She found herself reading the letter again, letting each word burrow a little further into her soul. What had this couple been like? Had they known each other since childhood, perhaps? Or had they met at some genteel dance where Maggie had allowed George to walk her home and talk to her about poetry and the weather? Perhaps there’d been more irreverent flirting from out of a top-floor window, or a random conversation on a shared bus journey that had led to them seeking each other out on that same bus every day, eventually blossoming into something more. Dodie longed to be able to see beyond the letter, into the past, to see the rest of their lives play out. Had he ever come back from the war? Had they married? If they had, were there children… grandchildren? In the letter George talked about some news he’d had from Maggie, a shock, and how he was trying to get home so they could marry. Could that mean there was a child?
It was silly and pointless to try to figure it all out and it was even sillier to pine for love like that – it was a different age and love was different back then. The spectre of separation through war, the ever-present threat of death and loss, made love different. If you thought that every stolen moment might be your last together, you made each one count. Everyone was so comfortable now, everyone safe. Ryan was only ever a text message away if she needed him. There was no urgency in their love because there didn’t need to be.
Dodie looked at the letter again. The emotion was so raw, so tangible, it was like she could grasp it from across the years and hold it to her own heart. It was exceptional and special and, even if it was silly and pointless trying to piece together George and Maggie’s history, something about it wouldn’t let Dodie be. A record of love this precious deserved to be back with Maggie’s family, not in the drawer of a shop owner who knew nothing of the people who’d shared such devotion.
‘I might have known you’d be trying everything on the minute my back was turned.’ Isla’s voice came from the doorway. Dodie looked around with a sheepish smile, the letter clutched guiltily in her hand as if she’d been caught reading a stolen diary. Which she knew was ridiculous, even if it was the way she felt.
‘You know me too well. Isn’t it gorgeous, though?’ Dodie replied, trying to sound normal, though she felt far from it.
‘It looks lovely on you,’ Isla said, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe. She raised her eyebrows. ‘I take it you’re keeping it?’
‘I might,’ Dodie said, turning to the mirror again. ‘I’m not sure I can justify another coat but… well, it’s weird but I feel very attached to it already, even though it’s supposed to be stock; I don’t think I can bear to sell it.’
‘You’re going to make a lot of money that way,’ Isla said dryly. ‘The shop isn’t struggling because there’s no business, it’s because you’re keeping all the stock for yourself.’
Dodie smiled. ‘Not quite all of it. I have to admit to keeping a bit back, but I can’t help it when everything is so lovely. You think this suits me then?’
‘It does, though telling you so is just encouraging you.’ Isla made her way around the counter to get a closer look.
‘I won’t hold it against you,’ Dodie said. ‘I found this too, in the pocket…’ Grudgingly, but knowing that Isla would notice and ask about it sooner or later, she handed the letter to her friend, who took it with a vague frown.
‘What’s this?’
‘If you read it you’ll find out.’
‘Sounds cryptic,’ Isla said, opening the page. She was silent for a minute or two as she read it, and then folded it up and handed it back to Dodie.
‘And that’s why I don’t get involved in old stuff; it’s all too depressing.’
‘I think it’s romantic.’
‘Romantically depressing. All angst and heartbreak and unfulfilled destinies. Poor sods.’
‘They might have ended up getting married.’
‘If that letter has come to you then it ended up as tragedy.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because you’re a weird tragedy magnet.’
‘I’m a what?’ Dodie laughed.
‘A tragedy magnet. I don’t know… something about you just invites drama. Not you – you’re never dramatic – but you’re always befriending people haunted by terrible secrets and angst. You’re like an actual living, breathing women’s fiction character.’
‘So you don’t think they ended up together,’ Dodie asked, ignoring the jibes. She knew Isla didn’t really mean any of it – that was just how they worked; Isla teased and insulted and Dodie loved the irreverent, dark humour in it.
‘Absolutely not. I bet he didn’t come home and she waited for a whole week before she married some slick American GI.’
‘Not if the clothes have ended up with me, she didn’t. Anyway, I prefer to think that they had true, everlasting love that could overcome anything. I bet it kept him alive and he came home at the end of the war to get married.’
‘He died. You know it and I know it.’
‘Well,’ Dodie said, ‘even if he did, it’s still kind of romantic in its tragedy. You know that saying about it being better to have loved and lost…?’
‘Yeah… I think that might be bull. I’ll let you know my verdict if I’m ever stupid enough to fall in love.’
Dodie peeled off the coat with a grin and folded it carefully. ‘I’m going to get my breakfast. Think you can hold the fort here for ten minutes?’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ Isla shot her friend a sideways glance.
‘I know,’ Dodie said, laughing. ‘Just keep an eye on things but don’t worry about any more sorting. Once I’ve eaten we’ll go through it together and I’ll tell you what needs doing.’
‘Best if we do go through it together so I can stop you from trying it all on.’
‘I’d like to see you do that. Many have tried and failed. Besides, I’m going to get you trying some stuff on later. I’ll convert you to the joys of vintage clothing if it kills me.’
