Love Letters From the Grave(67)
I winked at him. ‘So, Martin,’ I said. ‘Do you like to drive fast?’
And I knew by the way he snorted with laughter that he’d heard it before, and he would hear it again until the end of his days, from Charlie whom he’d never met, and the people on whom Charlie and Molly had created such an impression - including one man, a lowly reporter, whom they’d once waved at, but never met face-to-face.
That was his loss, he couldn’t help but feel.
Luther met me at the graveside later, once the people in Molly’s huge family network had gathered to celebrate her life. I was simply standing, studying the gravestone she’d had designed for herself and Charlie.
‘I wish I’d met them that day at the lake,’ I said to him, as if he were a dear friend rather than someone with whom I’d once had a conversation. ‘I feel as if I know them, but I’ve been a bit … cheated, somehow.’
Luther nodded. ‘I can see why you’d feel that. That’s why I thought you might appreciate these.’
I stared down at the parcel in his hand – a carrier bag, stuffed with pieces of paper of all shapes and sizes, folded roughly into three inch squares. I pulled some out at random: they were written on time cards, invoices, supply requisitions, note pads, clocking-in cards – all manner of company forms and paraphernalia.
‘I’ve cleared it with the family,’ said Luther, ‘and they agreed you should have them, for the time being, at least.’ He nudged my arm. ‘I guess you’re one of us now.’
‘But what is this stuff?’ I called as he wound his way past the graveside toward his family.
‘It’s their love letters. Charlie’s and Molly’s.’ He smiled again, and I remembered his capacity for making me feel dim. ‘Over to you now, Brendon. Do something with them.’
I stood there for ages, staring into that bag, looking between the little squares of notes and the grave where Molly now lay, beside her beloved Charlie.
‘So, Charlie and Molly,’ I said eventually. ‘What am I supposed to do with this lot?’
But somehow, I already knew the answer.
The end