The Walnut

Inspired by the 2017 film "The Wife" in which one of the character's book's was called 'The Walnut'. There is no other resemblance.

Chapter 1-2020
I never saw my Mama smile. Ever since I was a baby, her mind was always on other things. She wouldn’t come into our world, insisting the reality she lived was the only one, yet I could sense she was desperate to find an escape. All day, she sits on the rocks by our house overlooking the sea, just staring blankly out at the horizon. Then when she comes in for dinner in the evening, Mama simply sips her tea or nibbles her food silently.
From photo albums I’d managed to find, I came to the conclusion that there was a time in Mama’s life when she was content with who she had become. I spent years trying to find signs of that time. But it was locked away, hidden deep inside. What had changed? Why would she live so miserably?
When I was a little girl, I thought she was incapable of smiling, that she didn’t know how. Later, it occurred to me that perhaps she just didn’t want to. Despite the many, often ridiculous ideas that danced through my mind, I never once imagined the possibility that she was grieving or missing someone. I guess, as a kid, outrageousness seemed easier to handle than the truth.
I was never alone, even when Mama got worse. My siblings and I learned from an early age how to care for ourselves. With no father in the picture, it fell to my eldest sister, Phyllis to be the ‘man’ of the house. Claire, the second eldest, is the cook. I honestly believe she spends more of her life in a kitchen than even Julia Child did! I enjoy Claire’s visits for the single fact that she is always whipping up magnificent feasts for us!
I am also a big sister-to three girls who still strongly argue that they are too young to help around the house. Charlotte, Carol, and Greta were such sweet children. It’s a shame they grew out of it.
In fact, Greta didn’t. She’s still the charming, giggly young girl she has always been. The same cannot be said for the rest. Phyllis, Claire, Charlotte, and Carol are different now. They all left Cork, following each unique career choice, while I remained in our little Irish country house. We grew apart, and the distance only cemented that. Sometimes, I envy them. They got away.
However, I don’t like to wallow in self-pity. If I genuinely wanted to leave, then nothing would have stopped me. I know that. I dream of the world, of other new communities, but I remember I wouldn’t have the guts to abandon our beloved little home.
Yearning to travel turned out to be a gift. If I had followed my sisters, I’d be just as oblivious as they are, however, by staying home, I discovered more about my Mama than I could ever have hoped.

Chapter 2-1976
The Texas heat was unbearable. Sylvia had lived there for fifteen years and still was unaccustomed to it. Her family owned two acres of land in the heart of the state, which had survived the Fryes for generations. Their farm continued to thrive into its second century of existence, and it was no surprise; land was the most important thing to the Texan men. The most important thing.
Sylvia understood that family came second to her father. He was not afraid to let her know that-every day. He just altered the way in which he expressed it. Some days were calmer than others. Saturdays, usually, as the beer had not yet been delivered. Oddly enough, in spite of his tirades, Sylvia’s father was an immensely proud man.
Nevertheless, pride was not a quality that most of his children inherited. Stubbornness and short temper did seem to run in the family, but his pride must has skipped a few years. Sylvia and her brother, Clive, were the exceptions. They realised fate would never be on their side and they promised to stick together if they wanted to get out of that farm still standing. And for ten years, they kept that promise.
The sun was just beginning to rise when Clive was awoken by a sudden slam. His first instinct was to fly downstairs and attack. A sane person would prepare, but Clive was a victim of impulse. He threw off the covers and bolted into the kitchen. Sylvia screamed.
“Sylv, what are you doing? It’s dawn, for crying out loud!” Sylvia sat breathlessly at the table. “I thought if I got all the washing up done early, I’d have some free time to read later.” Clive glanced at the broken bowl at his sister’s feet. “Well, you’re really lucky, you know. The floor has never helped me before! That may be a good thing-it doesn’t look like it knows what it’s doing!” He knelt down, cleaning away the shards. Sylvia began to help. “No, don’t. You could hurt yourself. Let me do it, Sylv.” Sylvia smiled and made them both some coffee.
The middle of six children, Sylvia was measurably the most mature. She refused to get caught up in the ridiculous escapades her sisters enjoyed, and would never engage in the rivalry they insisted upon. Jessica detested Sylvia’s calmness. “You have so much to learn about fun!” she told Sylvia when she was a young girl. “Such a shame no-one will want to teach you!”
She did find a way to escape the hectic confusion of everyday life-her stories. Books were a refuge. Her characters would beckon her into their world and each fresh creation became reality for the few blissful hours she would spend engrossed in the lives of the friends she could always rely on. Sylvia loved the sound of language and through that, she was free to explore cultures that were otherwise barred from her and experience life with families who welcomed the lonely little bookworm with open arms.
As with everything worthwhile, her contentment must come to an end. It was the fault of science, she contended, as the sun invariably would leave her. At night, when it got too dark to read, Sylvia was forced back into life on the farms and therefore, back to the family she was born to cope with.
Sylvia crept up the stairs and silently opened the door to the room she shared with Penelope and Jessica. “Why so late, sister dear?” Penelope’s trill voice snapped through the darkness. ‘Just ignore her,’ Sylvia warned herself. ‘She only wants to annoy me.’ She curled into her bed and pulled the covers up over her ears. The sisters’ taunts were muffled, and Sylvia was too tired to try to figure out what they were saying. Her eyes closed slowly and the sisters were silenced.

