Halfway up the towpath Nell spotted her mum pedalling towards her on her bike and her stomach flipped a double somersault. Gilly was humming away to herself and rang her bell at a passing narrowboat. Nervous butterflies began to flutter around her stomach at a rate of knots as she quickly hid behind the gnarled trunk of an old oak tree.
‘What are you doing?’ Nell muttered to herself, stealing a furtive glance around the tree towards her mum. She then breathed in and prayed she wouldn’t be spotted and, much to her relief, Gilly sailed past without knowing she was there. She waited until her mum was out of sight before stepping out from behind the tree and striding up the path towards Bluebell Cottage.
Nell fished out the keys from her bag and heaved a huge sigh of relief once she was on the other side of the closed front door. She headed straight to the kitchen and popped her bag and the keys on top of the table.
Her mum’s dirty breakfast dishes were still in the sink and a crossword puzzle lay open on the table. The only thing Nell could hear was the noisy hum of the refrigerator. She spotted the kittens curled up in their basket next to the Aga. One peered out of a sleepy eye, but the other two didn’t move a muscle. The adrenalin began to run through Nell’s body as she swung open the door to the utility room. She peered inside, but the shoebox was gone. She opened every cupboard door but still there wasn’t a shoebox to be found.
‘Okay,’ she said out loud, ‘Mum’s bedroom.’
Just at that moment the letterbox clanged and she froze.
The post fell on to the mat.
‘Jeez!’ said Nell out loud, her heart pounding.
She dithered for a moment, making sure the postman had gone, before taking a deep breath and climbing the creaky stairs.
Her mum’s bedroom was pretty, oak beams ran across the ceiling and the room had such a relaxing feel about it with its beautiful Laura Ashley floral duvet and shabby-chic furniture. The window looked out over the half acre of back garden, which was now in bloom with the daffodils dancing and the tulips swaying from side to side in the light breeze. Wisteria clung to the beams of the wooden summerhouse and beyond the garden the view stretched for miles and miles. Old oak trees flanked the edge of the farmer’s field, where ponies grazed and sheep were dotted alongside them.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her mum’s wardrobe. Her clothes were hung in a neat fashion and her shoes stacked up in a row at the bottom. She stood on her tiptoes and peered on to the shelf above the rail. There was the old box of photographs that had been stored there for years next to a pile of neatly folded sheets. Nell felt around with her hand but couldn’t feel or see anything else.
She quickly grabbed the dressing-table stool and balanced on top of it while she took a better look. There it was, pushed right to the back of the wardrobe, the shoebox. Her hands were shaking as she reached forward and grasped it. She climbed down carefully and settled on her mum’s bed with the box on her lap. ‘The little shoebox of secrets,’ she said softly, lifting the lid. Everything was still the same, the theatre ticket stubs, the newspaper articles and the letters tied up with the ribbon. As she pulled on the ribbon, Nell was fighting with her conscience.
Open the letters, don’t open the letters.
Nell knew that the moment she opened one there was no going back. She flicked through the envelopes, looking at the date stamps on the postmarks. The letters had been stacked in order, the top letter being the first one that was ever sent and returned.
She ran her finger over the address and turned over the envelope.
Why had so many been sent and why had so many been returned? The address on the front was a flat in Stratford upon Avon. That was about an hour’s drive away from Bluebell Cottage. Nell knew it was famous for being the birthplace of William Shakespeare and had fond memories of visiting the quaint town as a child. She remembered eating an ice-cream while sitting on a wooden bench next to the river Avon alongside her parents.
Suddenly, one of the kittens jumped on to the bed and startled Nell, ‘We need to find proper names for you guys,’ she said, stroking the soft fur as the kitten arched his back then padded the duvet cover with its paws before curling up in a ball next to her.
‘Okay, little thing,’ she said to the kitten, ‘It’s now or never.’
Taking a deep breath, she carefully slit open the first envelope. She knew she was over-stepping the mark, trespassing inside her mum’s life, but even though her head was telling her it was wrong to open the letters, her heart was singing from a different hymn sheet altogether.
Her heart was racing as she peered inside. She had no idea what she was about to discover. Her hands began to sweat as she pulled out the letter inside. She unfolded the cream paper and a picture fell on to her lap.
She looked down and gently picked it up. She stared at a photo of a new-born baby wrapped up in blanket, sleeping in a cot. Her mind went into overdrive. It didn’t make any sense to Nell whatsoever. Why would there be a picture of a baby in the envelope. She placed it carefully on her knee and her eyes skimmed over the letter.
Dear Lloyd,
I hope this letter finds you well.
