Page 144 of The Love Letter
‘I love you . . .’ he’d said to her as he’d closed his eyes, perhaps for the final time. A small tear made its way from the corner of one of her eyes.
JOANNA!
‘Oh my God,’ she’d muttered, as she realised the voice she’d heard when she’d been wading across the estuary had been Marcus’s. He’d been there before Simon, she was sure of it. She hadn’t seen who it was who had pulled her attacker off her just before she’d lost consciousness . . . but suddenly it became clear.
‘He saved my life,’ she’d whispered.
‘He did, yes.’
Joanna had closed her eyes, thinking that perhaps, if she didn’t move at all, the whole nightmare would go away. But it never would, and nor would Marcus ever be back to irritate her, excite her and love her because he was dead, gone . . . And now she could never thank him for what he’d done.
The following morning, Joanna had been stretchered onto an RAF plane at Cork airport and then taken to Guy’s Hospital in London. During the flight, Simon had apologised for having to prep her on their cover story of what had happened in Ireland, but she’d hardly heard him.
Zoe had arrived beside her bed the following day, and put her small hand in Joanna’s. Joanna had looked up and met her blue eyes, so like Marcus’s, and glassy with grief.
‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ Zoe’d whispered. Then she’d reached for Joanna and the two women had held each other and wept.
‘Simon said you were on holiday when it happened,’ Zoe had said as she composed herself.
‘Yes.’ Simon had schooled her to say that it had been an accident – duck hunters in the estuary, but they hadn’t caught the shooter. She had been knocked into the water and almost drowned in the treacherous waves, and had eventually managed to call Simon, who had organised an RAF jet to bring them back to England. Joanna could still barely fathom how anyone would believe it, but then, who would believe thetruthanyway?
‘He really loved you, Jo,’ Zoe had said quietly. ‘He could be a selfish piece of work, as you know, but I really think that he was trying to change. And you helped him do it.’
Joanna had sat silently, numb from shock and grief, not wanting to add anything further to the web of lies that seemed so tightly spun and inescapable. They felt like a physical pressure on her chest and she doubted they’d ever be loosened.
Joanna had not attended Marcus’s funeral, which had taken place a few days later. Simon had told her it was best she kept a low profile. She’d been released from hospital and driven up to Yorkshire to stay with her parents. Her mother had fed her endless homemade soups, helped her wash and dress, and generally enjoyed nurturing her like a child once more.
Zoe had called her at home to tell her the funeral had been a small affair, with just family and a few friends. He’d been buried in the family plot in Dorset, next to James, his grandfather.
Over a month had now passed since that terrible night. But the horror of it was not abating in her memory. She sighed. Maybe tomorrow some of her questions would be answered. Simon had called her to say he was coming up to stay with his parents for a few days and would pop in to see her. He’d been away on leave, apparently, which was why he hadn’t been up to Yorkshire before.
Joanna gazed at the hundreds of white dots on the hillside. It was lambing season and the hillside resembled an overcrowded, woolly crèche.
‘The circle of life,’ Joanna murmured, swallowing the lump in her throat – just now she was prone to crying over the tiniest thing. ‘Marcus didn’t complete his because of me . . .’ she muttered, gulping back the tears. She’d been unable to evenbeginto process his death, the fact he’d made the ultimate sacrifice forherhaunting her day and night. And just how wrong she’d been when she’d called him a coward the last time she’d seen him. It had turned out he’d been anything but . . .
‘Jo! How are you?’ A tanned and healthy-looking Simon walked into the farmhouse kitchen.
‘Okay.’ She shrugged as Simon kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Good. And you, Mrs Haslam?’
‘Same as always, Simon, love. Nothing much changes up here, as you know.’ Laura, Joanna’s mother, smiled at him, kettle in hand. ‘Tea? Coffee? A slice of cake?’
‘Later maybe, thanks Mrs Haslam. How about we go out for a pub lunch, Jo?’
‘I’d prefer to stay home, if you don’t mind.’
‘Go on, love,’ her mother encouraged her, shooting Simon an anxious glance. ‘You haven’t been out since you got here.’
‘Mum, I’ve been out for walks every afternoon.’
‘You know what I mean, Jo. Places with people, not sheep. Now go on with you and have a nice time.’
‘Means I can have a foaming pint of John Smith’s as well. It doesn’t taste the same in London,’ Simon said as Joanna stood up and reluctantly went to get her jacket from the boot room. ‘How is she?’ he asked Laura, lowering his voice.
‘Her body’s healing, but . . . I’ve never known her so quiet. This whole business with that poor young man of hers has really knocked the stuffing out of her.’
‘I’m sure. Well, I’ll do my best to cheer her up.’
