Broker’s Pick
Allison Meldrum

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Rebecca knew that letters would command their attention. Lovingly handwritten, individually addressed letters where each stroke of pen to paper connects the reader more intimately with the sender. Words that are uniquely composed just for them.

This had to be part of the plan: to make sure that an impact was made from the very start.

Each letter was opened and devoured immediately on receipt. The words were strangely sparse and formal given the relationship of the author to the recipient: not what you would expect from the daughter, granddaughter, or sister you had not seen for five years. Whatever the content, Rebecca always had beautiful writing. She took the time to craft her letters like a work of art, even as a young child. But the message that landed on the doorstep of her parents and siblings on this particular day was far from elaborate.

I would like us all to come together at the farm on Saturday 3rd October as I feel the time has come for me to explain my recent absence to you all. Please come on your own just in time for dinner at 8pm. I sincerely hope to see you then.

Yours, Rebecca.

‘The Farm’ to which she modestly referred was the family’s extravagant six-bedroom property in rural Oxfordshire which, as well as being the home of Peter and Eleanor Stuart and all three of their children, has borne witness to a generous catalogue of epic dramas.

Eleanor Stuart was an undeniably beautiful and graceful lady who fiercely protected her dream of sitting at the heart of a happy and protected family, brimming with love for each other and driven to make the world a place of order and peace.

The reality of the passing years, with all the stubborn imperfections of those she held so dear, had led her to a very different place. A place of hidden sadness and varnished cracks.

For her husband Peter, however, the varnish had long since worn away.

“So this is how it’s going to be?” The words spat from Eleanor’s mouth with the customary dose of bitter resentment reserved for her spouse of thirty years.

“This is how we discover just how much damage your behaviour has caused to our precious child.”

Eleanor’s husband Peter Stuart registered the words but refused to take the bait. He was used to dissatisfaction from his family and well accustomed to being blamed for their varying failures and disappointments.

Peter’s well-intentioned devotion to providing his family with all the wealth and privilege they could need had led to a degree of domestic absenteeism that ate away at the once close bond the family had with their father.

Despite enjoying the classic lifestyle of a millionaire’s wife in every material sense, Eleanor’s world had recently descended into a rather familiar story of heartbreak, the kind of scenario that has no respect for hard graft, dedication, and financial gain. She had slowly but surely felt the attention of her one true love, previously reserved for her alone, drawn uncontrollably elsewhere. Her heart bled with belief that her fading beauty and lost youth led her handsome prince into the arms of another.

“It wasn’t enough for you to chase our daughter out of her family home with your constant disapproval but then you had to find solace in some convenient comfort elsewhere. Just because your wife was a bit too distracted to put you first. Have I summarised that well?”

Again, Peter Stuart remained silent. He had learnt by now that no good came from stoking the flames of this fire.

In the first few weeks and months after Rebecca left her home and everyone she knew, Eleanor clung painfully to the few words which her daughter had written for her just before she disappeared into the night. They spoke of an urgency to escape. She had no interest in living the life of indulgence that her older sister and mother seemed to wallow in with ease. She promised to correspond often enough to reassure her family that she was safe and well but did not want to be contacted or found.

These words cut through her mum’s heart to the core. They never truly made sense no matter how often she read them. Admittedly, there was no predestined path for Rebecca toward leadership of the family firm which awaited their brother, the hallowed son and heir, but her mother showed her no less love and affection than her siblings. Night after night Eleanor tortured herself with what could possibly make Rebecca abandon her family like this. Deep down she had her suspicions but blocked them out as best she knew how.

“We didn’t give her credit for finding out what a fraud her father was.” She spoke these words to Peter with such ferocity it felt like she was trying to convince herself of their truth.

“She must have been the first to discover your affair and couldn’t bear listening to your hypocritical sermons on living an honest hardworking life.” By focusing her energy on resentment towards her husband, Eleanor found relief from the gaping hole in her heart. Not only had she lost her youngest child, but she had also lost the love of her husband at the same time.

