The Love You Lost

The box was hard to notice at first. Small and shallow enough not to catch the eye right away and pretty much the same wood shade of the attic floorboards. If it wasn’t for my crazed cleaning frenzy that day, I probably wouldn’t have seen it, tucked into a corner and completely covered in dust. But as it stands, I did find the heart-shaped, wooden box. And my life changed the second I did.

****

When I first latched onto the idea of buying a fixer-upper, I had yet to absorb all of the side effects of such a venture. I must admit, I have spent the better part of my life accessorising most situations with rose-tinted glasses.

I’d had an idyllic childhood with loving parents that adored each other. I’d been read every fairy tale under the sun and dreamed of my own happily ever after up until adulthood. Fairy tales turned to romance novels and my quixotic outlook was formed.

Despite my ooey gooey centre, I blew out the candles at my thirtieth birthday despondently single. But besides that empty part of my heart, thirty years had brought me bountiful joy and success. I’d graduated in my early twenties with a BA in Art History, then an MA a few years later, and then, just for fun, I’d snagged my PhD. All those letters led me to an extremely successful career as a Curator at a handful of London’s most respectable Galleries and a gorgeous central London flat.

As I looked around at all the smiling faces of my 20-sum closest confidants, sat at the reclaimed wood table I commissioned for my flat in Shoreditch, my life felt pretty full. A smile almost too small to see graced my lips as I made my wish, and after searching deep down inside me for what I needed, all I yearned was a project of some kind.

My minuscule smile returned about a week later when I found myself walking past a terraced Georgian home for sale on my way to work. I had to squint to get a proper look at it, the sun was reflecting off of the porcelain white bricks. But when I did get a look, it was breathtaking. Like any smart millennial, I immediately looked up the listing online. What I saw gave me butterflies. The inside of the house had been completely gutted. No worktops, no floorboards, nothing. I wished for a project, and here it was.  

****

I moved in on a Thursday. The movers were already unpacking the truck when I got there. I’d requested they set up the kettle first, so that I could go in and make myself and the whole crew a nice cuppa.

Moving had taken a backseat to my entertaining of the men that were responsible for my furniture. As usual, I was holding court, engaging the workers in a retelling of the charming story about when I met the Duchess at a charity event the year before. Terry, the man leading the crew, was clearly eating out of the palm of my hand. He was cute, a clear winner with the ladies of London. But even as he dropped his personal number into my hand on his way out, I just couldn’t open up my heart to him.

That’s the trouble with being such a romantic.  All the fairy tales and romcoms of my childhood have ruined love for me. Ruined men. Terry was perfectly fine, would probably be a good lover and kind companion, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. What that something was, I couldn’t tell you.

****

The next few weeks were a blur of stress that I had never experienced before. The house was in a worse condition than I had first realised. By week three of living and working on my new home, I was emotionally and psychically exhausted. My bones ached like I had the flu and I’d cancelled every single plan I made with friends and family. Still, my positive attitude prevailed. I’d wished for a project and this is what I’d gotten, so I reasoned with myself that there must be a reason. And the day I’d carved time to clear out the loft before its remodel, was the day I got my answer.

I was decked out in a make-shift hazmat suit, paranoid about asbestos and allergic to dust when I saw it. The queer, wooden box in the corner of the room, carved into the shape of a heart. I crawled over to it, too tired to stand up, but curious enough to make a move for it. It was small, the circumference just bigger than my hands and shallow enough that it gave me pause. What on earth could be in it, I asked myself.

Looking at it again, I noticed how homemade it felt, personal. The carving was jagged and clumsy; like the maker wasn’t adept in woodworking. The stain was thicker in some places than in others, and as I was rattling it around in my hands to try and hear what was inside, the shabby sanding job gave me a papercut. I sucked curiously on the wound as I contemplated the box. Its hinges were completely rusted over, making it impossible to open, but I’d purchased some WD-40 when I moved in.

It took a good ten minutes to loosen up the hinges enough to pry open the lid. When I got my first peek inside, I felt disappointed. It was an envelope. That was all that was inside my box of curiosity. I picked it up anyway and flipped it over. It was sealed with red wax, a heart stamped into the hardened substance. Unopened. Now that was slightly more interesting. Flipping it back over, I read the name written in calligraphy on the front. Miss Rosa Marie Ratliff. 