Chapter 3-2020
Phyllis had come home for Mama’s birthday. Before she married that stuffy, stuck-up husband of hers and moved to New York, she would bring baskets and baskets of treats she’d concocted. Well, saying ‘treats’ may be an exaggeration! She was already busy in the kitchen when I woke up.
“Oh, you’re here? When did you...?” I yawned, still half asleep as I sat at the table, inspecting the woman in front of me. She gradually turned to face me. “Early. Around five or six, I should think. What are you staring at? You like the dress? It’s Vera Wang. And a real Vera Wang, I’m talking about here, not some cheap, shoddy knock-off!” The accent. The Irish is gone; Phyllis really is an American at heart. And she had never been so cheerful. Something’s wrong.
“Abbey, I wanted to give you the news in person. I got a new job! Can you believe it? Personally, I don’t find it that hard to believe, but Flan found it quite surprising. Or at least, that’s what his face told me. He’s never supported me. He just goes along with whatever crazy idea pops into my head to shut me up! I don’t know why I ever married the son of a b***h, but Flan can have a good heart when he wants. Ha! I’m so silly, I didn’t tell you what the job was. I’m an editor at Random House. It’s a fabulous opportunity. It’s made me realise that I finally know what I want to do with my life! Aren’t you happy for me? You never were. Honestly, Abbey, just because you insist on letting life drift away doesn’t mean I have to. Such a waste! Anyway, I feel unrestricted now. I can forget this cruddy house until you drag me back here each year...”
I try hard not to listen to her. Phyllis thinks of nothing but herself and that is all she cares about. I don’t why she bothers coming all the way over here, when all she does is complain about how much she wants to go home. I’d prefer it if she stayed away. Phyllis Carter doesn’t belong in Ireland and Abbey Frye doesn’t belong in New York.
I pulled leftover meat from last night’s dinner out of the fridge and slumped into a chair. Phyllis eyed the foil, stopped whisking and sat beside me, her face scrunched in false concern. “You shouldn’t eat that stuff, Abbey, it’s bad for you.” I rolled my eyes and bit down hard into a chicken wing. “Look, I know how you feel about this whole arrangement and believe me, it’s not ideal, but we’ve made it work. I do think you’d be better off somewhere else, away from Cork.” She patted my hand awkwardly.
“What are you getting at, Phyllis?” I knew full well what she was getting at.
“Come back to New York with me. You can even stay in my apartment for a while, if that helps. Abbey, you’re an incredibly perspicacious woman, you ought to see what a waste it is! Come visit America.”
I hate it when Phyllis talks this way. How does she have the nerve? She doesn’t see us all year-she doesn’t even write or call-then the one day we meet, she drones on moving. She is aware the answer is, and always will be, no. Phyllis doesn’t care that I made a choice years ago to stay and I’m happy with it.
Infuriated, I glared daggers at her and left in a silent rage. The only place of safety is the clifftop. I escaped and perched on a rock next to Mama. Her unblinking eyes were fixed on the horizon. “Phyllis is here, Mama. For your birthday. Won’t you come in and see her, please?” She continued to stare out as if I wasn’t there. I sighed. This is hard.
Defeated, I returned to the house. By some hopeful miracle, I imagined she may be gone, but Phyllis was still there, still cooking. She smiled briefly as I entered, then laughed, “Why doesn’t Claire ever come home and cook? God knows she’s a hell of a lot better than me!” I watched her, and coolly replied,
“Claire left. You all did.”
Phyllis scoffed, “You’re not still holding a grudge, are you? That was years ago!” I looked away. “Fine. Be that way. If you can get out of your sulk long enough to read, there’s a letter come for you. Looks like Carol’s writing.” I snatched the letter from under a jar of flour and trudged upstairs.
My bedroom window has an unobstructed view of Mama’s position on the rocks. One thing I’ve always noticed is that Mama has her hand clenched in a fist. She’s holding something. She clearly doesn’t want to let go of it, ever. Whatever it is.
Even before I opened Carol’s letter, I knew what it was going to say: she can’t come for Mama’s birthday. I do enjoy reading them, though, if only for the ludicrous stories she comes up with!
Abigail,
How are you and Mama? Surely you know how much I want to come home, but I just cannot make it, I’m afraid. I am so sorry-I was so looking forward to it! My friend, Caitlyn, who lives next door is in Hawaii for a couple of months and needs me to look after her house while she’s away.
Have the others gotten there yet? Are they even coming? I can’t think of one good reason why they’d want to. It’s so dreary in Cork! Then again, everywhere would seem dreary compared to Paris! I won’t miss it-I can promise you that!
All my love,
Carol.
Can you believe it? Her excuses get worse each year!

