A Monument to Miss Haversham

    It had been there for years, its paint fading and peeling, its roof and gutters rusting, buried in the long, long grass that entangled the fence  - a lonely desolate place, unloved and unwanted, a tribute to tragedy. 

    Julie Stringer stared at it and her heart quickened. It was everything she wanted and she must have it.  “This is just what I’ve been looking for, Margaret, but why is it so neglected?” she exclaimed to her friend.  She studied the place curiously, trying to imagine how it must have been all those years ago.

    “It’s a monument to Miss Haversham,” her friend replied.  “Well, that’s what the townsfolk say, anyway.”

    “That’s a strange thing to say.”  Julie looked at her, puzzled.  “Why would they say that?  Who’s Miss Haversham?”

    “Oh, you know, one of Dicken's characters. She was left at the altar and she never recovered. She spent the rest of her life surrounded by her wedding regalia as it crumbled into decay.  Then she died when the place caught fire.”

    “That’s awful! But why is this a monument to her?”

    “Well, it’s just like Miss Haversham’s story apparently, only, in this instance, it was the groom who was left at the altar.”

    Julie was curious.  “Really! Tell me about it!”

    “It was a long time ago,  Maybe ten years or more. I don’t know. Jeremy Stone built the place as a wedding gift to his bride.  It was his secret to be revealed on their wedding day.  It was all so romantic, but the wedding day came and went and so did Lucy. She ran off with his best friend apparently.”

    “Oh dear! And the house?”

    “Never wanted. Never lived in. Just locked up and abandoned.”

    “But it’s so beautiful. I mean, it’s not beautiful now but you can see how beautiful it must have been. What a tragic story! He must have loved this Lucy very much.”

    “Umm. I guess so.”

    “Well, tragedy or no tragedy,” Julie said, determinedly, “I have found the house I’ve been looking for.  I’d like to talk to this Jeremy Stone and make him an offer. I'm sure after all these years, he would be glad to get rid of the place.”

    “I don't know about that but you could try. Let’s go down to the real estate office. They might know how to contact him.”

                                                        *****

    Some hundreds of miles away, Jeremy Stone was getting on with life as he had done since the day Lucy left him. He had never married. He had a successful career as an engineer and he travelled throughout the world and he had never returned to Brighton and the little cottage that had been his love gift to Lucy. He had locked the doors and walked away, his heart as closed as the house itself.  His pain and grief was something he bore alone through the years that followed and the cottage, so lovingly fashioned for his bride, fell more and more into disrepair.          

                                                        *****                                                                      
    Julie had come to Brighton to spend some time with her friend. In her mid-thirties, well travelled and well established as a journalist, she had become ill and was still recovering.  Margaret had suggested that the seaside air would be good for her and it had been, so much so, that Julie had decided settle down and find a place of her own. With her friend nearby, Brighton seemed the ideal location especially when she fell in love with the dear little cottage.  She had to find Jeremy Stone and talk him into selling the place.

    Finding Jeremy however, was not as easy as Julie had hoped.  Eventually, though, a friend of Margaret’s knew of his whereabouts and gave her an address and phone number.  She phoned immediately and found a recorded voice. Leaving a brief message she said she would phone again. Each time however, she found the same message. Jeremy Stone, was away or he had forgotten to turn off his answering machine.  After several unsuccessful attempts she decided to write to him.

                                                        *****

    Jeremy collected the mail from his box, unlocked the front door and entered his apartment. It was quiet and peaceful. Just as he had left it a week ago. Placing his luggage in his bedroom, he loosened his tie and threw it on the bed. He removed his shoes and padded in his socks to the kitchen to check the contents of the refrigerator. He was hungry. He had been travelling all day and it was hours since he had eaten. Mrs Martin, bless her, had anticipated his needs. There before him was a large dish of lasagne, his favourite food, and a note telling him how long to heat it in the microwave. He boiled the jug and made himself a cup of coffee while he waited for the food to heat.  Suddenly, the phone rang and he listened to his own recorded voice before he heard the sound of the beep and a woman’s reply.

