She abandoned the Sudoku now, and closed down the programme, so that all I could see on her laptop was her desktop wallpaper – which appeared, rather bizarrely, to be a photograph of some sort of catamaran, a very old one, half-decayed, a ruin of shattered plyboard and flaking paint, lying abandoned somewhere on a tropical beach. My eyes rested curiously on this for a while, as she told me more about her uncle, and why she liked him so much. She told me how her mother had sent her to this posh boarding school in Surrey at the age of thirteen; how she was supposed to be just a weekly boarder, and come home every Friday evening, but her mother was often out of the country so she would go and stay with her uncle instead; how she came to cherish and look forward to these visits; how Clive (who lived in Kew) would take her almost every weekend to the cinema, or the theatre, to concerts and art galleries, introducing her to worlds which before then had been closed to her. And how, if he wasn’t seeing her at the weekends, he would write long letters to her, letters full of news, full of humour, full of fun and information and anecdote and, above all, full of love.
‘And you know what?’ she told me. ‘I still read those letters. I still take them with me everywhere.’
‘Everywhere?’
‘Yes. Even on these trips. I’ve got them right here.’ She tapped her forefinger against the laptop. ‘I scanned them all in. And all the photos he used to send me. This one, for instance – this is one of Clive’s.’ She was pointing to the photograph of the washed-up boat. ‘Well, he didn’t take it or anything like that,’ she explained. ‘It was taken by an artist called Tacita Dean. The boat’s called
‘Teignmouth?’ I said. ‘That’s in Devon, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Where Clive and my mum grew up.’
‘So why do you have it on your desktop?’
‘Because there’s an amazing story associated with it. The story of a man called Donald Crowhurst.’ She gave a yawn, protracted and involuntary, before remembering to cover it with her hand. ‘Sorry – I’m really sleepy all of a sudden. Have you heard of him?’
I shook my head.
‘He was the man who sailed round the world in the late sixties. Or at least said he did, but actually he didn’t.’
‘I see,’ I said, totally confused.
‘I’m not explaining this very well, am I?’
‘You’re tired. You should go to sleep.’
‘No, but it’s a great story. I think you should hear it.’
‘I’m fine. I’ll just watch a movie. You’re too tired to talk. Tell me the story in the morning.’
‘I wasn’t going to tell you the story. I was just going to read you what Clive wrote to me about it.’
‘It can wait.’
‘Tell you what.’ Poppy tapped a few keys on her laptop before passing it over to my table, and then reaching beneath her own seat where she had stashed her pillow and blankets. ‘You can read his letter. There it is. It’s a bit long, sorry – but you’ve got plenty of time, and it’ll do you more good than watching some terrible rom-com for a couple of hours.’
‘Are you sure that’s OK? I mean, I don’t want to look at anything that’s … too private.’
But Poppy assured me it was OK. So while she snuggled down under the blankets, I placed her computer on my lap, and looked at the first page of her uncle’s letter. It had opened up in Windows Picture and Fax Viewer, so that I could still see the creamy yellow of the notepaper on which he had written it, and even make out the faint swirling watermark behind the handwriting. The writing itself was crisp, angular and easily legible. I guessed that he had been using a fountain pen. The ink was navy blue, shading almost into black. As I started reading the first sentences I felt a slight pressure against my left shoulder, and looked down to see that Poppy had placed her pillow next to it and settled her head there. She looked up at me, just briefly, as if to ask permission with her eyes, but at the same instant her eyelids flickered and closed, and already she had slipped into a deep, unshakeable sleep. After a few seconds, when I felt it was safe to do so, I breathed a goodnight kiss into her hair, and could feel my own body tingle with happiness.
12 March 2001
Dear Poppy
I was sorry not to see you this weekend. Weekends are always a bit lonely here when you’re not around. You missed a glorious display in the Gardens – the crocus carpet is in full bloom already – very early this year – and to stroll along Cherry Walk, one’s eyes taking in swathe upon swathe of these white and purple beauties, their heads bobbing in the breeze, is to realize that spring has come again – finally! Anyway, I hope you had a good time with your mother. Did she take you anywhere, do anything interesting with you? The NFT were showing
Now, about our plans for Saturday. I think I mentioned that there was a show at Tate Britain at the moment that you might find especially interesting? They are showing some films and photographs by a new young artist called Tacita Dean. You might possibly have heard of her already. A couple of years ago she was shortlisted for the Turner Prize. If you don’t like the sound of it, just say so and we shall certainly find something else to do, but I hope you will want to come. I have to say that I have very particular and personal reasons for wanting to see this show. You see, it contains a short film inspired by the disappearance at sea of the lone yachtsman Donald Crowhurst in the summer of 1969 – and even, so I am led to believe, some photographs of his ill-fated yacht, the
It occurs to me that you might not know what on earth I am talking about here. It also occurs to me that, if I am to tell you a little bit about my fascination with the story of Donald Crowhurst, this is going to turn into a very long letter. But, no matter. It is Monday morning, an empty day stretches ahead of me, and there is nothing I like better than writing to my niece. So, excuse me for a moment while I go and pour myself another cup of coffee, and I shall try to explain.
