Page 170 of Pull Me Under

‘Your stuff’s still there. You told me – your clothes, your toothbrush. You’d be collecting your own belongings.’ Kit shrugs. ‘If we happen to see some letters lying around…’

‘That’s not⁠—’

‘I don’t reckon she’s coming back tonight. And I need to know.’ His voice cracks, just slightly. ‘I spent twenty years checking the post, hoping Mum would write. She did write. Don’t I deserve to see it?’

I pick up the glass. Drain it in one.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘But if we get arrested, you’re explaining it to Maisie.’

The cottage is dark when we get there. ‘Round the back,’ I say. ‘I know where she keeps the key for the back door.’

We circle through the overgrown garden, stepping over mossy clumps and spilt soil from tubs that have fallen over. By the back door is the boot rack, underneath is the key. I’d like to say she left it there in case I needed to let myself in, but I think that’s wishful thinking.

‘After you,’ Kit says once I’ve unlocked the door and used my booted foot to give it a firm push open. Pretty sure the whole house is swollen with water.

I edge through and swerve past the kitchen table to flick the light switch, letting the illumination blink across everything that I’ve managed to leave.

The cottage smells like her. My heart aches with it.

‘Where would she keep letters?’ Kit’s already moving, torch sweeping the room.

‘Sitting room. I think all her grandad’s stuff is in the backroom.’ I point to what would be the dining room if this were a standard family home and not a relic to a past once destroyed.

‘This place is…’

‘Disastrous.’ I agree with Kit’s observation. ‘But you should have seen it before she started doing it up. This is practically five-star now.’

Kit shivers and we edge our way into the back room where Old Man Trelawney must have hoarded loads of his paperwork and belongings.

We find it in the corner. A cardboard box, lid askew, papers spilling out.

Kit kneels beside it. Starts sorting through.

‘These are old,’ he says. ‘Bills. Council tax. Some stuff from her grandfather⁠—’

‘There.’ I spot it. An envelope, already opened, the paper inside folded and refolded. The handwriting on the front is faded but legible.

Gareth Trelawney. Trelawney Cottage. Salt Bay.

It’s our mother’s writing. I might not have seen it in a very long time, but I recognise the slope and curves. Can almost visualise her holding a pen and writing it.

Kit’s hands are shaking as he pulls out the letter. My gaze is on his face, so I see him swallow.

We sit there in the gloom, the naked light bulb swinging from the ceiling, circling us in a small ring of light.

‘Together,’ I say.

Kit holds the letter so we can both see, and makes a sound; low, wounded.

I keep reading.

‘This is killing me,’ Kit whispers and his face crumples. It’s not just sadness – something deeper. Something breaking apart that’s been held together with wire and stubbornness for twenty years.

‘She didn’t leave us.’ His voice is barely a whisper. ‘She didn’t— All this time I thought⁠—’

He can’t finish. Drops his head, shoulders shaking.

I put my hand on his back. Don’t know what else to do.