Call Me Lil
A Queensland guest house, a fresh start and a man called James.
Lil Bell writes letters from her seaside guest house in 1950s Redcliffe, Queensland to her sister Viv. Through their correspondence, we discover the secrets buried in the garden, the glamorous guests who arrive with their own mysteries, and the life of a woman who refused to follow the expected path. This is Lil - in her own words.
Well then, I suppose you want to know about me. Lillian Margaret Bell, if we're being formal about it, though the only person who ever called me that was the headmistress at school when I'd tracked mud through her precious hallway. Everyone else just calls me Lil. Even Aunt Ollie did, bless her soul, and she was the one who left me this guest house by the sea.
Here I Am
The truth is, I didn't plan to end up running a guest house. I was meant to be a farmer's daughter who became a farmer's wife, I suppose. Simple as that. I grew up on my parents' place with my sister Viv but I was the dependable one. The one who stayed when others left. Viv married her sweetheart and moved away to start her new life, while I stayed behind with the cattle and the endless cycle of chores. Someone had to, and it was always going to be me.
I did marry a good man, but he died too soon and left me here on the farm. Then Aunt Ollie went and surprised us all by leaving me this place in Redcliffe. A guest house, of all things. I traded cow muck for burnt toast and endless beds to strip, but at least now I wake up to the sound of waves instead of roosters. There's something to be said for that.
I'm nearly fifty now, a widow, and people do ask ‘will you marry again, Lil?’ I hear them at the post office. "Poor Lil," as if I can't hear them perfectly well.
The truth is, I almost did. Once or twice. There was Thomas, who used to linger after church and walk me halfway home, talking about his plans for expanding his father's shop. Nice enough fellow. Good prospects, as they say.
Ah, James
And then there was James. Now there's a cautionary tale if ever there was one. Handsome as anything, with that sort of easy charm that made you feel like the only woman in the room. He had a way of appearing with wildflowers he'd "just happened" to pick, or showing up with some little trinket he'd seen that "reminded him of me." Always talking about the grand adventures we'd have, the places we'd see together once he'd "sorted out his affairs."
I should have paid more attention to that phrase "sorted out his affairs." Turns out James had quite a few affairs to sort, and I don't mean the business kind. It came out eventually, as these things do in a small place. Miss Eleanor Davies over in Thornfield had been receiving remarkably similar wildflowers and trinkets, along with promises of their own grand adventures. And apparently there was a Miss Sarah something-or-other in the next county who'd been hearing much the same sweet words.
The whole thing unravelled rather spectacularly when Eleanor's father threatened to take James to court for breach of promise. Seems James had been a bit too specific in his promises to her, talk of wedding dates and such. The scandal kept the gossips busy for months. Poor Eleanor was mortified, though I suspect she was better off without him. As was I, come to that.
But the timing was never quite right with any of them, really. The farm needed me when Thomas came calling. And by the time James's true nature revealed itself, well, I'd already begun to suspect his promises were worth about as much as last week's newspaper.
And I was never one to settle for "good enough" just because the clock was ticking. Viv understands that. "Better to be particular than sorry," she always said, though I sometimes wonder if she thinks I was too particular.
I'm not bitter about it, mind you. Life has a way of unfolding as it will, regardless of what we plan. And there are worse things than being mistress of your own house, able to come and go as you please without asking permission or explaining yourself to anyone but the guests who pay for the privilege of my burnt toast.
Am I lonely?
Sometimes. More often than I care to admit, if I'm being honest. But I'm not one for self-pity. There's too much work to be done, and wallowing never made a bed or fixed a leaky tap.
That's why I write to Viv. She's the one person who knows my whole story, who I was before I became the woman who smooths over awkward silences at breakfast and keeps the peace when guests complain about everything from the water temperature to the weather. With her, I can be myself instead of just the pleasant hostess with the tea pot always at the ready. In my letters, I can tell the truth. Or at least as much of it as I'm ready to face.
My story isn't finished yet, I know that much. For now, I write. To Viv, and perhaps in a way, to whoever might be listening.
I didn't choose this life. It chose me.
But I quite like being a mystery.
Let them wonder.
I've got stories to tell.
After all, nearly fifty isn't nearly done. Not by a long shot.
If you'd like to read Lil's actual letters to Viv and follow her adventures at the Redcliffe Guest House, you can learn more about The Dear Viv Letters . New readers often start with the prequel, the day before she leaves the farm on her way to the guest house at Redcliffe.