Chapter 4-1976
“Sylvia, get up! You are the laziest damn kid I have ever known!” Her father kicked her awake from her trance, sharply. “What have I told you about this obsession you have to read? It isn’t healthy!” He seized the book from his daughter and hurled it across the dead grass. Sylvia protested in a wild frenzy, while secretly she could tell that it was no use. Her father pulled her to her feet and swung her down off the porch. “Father, you mustn't throw books! It could damage them.”
“Don’t you dare answer back to me! Spoiled brat!” He examined her face, terrified and horrified, and sat her back on the porch step. “Pay attention, girl. Children your age are not supposed to be reading! You’re meant to be interested in boys and clothes like your sisters are. I’ve told you a million times that educating girls is just a waste of time. What man will want a wife that answers back? Huh? Or one that isn’t passive and obedient? Sylvia, you’re headed in the wrong direction. Now get into the kitchen and help your mother-it's where women belong!”
Tears streaking through the dust on her face, Sylvia stumbled through the corridor and met her mother in the kitchen. Both her parents were unbelievable old-fashioned, and were a perfect patch, but raising a family was a job neither were suited to. Her father was far too distant and controlling, and her mother didn’t know how to stand up to him, for herself or for her children.
Her mother was washing vegetables. Sylvia splashed a little water on her face and reluctantly took the carrot she was offered. She desperately wanted comfort and assurance; all she received was carrots and leeks and parsnips, all of which she dutifully cleaned. Then, her mother spoke. One sentence, simple, flat, with no emotion or explanation:
“One must never cry, for it degrades the family.”
Family. Family, she had heard that word so many times, had read in her books what families do, and yet had never experienced it. What does a real family look like? Why must it be an extreme? The perfect story book tale or the harsh life she lived with. No in-between?
For a moment, she felt disconnected, as if she were watching a performance of her life, and all of them were actors. They all looked normal. Anyone could be the way they were. Still, she was convinced no-one in the world could understand what it was like. For a moment, everything was different, the window glass separating her from the rest. For a moment, one solitary moment, Sylvia felt part of another world. Not a flawless world, just a different world.
Evening crept upon the sky, the pinks and oranges celebrating triumphantly over the blue, toasting goodbye to clouds and cheering hello to the moon. Joyously, the trees surrounding the Frye’s farm swayed rhythmically to the silent music as they bid adieu to their tweeting companions. Each night, Sylvia joined their party and rejoiced in the serenity that accompanies it.
This evening, when her sisters were watching TV and her father had left for the night shift, Sylvia slipped out to her favourite log bench in the woodland. She placed her book down beside her, listening intently to the gentle musicality of nature and lightly brushed her hand across the closest tree leaves. They felt smooth against her skin, almost silky, yet there was a roughness too. “You’re like people, aren’t you?” she wondered aloud. “And animals. Little green people hanging up there” Sylvia picked another leaf from the ground and held it inches from her face. “Are you watching us?” she inquired, then laughed at her own childlike curiosity. Sometimes it’s better to be a child, Sylvia concluded, than to accept every logical explanation.
When you hear the footsteps, alone in the dark, the panic that engulfs you is relentless. Part of you hopes it’s just an inextricable nightmare; part of you wishes you could run away. The part of you that often wins, however, is the part telling you to stand perfectly still and close your eyes. Perhaps, if you can’t see it, it can’t see you. That is exactly what Sylvia did that particular night.
The leaves rustled in perfect rhythm as if they were teasing her or belittling her. Sylvia held her breath, squeezing her eyes shut so tight it hurt, and waited for what felt like an eternity. Then suddenly, the noise stopped and after a few agonisingly silent moments. A voice broke through.
“You know, if you’re trying to hide, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”
Sylvia filled the woods with a sigh of relief as she opened her eyes to Clive, sitting on the log alongside her. “Clive! You have no idea how stupid I can be!”
“Course I do!” Clive pulled a package from behind his back and carefully placed it in Sylvia’s lap. “I went to the bookshop today and found this,” He watched his sister’s energetic eyes as she dived into the paper and fumbled with the rope tying it together. Inside was ‘The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde’.
The book gazed up at Sylvia, bewildered as she flung it to her chest, hugging it tight. Clive rested his hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Did you realise my favourite story was named after me?”
Sylvia didn’t understand. “What is your favourite?”
Clive grinned. “‘An Ideal Husband’”
“It suits you,” Sylvia teased. “Manipulation and deception are two of your strong points!”
The siblings sat late into the night on their log in the woods, reading, discussing, and reminiscing. They were too busy to realise it was dawn, or that they had stayed there all the night. Only when the sun crawled over the treetops did they break out of their stupor.
“Sylvie, what is it?”
Sylvia checked her watch and gasped. “Oh, it’s already 9:30!” She leapt to her feet and tried to jump over the log. She was unsuccessful. Clive stifled his laughter as he helped his sister climb out of the bushes behind them. Out in the safety of the open air, Sylvia brushed herself off and shook twigs from her hair. A small, round object fell into Sylvia’s hand. “What is it?”
Clive examined the little brown oval and murmured several knowledgeable noises, much to Sylvia’s amusement, until he nodded.
“What’s the verdict?”
“It’s a nut. A walnut.”
Sylvia kissed it gently. “My lucky charm.


