The Wish List - ebook

Monday, 19 September

The rumble of the engine in my Corsa faded. I pulled the key out of the ignition and leaned back in my seat with a sigh. I was about to get out, but a glimmer of a photo in the sun visor caught my eye and my heart dropped.

My mum was a beautiful woman. Time didn’t manage to paint too many wrinkles on her face, and her shapely figure could be envied by many young girls. The sun setting over the Cromer pier gave her skin a glow, and the summer wind blew her hair. The smile she gave me just before I took this photo was joyful and still completely untainted by the disease that took her last breath less than a year later.

I loved this photograph and the memory it evoked, but seeing her face again only brought a heaviness in my chest that I had felt since her death. I slowly let the air out through my mouth and unconsciously rubbed my tired eyes, only to realise that I must have smudged my makeup in the process. I completely forgot about it. Today, I put it on for the first time since she had passed away. The face in the mirror looked back at me with no expression. Concealer and a thick layer of foundation did not hide the dark circles under my eyes. I was exhausted.

Completing all the formalities leading to her funeral from the list she had left for me gave me a tough time, and although I sorted out almost all the testamentary obligations in just two months, I didn’t feel any joy from fulfilling her will. Organising the funeral and wake, and taking care of other official matters became the only way to survive the first days without her. A list of simple requests from banking to packing and putting all her clothes and belongings in the loft gave me a reason to get out of bed every day. There was only one task left, the strangest one, I have to admit. That’s why I left its execution to the very end. To be honest, I didn’t fully understand the purpose of it. I had too little information, and that made me feel nervous.

I took a deep breath and got out of the car. The old cottage had a forlorn air to it. The sad grey exterior felt like a relic from the past, its existence drained of life and joy. I let my gaze wander across the neglected pathway leading up to the building. It was like looking at a desolate dreamscape.

I knocked on the door, which opened after a long while with a loud creak. There stood a slim, tall man dressed in a grey hoodie and dark bottoms. His sharp facial features were partially covered by a pointed beard. Locks of curly, greyish hair fell on his wrinkled forehead. He squinted at me from under narrowed opened eyelids, and a grimace of discontent appeared on his face.

‘Mr John Harris?’ I asked, stepping back involuntarily half a step, intimidated by his height and unfriendly gaze.

‘I’m not interested in your vision of my salvation or in the answer to whether God is love,’ he hissed irritably.

‘No! No! It’s not that!’ I stammered, taken aback by his hostile demeanour.

‘I don’t want the Avon catalogue either,’ he added, ready to slam the door in my face.

‘But sir! I’m Lucinda Blackbird, Maya’s daughter,’ I hurriedly blurted out, instinctively grabbing onto the door handle. ‘My mum asked me to deliver this letter to you.’

I held out my hand with the envelope towards him, but he didn’t reach for it.

The sound of my mother’s name made an impression on him because he glanced at me sympathetically and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Fine, come in,’ he conceded, stepping back a little to let me in.

I took a step forward, captivated by the mysterious host and his lodging. I shut the door behind me and glanced around the dimly lit living area connected with a kitchenette. The sunlight was filtering through a narrow slit of partially drawn curtains in one of the two windows, illuminating the darkness. Mr Harris wandered over to the wooden table, gesturing at one of the chairs for me to take a seat.

I moved the chair as far away from the table as I could as if that would protect my nose from the intoxicating stench of the cigar left smouldering in the ashtray.

‘Mr Harris,’ I began, wincing involuntarily. ‘I’m not going to take up much of your time. Just accept this letter, and I’ll be on my way.’

I held out my hand with the envelope again, but the man ignored the gesture once more.

‘You read it!’ he grumbled and sat down on the edge of the bed nearby.

I narrowed my gaze in contempt. He had no right to talk to me like that! But I guess there was a purpose for this visit, and if he wanted me to read the letter, then so be it.

I wearily leaned back in my chair and tugged at the heavy velvet curtains letting in a warm ray of sunlight. I squinted my tired eyes to make out my mother’s neat handwriting—her final words were etched in my memory forever.

Harris hissed and shied away from the light as if he despised it.

