A Very Vintage Christmas: A Heartwarming Christmas Romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 1)

by Tilly Tennant

  At 9.30 p.m., too cold to stand much more despite the sense of contentment being out had brought, she decided to make her way home. It was as she was returning through the gardens that she noticed a shuffling figure dragging a huge shopping bag, kitbag and blanket over his shoulders. He looked as if he was casting around for a place to sleep.

  ‘Nick!’ she called, hurrying over.

  He turned to her and his weary frown cleared into a smile. ‘Twice in one day – must be my birthday.’

  ‘I was hoping I’d see you – I had some ham left at home so I made you some sandwiches. You like pickle, don’t you?’

  ‘You remembered.’ He smiled as she handed him the bag she’d made up earlier. ‘Other goodies too – you’re a sweetheart, you know that?’

  ‘Not really – it would have gone to waste and I hate that. Where are you sleeping tonight? It’s freezing – I know what you’re going to say but do you think you ought to go to the shelter for once?’

  ‘My mate Barry has something lined up, I think… if I can find him, that is. You haven’t seen him anywhere tonight?’

  ‘I’m not sure what he looks like,’ she said doubtfully. ‘And I don’t recall the name.’

  ‘To be fair he’s pissed most of the time so if you have come across him on your travels, he’d have been too drunk to tell you his name. In fact, you wouldn’t get much sense from him at all, but he does have a talent for sniffing out a good place to bunk.’

  ‘What does he look like? If I see him I can tell him you’re looking for him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, love. He won’t remember what you’ve said anyway. I’ll find him sooner or later. Been for a walk, have you?’ He nodded at the sand on her boots.

  ‘Oh.’ She laughed. ‘I might have let my inner child out for an hour on the beach. It’s when I see all that lovely sand, I just can’t help it.’

  ‘Was a time you could sleep on the beach.’ He wiped the back of his hand under his nose. ‘Not now – at night these days the beach is busier than it is during the day. Students everywhere having parties. Madness in the summer.’

  ‘It’s not too bad tonight,’ Dodie said. ‘Maybe you could try under the pier? The tide doesn’t come right up, does it?’

  He sniffed. ‘Might do that if I don’t find Barry. Probably just find somewhere in the park, though.’

  Dodie gave a brisk nod. ‘Right… well… I’ll probably make my way back then. Early start tomorrow.’

  ‘You take care. And thanks for the sandwich – made my night.’

  ‘No problem; I hope you like it.’ She held up a hand in farewell and turned to leave. But then she stopped a few paces on and spun around to call back. ‘Nick…’ she said slowly as the idea occurred to her. ‘Do you happen to know where Wessex Road is?’

  Chapter Four

  It was easier to walk to Wessex Road than drive, mainly because Dodie got flustered when she was driving to new places, and walking allowed the luxury of checking street signs carefully and making mistakes without the stress of an angry motorist banging on his horn behind her. Nick had told her it would be about ten minutes from her shop; the reality was more like twenty, but the evening was milder than the previous one, and it wasn’t so bad once she’d wrapped up. Besides, the stroll gave her time to unwind from a day in the shop that, while not particularly busy, had brought stresses in the form of a call from her accountant that had tied her brain up in knots and a difficult customer who had brought a ripped dress back for a refund. She’d insisted it had nothing to do with her, but Dodie distinctly remembered checking the item thoroughly as it came into the shop and finding no faults. It was tempting, given also that the woman was clearly bigger than the dress, to mention that a size sixteen body fitting into a size twelve garment was quite contrary to the laws of physics and would undoubtedly lead to something giving way, but in the end they’d negotiated a credit note rather than a refund and Dodie had taken the dress to a pile she’d put aside for repairs.

  As she left the town proper for the suburbs, larger, gated properties hidden behind curtains of fir trees where the millionaires lived gave way to smaller, Victorian-built detached houses with magnolia trees, the winter skeletons of rose bushes in the gardens and mock Tudor-painted eaves. Then came smaller turn-of-the-century semis with neat frontages and too many cars spilling from too-small driveways. It was the end of November, and though Christmas was a little over three weeks away, most already had their decorations up.

