‘No way!’ he whistled. ‘I remember that book, he wrote all the details of our India trip down in there: flights, hotels, things we definitely wanted to see.’
At the end of their degree course, Hamish and Freddie had gone on a crazy road trip across India on motorbikes and had had the time of their lives. When they returned, tanned, thin and brimming with stories, Freddie announced that he was never going to work in an office or be weighed down by corporate life. The thrill of discovering the world on a bike far outweighed the prospect of job security and a pension. For the next fifteen years, he had worked as a motorcycle instructor, earning just enough to pay for the next trip. Hamish, on the other hand, said he never wanted to ride a bike again. He worked in London for a talent agency before returning to the north to set up on his own. He was now a successful sports agent with a roster of footballers, cricketers and boxers on his client list. Despite their different life choices, they’d remained close.
I flicked through the pages, my heart twisting at the sight of Freddie’s terrible handwriting: all in capitals and written so firmly that I could make out the indentations of the letters on the back of each page.
‘Can I see?’ Hamish was itching to take the book from me.
As I handed it across, something papery fell out from inside the back cover and landed on the carpet. Scamp’s nose was on it immediately. Laura rescued it before he had a chance to chew it.
‘It’s a letter to you.’ She handed it over, puzzled.
The envelope had my name on it but no stamp. I turned it over in my hands, intrigued.
‘I think I remember him writing that,’ said Hamish, nodding thoughtfully. ‘We definitely bought paper and envelopes with the idea of writing proper letters home.’ He laughed. ‘I never did in the end. A few postcards were all I managed. It looks like Freddie might have written that and never posted it.’
It sounded plausible; and knowing Freddie, he’d have been so caught up with telling everyone about his adventures when he returned to England that the notebook and the letter within it had probably slipped his mind.
‘Shall I open it?’ I whispered. My heart had begun to race. A letter from Freddie. Written over a decade ago. It was like uncovering hidden treasure.
Hamish put an arm around my shoulders. ‘If not you, then who? As the saying goes.’
I set it on my lap, my hands already clammy, and took a calming breath. ‘OK. Right. I will then.’
Hamish got to his feet. ‘I’m ready for another cup of tea.’
‘I’ll help,’ said Laura, scampering after him.
They were giving me some privacy and I was grateful for their thoughtfulness, although part of me didn’t want to be alone.
Come on Fearne. I laughed at myself under my breath. Stop over-dramatising it; it’s probably just a bog-standard ‘wish you were here’ holiday letter.
But as I removed the flimsy sheets of paper with fluttering hands and began to read, I realised that this letter from beyond the grave might just change my life.
5 July 2004
Hey little sister!
We’ve reached Agra and it is OUT OF THIS WORLD! You have to travel. You HAVE TO! And when you do, come HERE I think you’d love it.
Being so far from home, with no one else to rely on but ourselves has opened my eyes to what a safe and cosseted life I’ve had until now. Everything here is different, even the air, the sun and definitely the food – I love it all (although what I wouldn’t give for one of Mum’s Yorkshire puddings right now). The skies are vast, the roads either gridlocked or deserted and as far as modes of transport are concerned – anything goes. The other day I saw an entire family including the dog clinging on to a scooter. Cattle pull wagons, bicycles pull carts, lorries with bald tyres are held together with string and sticky tape; every day is like some crazy episode of the Wacky Races cartoon show.
I wish you could have seen the maternity hospital we came across yesterday on the outskirts of a town. It wasn’t much more than a hut made from a patchwork of materials and a wriggly tin roof. About twenty or thirty pregnant women were squatting down calmly at the side of the road outside in the blistering heat. We stopped our bikes to have a drink and asked what they were doing. Someone told us that they were all in labour but weren’t allowed inside until the baby was actually coming, because there wasn’t room for them all. Some even had younger children with them. Imagine that!
I think about how we in Britain complain about waiting times when we go to the hospital, about the quality of the food, or the lack of nursing staff. Next time I will remember the quiet acceptance of these mothers and I will shut the hell up. We have no idea how lucky we are.
This morning, we stopped to buy fruit from a street-seller who was probably only about fifteen years old. He must have grown out of his shoes because he’d cut open the toes to give his feet room. The shoes looked so uncomfortable that I gave him my spare pair of trainers and Hamish gave him a T-shirt. The boy shouted out so loud that I thought we’d done something wrong and when two older men appeared we almost jumped back on our bikes and rode off. But they turned out to be the boy’s uncles. They shook our hands and insisted on piling as much fruit as we could carry into our rucksacks – they were so grateful for our simple gesture. Fearne, I have about eight pairs of trainers that all fit me, it was nothing to me but to them it was a massive deal. I can’t tell you how good that made me feel. This trip has thrown my own greed and vanity into sharp focus.
But that’s normal for us. Having stuff is what everyone does. You earn money and you buy stuff. You and me and millions of other British kids have been conditioned to work hard and get good grades, so we can get good jobs, so that – you’ve guessed it – we can buy more, bigger, better stuff. Leaving home to go to uni seemed like such a huge deal. I thought I owned the world when I moved out. I had the best time. Three years away from home, living with my mates and studying English. Now I realise that until I came to Asia, I knew nothing. I am twenty-two and I have spent those years wearing blinkers, staring straight ahead and sticking to the path that I am expected to be on.
Now the blinkers are off and the future I thought I wanted for myself seems far too small. The idea of coming home to start working a forty-hour week in a job which doesn’t excite me fills me with dread. I don’t want to waste my life.
And here’s the thing: I don’t have to. Because I get to choose. We get to choose. What we do, where we go, who we love, it’s all up to us and no one else.
(Are you still reading this epic letter? Are you thinking I must be drunk, or high? I bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this stuff!)
I’ve made a decision about the rest of my life and I’m so ecstatic and that’s why I’m writing it down. I’m ignoring what family and society and the university careers office expect of me. From now on, it’s MY moral code which matters. I’m going to live my adult life doing what makes me happy. Some of the things on my list –
Riding my motorbike through new places
Sunrise from mountain tops
Barbecues on the beach
Buying fresh food in local markets
Meeting people from other cultures
Putting a smile on someone else’s face
And a million other things I haven’t even thought of yet