****

That envelope caused me strife for three whole days. I’d put it back in the box shortly after finding it, deciding it was none of my business. I would not go through other people’s mail. Even if it was found in my house, and without a postal stamp. But my resolve of politeness didn’t last very long. 

On Thursday night, I sat on the edge of my sofa, wine glass in hand, staring at the box where it lay on my coffee table. I gave a huge sigh, enough was enough, I had to know what was in that envelope. In no time at all, I had it in hand. The letter addressed to one Miss Rosa Marie Ratliff.

My Dear Rosie,

I hope you do not interpret my delivery as flamboyant, nor too presumptuous.

Rosie, I am beside myself with grief, for I have spent the years I have

known you besotted with everything you do. I catch myself spending hours at a time staring out the window thinking of your beauty. Of your kind eyes, warm smile and open heart. I regret every moment I have spent not letting you know of my feelings for you.

I spend so many nights thinking of our future together, of what that would look like. I see a home in the country, I see a kitchen where you can bake your many wonderous goods. I see the children, with your jet-black hair and my wonky smile. I see how loved they would be under your eye, I see how loved you are under mine.

I have carved you a piece of my heart. My apologies, for my skills are not as good as I wish. And I write to you to ask if you feel the same. If you do, in any way feel anything for me, meet me at the docks tonight at midnight.

That way, when I go to fight, I will have the strength of a man in love to keep me safe in battle. Then, when I return, we shall wed. And we can build the home I imagined for us. If you do not come, I will know it was just a boyish fantasy and I shall harden myself and fight like a man. Either way, I must know.

I am sorry for the circumstance my dear, but I cannot leave without knowing.

I hope to see you when the clock strikes twelve,

Yours,

Arnold Fincher.

I read and reread that letter a dozen times. Each time it brought a tear to my eyes. When I first read through the love letter, my heart swelled. Then it dawned on me, poor Rosa must have never got the box, nor read the letter. Poor Arnold must have waited at that dock all night for his love to come. Yet, she didn’t even get a chance to reciprocate his feelings. My mind pondered all the reasons why the letter was never read. All my years reading contrived romance plots left me with a few ideas of course. Perhaps there were meddling parents involved that stole the box away before Rosa had a chance to see it. Or maybe, Arnold had lived here, and he never actually delivered the box to his love, too scared of rejection.

Whatever the reason, something deep inside me told me that there was no chance I could just leave it alone. So, the renovations stayed on pause while I spent countless days and nights searching for Miss Rosa Marie Ratliff. A quick google of the name brought up too many people, so did, to my despair, the name Arnold Fincher. So, I enhanced my search. I started searching for any census’ from WW1 and 2, looking for Rosa and Arnold, but to no avail. I spent countless hours in the local library, scanning through London newspapers, exploring the birthing and marriage announcements and even, in my darkest moment, the obituaries.

I’d spent so much time focused on investigating those two names, I had forgotten the third party in all of this: the house. With this fresh perspective, I started pouring over the deeds to my house. Feeling like an idea for not thinking of this sooner, I wasted no time.

I found what I was looking for pretty quickly. Mrs Rosa Marie Gainer had sold my house to a man called Colin Stoller in 1997. The same Colin Stoller I’d brought the house from just a few months ago. Suddenly luck was on my side again. Colin had given me his mobile number the day I got the keys, telling me to call if I ever needed anything. I don’t think he meant helping me unite a possibly 90-something couple, but there we go.

Colin was understandably dumbfounded with my request, but nevertheless, he did in fact have a forwarding address for the lovely old lady he bought my house from.

****

I don’t know what I was thinking. In hindsight, what I did could be considered stalking. But after checking to see if Mrs Gainer still inhabited number 12 Grover Court, I took the tube there without a second of mediation. The creepiness of my actions didn’t dawn on me until after I rang the doorbell of the adorable bungalow. When a tall, handsome stranger answered the door with a sad but confused look on his face, I froze. My cheeks grew instantly red, not only because of what I’d done, but because I’d just come face to face with my own Mr Darcy. He had softly curled, auburn hair and a gentle stubble kissing his jaw. His eyes were forest green and full of a story I so desperately wanted to read. When he spoke, I was awestruck, his voice felt so familiar, so gentle.