But here she was, at long last facing a reunion with the daughter she treasured so completely. In seven days, they would be sitting together around the extravagant family dining table that had witnessed so much, together once again like a family should be. But there was something more than relief swirling in her head. Something more unsettling.

“You must be happy now, Mum,” said Lucy, the elder of Eleanor and Peter’s daughters. “The mysterious wanderer is returning to enchant us all with tales of her meaningful adventures.”

Lucy was three years Rebecca’s senior and, from the moment she arrived, seemed to fit neatly into the mould of respectability expected from her family. She happily revelled in the society parties and pursuit of a ‘suitable’ husband to keep her protected from the world outside.

“Just when we were all daring to get on with our lives without wondering when the next attention-seeking letter from nowhere would arrive from our darling Rebecca.”

Lucy had learnt so much from her mother and resentment was no exception.

*

The day of the planned reunion arrived on a beautiful Autumn weekend. The splendour of the Oxfordshire countryside had fully turned out for the show to come. The trees lining the grand drive to the farm were gently shedding their leaves, lit up by the row of lamps which lined the edge of the sweeping lawns on either side. Nature had delivered a luminous red carpet to welcome the actors to the stage.

Peter had been at the house all week, attending an annual shooting party with fellow estate owners and their competitively raucous and overindulged offspring. Eleanor was the first to arrive, from their residence in London: a suitably exclusive and fashionable Georgian townhouse just on the border between Notting Hill and Holland Park. Arrangements had been made for a caterer to provide sustenance for the evening. Eleanor liked to play the role of hostess but peeling vegetables and washing dishes was rarely her thing. She wanted to devour every precious moment of spending time with her children together rather than wasting it ruining her nails with a potato peeler.

Next through the doors was elder daughter Lucy, having just left a friend’s house where she had been staying while work was completed on her own ‘lodge’ in the grounds of the farm.

“How long does it take to fit a new kitchen and bathroom? If I had known that it was going to be such a hassle I may have even considered moving in here and putting up with all the animals and strange men in tweed coming and going.” She spat her complaints with a customary sense of entitlement when her father enquired on the progress of her bespoke marble kitchen worktops sourced from Greece. Clearly the ‘discomfort’ of roughing it in the guest suite of her childhood friend’s house down the road was an unacceptable inconvenience to bear.

At least half an hour after the others arrived came the unmistakable sound of Alex, the only son of Eleanor and Peter, as he announced his presence at the event.

“Well, isn’t this just like something out of an Agatha Christie novel,” he roared at the assembled cast. “You’ve even got the fire going and some staff in the kitchen cooking up a feast! I hope one of us doesn’t get shot in the library!”

His mother giggled slightly awkwardly at his humour and Peter pretended not to hear him.

“No sign of the guest of honour though I see. Is she going to make some dramatic entrance via helicopter?”

“Looks to me like we all need a bit of strong social lubrication.” With that Alex marched towards the wine cellar protesting about being thirsty and enquiring who was “running the show.”

By this point the clock was ticking towards nine p.m. and the caterer tentatively emerged from the kitchen to have a word in Eleanor’s ear, presumably asking if they should proceed with dinner. They were quickly dismissed by the lady of the house.

Her husband, however, began to emerge from his contained silence and make his presence known. He was, after all, the head of this oddly dysfunctional household.

“Well, I’m getting a bit hungry,” said Peter, gesticulating to the dining room and apparently pretending not to notice the elephant in the room (or, to be more accurate, not yet in the room).

“Don’t be ridiculous Peter,” said Eleanor. “We’re not starting without her. She’s probably had some sort of travel delay. Give her a chance.”

“Of course, it would be enormously helpful if we could actually make modern-day contact with her through the medium of telecommunication,” contributed Lucy who was by this point on her second gin and tonic and looking bored. “But, of course, it’s far too conformist for Rebecca-the-adventurer to succumb to such a lazy modern-day curse as owning a mobile phone.”

Prompted by further criticism of his youngest daughter, Peter once again found his voice and cut through the toxic resentment. “I’d like you all to follow me.”