Chapter 5-1976
The day had passed surprisingly quickly, Sylvia realised, as the evening descended upon the farm. She hadn’t really seen much of her family since breakfast; they all had been busy with their own chores and she had tried to keep to herself as much as she could. Come to think of it, she hadn’t really seen much of Clive, either. Something must be wrong.
Sylvia wandered around the farm, checking every hiding place Clive had shown her when they were little. He had disappeared. She charged straight through a sack of corn, slowing for only a second to pick herself up, and threw herself up the stairs. And suddenly, as if from out of nowhere, her father grasped the back of her cardigan and hauled her down to the hallway. “Why the hell are you in such a rush?” His beady eyes fixed themselves on hers.
“Where’s Clive?”
“What’s it to you, girl? You ought to be working.” He tightened his grip.
“I finished.”
He braced her shoulders. “Homework?”
“That, too. Daddy, please tell me where Clive is. I’m worried!”
Sylvia’s father snorted derisively and let go of his daughter. “His room. Where else would he be?” Sylvia jerked herself away and sprinted clumsily up to Clive’s bedroom.
Sylvia’s father rolled his eyes, waving dismissively at Sylvia as he skulked into the study and sunk into a deep armchair. He lifted a beer bottle and slammed it down again upon realising it was empty. His wife scurried in, having heard the crash, and he didn’t acknowledge her in any way except, “Clear this mess away. And bring another.” His wife, always obedient, fetched a broom.
Sylvia burst through Clive’s door, almost breaking it from its hinges. “Clive!” Clive sat on the edge of the bed, carefully nursing a variety of wounds, some burns, some scratches, and one rather deep gash in his arm. Sylvia sat on the floor, not daring to get close enough to see what had happened to her brother. Clive chuckled. “It’s not as bad as it looks! You know me-I never watch where I’m going!” He winced slightly. Sylvia turned and caught a quick glimpse. “They’re not just bumps and bruises, Clive. I know. Was it Penelope?”
“She couldn’t do anything to me!”
“From school? Was it Lloyd? Or Addison?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Just let it go, Sylvie. There isn’t anything you can do.”
“How about Jed? Leo, Sam, they’ve never liked you.”
“Thanks.”
“I just meant...”
“I know. Sylvia, I mean it. Leave it alone.”
Sylvia considered his words for a moment, then looked him directly in the eye. “Was it Father?”
Clive fidgeted and darted his eyes uncomfortably around the room. Sylvia tried to take it in. Despite everything their father had done, she still couldn’t bring herself to accept the fact that he would do something that despicable.
Subconsciously, she began to pace back and forth, under the
attentive observation of her brother. “Sylvie, sit down and stop trying to plan ways of getting back at him.”
“Sorry. He shouldn’t get away with this! Why don’t we take him to court? I mean, the judge can punish him and make it right. And they’re fair. He’ll get what he deserves.!”
“This is the legal system, we’re talking about, Sylv. Fairness has nothing to do with it! All that matters is green and has the faces of presidents in the middle!” Clive moved the medical equipment back into the bathroom, hobbling on his injured knee. Sylvia followed him and placed her head on his back. “I love you, Clive.” Clive crossed his arms over his sister and kissed her head. “Sylvie, forget about it. Ok?”
Night snuck stealthily in the windows. Sylvia stretched in her bed, grateful for the crisp coolness of the sheets. She turned to face her bedside table, and opened the top drawer. The walnut was still safely inside. Sylvia smiled to herself. She buried her head into the pillow and drifted slowly to sleep.
Several days returned to the normality of farm life. Then everything was turned upside down yet again.
It was late, past midnight, and dark. Clive cautiously slipped into Sylvia’s bedroom and took the walnut from the drawer. He wrote in blue ink-Sylvia's favourite colour-on the side and held it under the lamp. The warm glowing light revealed Sylvia’s name in capitals, broken from the roughness of the shell, contrasting a bright red rope-burn covering Clive’s hand.
“You should be asleep.” Sylvia warned in a hushed tone. “Father will kill you if he finds out you’ve been in here. And you know what those two are like.” She indicates the sisters, laying comatose in their beds. Clive mumbled nearly incoherently, “Not unless Father beats them to it.”
Sylvia angled the light so that it shone onto Clive’s face; she dropped the lamp, letting it bounce onto the bed. Clive’s left eye was red, swollen and terribly bruised. His lip had clearly been bleeding. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and held his shoulders. Clive wished she hadn’t woken up; it would have been so much easier.
“Sylv, I’m leaving tonight. I’ve gotta get out of this place. I just cannot take any more of Father’s rants. Do you understand?” Sylvia didn’t answer. “It has absolutely nothing to do with you, Sylvie, I will always love you. But I have to do this for me. I’ve written to Mother and Father to explain, but there was something I wanted to do here first.”
“Where are you going?”
“Chibby and I are sailing the world. He’s waiting for me at Creedom Dock and we’ll be gone by morning. I didn’t want to hear Father’s protests. After all, I am the only one tall enough to reach the apples without a ladder!”
“Take me with you!”
“Sylvie, I’d love to. You know I can’t. You’ve got school and the woodlands here. And if we both left, who would take care of Boojum?” They both looked over to Sylvia’s pillow, where a young Spaniel lay on his back, legs flailing in dream. Sylvia smiled tearfully, and stroked Boojum’s belly. “I know this is difficult to understand, and I don’t expect you to right away.”
“I don’t want you to go, Clive!” For the first time in her life, Sylvia let herself revert to childish hysterical sobs. “Don’t leave me!”
Clive lifted himself onto the bed, carefully avoiding Boojum’s tail and embraced his sister. Sylvia leant against him. “What did you want to do in here before you left?” She remembered what he had said.
“I’m taking your walnut with me.”
“What for?”
“So you’ll always be by my side, wherever I end up. And I promise to bring it back to you.”
“Truly promise?”
“I truly promise.”
Clive slowly stood and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Sylvia curled up on her bed and Boojum rested his head on her hip.

