I look to the ground as he pulls out the letter. When I look up, his jaw is tight, his eyes red-rimmed and disbelieving. Through the paper, I can see handwriting unlike that which I associate with her. It’s less urgent. I can’t decipher the words, but they flow like she has poured each one smoothly from heart to page. I want to reach out and take the letter from him, but he folds it closed, holding it tight.

Chapter Forty-Three

SUSAN

Dear James,

I don’t know if this letter will make it. And, perhaps, that doesn’t matter. Because if it does, what you will read may not be something you can do anything about. I don’t know the path your life took when you left. But I felt that, this time, I needed to at least try to mend what I could, before I go.

So where do I begin?

Hello? How are you? I hope this finds you well? All such openings sound so trite in comparison to what I am about to tell you. In truth, it seems strange writing to you like this now. I did it often in those early days. I felt you were the only person to whom I could pour out my secrets. Each letter was written in darkness, burned in private. I had no intention of sending them. I suppose I just needed a way to unlock the things I couldn’t say out loud. Pen to paper has always been easy for me.

I say that, but I’ve been staring at this paper for ten minutes. Perhaps it’s not so easy nowadays. I suppose I don’t know where to begin. Bear with me, James.

My life has been a fortunate one. Quieter than I imagined, than I dreamed, it would be. Than we dreamed. I remember our talks into the night, beneath our tree. You told me all the things you wanted to do. I hope you live in the hills. I hope numbers pay your bills.

I hope you’re happy.

I didn’t teach. In the end, it seemed like something other people did. Making a difference wasn’t really for me. You made me believe I could be and do whatever I wanted, but when you left, the real me came out. I suppose that’s what I mean by my life being quieter.

I don’t blame you, by the way. I should say that here and now, for the avoidance of doubt. I know you had to leave. That it wasn’t your choice. Choice wasn’t ours to take back then, was it? Not really. Sometimes I’ve wondered if things could have been different, if we were young today.

I stayed at home. Mother and Father needed me to be around and I needed to do that for them. I felt I owed them that much. I took a job in the records office in Sheffield. I was unknown there. A paper-pusher. The invisibility of it saved me. It kept my secrets for me.