‘God forbid, it will probably kill one of us,’ Isla said.
Chapter Three
Dodie couldn’t stop thinking about the letter, now stashed safely away in a locked drawer. The coat had gone to the dry cleaners, along with half a dozen other delicate items, after a careful check had revealed no more hidden secrets in the pockets. Inspecting and cataloguing the things that hadn’t been discarded for the charity shop kept Isla and Dodie busy for the rest of the day, in-between serving customers. There were blouses, dresses, a couple of pairs of chic slacks and – to Dodie’s utter delight – a cache of hidden brooches and costume jewellery stowed in a red leather clutch bag. Outside, the bright morning had darkened and, though it was barely 4 p.m., dusk was already throwing the corners of the street into shadow. The Christmas markets in town would be alive with festive music and the smells of bratwurst, roasted nuts and mulled wine while shoppers clung to cups of hot chocolate and sugared doughnuts as they strolled through the stalls. Maybe they’d wander down through the Lower Gardens where the trees would be strung with lights and hardy squirrels darted from branch to branch, then out to the promenade and the beachfront where bars and fairground rides came alive after dark. Dodie half wished she could close the shop early and join them, but if she didn’t sort out this stock nobody else would – not to mention that she was supposed to be trying to sell some of it.
‘But if it was you,’ she said as Isla sniffed at a cashmere sweater and wrinkled her nose, ‘if it was your grandma or mother, you’d want it, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s sort of like an heirloom.’
‘I suppose,’ Isla said. ‘Can’t say I’ve given it much thought to be honest. I don’t really do sentimental because I’ve never had much in the way of family heirlooms to treasure. That’s kind of how it goes when your mother’s family leave their homeland in a hurry with nothing more than the clothes on their backs and your dad cuts himself out of your life entirely. You’re probably asking the wrong person about it.’
‘But you would
,’ Dodie insisted.
‘Maybe. But as you don’t know where to find them it’s a bit of a moot point.’
‘I do know where to find them – the address is on the envelope.’
‘An address is on the envelope. You know where this Margaret used to be. I don’t suppose she’ll have lived there for years, and she’s certainly not living there now if you’ve got all her clothes.’
‘What makes you think she hasn’t lived there for a long time?’
Isla rested her hands on her hips. ‘It was 1944. Who stays in the same house that long?’
‘Lots of people,’ Dodie said stubbornly.
‘It might even have been her parents’ house. Probably was if she wasn’t married to George.’
‘But a relative might live there now – a descendant or something.’
Isla gave a vague shrug. ‘Maybe, but I doubt it. Do you know where the street is?’
‘No, but I could Google it. Shouldn’t think it’s that far away.’
‘Wouldn’t hurt to try, I suppose. Or you could put it in the post to that address. Job done, as far as you’re concerned. And if Margaret isn’t there it’s someone else’s problem to find her.’
Dodie shook her head. ‘I couldn’t do that – what if the current owners aren’t members of the family and don’t know where any of the family has gone to? They might just throw it away.’
‘Well if the people who live at that actual house don’t know, you can hardly be expected to know, can you? I suppose they’d just send it on to the post office as “Not known at this address” and the post office could track the person down.’
‘How would they track down someone who lived on Wessex Road in 1944?’
‘How are you going to track down someone who lived on Wessex Road in 1944?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dodie said lamely. ‘I just feel as if I should have a go.’
‘It’s sweet, and just the sort of thing you’d do, but personally I think it’s a waste of time and you’ve got enough to do here in the shop.’
Dodie was silent. ‘You’re probably right,’ she said finally. ‘When I think about it properly it does seem a bit daft, doesn’t it?’
‘A bit. But it’s cute that you wanted to try.’ Isla offered Dodie a black chiffon blouse. ‘This is a bit saucy – you should try it on; would totally go with your new red hair.’
Dodie wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think I can pull off saucy. You should try it on if you like it.’
Isla was thoughtful for a moment as she studied the blouse. ‘You’re bloody determined to get me into second-hand crap, aren’t you? Oh what the hell…’ She sighed as she snatched it back. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’
Dodie grinned as she watched her head for the changing rooms. ‘I knew I’d convert you!’
Isla had left at around seven and Dodie sat alone in front of the television in the tiny flat above the shop watching Mr Smith Goes to Washington. But she was seized by a strange restlessness that even Jimmy Stewart couldn’t distract her from. She’d tried making a camomile tea, and she’d tried listening to Billie Holiday on her iPod, but she couldn’t settle. A walk might do it, and the night was still young enough for there to be lots going on in town.
Peering into the fridge, she pulled out the pack containing the last of her posh ham and made a sandwich from it. The ham wouldn’t be any good if she didn’t use it today and you never knew who you might run into when you were out and about. She wrapped up the sandwich in cling film and dropped it into a bag with some crisps and a can of cola before locking the flat and heading out.
If anything, the main town and Lower Gardens were busier than they would have been during the day. The outdoor skating rink and disco set up for the Christmas period probably had a lot to do with that, not to mention the carousel and street-food stalls. Dodie stood for a while at the edge of the rink watching families and couples go round to the music, breath curling into the air and gales of laughter erupting as people ended up on their bottoms or slammed into their companions when they couldn’t stop.