Chapter 6-2020
By the time I decided to go back and face Phyllis, I had calmed down enough to walk without stomping. If she is going to stay no matter what I do to her, there’s no point wasting energy resenting her. “Phyllis!” I yelled from the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t need to shout, it’s a tiny house, but it felt good! “Phyllis!” No answer. Now who’s the one being immature?
The kitchen was empty. So was the living room. Unfortunately, her coat-made of rare fur imported from Italy, as she likes to make a point of saying-was left on a chair, so she wasn’t gone for good. Oh, she’ll come back sometime. I’ve heard people say, when the pets run away, they will find their way back eventually. That reminds me, I ought to take a drink out to Mama. There was a note pinned to the fridge door that definitely wasn’t there before and in much scruffier handwriting than mine. I ripped it down:
Abbey,
I’ve just nipped out to go shopping. See what this little town’s got going for it!
YEMEN ROCK WOOT.
Phyl,
Is that a new shop? I may have to take a look at that.
Then it dawned on me. YEMEN ROCK WOOT. It was an anagram. COME TO NEW YORK. For an instant, I detested that piece of paper, everything about it. The dirty colour, the rushed scribbling, the stupid way it was watching me, just everything. I crumpled it, ran it under the tap and hurled it out the back door into the sea, lost in the panic of the waves.
There are times I imagine conversations with Mama. How she would react, what she’d say to me. If she’s proud of me. I hope Mama is proud of me. And other times, at night, I dream of sitting with her in the garden on a summer evening and sharing ice-cream down by the sea. But it’s all a waste of time. Mama’s not going to change. Thank God for that.
The door slammed heavily shut and bags dropped onto the linoleum. “Guess who’s home!” It sounded threatening! I grabbed an apple, contemplating whether to eat it, or throw it at Phyllis, as she dragged her mounds of shopping through the doorway. I thought she said Ireland was boring.
“Abbey, I tried to speak to Mama on the way in and she didn’t answer.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Well, why not? Doesn’t she ever talk anymore?”
“No.”
“Have you thought about putting her in a home?”
“I never will think of that!” I spat the words at her.
“Oh, Abbey.” Her tone of supposed comfort is almost identical to her tone of condescension. “How do you manage it?” My eyes welled up. I don’t want to talk about this with her. Phyllis watched me for a moment, then turned her attention to Mama.
“When did she get like this?”
“Years ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I’d had enough-I exploded.
“Phyllis, even if I had told you, you wouldn’t have bothered to do anything about it! Since you left, all you care about is yourself, and your life! You don’t give a damn about us; you don’t even care if we’re alive! There’s more to life than fancy cars and expensive clothes, but, no, you keep as far a distance from life as you can, because otherwise, you would have to show a little compassion once in a while, and even, from time to time, listen to other people! You could be the last person on earth and still you would be the only thing in that shallow, selfish mind!”
The room was filled with a deathly silence; even the waves stopped lapping at the shore and the birds stopped humming their tunes. I was so amazed at myself that I forgot what had just come out of my mouth. Did I really say all that out loud? I’ve been wanting to for so long. Phyllis froze, taken aback by my unexpected outburst. She chose her next words incredibly carefully. “Abigail, I didn’t realise how important this is to you and I understand...”
“You don’t understand! That’s the problem. How could you understand?”
She didn’t reply. She picked up her keys and meekly shut the door behind her.

Chapter 7-1980
Life had continued like normal. Sylvia’s parents had read Clive’s letter and immediately threw it onto the fire. Had they noticed Clive wasn’t there? Did they care? It seemed empty on the farm without Clive, and lonely, too. Sylvia felt her only hope had abandoned her, yet at the same time, she understood why he had left. And he wasn’t gone for good, she constantly reminded herself, he is coming home.
Sylvia did have two comforts: Boojum, who never left her side, and her books, whose pages she couldn’t keep her eyes off. However, the stories never seemed quite so compelling. They all told her to keep going, keep reading, and they’ll get her through. And what sort of person would she be if she ignored her best friends?
Penelope and Jessica rode their horses in the field, Tommy picked vegetables with his mother, and Peter, only a toddler still, chased Boojum’s pups in circles around the house. Sylvia observed the normality of the scene around her. Where did she fit in all that? Clive was her link to them. Now, more than ever, she was certain of how out-of-place she felt in her own family.
Sylvia hurried down to the basement, with Boojum padding after her. The first task was to fold the laundry. She did so monotonously, one sleeve after the other, the coloureds in a different basket to the whites. It all looked dull, as if the life had been drained out of everything. Jessica’s floral dress that once was a vibrant red now resembled the last dying embers of a fire. Their father’s best tie laid limply in Sylvia’s hands. And Clive’s sharp white shirt had been demoted to a dirty grey. As she placed it on the pile, Boojum plodded heavily and slumped onto it, whining quietly.
Each Wednesday, however, if the mail was on time, Sylvia would receive a letter, postmarked from a range of different countries all over the world, from Clive. They would be filled with stories from the boys’ travels, and adventures they had undertaken. Sylvia adored those letters and loved the secret she held from everyone else. The youthful excitement, which had become a distant memory any years ago, returned every week as she opened the envelope with such consideration and care, and during the hours she would spend writing back. Her letters were nearly double the length of his because she wanted to tell Clive of every minute detail of the life he had left behind, no matter how boring it may seem.
Then, in April, the mail came, as it always did, and Sylvia darted down the driveway to retrieve it, as she always did, and found the envelope with Clive’s handwriting, as she always did. But she never could have imagined the news he was about to tell her.
Dear Sylvie,
This letter is really more of a note as there is no need for me to write my stories down. I’m elated! Chibby and I had to try a different direction-some storm ruined our plans. I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I love that storm. It made us realise it’s about time we came home for a visit. We ought to be back by Thursday next week, so long as the weather is kind to us. We’re in Seattle at the moment, so rain is our only companion! I hope you haven’t gone and grown up too much. I love you.
Clive,
P.S: Your nut is still safe, little squirrel!
Sylvia squealed with delight and hugged the letter to her chest. Eight more days, only eight, and Clive will be back! Sylvia danced wildly around the road, singing snippets of old songs. And despite her best efforts, she launched upstairs to tell Mother and Father.
The days passed agonisingly slowly. The minutes felt like hours, and each hour a century. Any conversation seemed meaningless, their only purpose being to fill time until the sacred day came around. It didn’t matter what she ended up doing, she couldn’t concentrate and her mind wandered to Clive.
On Wednesday afternoon, Sylvia timidly knocked the door to her father’s study. “Father, may I ask you a question?”
“Make it quick.”
“Tomorrow, when Clive returns, I was hoping I might walk down to the dock to meet him.”
“What do you wanna do that for?”
“I want to see Clive as soon as he steps off the boat!”
“He’ll look no different after a 10-minute taxi drive, will he? Probably looks the same as he did five years ago, too. Besides, what if he doesn’t want to see you?” Her father snorted, signalling the conversation was over.
Eventually, Thursday dawned on an unseasonably cold morning. At around 4am, Sylvia threw on a cardigan and took a cup of coffee out to the porch. She resolved to sit and wait in that spot until she saw the taxi that would bring Clive back to her pull up, even if it meant waiting all day. Sylvia was determined to be the first to see her brother.
“Hey, Sylvia,” her sisters sneered. “You look totally stupid sitting there like that. Don’t you see how totally native you are?” Penelope smirked.
“The word’s ‘naive’.” Sylvia corrected, without looking up from her book.
Penelope shrugged. “Well, whatever. He ain’t coming, Sylvia, and the quicker you get that through your big empty head, the better. He ain’t coming!” Penelope bounced up the porch steps, followed by Jessica, laughing mockingly. Sylvia refused to believe them. “It’s ‘is not’. Don’t say ‘ain’t’.” she called pathetically after her sisters. But that thought would engrave itself on Sylvia’s brain, and eat away at her for days.
Several more days slipped away, with still no sign of Clive. He had never been late for a single thing in his life; why did he have to choose this? By the next week, Sylvia fell out of her bubble of hope, back into the routine of her life. She was comforted a little by the fact that Boojum replicated her whirlwind of emotions, and was by her side at the mailbox every morning without fail.
Over a week now. What had happened? Where was Clive? She rehearsed conversations over and over in her head. What would she say to him? He had broken his promise. Should she be cold and distant, or run straight into his arms?

