In the quiet village of Henley-on-Thames, the gathered mourners whispered as the funeral bundle lay readyletters tucked inside, penned by a daughter who had long since vanished. Grace reached for them, her fingers trembling, and slipped them beneath the pillow of the deceased. Let them be buried with her, along with the weight of her terrible shame…
A Shame Too Deep to Bear
From her youth, Evelyn had believed in dreams. It was a peculiar habit, one that set her apart. Whenever the village girls shared their nightly visions, she would listen, ponder, and thenwith unsettling accuracydecipher their meaning. Rarely was she wrong. But her own dreams? Those she kept to herself. And how she flew in them! So vivid, so reallifting above the thatched cottages, soaring until her breath caught in her throat. One dream returned like clockwork: white horses, dappled grey like storm clouds, harnessed to a sleigh. There she sat with Alfred, their hands tight on the reins as the horses surged forward, launching them into the sky. The rush of wind, the dizzying heightuntil theyd drop the reins and cling to each other, laughing as they flew.
That dream came oftenwhile Alfred still lived. After his death, shed still ride the horses in her sleep, but hed stand beside her now, silent, smiling. She never minded. She knew the old wives taledreaming of horses meant sickness, or worse, deathbut she welcomed it. Better the thrill of flight than the ache of waking.
That final night, they stood together in the sleigh again. No reins this time. The horses climbed higher, higheruntil a little angel perched on a cloud, wings fluttering, smiled down. “Lillian!” Evelyn cried out, so sharply she startled herself awake.
“Time to go,” she murmured, calm as the dawn. No grief, no despair.
Her cottage had always been immaculate, so she swept the floors one last time, shook out the handwoven rugs. Then she fetched the bundlethe one shed kept for this very dayand arranged everything neatly. Notes labeled where each item should go. No one else would know. Strangers would rifle through her life, searching… unless Grace came. Dear Grace, her only visitor now, more sister than friend. The others were gone, or too frail to make the journey. But Grace still had the strength. Shed come.
Evelyn took an old school notebook, a pen, and began to write.
“Forgive me, Grace. Youve been more family to me than blood ever was. Dont tell the othersI beg youdont speak my shame. It wont hurt me then, not where Im going, but still…
Ive lied for years. To you, to everyone. I told them my daughter was kind, that she stayed away only because she was ill. The truth? I dont know where she is. I think shes alivebut she left me long ago. And because I couldnt bear the pity, I spun tales. Even to you…
Dont wait for her. Dont search. Bury me beside Alfred, in the plot Ive kept. The cottage, everything in itits yours. Maybe your children will find use for it.
I failed as a mother. That shame is mine alone. Let it die with me.
Please, sister…
Evelyn.”
She stoked the fireplace, closed the flue, and lay down to sleep.
Grace had noticed the darkened windows the night before. But how could she have known?
“Any note?” the constable asked, jotting down details of the lonely womans passing.
“Nothing,” Grace lied, the crumpled letter burning in her pocket. “Just… the weight of solitude, I suppose.”
* * *
Her Lillian had been a beauty, sharp as a whip. Alfreda married farm managerhad fallen for Evelyn, a simple labourer. By the rules of the time, he shouldve been sacked, expelled from the local council. But the village head had his own secrets, so hed smoothed things over. “No need for bastards here,” hed grunted, pounding the table. Alfreds wife moved to London, remarried a city man, while Evelyn and Alfred built a life.
Until the horses came.
Not dream horsesreal ones. Alfred had been cycling home from the harvest when they struck him in the dark. The drunk driver never saw him. If only someone had found him sooner… Evelyn waited all night, sleepless. They discovered him at dawnalready gone.
Men had courted her after, but shed turned them away. Lillian was her world. And what a girl! Top of her class, singing at county fairs, even winning a place at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London!
Evelyn visited often at first, bringing food, desperate to see her. The first year, Lillian had been delighted. Thenslowlyshe withdrew. Grew sharp, impatient. One visit, then anotherno sign of her at the dorm. Rumours spread: a foreign beau, expulsion, whispers of drugs. A year later, a letter arrived: “Forget me. I have my own life now.”
Evelyn would kneel in the beet fields, rows stretching endlessly, tears salting the soil.
One day, before Harvest Festival, she spun a new tale. “Lillians married!” she announced to the women. “A high-ranking man, always abroad. Ive just returned from Londonthe wedding! Didnt want to jinx it by telling sooner.”
And oh, how shed played the part! Fine tinned salmon, sausages from Fortnum & Masonluxuries the village had never tasted. “From my husband,” shed say, beaming. Year after year, shed “visit” London, wandering streets, searching faces.
As age crept in, the trips grew rare. Now it was Lillian who “wrote”though Evelyn collected the letters herself from the county post office, lest they go astray.
“Sit, Grace,” shed say, waving a page. “Listen what Lillians sent!”
Grace would nod, eyes wide, as Evelyn spun tales of a daughter too ill to travel, a generous son-in-law. Thenthe pièce de résistanceyogurts, bananas, delicacies Grace would gush about later at the pub.
“Have you ever tasted smoked *salmon*?” shed crow. “Melts like butter! And Evelyn gets it *regular*!”
Yearly, the county paper printed birthday wishes from Lillianflowery, poetic. The village marvelled.
In time, no one cared to question. Evelyn aged quietly, her secret buried.
* * *
Grace read the letter again and again. “Dear God,” she cursed silently. “All those treatsher pension stretched thin, just to keep up the lie. And I *ate* them, bragged about them…”
She turned to the gathered mourners. “Well lay her to rest without her daughter. Shes too ill to cometenth-floor flat, no lift. Her husbands abroad. Well manage.”
The funeral bundle held its secrets. Grace slipped the letters beneath the pillow. Let them rot with her. Let the shame die too.