  Number 11 Wessex Road was not one of these. As she stood outside the gates, looking up, she saw no Christmas decorations cheering the windows, no magnolia trees in the garden and not even the tiniest stump of a rose bush. There weren’t any cars in the driveway either.

  The hefty period door was sheltered by a porch, and a quick inspection of the doorbell revealed that at some point the house had been converted into two flats. Dodie’s heart sank at the sight – she was unlikely to find Margaret’s family there, if it was no longer a single home. She peered at the names inside plastic squares beneath each of the bells: a Mr Albert Chan and an Edward Willoughby. Chan didn’t sound a likely surname for someone related to her Margaret V, though she couldn’t rule it out, of course. But her finger hovered over the bell for Mr Willoughby until she finally took a deep breath and pressed it.

  The silence as she waited was lightly punctuated by the hissing of a car on a distant road and a dog barking somewhere in a neighbouring garden, and then a deep voice came through the intercom.

  ‘Who is it?’

  She’d already decided that she was going to sound quite mad to anyone who heard her story, so there didn’t seem much point in dressing up the request for information. She took a deep breath and came straight out with it. ‘You don’t actually know me but my name is Dodie. I was wondering if you could help… This sounds crazy but I’m trying to track down a woman who may have once lived here. A long time ago, actually…’

  ‘I don’t know anything about anyone who lived here before me. And I rent it, so I’m not likely to anyway.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dodie hesitated. Not that she’d expected much more but still she felt oddly disappointed. ‘But you might be able to give me some details for your landlord, though?’ she added hopefully. ‘They might be able to help.’

  There was no reply, and after a moment Dodie hesitantly pressed the buzzer again. She didn’t want to be a nuisance but not to respond to her question was a bit rude. She hadn’t come all this way to give up at the first hurdle.

  ‘I’ve told you I can’t help!’ the man snapped.

  ‘I know, I just wondered…’ She frowned. ‘Never mind,’ she sighed. It was clear Mr Willoughby was a grumpy, misanthropic loner who was best left to the solitude of his tarmac-gardened flat. She might have felt sorry for him if he’d even tried to be a bit polite.

  Bracing herself, she went for the other doorbell, hoping to speak to Mr Chan instead. He might have no more information than Edward Willoughby but at least he might be civil about it. But there was no reply.

  She could try down the road at number seventeen, of course, and see how she got on there, but as she turned her phone light on to study the address on the envelope once more she was more convinced than ever that it was number eleven she needed. She had to be sure, and she hadn’t come all this way to do half a job – it was either a thorough investigation or none at all. No you don’t, Mr Scrooge McWilloughby – you’re not putting me off that easily. She buzzed for Edward Willoughby’s flat again and waited for the onslaught.

  ‘Are you still here?’ His voice came through the intercom, full of barely contained irritation. Clearly he wanted to tell her to piss off and she half wished he would – at least she’d have a good excuse to do the same to him.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ she said, trying her best not to let him hear her own vexation. ‘I’ll try not to take up much of your time and after tonight I’ll leave you alone, but this is quite important and I would rather get as much information as I can b
efore I try another line of enquiry—’

  She was interrupted by the front door being flung open.

  ‘Oh… s-sorry…’ Dodie stammered, looking up at him. ‘You’re Mr Willoughby?’

  The man’s glowering expression softened instantly as he looked down at her. He had to be five eleven, maybe even six feet tall, and to a squeak of a girl like Dodie, that was pretty intimidating. Perhaps he realised this quickly, because he gave her an unexpected and reassuring smile that showed slight dimples in his cheeks.