Chapter 8-1998
Sylvia checked her mailbox-nothing. He could have written, apologised for not showing up. Unless, of course, the unthinkable had happened, in which case, Chibby could have written, or, even better, come home. 18 years of letters. They couldn’t all get lost in delivery.
A few years ago, Sylvia succeeded in escaping her family (Unlike her brother, though, she did so during the day.), and managed to rescue one of Boojum’s pups, Bishop, on her way. She bought a cottage in Cork, Ireland, and redecorated it from the modern style to an old-fashioned look, well-suited to her tastes. It sat just back from the head of a cliff that overlooked the ocean. The crashing of the waves and the foam lapping excitedly at the rocks produced a calming lullaby, one that would comfort Sylvia through some of the best and hardest times of her life.
Sylvia’s little daughters loved the sea, spending hour upon hour down at the shore. Phyllis, who was surprisingly perceptive for her age, noticed their mother had other things on her mind, but never brought it up, and tried to distract her sisters, letting Sylvia sit alone with her thoughts. Claire was stubborn and demanding, while at the same time, so sweet and innocent that you’d want to do anything for her. Abbey was just a baby, quiet and happy if she got her way, and already inquisitive about the world.
When her girls were busy, Sylvia would rummage through old boxes and cabinets to find a book she hadn’t read five times over already! She never stopped throwing herself into stories and documents that took her away from the life of Sylvia Frye. She loved her children, as most mothers do, but it wasn’t enough. She was missing something. Something else in her life that only one person could return, and no number of books could replace it. Still, reading was a way to kill time.
Then one day, Sylvia’s life would be shredded, the last drop of hope being thoroughly squeezed out of her. The mailbox was not empty. One solitary envelope. A small manila envelope that could cause chaos slanted against the side. She knew before she opened it what the letter would scream at her, so she sat in a circle of stones at the clifftop, listening as hard as she could to the soothing song of the sea.
The envelope was taped shut, like it was hiding a great secret. Inside was a note:
Tuesday,
Dear Sylvie,
I don’t know if you remember me-we met a few times when we were young. I’m a close friend of your brother, Clive. We’ve been sailing to islands and countries I never knew even existed! I hope you’re doing well. Clive showed me the picture of your girls and they’re absolutely beautiful! I know for sure that Clive has written to you every day, even if they don’t reach Ireland. He really missed you. However, as I am the only other person here, it is my impossible task to write the words I am about to.
Sylvia, Clive was taken ill about a month ago. He wanted to go home, to see you, but we didn’t make it. He passed away peacefully in his sleep a few nights back. Please understand I did everything I could and he was never alone. We haven’t quite determined what went wrong, but the coroner is far more experienced in these matters than I am. I’m coming back home now, Sylvia, and I’ll meet you and the girls in Cork. I’m sorry.
Chibby Fielding,
Sylvia pulled a bundle of seaweed out of the envelope and read the piece of paper wrapped around it:
FOR SYLVIE-AS PROMISED-CLIVE XX
In that bundle of seaweed was a walnut with SYLVIA written in blue ink on the side.