I took a deep breath and began to read out loud, trying to understand the hidden meaning beneath each word. What she wrote made little sense to me, but one thing was certain from the text—she asked Mr Harris to finish a novel he had started writing for her years ago.

‘Fucking hell, your mother always had stupid ideas!’ he growled when I finished reading the last words, angrily nudged his foot at the typewriter, which for some weird and wonderful reason was right next to his bed.

‘I beg your pardon?!’ I instantly felt offended. ‘Excuse me, sir! My mum …’

‘I really can’t be bothered to do any writing at the moment!’ he interrupted me, completely oblivious to my agitation. ‘I don’t have time or willpower for any of that bollocks lately! Besides, my head has experienced no inspiration whatsoever for ages, plus I’m blind as a bat.’

Suddenly, I understood why I was the one to read the letter.

‘I see,’ I replied amicably. ‘If you allow me, I will be happy to help. I work as an editor, so working on books is a pure pleasure for me. You can also record yourself on a recorder and I’ll write it all down … Many authors create the first drafts of their books this way …’ I explained promptly, and in an act of desperation, I folded my hands as if in prayer. ‘I am very keen on fulfilling my mother’s last wish. Please, sir …!’

Mr Harris quivered as if something touched his neck, scratched the back of his head and then reached for a new cigar, though one was still burning in the ashtray. The next thing I saw was his grumpy face disappear in a cloud of thick smoke, which irritated my throat even worse.

‘Do you have a laptop?’ he asked. ‘Since I gave Maya my word, and promises must be kept … Let’s get on with it.’

‘Of course, I do!’ I jumped up excitedly. ‘Does that mean that you agree?’

‘Do I have another choice?!’ he laughed.

In an instant, I realised what I had got myself into. I will have to put up with his moody arse for a little bit longer than I had planned before this visit.

John got up and threw the tip of the cigar from the ashtray into the cold ashes in the fireplace.

‘Come back tomorrow at eight o’clock in the morning,’ he said. ‘I expect you to speak as little as possible and do not—I repeat—do not bother me with any unnecessary questions. Roger that?’ I nodded obediently, and he added, ‘We need about a week and a few bottles of good whiskey.’

I didn’t have a chance to respond to that last demand, as he rushed to the door and opened it wide, making it clear that he had had enough of my company.

I muttered goodbye and left. I hurried into my car, turned on the engine and drove away hastily, eager to get away from him and his stinky place as soon as I could. On the way home, I wondered how my mum could have been friends with such a grump. Both the building and its owner did not make a good impression on me.

***

Mum kept her past under wraps. I was stunned when one day she unexpectedly admitted that she had once published a novel and some short stories in various anthologies. I begged her to reveal the titles to me, but it was all in vain. No matter how hard I searched on the Internet, I couldn’t find any trace of them. We talked about it several times until my mother confessed that she had published under a pen name, fearing ridicule and undue attention in the small village where she grew up.

My questioning made her uncomfortable, so eventually I dropped it. I believed that soon enough, we’d have plenty of time to get back to this fascinating topic, but sadly, destiny had different plans …

***

Ever since my mother passed away, I have been diving into the trunks of memories she left behind. The more I uncovered, the more I realised that the image she had projected as a parent was just a façade, hiding her true self. It seemed that stepping into motherhood meant she had to abandon the life she had once known. We only ever had each other. My father abandoned us before I was even born, and never looked back. Whenever I asked about him, it would anger her to no end, and she’d snap at me with the same cryptic message: ‘Some people don’t deserve a place in our hearts any longer than footprints on sand washed by the sea waves.’ When I was younger, those words didn’t make sense to me, but as time passed and heartbreaks piled up, their meaning became all too clear.

***

My mother meant the world to me. She made every effort to ensure that I never lacked anything. She worked in the library and loved books so much that she surrounded herself with them, not only professionally but also at home. Our house was bursting at the seams with piles of novels and endless sagas. She would read at any opportunity given. It was thanks to her passion that I fell in love with the written word. It was inevitable. I grew up in the love for literature, so it was no surprise when I graduated in literary studies and then secured an internship at a publishing house where I now work as an editor.

