence gave a small laugh — through her tears — and then Nigel, and finally Katherine, in Mum's coat with its button hanging by a single thread, was laughing along with them, the way she probably hadn't laughed in twenty years.

"I'm going to sew that button on," she said. "Tomorrow. Before we go to the police."