‘Are you having a go, love?’ a man asked her as he wobbled past on his skates to get onto the ice.
Dodie smiled. ‘Not today. Looks a bit full for me. I need to be able to cling onto the rails at all times.’
‘Me too,’ he laughed. ‘I’ll be on my arse in a minute, but you can’t let the kids have all the fun, can you?’
She watched as he launched himself into the fray and was every bit as unstable as he’d promised. He was enjoying himself, though, and that was the main thing. Catching up with a woman already on the ice, he grabbed her from behind and swung her around to face him, planting a kiss on her lips that left her giggling. Then they continued to skate together, holding hands to steady each other. They were probably in their late forties, maybe early fifties, but both looked as if they lived active, healthy lives and were very much in love.
Moments later they were joined by two teenage children who laughed at the man’s ineptness, though he didn’t seem to mind. They dared the woman to let go of his hand, and eventually she did, laughing as his arms went in windmills until he lost his balance and his bottom connected with the ice.
This time last year Dodie would probably have been on the ice with Ryan, but he lived out in Dorchester and she didn’t see him as often as she used to. He cited the distance, the fact that she was often working into the evening and that he often worked weekends – just about anything, it seemed – to avoid driving over, and she found it difficult to make the journey to his house for the same reasons. It was a relationship, of sorts, but though neither of them had ever mentioned breaking it off, sometimes it seemed to Dodie that, rather than go out with a bang, it would just tail off quietly until one day they quite forgot they were supposed to be together at all. Not that she wanted it to, of course, and not that she actively sought a break-up, but she was strangely philosophical about the prospect, and she didn’t think Ryan felt that differently. During her endless defences of him to Isla she wasn’t lying when she said he was good and steadying for her, but maybe he was just a little too steady… But then, who said love always had to be fireworks? Couldn’t love sometimes be more like a comforting hot-water bottle?
It was getting colder, and Dodie shivered slightly. With her beautiful new coat off to the cleaners, she’d hastily pulled on a short woollen pea jacket to come out, but it wasn’t as luxuriously heavy and snug as her new one. It would probably help to get moving again, so she decided to make her way down to the beachfront promenade and get a caramel latte to warm her up.
A two-minute walk along winding paths, flanked by perfectly manicured shrubbery and lawns, took her past the glowing terraces of a hotel playing live music, down beneath a flyover taking traffic out of the town, and out to the entrance of the Victorian pier. At either side the promenade hugged a beach to take you towards Studland in one direction and Christchurch in the other. You could ride the cute land train in the summer along the seven miles of golden sand and, if you fancied a bit of an adventure, lifts that looked like clockwork toys waited to take you up the sheer cliffs for a leisurely view of the impressive panorama of the bay. On a sunny day it was breathtaking.
The promenade was also home to seaside rides and stalls, including a beautiful Victorian carousel that Dodie often wished she could shrink down to fit in her flat so she could look at it all the time. Brightly painted horses, each with their own name, gilt poles and furnishings, baroque mirrors and piped music evoked a beautiful sense of the past, when life’s pleasures were as simple as whizzing up and down on a steam-powered fairground ride. Dodie could squint her eyes in the lights and imagine it full of women in empire-line dresses and huge feathered hats and men in stiff-collared suits. But it was always packed, even in the twenty-first century when people wore jeans and had smartphones and access to hundreds of theme parks and TV on demand. People clung onto simple things more than even they realised, and the carousel was proof of that.
She wandered for a while. Down to the beach where she loved to see the twinkling lamps stretched along the sweeping shadow of the coastline, and where strollers on the pier gazed out to where the bobbing lights of distant boats flickered on the black sea and the moon sent silver ripples over its surface. On a night like this, there was nowhere on earth she’d rather be. No wonder she’d felt an odd pull to this place; ever since she was a girl visiting her grandmother at weekends, she’d known she’d end up living here herself one day. Some days it was tough forging the new life she’d promised herself – master of her own ship, maker of her own future – but on nights like this it was worth it.
If only she could get the business established so she felt financially secure, life would be just about perfect. God only knew she’d been through hell trying to get it on track – a battle with a bout of depression and anxiety had sealed her fate on her time studying dress history and fashion at university, ensuring she flunked the course before she’d even got halfway through. Despite this, she counted herself luckier than most that a supportive and loving network of family and friends had helped her through the dark days and nudged her to get back on her feet. Without them her life would have been very different to the one she had bright hopes for now. Never turn back, her mum had said, and Dodie hadn’t. Terrified that re-entering education would send her down the same path again, she had done the next best thing – fulfilled another dream she’d harboured as a girl; to own a shop, full of the things she loved with a passion. She tried not to let the image of a dozen red-topped bills on the shelf at home invade her thoughts. There would be a time to worry about them properly, but she wasn’t going to let them ruin her mood tonight.
A Very Vintage Christmas: A Heartwarming Christmas Romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 1) Page 3