Every time I met my mother’s gaze, I saw pride gleaming from her eyes—this only strengthened my resolve to keep pushing towards my dreams.

***

On my way home, I wondered whether Harris had become so grumpy with age or rather as a result of lack of contact with people.

When I first arrived in the village, I couldn’t find my way to his house as easily as I thought I would. The thorp seemed to have only a few roads, but somehow, I managed to get lost within the first few turns. Eager to complete my mum’s last request, I headed to the village convenience store near the church. The shop owner eyed me suspiciously as I inquired about Mr Harris’s place of residence, and supplied more than just directions. It instantly became clear to me that the man did not win her sympathy. According to her, he arrived in the village last autumn. If the woman was to be believed, he had only a few suitcases of clothes and a typewriter with him. He stayed in a cottage by the lake, which used to belong to an ex-fireman called Bob, who passed away a few years back. Mr Harris rarely appeared in her shop and never bothered replying to the many invites posted through his letter box to join the weekly bingo and cake evenings held in the village hall. After a while, the only signs of his presence in Bob’s place were smoke coming from the chimney and the sounds of some music on the lake.

Naturally, he soon became the latest addition to the local gossip.

***

After a dinner that I had been heavily craving, I poured myself a glass of wine and pondered over my new duties. With the prospect of having to visit the cottage regularly, it seemed sensible to rent a room somewhere near Mr Harris’s house.

Furthermore, moving locations was not only to ease the travel time to the cottage but also a way of escaping the painful memories of my mother that still lingered in my home. It was late September, and I found an idyllic little B&B by the lake, located less than twenty minutes’ drive from Mr Harris’s house. In peak season, I doubted I would have had such luck, yet I thought of it as a much-needed change after such a testing time. Settling there for the next week or so, I could easily work remotely and find some respite from everyday life.

Tuesday, 20 September

The sun timidly began to break through the branches of the trees when I pulled up outside the cottage. As I stepped onto the porch, a sleek black cat hissed at me from the shadowy corner. I was about to knock on the door when a gruff voice called out from within:

‘Enter! It’s unlocked.’

‘Good morning, Mr Harris,’ I said as I entered the musty cottage, the bitter chill of neglect hung in the air. Shadows danced across the cluttered room, shards of fading light catching wisps of dust swirling through the gloom. The bookshelves laid barren like ribs picked clean of meat. ‘I am here as we agreed.’

He eyed me sceptically, furrowing his eyebrows.

‘What was your name, again?’

‘Lucinda, but everyone calls me Lucy,’ I replied confidently. ‘My mother named me after her favourite author, Lucinda Riley.’

He snorted disdainfully in response. ‘Lucinda?! What kind of name is that?!’

I merely smiled patiently and shook my head; this was a conversation I was well accustomed to having with strangers. After all these years, it still surprised people that Lucy could be short for Lucinda.

My companion was sitting at a wooden table hunched over a briefcase. He furiously scoured its contents as if looking for something specific, but he seemed to be too disorganised in his actions. I watched him as he picked up more papers and then held them at arm’s length while squinting his eyes.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ he exclaimed exasperatedly. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

‘What are you searching for, Mr Harris? I’ll help you out,’ I offered, sliding my chair next to him and dropping my bag onto the backrest with a heavy thud. I sat down beside him, carefully pulling one of the pieces of paper from between his fingers.

‘Call me John, please. Mr Harris was my father after all,’ he muttered after a few moments of silence. Undeterred by the awkwardness of the situation, I dived into helping him find whatever it was that he was looking for.

With a swift movement, he shoved the briefcase towards me.

‘Here you go, that’s the whole manuscript of the book we have to work on. Probably the pages got muddled so you have to put them in order and read them to me.’

‘Okey dokey,’ I said enthusiastically, itching to start. Reading and editing are my favourite things in the world after all.

‘Lucinda,’ he said with contempt in his voice, leaning back in the old chair until it cracked. ‘That’s a bit of a crap name if you ask me.’

I smirked. It also crossed my mind once or twice before.