Chapter 9-2004
Claire carefully stacked the cups back into the cupboard. “Abbey, help me out here, will you?” Claire was short for her age and had climbed onto the worktop to reach, but had left some crockery in the sink. Abbey, a lively, tall seven-year-old twirled into the room, a wide grin and sparkling green eyes leaping off her rosy face. “What can I do?” her young, eager voice rang out. Claire smiled and pointed to the sink. “Could you pass up the plates?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for me to put them away? I am taller.”
“I know, but I don’t want you falling off and hurting yourself. Then I’d have no-one to help me!”
Abbey started humming a tune that was irritatingly familiar to Claire. “What is that? That tune?”
“It’s for school. I was chosen to sing a song that no-one else in the class should know for the talent show on Friday. I have to sing all on my own!”
“Oh yeah? What did you pick?”
“‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’ It’s really hard cause I can’t go low enough!”
“Oh, of course it is! How stupid of me! Go on-sing a bit”
Abbey blushed, then sung in a surprisingly powerful voice:
“I’m wild again.
Beguiled again.
A simpering, whimpering child again.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered,
Am I...”
Claire applauded as Abbey curtsied modestly. “Was it any good?”
“Abbey, you deserve first prize for that verse alone.”
Abbey piled bowls into her arms. She watched her Mama through the window, then sked abruptly, “Why doesn’t Mama laugh? Is she unhappy?”
Claire didn’t know what to do. She had been expecting the question for at least a few months, yet still, it startled her. She froze, sitting on the counter, contemplating what the best answer would be. Abbey thought she wasn’t going to reply, but after what felt like an eternity, Claire said, “She doesn’t.”
Abbey passed the bowls up to her sister. “She seems to have been sad ever since I was born. Is it my fault?” Claire leapt off the counter and sat Abbey at the table. “Don’t you ever think that! Mama hasn’t been very happy all my life, either, but just let it be. It isn’t anybody’s fault, least of all yours. Dou you understand that, Abigail?”
“Yeah. What went wrong?”
“I don’t know. Abbey, there are times in a grown-up's life when bad things happen. And that bad thing can stay with you for a long time, and sometimes it hurts more than others. Perhaps one of those bad things happened to Mama and she can’t let it go. I’m sure it doesn’t take away from how much she loves us. You don’t need to worry, Abbey.”
“I do worry.”
Claire pulled Abbey into an embrace and stroked her hair. Abbey had always appeared so strong and able to endure anything. Seeing her break down knocked all the confidence from Claire, who sat hugging her sister in the creeping darkness of evening.
The next morning, Claire, Abbey and Carol were sat at the kitchen table, attempting a jigsaw puzzle, when a chubby little girl skipped in and peeked over the table edge. “What’cha doin’?” The Irish accent that was only hinted at in her sisters’ voices dominated young Charlotte’s articulation.
“We’re puzzling! Come on.” Claire lifted Charlotte onto a chair and pushed some pieces in front of her.
“What’s the picture?”
“See for yourself.” Abbey showed Charlotte the box cover.
“Duckies!” Charlotte laughed.
“Yeah, you wanna help?”
Charlotte nodded vigorously and plunged into her pile of pieces.

Chapter 10-2020
I was startled by the ring of the phone. Loud, shrill and disturbing, it resonated like a scream until Phyllis picked up the receiver. “Hello?” Her voice was quiet and hoarse and I struggled to hear what she was saying. “Charlotte, what time is it there? Here it’s-um-half eleven. What? Right. Uh-huh. Yes. No, no, of course, we understand. That’s fine. Talk soon. Ok. Bye-bye.” She dropped the phone carelessly into the cradle and entered my room. “Charlotte isn’t coming.” she remarked flatly.
I don’t care. I don’t want her here. In fact, I don’t really want any of my sisters here, and definitely not Phyllis. Greta can. She said she will come, and she’s the type of person who keeps her word.
When Phyllis came in, I had moved to the window, pretending not to listen to her conversation, and looking out at the cliffs. Mama doesn’t come back at sunset like she used to. She stays out at the rocks, heedless of the aggressiveness of the weather. I grabbed my shawl and barged past Phyllis, who stood helplessly in the doorway.
I wrapped the marbled-pattern cotton tenderly around Mama’s shoulders and rested my head on her knees, hugging her legs. It was then that I saw the first sign of life in Mama. She softly placed her hand on mine and the tears that burned down her face lightly tapped my damp hair. I nuzzled my cheek into her and fell asleep at her feet, feeling like a child that had spent the whole night waiting for Santa.
By morning, the sun streaked onto my skin, highlighting the auburn in my hair. Mama was sleeping, so I went back into the house. Phyllis was waiting for me on the stairs. An instant hatred exploded in me as she caught my wrist. “Abigail, you know you shouldn’t stay...”
“Don’t!” I interrupted, jerking my arm away sharply. “Don’t start, Phyllis! Don’t lecture me! Just don’t!” I stormed off.
Later that afternoon, a small green car I’d never seen before pulled up and I panicked. Was someone in trouble? Or worse, dead? I know I say some bad things about the girls, but they are still family. A beautiful woman in an elegant summer dress approached me. She smiled warmly.
“Abbey, Frye, don’t you recognise me?” She twirled over and kissed my cheek.
“No, not at all, stranger!” I hugged her happily. “I’m so glad you’re here, Greta! I can’t take anymore of Phyllis’s incessant ‘Phyllis-ness’!”
“Oh, no, she’s not here, is she?” Greta whined. “The Wicked Witch of the West!” she giggled in her girlish, innocent way.
She followed me into the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Water, tea, coffee?” she smiled and I threw a bottle to her. “Tequila?”
“That’s more like it!” Greta gulped some down from the bottle and toppled backwards into the wall. I smirked knowingly and she flung her coat at me, missing by several metres.
“How is Mama?” She peered out the window.
“Coping, I suppose.” I took a swig of tequila. “She stays out there all the time, but...” I drifted off, preoccupied with Greta, staring at Mama through the window. She wasn’t expecting this, I could tell. “Are you ok?”
“I don’t know.”
I moved over to comfort her, but I didn’t know what to say. I gripped her hand tightly and we watched the seagulls circling above the sea.

