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Authors: Hilary Bonner
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sure, but he didnât create a fuss. Indeed, by the time we went to bed that night it was almost as if it hadnât happened.
I was just sorry I had wasted so much money on the orange suit. And, of course, I never wore it again.
One way or another, I really had more or less forgotten our vandalised van when two days after my unfortunate shopping expedition, a letter arrived.
The words and letters were cut out of a newspaper. The message was stark and chilling. âI SAW YOU TOGETHER LAST NIGHT. I WATCHED YOU IN BED. HOW LONG DO YOU THINK THIS CAN GO ON? HOW LONG CAN YOU LIVE A LIE? FACE THE TRUTH, SUZANNE.â
The post had arrived while Carl was in the bathroom. There were three pieces of mail, one obviously junk, the electricity bill and the offending letter. The address was carefully printed using letters from one of those stencil kits you can buy in Smithâs, and although with the benefit of hindsight it did look a bit odd, I did not initially study it very closely and no particular warning bells rang as I put the mail on the rickety old dining-room table and sat myself down to open it.
My shock was total. My cup of tea grew cold at my side as I stared dumbly at the letter on the table before me. This was nothing like the scratched words on our van, which surely could have been the work of kids. Someone out there was definitely threatening us. Or, more particularly, me. It was quite terrifying seeing my name there on the page. âFACE THE TRUTH, SUZANNEâ, made my blood run cold.
My first instinct, of course, was to shout for Carl, but then, for once, I decided it was my place to protect him. I wouldnât show it to him, wouldnât give him more to worry about. When I heard his footsteps on the stairs I slipped the letter quickly back into its envelope and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans. Then I forced myself to appear bright and normal as Carl ruffled my hair in passing â if he minded it being so much shorter he never passed comment â and went into our tiny kitchen to pour himself his breakfast coffee.
He was particularly buoyant and energetic that morning, the way he always was on those good days when he couldnât wait to get to work. Encouraged by Willâs reaction to the paintings we had delivered to him, in particular Balloons , he was working on another even bigger abstract inspired by the kind of shapes we saw daily on the yachts out in the bay. Carl liked best of all to use the things he saw in our everyday life in St Ives in an innovative way. He soon retreated into his studio, humming something indecipherable. It was probably his great favourite, Leonard Cohen, but you couldnât really tell. Carl was a hopeless singer, quite incapable of carrying a tune. His attempts did invariably make me smile, though.
But that morning I felt I had little to smile about. When I was sure Carl was safely engrossed in his work I took the envelope from my pocket and looked at it again without opening it. I told myself that what I should do was to rip the thing to shreds, dump it in the bin and force myself not to think about it. But for some reason I couldnât bring myself to throw it away. Instead, I hid it in the cupboard under the stairs, tucking it into a crack in a bit of old broken brickwork.
The day passed slowly for me, although Carl was in his element. He barely emerged from the studio. I made him some egg sandwiches for lunch but he seemed almost unaware of my existence when I took them to him.
âItâs good, Carl,â I told him, peering over his shoulders. The colours were more muted than Balloons , but the shapes even more clearly defined and dramatic.
âMm,â was his distracted reply. He ate one of the sandwiches when I actually placed it in his hand and ignored the rest. That was how it was when he was working well. Normally I would have thoroughly enjoyed watching him work like this, but on that day I didnât even attempt to. I
I was just sorry I had wasted so much money on the orange suit. And, of course, I never wore it again.
One way or another, I really had more or less forgotten our vandalised van when two days after my unfortunate shopping expedition, a letter arrived.
The words and letters were cut out of a newspaper. The message was stark and chilling. âI SAW YOU TOGETHER LAST NIGHT. I WATCHED YOU IN BED. HOW LONG DO YOU THINK THIS CAN GO ON? HOW LONG CAN YOU LIVE A LIE? FACE THE TRUTH, SUZANNE.â
The post had arrived while Carl was in the bathroom. There were three pieces of mail, one obviously junk, the electricity bill and the offending letter. The address was carefully printed using letters from one of those stencil kits you can buy in Smithâs, and although with the benefit of hindsight it did look a bit odd, I did not initially study it very closely and no particular warning bells rang as I put the mail on the rickety old dining-room table and sat myself down to open it.
My shock was total. My cup of tea grew cold at my side as I stared dumbly at the letter on the table before me. This was nothing like the scratched words on our van, which surely could have been the work of kids. Someone out there was definitely threatening us. Or, more particularly, me. It was quite terrifying seeing my name there on the page. âFACE THE TRUTH, SUZANNEâ, made my blood run cold.
My first instinct, of course, was to shout for Carl, but then, for once, I decided it was my place to protect him. I wouldnât show it to him, wouldnât give him more to worry about. When I heard his footsteps on the stairs I slipped the letter quickly back into its envelope and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans. Then I forced myself to appear bright and normal as Carl ruffled my hair in passing â if he minded it being so much shorter he never passed comment â and went into our tiny kitchen to pour himself his breakfast coffee.
He was particularly buoyant and energetic that morning, the way he always was on those good days when he couldnât wait to get to work. Encouraged by Willâs reaction to the paintings we had delivered to him, in particular Balloons , he was working on another even bigger abstract inspired by the kind of shapes we saw daily on the yachts out in the bay. Carl liked best of all to use the things he saw in our everyday life in St Ives in an innovative way. He soon retreated into his studio, humming something indecipherable. It was probably his great favourite, Leonard Cohen, but you couldnât really tell. Carl was a hopeless singer, quite incapable of carrying a tune. His attempts did invariably make me smile, though.
But that morning I felt I had little to smile about. When I was sure Carl was safely engrossed in his work I took the envelope from my pocket and looked at it again without opening it. I told myself that what I should do was to rip the thing to shreds, dump it in the bin and force myself not to think about it. But for some reason I couldnât bring myself to throw it away. Instead, I hid it in the cupboard under the stairs, tucking it into a crack in a bit of old broken brickwork.
The day passed slowly for me, although Carl was in his element. He barely emerged from the studio. I made him some egg sandwiches for lunch but he seemed almost unaware of my existence when I took them to him.
âItâs good, Carl,â I told him, peering over his shoulders. The colours were more muted than Balloons , but the shapes even more clearly defined and dramatic.
âMm,â was his distracted reply. He ate one of the sandwiches when I actually placed it in his hand and ignored the rest. That was how it was when he was working well. Normally I would have thoroughly enjoyed watching him work like this, but on that day I didnât even attempt to. I
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