I leaned over the manuscript. Fortunately, the pages were numbered in each lower right corner with a pencil. I at once got to work and started flipping through the pages in silent concentration. Harris didn’t speak either.

‘Done,’ I said after a few minutes. ‘What now?’

‘Now you have to read it to me,’ he replied, got up from the chair and sat at the nearby armchair. ‘You brought the bottle as I told you?’

I gave him a nod of confirmation and reached into my bag for the bottle of whiskey.

‘Pour me a glass, will ya? You know, to ease my pain while I have to listen to it.’ And with a wave of his hand, he pointed to the cabinet by the sink where the dishes were drying.

‘Sure,’ I said sarcastically.

I found only one glass, so I poured some whiskey into a cup and drank it immediately. I struggled to suppress the mounting irritation as he issued command after command, devoid of the simple courtesy of uttering please. I hated it when someone spoke to me like I was a maid.

The amber liquid embraced my throat in its pleasant warmth, leaving a bourbon flavour from an oak barrel in my mouth.

‘Ready?’ I asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

John confirmed with a mutter, enjoying the alcohol.

I began to read. With each new page, I became convinced that the guy could write good stories. It’s strange that I’ve never heard of him before. His language was rough, his words strong and his sentences full of content. The story drew me in so much that for a moment I forgot where I was. I stopped only when my throat was completely dry. I drank a few sips of mineral water from the bottle I always carry in my bag and then immediately went back to reading.

The author of the story written on loose sheets of paper sat motionless, with his head resting on the headrest. He listened attentively, with his eyes closed, without commenting. From time to time, he would raise the glass of whiskey to his lips, then cough and grunt for a moment as if strong alcohol was irritating his throat.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked at one point, in a manner as soft as I would never have expected him to have.

‘No, go ahead,’ I said. After all, it was his house.

‘They’re in a box on the dresser.’ He nodded in that direction. ‘The lighter should be there as well, and the ashtray in the sink.’

‘Don’t bother getting up then, I’ll get it for you, shall I?!’ I retorted.

‘Thank you,’ he replied when I handed him what he had asked for. ‘And as you are already up, a refill would be nice. See, my glass is completely dry.’

‘Anything else?!’ I murmured. ‘Maybe you need a blanket or a pillow?’

‘Nah, you alright,’ he snorted. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, kiddo.’

‘Oh really?! And you don’t …’

‘Hold your horses!’ he interrupted me, bursting out laughing, which at once turned into a prolonged cough. ‘You know I’m just taking the mick out of you to see how hard you will let me push your buttons.’ He coughed up, still amused.

‘You reached the limit two demands ago,’ I replied dryly. ‘Are all men so annoying at old age?’

‘You little shit!’ he grumbled and smiled. ‘I see that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’ve taken more than just your mother’s voice but her character as well. And what did you mean by old age? How old do you think I am?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘Seventy?!’

‘What?! Tell me you’re joking. You do realise that your mother was a year older than me! Don’t you?’

‘No way. That’s impossible,’ I replied, but when his face showed indignation, I added less confidently, ‘Seriously?!’

‘Seriously,’ he snapped, lighting his cigar.

I sat down on the edge of the bed again.

‘You must have had a really hard paper round then,’ I blurted out. Truth be told, I’ve never been very tactful.

‘It wasn’t that bad!’

I was tempted to reach into my bag, grab a mirror and nonchalantly hand it to him so that he would finally realise his own rough appearance; but I quickly quashed the idea. After all, what good could a reflection do when his eyes were either sealed shut or simply too blind to see?

‘Read on,’ he ordered, letting thick smoke out of his mouth.

I again let myself get carried away by the story, but just after a few minutes, I heard a snoring resembling the rattle of an old engine in some old clunker. I shook my head in disbelief, waited a few moments, then tiptoed over to his armchair and took the smouldering cigar from between his fingers. I gently lifted the ashtray, which was already dangerously tilted on his knee, and then I stifled the cigar in it. I also put his empty glass on the table.

I decided to use the moment of unexpected freedom to look around Harris’s ‘estate’. There wasn’t much to explore; almost the entire area of the place was occupied by one room. It had to fit a living room, a bedroom, and a kitchenette.