It was not a request but an instruction. The tone had changed and so, too, had the atmosphere. For all the family antipathy towards him, Peter clung onto basic respect from his assembled dependents who feared the financial repercussions of overstepping the mark. The only person to whom this usually meant nothing was absent. Rebecca was never one for hierarchy or inheritance and had what she described as a ‘healthy disrespect’ for traditional authority.

But it would appear, the show would go on without her. At least for now.

Conversation was, at first, relatively composed and civil, in the context of a family like the Stuarts. The only true contentment in the house seemed to emanate from Max and Barney, the two black-and-tan spaniels curled up in the hall, sleepy after a tough day on the hunt.

Before long, Peter cut across the vacuous hum around him. “I’m afraid I may be about to ruin your appetite” were the first words to pierce the forced air of togetherness.

Peter watched as his wife and two children paused and turned to their father.

“Rebecca will be joining us a little later.” He delivered this message with an arrogance that immediately rose the hackles of his wife.

They looked each other straight in the eye and something passed between them that felt visceral. Was it hatred? Was it a shared love or a shared loss? Or was it something else, unspoken but much more dangerous?

He took a large swig of Rioja, cleared his throat, and continued. “Rebecca came to see me just days before she left England. She was distraught and I struggled desperately to calm her down.” Peter seemed increasingly nervous as he spoke, but his audience were genuinely captivated by his words for the first time today and there was no going back now.

“Her hands were freezing cold as she had walked in the rain from the train station so I gently took one in my own hand and saw that she was clasping a letter so tightly that it might turn to ash in her palm. After gently unfolding it and holding her tightly on the sofa beside me, I started to unfold the paper and read the words that had been sent to her just days before;”

Dear Rebecca,

I have thought long and hard about writing to you now or, indeed, at all as I probably have no right to invade your life in this way. Whether you know it or not, you have lived a childhood of privilege and love and you have wanted for nothing. Who am I to shatter those strong foundations built around you? But, recently, my sources have led me to believe that you may not find comfort in traditional order, material possessions and the predestined position that others want for you. And, I must be honest, the hastening advent of my own mortality has had a strangely motivating effect. I once thought I could live out my life watching you from afar but alas, I’m selfishly compelled to leave you the only gift I can—which is the truth.

Your mother and I met a long time ago. She was lost and lonely, surrounded by everything she could want, but lacking in the companionship that a young mother needs the most to escape the burden of parenthood. The finest wardrobe or most indulgent gifts can not bring you comfort in a way that a listening ear or a warm embrace can. My greatest crime was simply that I could. And perhaps a little excitement and rebellion too.

I know you have inherited your mother’s beauty, but I can see the other piece of the puzzle rise from you too. I recognise the spirit of adventure, rebellion, and independence as if I am looking in the mirror as a young man.

You have been raised by wonderful parents and I could not attempt to replace them. I do not ask for you to meet with me. I do not even ask you to believe in this truth if that is your preference. You must live your life with the choices that are your own. Your mother and I knew each other a long time ago and her life is not one which would accommodate my existence easily.

I simply ask you to accept my offer of truth if it may help you to understand the part of you that does not fit the mould of those around you.

For now, I will leave you to read these words and let you decide how many more answers you want.

Yours, lovingly,

Michael.

Now unable to lift his head to meet the stares of his audience who were silent and motionless, Peter folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. His wife’s face had been drained of all colour. He simply sat back down and waited for something or someone to take the lead from here.

First to speak was his now-inebriated son who leant back in his chair and crossed his arms like a judge ready to pronounce sentence. “Well, well then, Mummy. Michael indeed? As skeletons in the closet go, that’s quite impressive! Or are you going to claim this is all the work of some unhinged nutter looking to bribe our family out of our hard-earned millions?”

“What the bloody hell are you doing to us Dad?” Lucy was next to deliver her verdict. “Mum—please tell him not to be such a fool to fall for this utter nonsense. Rebecca cannot be this desperate for attention, surely?”

But Eleanor remained rooted to the spot. How can it be, she thought to herself, that the fortress of stability and respectability that she has devoted her life to building since becoming a mother could be shattered so completely by one letter. One letter that reveals so much that she has kept hidden from her loved ones and from herself for so long.