Please find enclosed a picture of the baby, she is beautiful.
I miss you,
G x
Staring at the words in the letter, Nell was absolutely mystified. It didn’t make any sense to her. Why would her mum be sending pictures of a baby to Lloyd Keaton? And why did she miss him? The letter didn’t go into any more detail and Nell was left feeling as confused as she was before.
Next, Nell began to read through the newspaper clippings and she became so engrossed that she jumped out of her skin when her phone beeped. Quickly, she rummaged inside her bag and saw a text message from Bea flashing on the screen.
‘Good luck at the solicitor’s. Let me know when those keys are firmly in your hands.’
Nell’s return message was upbeat, even though guilt swept through her at riffling through her mum’s private life. Deep down, she wanted to open the rest of the letters but Bea knew she must leave now to make it to the solicitor’s on time.
She stared at the letters in her hand before quickly stuffing them inside her coat pocket and then carefully returned the shoebox to where she’d found it.
Twenty minutes later, Nell climbed off the number 54 bus in town and walked along the high street towards the solicitor’s.
On arrival, the receptionist asked her to take a seat in a battered old leather chair outside Mr Forster’s office.
‘He’s just on another call, he won’t keep you much longer.’
Nell nodded and waited a further five minutes until his office door swung open.
Mr Forster was a man in his mid-sixties with a portly face and wearing a tweed suit. He looked over his round spectacles and then smiled towards Nell, ‘Come in, Mrs Andrews, and take a seat.’
Nell followed him into his office and watched as he shuffled through some papers, before loosening his tie. She noticed a bead of sweat on both his temples.
He cleared his throat and fixed an intense stare in her direction.
‘Have the estate agents spoken to you in the last twenty-four hours at all?’
Nell shook her head.
‘I was just wondering whether you had any indication of what I’m about to tell you,’ he probed.
Nell shifted self-consciously in her seat.
‘No one has spoken to me about anything,’ Nell felt confused, ‘Is there a problem?’
He shuffled again through his papers and Nell was beginning to feel increasingly unsettled.
‘I must warn you that what I’m about to say next is not the norm when purchasing a property by auction. In fact, I’ve never come across this before in my time of being a solicitor.’
Nell gulped away a lump in her throat. She was praying she hadn’t lost the Old Picture House. She didn’t think she could cope with any more surprises today.
‘I’ve been instructed by the vendor of the Old Picture House to return your money to you.’
Nell was aware of the rising panic inside her, ‘Why? Is it no longer for sale?’
Mr Forster looked over the top of his glasses again, ‘Mrs Andrews, they have instructed me to hand back the sum you’ve bid because they are gifting the property to you.’
Nell’s eyes widened, ‘Gifting the property to me? Are you sure? Why would someone do that? I don’t understand,’ she said, feeling perplexed.
‘Yes, I’m sure. The current owner is giving you the property and all the monies have been returned to your bank account.’
Nell shook her head in disbelief. ‘Are you saying I’m still the owner but I don’t have to pay for it?’ Nell was utterly confused by the whole conversation.
‘That is correct, Mrs Andrews, the property is all yours and you are free to pick the keys up from the estate agents in your own time.’
‘Why would someone do that? Who would do that?’ Nell couldn’t take it all in.
Mr Forster thrust a sheet of paper over the desk, with a pen, ‘Sign on that bottom line by the cross.’
Nell quickly scanned the documents and, as Mr Forster had informed her, the property had indeed been gifted to her.
‘Unfortunately the vendor, at this time, wishes to remain anonymous.’
‘So you’re telling me I don’t even know who has given this to me.’
‘That is correct.’
Shakily, Nell picked up the pen and signed on the dotted line.
‘Thank you, Mrs Andrews, that is all for now.’
Nell stood up and shook Mr Forster’s hand. She was too shocked to say a word as she began to walk towards the estate agents to collect the keys.
An hour later, after Nell had picked up the keys to the Old Picture House, she’d caught the bus back to Heron’s Reach and was now walking in a daze up to the crest of the hill towards the old church. She pushed open the wrought-iron gates to the graveyard and made her way towards her father’s stone.
In loving memory of Benny Harper
Nell ran her fingers along the chiselled stone as the emotion surged through her body.
‘What’s going on, Dad?’ she asked, wiping away tears of frustration. ‘Who would give me a property and why?’ Her heart was thudding loudly against her chest. What did it all mean? She crouched before her dad’s grave and pulled out her mobile phone, quickly typing a message to Bea.
‘Please can you meet me back at the Nollie in half an hour and don’t say anything to Mum.’
Almost instantly, Bea replied, ‘Of course.’