  ‘Ed,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My name is Ed.’ He paused, seeming to appraise Dodie for a moment. She took the opportunity to do the same. She’d guess he was in his early thirties but it was hard to tell with the light spilling from behind him out onto the step. His hair was reddish brown, short at the neck but longer and tousled at the top so that it curled over his forehead. His eyes were hazel, maybe even green in daylight, but they had kindness and intelligence in them, despite his brusque attitude over the intercom. His nails were short, bitten down to the quick on fingers that looked lithe and delicate enough to play piano or perhaps guitar, and the T-shirt he shivered in now that the door was open hung from a well-toned frame.

  ‘Look… I’m sorry I snapped earlier but I really don’t know that I can help you,’ he said. ‘What exactly is it you need again?’

  ‘I’m trying to track down a lady, or the family of a lady… I think she once lived here. It would have been in 1944, so I know it’s a while ago but …’

  He scratched his head. ‘1944? More than a while ago. I bet this house has changed hands a dozen or more times since then.’ Then he narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘Are you related to her? Doing a family tree or something?’

  ‘No. I just know her name was Margaret and I think she lived here.’

  ‘Margaret? Don’t you have more than that? I’m not sure what you’re going to find armed only with the name of Margaret. Aren’t there websites for this sort of thing?’

  ‘I don’t know… I just thought I’d try the address first before I did anything else. It kinda made sense to me.’

  He folded his arms. ‘I don’t have a clue about anyone who was here before me, and I only moved to the area two months ago. Sorry.’

  ‘Perhaps your landlord would? He or she must have had some information when they bought the house – deeds or Land Registry papers or something that might give a clue? They might even be related to Margaret, inherited her house or something?’

  ‘I deal directly with a lettings agent – not a clue who owns the house.’

  ‘Do you think your neighbour would? Mr Chan?’

  ‘Albert?’ Ed swept his hand over a light dusting of stubble, deep in thought. ‘I doubt it. I suppose I could ask him. He’s away for a couple of days though, and I don’t have a phone number for him.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it – I could leave you my phone number in case he does know anything?’

  ‘This must mean a lot to you.’ Ed pulled a mobile from his pocket and swiped the screen to access his contacts list. ‘It’s a lot of trouble to go to. Can I ask what it’s about, or is that private?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not private at all. I found this letter…’ Dodie rummaged in her bag and produced the envelope. She held it up for him to see. ‘There’s the address, but as you can see some of it’s worn off and so has the surname. But it’s a very important letter as far as I can tell, the sort of thing that would have a great deal of sentimental value.’ She shrugged as he took it from her and turned the envelope over to look at the other side. ‘I wanted to return it to… whoever it belonged to really, though I’m not entirely sure who that would be.’

  ‘No sender’s address on the back,’ he said, studying it. ‘Where’s it from? Can I look inside?’

  Dodie hesitated. They were old words, shared between people neither of them knew, but they felt somehow deeply private. She wasn’t sure she wanted just anyone reading them. She’d barely felt comfortable reading them herself. To let him read them felt like an insult to Margaret and George, as if making light of the intense love on the page for the sake of entertainment or idle curiosity. And yet, who knew, this man might be able to help if he did look.

  ‘OK,’ she decided. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘If you want to step inside for a moment while I read, be my guest,’ he said. Dodie hesitated. ‘I am freezing, to be honest,’ he added, ‘and it might be nice to shut the cold out for a minute before I get hypothermia. I won’t jump you, I promise.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would,’ Dodie said, feeling stupid for her doubts as she stepped in and set the door ajar behind her. ‘Anyway,’ she added with a defiant jut of her chin that looked braver than she felt, ‘I carry hairspray in my bag for that sort of thing, so I don’t worry.’

  ‘Hairspray?’ He raised his eyebrows as his thumb slid under the flap of the envelope. ‘What are you going to do with that – style your attacker into submission?’

  ‘Spray it in their face,’ Dodie replied indignantly. ‘It’s not as stupid as it sounds; would you like a ton of hairspray in your eyes?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he replied with a faint smile before turning his attention to the letter. Dodie couldn’t decide whether it would be an overreaction to give him a swift kick in the ankle for being so patronising. In the end, she decided maybe an arrest for grievous bodily harm wouldn’t help her cause all that much, whether she was being patronised or not.