Chapter 11-2020
I lead Greta up to the guest room where Phyllis was staying. “Has she got a green face, warts and a broomstick?” Greta whispered and I snorted a little too loudly. I knocked on the door, the pair of us stifling laughter (it was so good to have Greta back!), until Phyllis answered. She stared at Greta like she was an intruder. “Who’s that?”
“Don’t be rude, Phyllis! You know Greta, your sister.”
Greta timidly shifted her eyes up from the floor to Phyllis’s steely glare, and, to her regret, burst into hysterics.
Phyllis stood before us, a long cloak over her shoulders, a floor-length black dress hung loosely around her figure, and to top it all off, a hat, pulled to a point unintentionally on her bun of blonde hair. She can’t really have seen what she looked like!
“What on earth could possibly be so funny, Margaret? What do you want?” Phyllis huffed. Greta held my shoulder to steady herself, breathless with laughter, while Phyllis and I fought with our eyes.
Eventually, Phyllis gave up and brushed between us, throwing me a warning look. Once she was out of earshot, Greta collapsed on the bed, howling. “I can’t speak! I... She’s so... I can’t!”
I sat beside her. “Greta, I wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you’ve stayed in touch all these years. No-one else did.”
“But I don’t visit as often as I should.”
“You’re busy. And I don’t mean looking after your neighbour’s house. You’re busy. But you write every week and call. That’s more than Carol, or Charlotte, or Claire do. I’ve not heard from Claire since I can’t remember when!”
“Well.”
“I mean it, Greta. Now, do you wanna go talk to her? She doesn’t reply or respond in any way, but she does hear what I say, and take it in. I’ll admit, I’m pretty sure she tries hard not to listen to Phyllis.”
“Who would?”
“Come on. She’ll be pleased to see you.”
I took Greta out to the rocks and she faltered for a moment. I encouraged her on, then gave Mother and Daughter some privacy.
I burst into Phyllis’s room and halted suddenly at the door. About eight suitcases were strewn around the room and Phyllis brown fur coat hung over the headboard of the bed. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but the signs were all there. Could Phyllis really be going? That one weekend seemed to drag on forever!
“You’re not supposed to come into my room without permission, Abigail, you know this.” Phyllis stood behind me.
“What are we, five?”
“Well, the rule still applies.”
“Phyllis, you do know this is my house, right?”
“I said, the rule still applies!”
“You sound like a teenager!”
“You’re acting like one!”
“No, now you sound like a toddler! Listen, what is all this?” I indicated the room. “It looks like a goddamn tornado hit!”
Phyllis forced herself to appear grounded and civil, but failed enormously. “If you must know...”
“I must.”
“If you must know, Random House called and said they need me to go back and sort out a mess that one of my incompetent colleagues created. I’ve got to leave.”
I hope I managed to keep a straight face. “Ok, you gotta go, then go. Just make sure you say goodbye to Mama first.”
Phyllis stepped towards me. “Yes, sure, ok. Now, I’ve got to-I've got a plane to catch, but before I go, I’ll ask one more time. Are you sure you wanna stay here? It’s not too late. I can still book an extra ticket.”
“Get out, Phyllis.”
I kicked several suitcases out into the hall and Phyllis hurriedly picked up all she could. “Be careful, for Christ's sake! That’s a Singer!”
I looked at her, perplexed. Why did she bring a sewing machine? She’s Phyllis, so I decided to let it go. She composed herself and swiftly left the house. Finally, a weight has been lifted.
Standing in the room, watching the taxi drive away, I seriously considered throwing a party. Greta had been hiding. She peered over my shoulder and hissed, “The witch is dead! It’s all over now.” She cackled, sounding less innocent by the minute.

Chapter 12-2020
Greta went home last night. Now it’s back to the way it usually is, the way I like it-Mama, me and the birds. No-one else. We’re the perfect partnership. I only wish she would let me in.
Although it was late, the sun still illuminated each room. I took a glass of water out to the rocks and dropped it in alarm. Mama wasn’t there! I left the glass, shattered in the grass, and ran back to the house, calling out loud enough for the world to hear. “Mama! Mama? Sylvia Frye, where are you?” Terror and fear attacked all my thoughts and I suddenly became acutely aware of how heavy my breathing was.
I sunk down onto the steps, whimpering. Where could she have gone? Was she kidnapped? (Anything seemed plausible now.) I stumbled back to the rocks and curled inside the circle. Hugging the cold stone of that sacred place on the cliff where Mama had spent so many years, I could smell her perfume. That sweet, fruity smell that overpowered the saltiness of the sea or the dampness of the dew on the grass.
Then I felt a familiar hand on my shoulder. Firm, but gentle; soft but hard; comforting, but disconcerting all at the same time. I turned, and through blurred tears, I was gazing into Mama’s eyes, brighter now than ever before. A grey, colourless smile in them.
She told me, for the first time, the story of her life. Of her childhood in Texas, her parents, her siblings; of Clive and the journey from which he never came home. She told me of my father, and of Boojum and his pups. And finally, everything-every story I’d ever heard and every picture I’d ever seen-seemed real. It all came alive for me, because Mama was telling it.
And once she came to the end, to where we are now, she looked directly into my eyes, and smiled. The smile I’d pined for. The smile that I had longed to see all my life was beautiful. It made her whole face light up! She took my hand and rolled a small object into my palm. She kissed my fingers and turned back to the house. I opened my hand. A walnut.
The walnut.

Author's Note

This was the first substantial story I wrote, so go ahead and criticize but please keep that in mind.