The only source of light in the room was coming through a small double-leaf window. It wasn’t too bright, considering that the glass was terribly dirty. The old, torn curtain turned brown from nicotine smoke. In addition, a tiny window resembling a barrel was installed above the sink, but it was also covered. There were piles of books in every corner. They were probably left here by the previous owners, as their sheer number wouldn’t fit into the few bags he had with him when he moved in. The books resembled unstable towers. They were a testimony to adventures created in the imagination of long-gone authors.

From the dust that settled on the countertop of the dresser in the corner of the living room, you could make a small snowman. The old mirror on the wall looked like a prop from a horror movie, in which some sinister figure appears, driving the main character of the film crazy.

Nevertheless, the room had everything a man needed to function. A bed with a metal frame, a large table, and next to it two wooden chairs with several broken balusters in the backrests. Under the table, there was a thick burgundy rug. Opposite the soot-shrouded, extinguished fireplace was a fold-out leather armchair, a high-gloss lacquered wardrobe and one chest of drawers that looked as if it had come straight from the ‘Cash in the Attic’ TV series.

A narrow corridor led to a small bathroom. The walls were covered in classic white subway tiles that went halfway up the wall, with basic white paint above. In one corner sat a toilet with an old fashioned toilet tank that was integrated into the wall to save space. Next to it was a pedestal sink, the kind with separate hot and cold taps, situated atop a narrow vanity. Above the sink was a medicine cabinet with a mirror on the front, the kind that swung outward to access the storage space inside. The cabinet held the usual assortment of toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and medications. Along another wall was an old clawfoot bath with the enamel worn and chipped in spots from years of use. A plain white shower curtain could be drawn around it, though there was barely room to do so. The floor was a basic black-and-white checkerboard tile that matched the subway wall tiles. One glance was enough to tell that the bathroom was as neglected as the rest of the cottage.

I was surprised when I saw another door in the hallway. It was quite shabby with paint peeling off in many places, with a decent-looking brass handle. Wasting no time, I pressed it and pushed the door lightly. The door creaked so terribly that I jumped away.

‘Broom, mop and bucket,’ I heard unexpectedly behind me.

‘Ehrm … what was that?’ I asked, completely confused.

‘A broom, a mop and a bucket,’ Harris repeated and lifted himself from his chair. As he got closer, I got a strong whiff of nicotine that had soaked into his thick hoodie. ‘The corpses of my former lovers and enemies are normally buried behind the shed on the left, by the pear tree. Here I keep only a broom, a mop and a bucket. See for yourself,’ he implied and then opened the door wide, presenting the contents of the dark closet. ‘What did you think I had in there?!’

‘I was looking for a broom, actually,’ I explained trying to cover my snooping around.

‘Why? Did you get an urge to tidy up all of a sudden?!’ he mocked, smiling indulgently.

‘You have a bit of a mess in here … That’s it. I have asthma and it’s hard for me to breathe around here. I just wanted to give the floor a quick once over,’ I replied smoothly because even though I didn’t suffer from asthma, my throat was itchy from the dust floating in the air at all times.

‘It’s not that bad, stop moaning,’ he grumbled.

‘What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over.’

‘Well, maybe you are right …’ he murmured, frowning his grizzled eyebrows, then went back to his armchair, so I followed him. ‘Indeed, my eyesight is getting worse and worse.’

‘Maybe you just need glasses?’ I asked. ‘Simply go to the optician’s.’

‘Oh my! You are so wise! Why didn’t I think about that earlier? Genius!’ he got irritated. ‘The nearest opticians are in town, so how am I supposed to get there? Even if I had a car, I wouldn’t drive blindly.’

‘Bus maybe?’ I suggested mischievously.

‘I don’t want to be wandering around the village looking for a bus stop like a weirdo. And besides, it’s none of your business!’ He suddenly got angry.

‘Well, it is a little bit of my business though because if you knew how to take care of yourself, I wouldn’t have to help you and listen to your self-pity,’ I growled also angrily.

His face reddened and he clenched his fists so tightly that I could hear his knuckles cracking. His nostrils parted as if a fire was about to shoot out of them. He fixed his hazy eyes on me, then walked over to the table and slammed the manuscript onto the tabletop.