    “Mr. Stone. This is Julie Stringer again. I am still trying to reach you,” the voice said.  “I’ll call back.”  Click. The phone on the other end of the line went dead. Curious, he pressed the play button on the answering machine and listened. Several business contacts had called while he was away, then a woman’s voice. The same woman’s voice.  “Mr Stone. My name is Julie Stringer. I would like to speak with you about an important matter. Sorry I missed you. I will call again later.”  Click. There were a number of other messages and several from this mysterious Julie Stringer.  The second time she had left a mobile phone number. He jotted it down on a scrap of paper and sat down at the table to eat, curiously wondering about the caller and why she was contacting him.

    When he finished his meal, he dialled the number but the phone rang out. He would try again later. Turning on the television to catch the news, he picked up the bundle of letters lying on the table and flicked through them. One caught his eye. It had a Brighton postmark. Nobody in Brighton wrote to him these days. He studied the neat handwriting and then placed the letter aside while he dealt with his other mail. Most of them were business letters and documents which he stacked neatly for attention in the morning.  Then he picked up the envelope from his old home town and carefully opened it.

    "Dear Mr Stone," he read,

    "I have been trying to contact you but without success so I do hope you get this letter.  I am staying in Brighton for the next week and I would like to buy your house in Oak Street. Would you be willing to sell?"

Jeremy stared at the paper in his hands and began to shake, his quiet calm shattered as memories of the past flooded back. Memories of Lucy, memories of shock and disbelief as their wedding day passed and Lucy disappeared from his life. His hand clenched tightly around the letter as the bitter pain was rekindled. For years he had dismissed all thought of her. Now a few brief words on paper had revived it all again.

    For a while he just sat there, staring blankly ahead of him, mulling on all that had happened. Why had he not realised? Why had he been such a fool? He had trusted Lucy implicitly. And Stephen. Yet they had both betrayed him. The fist clenched tighter and the paper scrunched in his hand. "Fool! Fool! Fool!" He exclaimed silently within himself. Now someone wanted to buy Lucy’s house. He had always thought of it as Lucy’s house. It was hers. Not his. Every stroke of work had been for Lucy. Every brush of paint. He couldn’t sell it. It wasn’t his to sell.  Was it?

    He straightened out the paper in his hand and began to read again...

    "... I don’t have a lot of money but I am prepared to make an offer. I wondered if we could meet so that we could discuss the matter in person.  I am staying with my friend Margaret Leigh in Brighton but will be returning home on Wednesday. I live in Mountview which is not far from Brookside…"

He scanned the details briefly.

    "I do hope to hear from you soon, and I do hope you will sell... "

    There was an air of excited eagerness in her words.

    "Sincerely
      Julie Stringer "                              

    He had never heard the name and he wondered about the writer. Was she young? Was she elderly? There was nothing to indicate either and he had no idea who Margaret Leigh was. She must have moved into the village since he moved away. Well, young or old, it didn’t matter. Lucy’s house was not for sale. He would send a brief response so the woman would not waste any further time on the place. He tossed the letter on the table and went to make himself a coffee.

    Later that evening, after he had unpacked and settled back into his apartment, he picked up the letter again and read it through. He must answer it immediately. No point in wasting time. Too many thoughts and memories had been stirred tonight. Get it over and done with.

"Dear Miss Stringer," he began.

No, that’s not right. Maybe she’s Mrs Stringer...he stared at the paper before him...Ms. That’s what he would write. He reached for another sheet of paper.

    "Dear Ms Stringer..."

    His attempts were interrupted by the phone ringing and when he returned he couldn’t find the words to say. Resting his weary head in his hands he closed his eyes. It had been a hectic week and he was exhausted. Tomorrow. He would deal with it tomorrow.

                                                          *****

    Julie waited impatiently for the postman to call, wondering if her letter had found its way into Jeremy Stone’s hands. She had continued to phone periodically but there was never an answer and her disappointment was difficult to hide.

    "He must be away," she mentioned to her friend. "So I guess there’s not much hope that he will get my letter before I leave. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if we could have had a look inside?" she mused.                                                                                     
    "You may not like it after all, if you did see inside" Margaret answered.

    "Oh, I’m sure I will. It is so charming. I can see it now. I actually found my way through that jungle of a garden and had a peek through the windows, not that I could see much, but the curtains are ragged and I was able to get some idea of the layout. I do wish he would contact me."

    The following day her wish was met. The postman brought the letter she’d been waiting for.

    "Dear Julie Stringer, she read, I’m sorry to inform you but the house in question is not for sale. I hope you may be able to find something else to meet your needs.
Yours truly,
    Jeremy Stone."

    Julie was devastated. "He won’t sell," she said flatly.

    "I didn’t think he would, Julie, but it was worth a try. Why don’t we check the real estate agents and see what they have."

    Reluctantly, Julie agreed but in her heart she knew that there was only one place in Brighton that she wanted and it was not for sale.  That evening with a burst of the same enthusiasm and determination that had caused her to write to Jeremy Stone in the first place she picked up the phone again and dialled.

    “Hello, Jeremy Stone speaking”, a voice answered.

      “Mr Stone.  This is Julie Stringer.  I wrote you about your cottage in Brighton.”

      “The cottage is not for sale, Miss Stringer.  Didn’t you get my letter?”  There was a steeliness in his voice that Julie could not ignore.  Still, she persisted. 

      “I know.  I know you wrote, Mr. Stone, but I am phoning you in the hope that you might reconsider.  I have never wanted anything so much in my life.  I love that cottage.  It could be such a wonderful place.  All it needs is someone to love it.  Please, Mr. Stone.  Please, reconsider.  I’m prepared to make a really good offer.  I know I said in my letter that I didn’t have a lot…”

    “It’s not about money, Miss Stringer.  Some things money can’t buy.  The cottage is not for sale.  I’m sorry.  Now if you’ll excuse me…”

    Julie hung up the phone.  It was pointless.  He was the most obstinate man, she decided.  No wonder Lucy ran away with someone else.

    Her holiday was quickly coming to an end.  The real estate agent had been extremely helpful, showing her a number of places, but none of them measured up to the little lovelorn cottage.  It was a dream but she was returning to the real world and life would go on.

    The day before she left Brighton, Julie went to see the cottage one more time. She was surprised to find the grass mowed though much of the jungle remained and the front door was wide open. Hesitantly, she opened the gate. "Hellooo...," she called, peeping in.

    A tall man, with greying hair was seated at a dust-covered table, his head resting in his hands. He looked up when he heard her. His face bore the expression of one stricken and Julie could not ignore the pain she read in his eyes.

    "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude…” 

    He stared at her from the dark interior and she peered to see him more clearly.  “I…I saw the door open and wondered if I could look inside.  It’s just that…I love this cottage."  The words gushed out. "I really, really hoped that I might buy it…I’ve been ill, you see, and I need a place that I can make home.  I’ve never had a place of my own before…"                                                                             

    The facial expression changed as he exclaimed. "You’re Julie Stringer!"

    "Yes. Are you Jeremy Stone?"

    "I am. Well, you’re welcome to look around but it is as I said, Miss Stringer.”  He paused.  “It is Miss, I suppose?"

    "Yes."

    "The cottage is not for sale, I’m afraid."

    "But, why? You don’t want it!  If you wanted it, you wouldn’t have let it rot away like this.  This place was built to be a home, not a mausoleum.”  Her disappointment led to anger and frustration.

    A closed expression fell across Jeremy’s face.  "It’s none of your business, Miss Stringer.  This is my house and I can do whatever I like with it."

    "That may be so, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s a waste.  This beautiful cottage shouldn’t be neglected and abandoned like this. This should be the home that it was designed to be. Not shut up gathering dust and cobwebs. It should be loved and wanted!"  Her frustration and anger were evident in the tone of her voice.

    "Excuse me, Miss Stringer, but this is my place and you’re intruding. Would you mind leaving immediately? You have no right to be here!"

    "I’m going, but the townsfolk are right.  It is a monument to Miss Haversham.  However, if you ever do decide to sell, Mr. Stone, would you please let me have first offer?  I believe you have my address and phone number."

    "What did you say?" Jeremy asked, stunned.

    "I asked you to let me have first offer if you ever decide to sell."

    "No, you said something else. What did you call the place?"

    She half-laughed, scornfully. "A monument to Miss Haversham. That’s what the townsfolk call it and that’s what it is!"

    She swung around and walked determinedly towards the gate. "And just what do you mean by that?" he called after her.

    "If you don’t know, then I’m not going to tell you. You can find out for yourself."
She climbed into the car and sped off down the quiet street as he stood watching her in angry amazement. 

    Julie drove for several miles long the coast road but the view that had drawn her to Brighton was lost to her as she thought about her encounter with Jeremy Stone.  Mr Jeremy Heart-of-Stone, she thought.  She was angry and frustrated.  She had been in lots of difficult situations in the past.  Situations where she was not allowed to go, and for all sorts of reasons, but her persuasive determination had opened doors and the stories she had gained had all contributed to her success as a journalist.  She couldn’t understand Jeremy Stone at all.  And she certainly couldn’t understand his stubbornness, his obsession with the old cottage.  Well, he can keep his house, she conceded eventually.  Defeated, she turned the car around and returned to the home of her friend. 

    Her thoughts changed on the way back and she began to feel somewhat abashed at her brash outspoken behaviour.  She had shown absolutely no regard for his feelings. All she could think about was the cottage and the fact that she wanted it.  The memory of his stricken expression came to her and she was filled with remorse. Disappointment makes us do strange things, she reflected, but it’s no excuse for bad behaviour.  Cottage or no cottage, she must apologise.  She turned into Oak Street, but when she drove past the cottage, it was locked up, looking as desolate as ever. 

    Jeremy Stone had watched Julie drive away with an anger he hadn’t known in a long, long time. How dare she?  How dare she walk all over his feelings like that?  What business was it of hers what he did with the cottage?  It was his cottage and he could do whatever he liked with it. And what did she mean by that wisecrack. A monument to Miss Haversham.  He’d never even heard of Miss Haversham. 
   
    To say that Jeremy was unsettled as he drove back to Brookside was putting it mildly. He felt a restlessness he hadn’t known for years. It was as if something within him had suddenly come to life again. He didn’t really understand it. He had received a letter from Julie Stringer and exchanged a few brief words with her. She was a stranger to him yet she had stirred all kinds of emotions within him. He had relived all the painful moments that had followed his wedding day. All his dashed hopes and dreams for Lucy and himself and the little cottage where he had dreamed they would raise their children. Lucy’s cottage, he had called it. But he had told Julie Stringer that it was his cottage and ever since that brief heated encounter that’s how he had seen it. It was no longer Lucy’s cottage. It wasn’t even their cottage. It was his cottage, a piece of real estate that would never fulfil the purpose for which it had been built. Unless…

    More disturbed than ever, he continued the drive home.

                                                            *****

    Julie arrived back in Mountview the following evening. Margaret had said she would keep her eyes and ears open in case another little cottage became available but meanwhile, Julie felt inclined to forget the whole idea. When she arrived home, she wrote a brief note of apology to Jeremy Stone and got on with her life.
She was astounded a few weeks later to receive a message on her answering machine. It was from Jeremy.

    "I read about your Miss Havisham," he said briefly. 

    And he had. As soon as he returned from Brighton, he did some research and read all about Miss Haversham and Dicken’s "Great Expectations". Mirrored in the tragic life of Miss Haversham was his own bitter experience. For more than ten years he had buried himself in his grief, unwilling to face the reality of his circumstances. He’d been a fool, not because he’d been deceived but because he had failed to recognise the escape he’d been afforded through Lucy’s unfaithfulness. Now, thanks to Miss Julie Stringer, it was time to move on. The problem was, he didn’t quite know how.  In the week that followed, he found himself brooding less and less about Lucy and the cottage and more and more about Julie and the cottage.  Something had seriously changed in his thinking.

    Julie was watching television when the phone rang.

    "Miss Stringer, it’s Jeremy Stone here…" He paused briefly as Julie gasped.  "I…wondered if you were still interested in the cottage in Brighton," he continued hesitantly. "I haven’t actually decided to sell but I think the monument has crumbled if you know what I mean.  I wondered...could we get together… and discuss perhaps…that offer you mentioned?"