Letters to Rosemary

A crisp new letter deserves to be read. It demands it. Simply addressed to Rosemary in a clumsy, child-like scrawl, Jo knew she really shouldn't open it - which made it all the more tempting. This was the second such letter to arrive, Par Avion stamped in a pale red ink, a bit like the old printing set she had as a child. But the old printing set was the least of what Jo had left behind her. It was the summer of 1991 and Jo had recognised she'd been stuck in a particularly uncomfortable rut. She knew she needed to move, needed to change. So here she was, a fresh start in a fresh place, even if it was little more than a mile as the funicular climbs. In just three short weeks she had painstakingly created her perfect cottage. Antique brass hung over the open red brick fireplace. Two slightly battered leather armchairs already dominated the tiny lounge, which at night would be lit almost entirely by candles - due to there being no ceiling or wall lights installed. And how she loved it. Resting against the plain white walls the two letters offered a rare splash of colour but hurrying through her daily routine Jo ignored them. Well, mostly. Occasionally she'd pick one up, glance at the boyish, spidery handwriting, intrigued by what secrets the envelop might contain, but that was all. At least that was until a week later. When a third letter arrived.