Page 30 of Book People

Miss Jones is glaring down at her tumbler suspiciously and a flicker of amusement passes through me.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, as I put the box down on the coffee table and sit, making sure there is a good amount of space between her and me. ‘You don’t like it?’

She makes a face. ‘It’s . . . interesting.’

‘It’s an Islay malt. They’re a little more intense taste-wise than other single malts.’

‘Intense and you like it, huh? What a surprise.’ She takes another sip and pulls another face. ‘Delicious.’

More amusement flickers through me and it feels strange. Almost . . . foreign. I know the village finds me aloof and reserved, and that’s a Blackwood trait. But I have been known to smile on occasion, so I’m not sure why this amusement feels so odd.

Maybe it’s simply because Miss Jones is the cause and that’s a novelty. Especially since all she’s made me feel so far is angry and hungry.

‘Are you sure you don’t want water?’ I ask.

‘I think I have all the flavours I can handle right now. I don’t need the water to release any more.’ She puts the tumbler down on the coffee table and looks at me expectantly. ‘Also, I’m impatient. Are you going to open that box, or shall I?’

I’m very tempted to pick up my scotch, swirl it around for a good long time, take a sip and chew on it, really tasting it, and only then will I open the box. But that’s being needlessly passive-aggressive and I’ve already decided I’m not going to behave like that. She won’t make me stoop to that level.

So I say nothing, turn to the box and take the lid off it.

It’s full of papers. Old accounts, postcards, Christmas cards, ticket stubs and pamphlets from various places. Ancient bills. Bank statements . . .

I carefully go through them all while Miss Jones vibrates with excitement right next to me, and as each paper is taken out and it’s not a letter, I try to ignore the disappointment sitting inside me.

I want us to find something and not just because of Lisa Underwood. I want to find something for her. For Kate Jones. I want her to be pleased with me, which is humiliating in the extreme, yet it’s all I want.

Then, just as I’m despairing of finding anything, my fingers close around a bundle of papers. I draw the bundle out and it’s a stack of envelopes held together with an ancient rubber band.

Miss Jones’s eyes have gone very wide. ‘Oh,’ she breathes softly.

The rubber of the band has perished and snaps when I take it off. I discard the pieces then look at the stack in my hand. Small envelopes. Unaddressed. No stamps.

Miss Jones says nothing, but I can feel the pressure of her will, urging me to pick up one of the envelopes and look inside. That she hasn’t snatched them out of my hands to look at them herself is a minor miracle, and also a point in her favour.

I take one of the envelopes, which is open already, and slide out the piece of paper inside. It’s thin, lined, cracked a little with age. There’s writing on it, in red ink, flowing cursive, and I take my glasses from my pocket and put them on so I can read it.

I am sorry about tonight. I wanted to meet you so much, but he’s being particularly ruthless about me going out in the evenings. Perhaps in a couple of days, things will have died down and I can slip away.

I miss you.

C

It’s not my great-grandfather’s handwriting, I know that much. It’s also definitely a love letter.

‘What does it say?’ Miss Jones demands. ‘Let me read it.’

Wordlessly I hand it over and she looks at it, her pretty eyes getting wider and wider.

‘Wow,’ she murmurs, and glances up from the letter. ‘Is this what I think it is?’

‘Possibly.’ I pick up another envelope and take out the piece of paper inside. Again, it’s written in red ink, in a flowing cursive.

I lovedWuthering Heights. Thank you. It was wonderful. It’s very female of me to like it, but I cannot see what is so wrong about a love like that. It’s trite, I know, but I think you are my Heathcliff. You said not to put down our names and I agree, but I cannot call you nothing. You are my own darling Heathcliff.

Again, I hand it over and again Miss Jones reads it.

‘Wow,’ she says again. ‘Your great-grandfather was courting hard.Wuthering Heightsis a power move.’

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