Cee-Cee took a seat at her kitchen table and unscrewed the lid from Grandma Sally’s ink pen. Carefully, she folded the top sheet of the notepad over and leaned forward, resting her forearms on the mahogany table.
Dear Mr and Mrs Croft
She crossed it through and started again.
Dear Rachel and James, It is with
This was also not quite right, and what had moments earlier felt like such a simple task now seemed almost beyond her means.
Cee-Cee tapped the tortoiseshell pen against her teeth before placing it on top of the notepad and abandoning the idea. Instead, she used an earthenware jug to scoop up the water from the green washing-up bowl in the sink, with which she would water the loquat tree. She was the third generation to lovingly tend its roots. Her reward would be the soft yellow/orange fruit that could best be described as a cross between a mango and a peach.
She thought about the letter waiting to be written and looked out over the clustered fern fronds that lined the roadside, giving way to the view of the ocean.
‘I suppose I could tell you both how I felt about little Oscar.’ She smiled at the image of the boy who had come into her life, transforming the nature of her job at the big house on the North Shore Road. Her tears naturally followed and she let them fall. It seemed appropriate somehow to honour her broken heart with this physical display. She remembered those first few weeks, when she had got to know the three-year-old a little better.
‘So.’ She had beamed at him. ‘Your name is Oscar and you have come all the way over the sea from England to Bermuda!’
He held the duvet up to his chest and nodded, eyes wide. ‘On a plane!’ He smiled.
‘On a plane? Well, goodness me, I have never been on a plane.’ Cee-Cee had sat in the wicker chair by the side of the single bed. ‘I think you and I are going to be friends. And do you know the best way to become friends?’
Oscar shook his head.
‘It’s to tell stories! They are the way that people get to know each other all over the world and they always have been. My grandma told me stories and her grandma told her stories and I told my baby stories.’ She took a sharp intake of breath, as if something sharp had lodged in her breast, a memory that pierced.
‘I like stories,’ the three-year-old whispered.
‘Who doesn’t?’ She chuckled. ‘When people wave at each other in the street, when they say “How’s the weather for you?” or “How you doing?”, that’s storytelling, catching up, and it’s very, very important. Whether written on a page or spoken from your mouth, stories are what joins us all together.’
She looked up at the sound of the bedroom door creaking open. It was Rachel, the young woman of the house, her new boss and Oscar’s mother. She was pretty with long, shiny, dark hair and painted fingernails. Cee-Cee hoped she wasn’t a young woman who placed importance on such things. She had no time for vanity or selfishness.
‘How are we doing? Are you still awake, Oscar?’ She walked in and folded her arms over her fancy red evening frock. ‘I think we are going to head off now, Cee-Cee.’ She bit her lip. ‘Is it okay to call you Cee-Cee? Or is Mrs something better? I . . . I didn’t know . . .’
Cee-Cee sensed her nerves; still so young and finding her way, only a few days into this new house, this new life. ‘Cee-Cee is just fine.’ She gave a small nod.
‘We’ll be back by eleven, tops. You have our numbers?’
‘We have everything we need and we know how to get hold of you if we don’t.’
She smiled at the young woman who clearly knew very little about the way of the island; everyone knew everyone else. A request could be made in St David’s Head and with no more than a chain of hollering to your relatives that request would be answered in no time from someone up at Royal Naval Dockyard.
‘Okay.’ Rachel swallowed. ‘It’s the first time we’ve left him here and it feels a bit . . .’
‘Of course it does. But Oscar will be fine. Don’t worry.’
‘Okay,’ she whispered again. ‘I don’t really want to go – it’s a work thing for James.’
‘I am sure you will have a lovely time.’
‘Okay. I can do this!’ Rachel straightened her shoulders, balled her fists and lifted her chin. ‘See you soon! Love you, Oscar! Night night, Mr Bob!’ She blew a kiss to the boy and his knitted teddy that nestled in the crook of his neck.
The door closed and Cee-Cee smiled at the little boy.
‘Where’s Mummy gone?’ He looked towards the hallway.
‘She’ll be back in no time at all, you’ll see. Now, where were we?’
‘Story,’ he reminded, followed by a big, big yawn.
‘Oh, you are so smart to remember that!’ She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘I don’t know whether to tell you about the day the whale came or the pirate shipwreck with a cargo full of gold!’ Cee-Cee looked down at the little boy whose head had fallen to one side and whose eyes were flickering shut. It was only minutes until he snored like a tiny dormouse: sweet, snuffly and cute as a button.
‘Well, little Oscar, you sleep and you dream. And I will sit here and watch you. I will watch you until your mommy and daddy come home. Just like I promised.’
She finished watering the tree and considered this.
Maybe I should stop overthinking it. Maybe I should just write as I talk in my heart and head. She liked the idea of this very much. Cee-Cee went back inside the house and sat at the table.
With her pen in her hand she folded back the top sheet of the notepad and she began.
Dear Mr and Mrs Croft, Rachel, James,
I write because sometimes I find that words that get knotted in your throat are smooth and ordered when you put pen to paper. I see your loss. I feel your loss and it takes me back to a time when I did not feel life was worth living. A time when my pain was such that I prayed for the angels to take me under their wing and relieve me from my burden. Of course they did nothing of the sort, their message loud and clear: Who are you, Miss Cecilly Symmons, to think you can command the angels? So I lived a half-life. A quiet life. Until I met Oscar. He didn’t care for my sadness. He didn’t have time for my reflection, no sir. He ran at me and took my hand and pulled me from the gloom. He made me chase around that house playing games. He brought me joy, that little boy who loved me. He made me love life again! All by loving him. You see, I thought I had been denied the chance to raise a child, but I had not. That chance was given to me at a time in my life when I had no right to expect it. Not that the joy was any less for that. So I thank you both, and I thank you for Oscar, and as God is my witness, if I can hold his hand and ease his path to heaven then that will give my life a meaning greater than I could ever have dreamed. With love to you, amen.
Cee-Cee