I stood in silence for a moment, not knowing how to explain who I was and why I’d arrived on the doorstep of his grandma. But I’d gotten so far. So, I recounted the story from scratch. His smile when I finished was so disarming that the world started spinning on its axis and I felt numb as the perfect stranger, Adam, he told me, guided me into the house and up the stairs. I was lost completely in the moment. And then I saw her.

I couldn’t tell you how, but when I saw the frail old lady tucked comfortably in her bed, I knew I was standing in front of dear Rosie. Gazing into her eyes, all my confidence returned. Her gorgeous grandson aside, I was here for a very important reason.

****

Adam had sweetly gone over to his grandma and explained who I was. I wasn’t able to fawn over the scene for long as his mother took me aside and explained why she and the rest of her family were all gathered there. Grandma Rosie was the heart of her family, and at 90 she’d lived a good life. When her husband died in their 40s, she’d taken the role of head of the family very seriously. Every holiday, every birthday, was spent at her home, my home, until she became too old to climb all the stairs. She sold it to Colin before the millennium, he planned to do the place up but then the recession hit; hence why it came to me in such a sorry state. Rosa never forgave herself for selling the family home. She felt guilt every time she thought of it sitting there for so many years empty and gutted. She took great solace in my buying of the place.

Just after Christmas Rosa took ill. The family knew it was coming with her age. But they didn’t realise she would fade so fast. It dawned on me that I’d just arrived in the middle of the family’s mourning. Before I could feel any guilt, Adam called me back into the room.

He led me gently into the chair beside Rosa’s bed and as I read to her the letter from so many years ago, she closed her eyes and peacefully listened. A single tear shed down her cheek and by the time I had finished, her frail, little hand was clasped tightly in mine. I thought she had fallen asleep while I was reading, but to my surprise, she opened her eyes the second I had stopped and looked at me with the most intense gaze. Rosa then answered the question I had been asking myself for weeks.

****

In 1942, Rosa Ratliff was just 16 years old. The war was raging on and it seemed the centre of London was right in the middle of it. By some awful twist of fate, young Rosa was evacuated from her family home the exact same day Arnold Fincher, the boy next door, was sent away to fight. The two had grown up together and were secretly very infatuated with each other. Rosa spent her years in the countryside mooning over her lost love, wondering why he had never come to see her off at the train station. It wasn’t until she returned years later that she found out he’d been enlisted. Her father had handed the heart-shaped box to her the day she returned, along with a solemn look and the terrible news that Arnie from next door had been lost in battle.

Rosa was heartbroken. She thought she’d never get over the loss of her first love. And for a while, she didn’t. Rosa was 30 when she eventually fell in love again. Thomas Gainer was an earnest man who had yearned from afar for many years. But when Rosa’s father passed, Mr Gainer stepped up and cared for the strong lady who had been through so much. The rest, she told me while gazing adoringly at her family, was history.

Rosa never had the heart to open that box. But that day, with her family surrounding her, she was glad she finally got to find out what was inside.

****

I left with an exchange of numbers with Adam and promise to call if I found anything else of his grandma’s.

A few weeks later, it was he who called with the news of Rosa’s passing. The funeral was one of the most joyful I’d ever attended. The whole extended family was in attendance, dressed in vivid, bright colours and smiling through their obvious despair. I sat in the back of the church, intending on keeping to myself but Adam came and found me as soon as the service was finished. We spent the day at each other’s side, I consoled the man as he reminisced about his gran and I held his hand when he shed a few tears.

Adam told me how Rosa had passed peacefully in the night, with the letter I found held tightly in her hands. I couldn’t help but smile.

****

We stayed in touch, Adam and I. At first, it was just texting, but then we started meeting for coffee during our lunch breaks. Adam was the first person to see the house when I had finished renovating, and that night, over a bottle of champagne he’d bought to celebrate, we shared our first kiss.

He said it was strange, moving into the house he’d spent his childhood in, but that his gran would be proud of what I had done with the place. We framed the letter from Arnold Fincher and hung it above the fireplace. Every day when we came into the living room we saw it there, and we thanked the man that had brought us to each other.

I wish I had had more time with Rosa, but at the same time, I knew I met her when I did for a reason. And besides, a few years down the line, we had a Rosie of our own to spend all our time with. The girl would request the love story of her parents, and the story of her great-grandma, every night when she went to bed.