  While he was occupied, she took the opportunity to give the house a quick once-over. It was like most rented houses she’d been in: lockable doors separating the entrance to each flat, one at the top of the stairs and one at the end of the hallway, which served as a shared entrance to the property. The hallway was painted in a sort of dirty beige colour that was probably called ‘wheat field’ or ‘truffle’ or something equally romantic that in no way resembled the drab, uninspiring colour it really was. This sort of décor was Dodie’s worst nightmare; the sort of colour she imagined her own personal hell would be if there was such a thing and she was unfortunate enough to end up in it. The only saving graces were the rather nice terracotta tiling on the floor, which looked like an original feature, and the distinct smell of pine air freshener that showed someone had, at least, made a bit of an effort to make it welcoming. But then she wondered if, rather more disturbingly, they were trying to mask a nasty smell?

  She didn’t doubt that it once would have been a lovely family home. It made her sad to see it reduced to lets, where people came and went year in year out without so much as two words to their neighbours or a single thought for the way it looked. Houses were bricks and mortar but they could be so much more – they stored memories and they became entwined in lives. How could somewhere so temporary ever become entwined in anyone’s life? It was somewhere to sleep and eat and nothing more.

  ‘I was in the army,’ Ed said quietly, his voice bringing Dodie back from her musings. He was still staring at the letter. She frowned at his tone, suddenly so melancholy and introspective. Then something in him jolted and he handed back the letter. ‘It’s tough being separated from your loved ones and not knowing whether you’ll ever see them again, or whether a bullet will get you.’

  ‘You were at war?’

  ‘I was out in the Middle East… Iraq, Afghanistan… I saw a bit of action, yeah.’

  ‘What about the letter?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I thought you said you might get some clues from it – where I can try next.’

  He shrugged. ‘There’s not much in it. Even George says he can’t divulge his position. I suppose we might be able to find records to say where any particular battalions were stationed during June 1944 in France. But we don’t even know whether he’s army, air force or navy. I would say army, but I couldn’t be certain. Even if we could find out who was stationed where and sift through it to get the right one, we have very little information about George apart from his Christian name an
d the fact that he’s dating Margaret someone or other. I would imagine both names were quite common at that time. So we don’t have a lot to go on when you look at it all like that.’

  Dodie let out a sigh. ‘Well, maybe I can go and see your letting agent. Could you give me their number?’

  ‘I can, but I doubt they’re going to be interested in helping you. They probably have some sort of data protection obligation or something to their client… y’know?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Folding the letter back into the envelope, she stowed it carefully back in her bag. She turned and pulled the front door open again, letting a blast of cold air roll through the hallway.

  ‘Are you going to give me your number or not?’ he asked.

  Dodie turned back, her hand resting on the doorknob. ‘My number?’

  ‘You did say you would.’

  Dodie held back a frown. He’d just told her he couldn’t help.

  ‘I would,’ she began awkwardly, ‘but I have a boyfriend you see…’

  He grinned. ‘I don’t doubt it. But you wanted me to talk to Albert when he got back and let you know what he said. I can hardly do that without your number, can I?’

  ‘Oh… of course!’ Dodie felt the heat rise to her face as she fished in her bag for her mobile. She held it out with her number displayed on the screen so he could copy it into his own.

  ‘What did you say your name was again?’ he asked.

  ‘Dodie. Dodie Bright.’

  ‘Dodie Bright,’ he repeated. ‘Cute. Well, Dodie Bright, if I find anything more I’ll let you know.’

  She stepped out onto the street and pulled her jacket tighter. The porch went dark and as she turned to speak again she realised he’d already closed the front door. So she didn’t find a Margaret V but she did find an Ed Willoughby. She couldn’t quite decide what she thought of that.