We Own the Sky(101)

The Cedars

Firmtree Farm Road

Gedstone

Nr Barnstaple

Kent

Dear Nev,

I  wanted  to  write  to  you  to  see  if  you  could  help  us.  I  am  writing  on behalf on my grandson Antony, who has recently been diagnosed with an advanced  brain  tumor.  We  are  potentially  interested  in  receiving

treatment at Dr. Sladkovsky’s clinic...

I look at the date again. Six years have passed. I take another letter from the middle of the pile. It has an elaborate Indian postmark, a winged elephant flying above a river bend.

Dear Mr. Barnes,

I  am  sorry  to  bother  You,  Sir,  but  I  am  writing  on  behalf  of  my  father, Engineer Bhagat. My father is very ill, very ill indeed, I might add. We have heard...

I read a few more, and they are all the same. I do not feel anger toward Nev, just a feeling that time and lives have been wasted. I sort through more of the letters, and can feel a chalky film of dust on my hands. After a while, I realize that the handwriting on some of the envelopes is the same. It is a neat script, by someone who has been taught proper cursive. It takes me a while to realize that the handwriting is Nev’s. They are letters from him, addressed to people all over the world, that never arrived and were returned to sender.

I open one of the letters and a picture of Josh falls out. Even though I now know that it is not Josh, it still feels like Josh, and I so desperately want it to be Josh. The letter is long and I read it all. Nev was telling his correspondent about a trip to the zoo, but it is written as if Josh were seven or eight, an age he never reached, doing things older boys would do, riding the cable car on their own, swapping football stickers. Nev wrote in detail about how Josh loved the gorillas, how he wanted his dad to buy him a book from the gift shop. And then, when they got home, Nev described how they watched the sunset together, how Josh fell asleep in his arms, his gorilla book in his lap.

In another letter, Nev wrote about Josh’s ninth birthday party and how he was overwhelmed that so many people came and what lovely presents he got, the Manchester United jersey, the tickets to Alton Towers. I open more of the letters, and they are all the same. Page after page describing Josh’s life. Page after page describing a life that didn’t exist.

It was more than the scam. I know that now. The Minecraft; the football matches they went to; the cliff walks as the sun was setting. Nev wrote the letters because it kept Josh alive. They were his love notes. And in that, Nev was no different from me.

Subject: Hello

Sent: Mon Jul 22, 2017 10:05 am

From: Rob

To: Nev

Dear Nev,

Thanks for your note and I appreciate your apology. I’m glad you’re trying to make it up to people. I think that’s the right thing to do.

Believe  it  or  not,  I  do  understand.  I  know  how  grief  can  do  terrible things  to  people.  And  to  be  honest,  I’m  no  better.  I  hurt  my  wife,  Anna, very much and I am very ashamed of how I behaved.

I think what you did was wrong, but I do understand why you did it. You

were desperate and doing what you thought was best for your family. You

have  lost  two  people  you  love  in  the  most  horrible  way.  No  one  should ever have to go through that.

The  truth  is  that  you  helped  me  a  lot  when  Jack  was  dying.  You listened  to  me  when  I  needed  it  and,  despite  everything  that  happened, you were a good friend to me.

I’m  going  to  be  up  in  your  neck  of  the  woods  next  weekend,  at  the Plover Scar lighthouse, to take some pictures, so if you’d fancy a coffee or something then do let me know. It would be good to meet.

I hope you and Chloe are well.

Rob

It is strange to walk through Hampstead graveyard with someone else. We

walk closely, our arms touching, and there is something formal, funereal, about the pace of our walk—like the slow march of a ceremonial soldier. The graveyard always seemed like a wintery place—even in summer it was dark and dank, the trees forming a shroud, blocking out the light. Today, though, it is different. There is a lightness here, an orderliness, as if the place has been spruced up.

“I always knew you came here,” Anna says. “The grave was always nice and

tidy.”

“When did you come here?”

“Normally Sundays. It seemed proper, like going to church. And you?”

“Early mornings, in the week.”

“Hmm,” Anna says. “I don’t like it here much, if I’m honest. That probably sounds awful, but I don’t find it to be a place of peace, or anything like that.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say, and we walk on in silence.

At Jack’s headstone, we put down our flowers and stand in silence. The

sandstone was a good choice. It is hardy, and will endure the weather. We look at each other, unsure what to do.

“Shall we get out of here?” Anna says. “Sorry. I just...”