‘Seriously, get the fuck out, I’ve had it with you!’ he roared, gasping like an enraged bull. ‘Your wise opinion about me is as needed as a cock-flavoured lollypop!’

I growled under my breath. It was obvious that I had pushed his patience to the brink with my last comment. Grabbing my belongings, I made a beeline for the door. As it clattered shut, I could still make out his enraged roars from inside the cottage.

I cursed myself for having such a fiery temper. If only I could be less stubborn and learn to bite my tongue more often instead of spouting sharp jokes and insults at those who didn’t deserve it. Despite this, I knew that wasn’t going to stop me from finishing what I had started—writing the book and getting to the end of this story.

I concluded that maybe it’d be best if I made things right between us first—perhaps a bottle of whiskey would do the trick. Yes, that was it—time to put on my brave face and make amends.

I winked cheekily at my reflection in the rear-view mirror, revved the engine and zipped off towards the B&B. The endearing hostess guided me to my room on the ground floor, where I chucked my suitcase on the bed and fired up my laptop. After a few swift clicks online, I found an optician not too far from John’s place. I called their number and left a message on their answering machine requesting an appointment as soon as possible.

Wednesday, 21 September

Immediately after dawn, the hosts’ rooster proudly crowed from behind the window, spreading its wings on the windowsill of the room and snatching me from sleep.

Dissatisfied with the premature waking-up call, I buried my head under the pillow, hoping to fall asleep again. I gave up after a while and selected the Netflix app on my phone to watch the latest episode of Chesapeake Shores. Then I took a shower. Still wet, I ran out of the bathroom thinking that I heard the signal of an incoming call.

Perhaps it was John, calling me to make up? We exchanged phone numbers for easy contact. It turned out that someone had indeed called, although it wasn’t him. I listened to a voicemail message left by the receptionist at the optician’s. The woman informed me of the next available appointment which was on the following day at three o’clock. She asked if I still needed it, requesting confirmation of the visit by a text message on the number she phoned from. I happily confirmed.

Content with the outcome of my plan, I had a cup of coffee and got ready to leave. I jumped in my car and drove towards the cottage on the edge of the forest, uncertain what the day would bring but at the same time determined to make the most of it.

***

Sounds of trumpets and saxophones welcomed me upon my arrival, giving me a slight boost to carry on. It seemed that Harris liked jazz. Good on him, I thought, enjoying the music.

I walked towards the door and knocked on it—not too hard because I was a little afraid of John’s reaction. However, the e-mail with the confirmation of the optician’s appointment on my phone became my bargaining chip, which may be able to alleviate the unpleasant situation between us from the previous day. Feeling a surge of courage, I knocked again, this time harder, and pressed the door handle.

As I pushed open the door, a blast of music hit my ears. Harris was standing by the table, lost in his little world while sweeping up the mess on the floor. It was quite touching to see him so engrossed in this task. I leaned against the doorframe and smiled at the thought that this old git had a heart after all.

Blimey! Who would have thought that he would tidy up after I had said that it was hard for me to breathe because of the dust?

All of a sudden, he turned around, saw my silhouette in the door, straightened up and threw the broom in the corner.

‘I’m annoyed by coughing,’ he said as if making excuses.

‘Then you should quit smoking cigars,’ I blurted out without thinking, then laughed nervously because I realised I was starting to play the wise guy.

‘You laugh like your mum used to,’ he remarked and smiled. ‘You’re late. I thought we agreed to start at eight.’

‘I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me again after our exchange of opinions yesterday,’ I admitted with humility in my voice.

‘Well,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s agree that we both got carried away yesterday. Let’s stop biting each other heads off every step of the way, okay? After all, we have a mission to accomplish.’ He winked at me and invited me to come inside with a quick hand gesture.

‘As an apology, I have booked an appointment with an optician for you. Tomorrow at three o’clock in town,’ I said proudly and shivered.

He looked at me as if he wanted to scold me, but for the sake of the alliance he had just made, he clenched his fists for a second, then exhaled slowly and said: