The Ripples and the Tapestries
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have no idea how long I’ve been sitting with her letter in my hand but, collecting my scattered wits, find that the purple box files do indeed reside at the back of the wardrobe. The arrangement with Greg has been that, under his supervision, I could collect any personal effects. Whatever sixth sense dictated that I would need to arrive two hours early has stood me in good stead, but the time for Greg’s arrival is drawing perilously close.
Cautiously I leave the flat. Good – no sign of him arriving early. I put the files on the floor behind the passenger seat, covering them with an apparently carelessly thrown travel rug and drive into the next street, positioning myself where I will see Greg’s sports car arriving. I keep him waiting several minutes before I ring the bell, having driven at speed round the corner to the vacant space a few car lengths away from the door, in order to arrive convincingly breathless after running up the stairs.
Generosity is not in his nature. He queries every book, every CD I gather up to put in the sports bag I’ve brought. Not that there were many. I take the framed George Eliot from its place on top of the bookcase.
“May I have this as a memento?”
He shrugged.
“It’s hardly an old masterpiece, is it? No accounting for taste.”
I wanted to spend as little time in his company as possible and am soon ready to leave. He is still sifting through dressing table drawers - for any hidden treasure, no doubt, but I know that Cress has deposited her best jewellery at the bank, in an uncharacteristic mood of caution before she left. Not that I am going to tell him that – let him find out for himself and earn his right to be executor. He accompanies me to the door, making sure nothing else disappears en route, I think sourly, as I leave for the last time.
My own place has always been a haven – of sorts; that is, when I can be bothered to tidy away the piles of papers and matters requiring my attention. I give the purple box files a prominent place on the table at the side of my ‘work station’, as I so grandiosely call the fourth-hand desk bought from the charity shop across the road. Cressy had moved into what I called a gracious flat in a Georgian house near the park, after leaving the marital house full of memories for Paul to rattle around in, and populate intermittently with Greg and his friends.
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About the Book
Following the discovery of an author's hidden beliefs, and attempting to come to terms with the bleak existence that lies ahead without Cressida, Troy starts to read her secret manuscripts as a way of getting to know more of this closest and dearest of friends.
This novel contains many threads within its various plots - the storylines are about change and, therefore, hope. We are all born with the potential for both - within our personalities and what we make of the world into which we are born. The first manuscript shows the profound effects of one woman's arrogance and control - of her family and anyone else she encounters. Leaving a wide-spreading legacy of secrecy and spite, she enters an unexpected afterlife where she has to learn the consequences of her actions, so that she can eventually prepare to return and make amends in a different setting.
At first dismissive - both of the theme and not least the implications - searching for clues in the second manuscript, Troy discovers it is not just a tale but a description of Cressy's hitherto unknown and emerging beliefs. As the individual tapestries become interwoven, once the fictional family is helped, a global purpose emerges - all essential in order to make amends for the previous life.
Not only is it autobiographical, but people in Cressy's own life have been portrayed; which one is Troy? Tracking down the only living person who can shed light on this proves to be a rewarding experience, although strangely incomplete.
About the Author
Lyz Harvey has been a creative writer for almost as many years as she has been spiritually developing as a healer and holistic counsellor - which, in actual calculation, is the latter third of her life. Born into a spiritual backwater of the industrial Midlands and given an orthodox upbringing, much later moving to live near some of her family roots of dissenters and freethinkers provided an opportunity which she took gladly to begin her spiritual journey in earnest. She anticipates the fourth quarter of her life being perhaps more peaceful - but at least as interesting ...