Perhaps what she struggled to understand the most was that her own husband had been handed this poisonous secret five long years ago and had chosen to keep it locked up inside. Eleanor had pushed this terrible secret so far away from her conscious mind. It had no place in the life that she needed for her children.

“You knew all this time Peter?” Eleanor’s face was stiffened with bewilderment. Was it through some sort of loyalty to her or to his children that gave him the strength to contain this devastating truth?

“Rebecca was wild with rage, Eleanor,” Peter responded. “She came to me like a caged animal ready to attack and would have torn the family apart, so I promised her that we would come to terms with this together.”

“Did you not question this truth, even for a minute?” asked Eleanor.

“No. You see, I know you think I only have a head for success and money but I see things too. I remember that first long trip I took without you all those years ago, when I was away for months researching business locations overseas and had no thought for the solitude you must have felt. You were abandoned with two young children in an enormous, isolated house.”

Peter remembered coming home earlier than expected and finding the children in the house with the babysitter because Mummy was out having a walk with the farm manager from the neighbouring estate.

“It wasn’t just a coincidence that Michael could not look me in the eye if I ever bumped into him in the village Eleanor. I will never forget the look on your face as you arrived back home that day to find me sitting with the children.”

“If you had your suspicions, why didn’t you question me about it then? Or at least give me the chance to explain to Rebecca?” Eleanor asked.

“You may not believe me when I say this but I was protecting you. I think it would have broken your heart to see the hatred that your daughter had for you five years ago. I wasn’t protecting you when I abandoned you and our family to pursue my self-interested adventures abroad, but I had to protect you now.”

Peter continued to explain how, step by step, little by little, he had supported Rebecca through the devastating revelation of a biological father she hadn’t known existed.

“I hate her. How could she let me live a lie forever?” Rebecca had screamed as her façade of independence and strength dissolved in front of Peter. His heart had broken just as completely as hers but he’d had to be strong for Rebecca’s sake. She had been only eighteen years old and he’d had to find a way through this for them both. He’d had to step up and be her father in the truest, most selfless sense of the word.

“So I told her to pursue her own dreams of travel and adventure, go and live a life where she will come face to face with the imperfections of everyone she meets, “ explained Peter to his family. “I told her that she would learn in her own time that relationships are imperfect, and love is forgiving.”

She wrote to him often and, as the months and years ticked by, he could feel a growing sense of tolerance and understanding in the words she wrote to him.

“I told her I would come and visit her as often as I could,” he explained, betraying the true nature of the frequent mysterious absences, which Eleanor had, with painful irony, linked to his own affair. “Take all the time you need and, when you are ready, we will all come together again, try to make sense of this and try to heal.”

By now, the words were pouring from Peter’s mouth, like a dam which had finally relented its unbearable burden, letting the flood wash over everything in its tracks.

Both Lucy and Alex remained silent and Peter allowed himself to believe that their judgement of him may be shifting.

Perhaps he wasn’t the villain after all? And, as he finally found the strength to look at his wife, he could see a single heavy tear passing over the curves in her face, cutting a line through her faultless make-up. In her eyes he could see the vulnerability that he once remembered when they first met.

And, for Eleanor, an overwhelming realisation washed over her: perhaps he is my true love after all.

The sound of the dogs barking excitedly cut through the silence. The arrival of their final visitor was being announced.

Writing has been Allison Meldrum’s career and passion for 20 years. After graduating with an MA in English Literature from The University of Edinburgh, her professional writing journey began in news and feature journalism before progressing to professional communication and content marketing for a number of years. During this time, Allison built a significant portfolio of published work across local, national and digital media on behalf of her clients. Allison has also had guest blog posts published as well as regularly writing for her own blog. She has recently dedicated her time to pursuing her true passion for writing fiction, with a specialist interest in Mystery and Romance. She loves a strong twist in the tale! Allison has contributed two works to an anthology of short stories dedicated to the theme of tolerance which will be self-published and available on Amazon in March 2021. Email: allisonmeldrum1[at]gmail.com