There had been a report from Syria, and the sight of bombs going off and the sounds of bullets cracking through a smoke-filled skyline had reminded her of something Edward Willoughby from Wessex Road had told her the night before. He’d seen action in the Middle East, he’d said. She’d never met anyone who’d served in a conflict zone before, and it had always seemed like a distant thing when she’d seen it on the news, a thing that happened to other people and affected other lives. She wondered how it might have scarred him, made him into a different person, because as she watched the TV images she realised that nobody could walk away from that without being affected by it. She wondered what George, her letter writer, had been through, and whether the war in France in 1944, though the technology was very different, had been every bit as traumatic and brutal as what she saw on the reports now. She supposed it must have been, but when she’d learned about it at school in history lessons, it had never seemed so real and so tangible as it did now she was in possession of a letter written by the hand of one of the men who’d actually fought there. George sounded so ordinary, so unremarkable, that he could have been any of the men she knew now, and it pained her to think of the love on that page never being seen again by the people it mattered to. It was the least poor old George deserved from her, and she owed it to him as the custodian of such a precious thing to somehow get it to the family who would cherish it and all it represented.
Checking her phone again, she noted that there was still nothing from Ed Willoughby. Either he hadn’t been able to talk to his neighbour or letting agent yet, or he’d just decided she was a nutter worth nothing but instant dismissal from his mind. It looked as if she’d have to tackle the problem in a different way. Curling into a corner of her sofa under a duvet by the fire, she opened up her laptop and logged in. Every search made in the world these days started with Google, so it seemed sensible for Dodie to start there too. What to use for search terms – that wasn’t quite so obvious. Using George’s name and Margaret V, the street and the year turned up hundreds of results that barely seemed relevant at all, and trying to find out which British units were serving in France during 1944 turned up various archived documents, history lessons and contemporary eyewitness accounts, but only a handful of individual names pertaining to the men who served in them. As far as she could tell, her George wasn’t one of them. It seemed like an impossible task, but after an hour she went off to make herself a milky coffee and started again, trying to locate the local marriage records in case George and Margaret had got married in the end and she’d be able to trace them that way. That didn’t yield any clues either. It had gone ten by the time she gave up, and she was no further forward than she had been when she’d started three hours earlier. In fact, as she looked at her watch, she couldn’t believe three hours had passed so quickly. Shutting the laptop down, she made one last check on her phone, but apart from a daft photo of a rude-shaped carrot Isla had found in Tesco’s and a text from Ryan saying he was feeling kinda anxious (his favourite Beetlejuice quote, which meant he was in the mood for sex) and that he was going to pop over to see her at the end of the week, there were no messages. Time for bed. Perhaps sleep would bring her some inspiration, because she sure as hell wasn’t getting any awake.
As it turned out Ryan was very anxious indeed. He arrived the next evening after closing time with a bottle of rosé wine and a cheeky grin.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,’ Dodie said as she let him in, trying to bite back the tone of vexation at being surprised. She supposed he’d thought it would be sweet and she’d love it, but she’d made plans to do some more internet research into her mysterious wartime sweethearts and with Ryan there she certainly wouldn’t be doing that. Perhaps her reaction was unreasonable but she couldn’t help it. His dark hair was still wet from the shower he’d clearly had before rushing over, and she didn’t always get a freshly washed Ryan, so at least that was something.
He didn’t seem to notice the sharpness of her tone, though.
‘I know,’ he replied cheerfully, ‘but that’s the point – you’re always going on about how I’m not romantic enough. Isn’t this the sort of thing that’s supposed to be romantic?’
‘But it’s Wednesday…’
‘Yes, I had noticed.’
‘I have to go to bed early.’
‘And I was hoping you’d say that…’ Ryan handed her the bottle with a slow smile, and Dodie couldn’t help but throw one back. How could she be annoyed when he was trying so hard?
‘Red hair?’ he added, nodding at the now scarlet bob she’d clipped behind an ear with a delicate diamanté grip.
‘Oh…’ Dodie smoothed a hand over her tresses. ‘I forgot to tell you I’d dyed it again.’
‘I like it better than the turquoise.’
‘That’s not hard as you had no issue with telling me how much you hated the turquoise.’
‘It was weird; people stared. But red… at least it’s almost normal.’
‘Thank you – I think.’
‘It looks great,’ he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. ‘You look great whatever colour your hair is.’
Dodie folded her arms. ‘I’m not staying up late no matter how much you try to persuade me. And if you’re thinking of staying over just remember that I’ll be up at the crack of dawn and I’m not going to tiptoe around the flat just so you can sleep in.’
‘That’s OK, I’ve got an early start anyway…’ He stepped forward to kiss her. ‘I just wanted to see you.’
‘Hmmm…’ Dodie didn’t want to give in, but she could feel her resolve to be annoyed at his impromptu appearance starting to melt. Whatever he’d used in the shower had left him smelling very good. ‘OK. But don’t forget… no keeping me up past ten.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
His expression was all innocence, but Dodie knew that, despite her warning and his promise, she would most definitely be up past ten.
They shared a pizza that Ryan had fetched from the takeaway along the road and the wine flowed. There had been flirty double entendres all through the meal, and almost as soon as the last slice had left the box, Ryan made his move and they went to bed at just gone nine thirty. When he was done, he rolled away from her and kicked the bedsheets off.
‘Wow. It feels like forever since we did that.’
‘It’s not,’ Dodie laughed. ‘You were over last Saturday, remember?’
‘It’s because you’re so good, babe – it feels like forever because I can’t get enough.’
Dodie propped herself on an elbow and turned to face him with a frown.
‘I know, I know…’ He laughed. ‘You hate it when I call you babe. I forgot… sorry. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal, though.’
‘It’s not a big deal. I don’t know why I don’t like it, I just don’t. Not babes or baby either. I’m a grown woman, not an actual child, and to call a sexy woman baby just sounds a bit weird to me. Dodie will do just fine because that’s my name.’
‘You don’t complain when people call you love or sweetheart in the street.’
‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
She shrugged. ‘Just is.’
He shook his head and shot her a sideways grin. ‘You’re weird.’
‘Isn’t that why you like me?’
‘I suppose it must be.’ He pulled her into his arms and she nestled there, listening to his heartbeat. When she looked up again his eyes were closing.
‘Oi!’ She prodded him. ‘At least give me ten minutes of conversation before you fall asleep.’
He opened his eyes with a lazy grin. ‘OK; talk to me.’
‘How about you talk to me?’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I don’t know… whatever comes into your head.’
‘How about I’m knackered and I want to go to sleep?’
‘You must have something to say.’
‘I could tell you about my week at
work but you’d soon be falling asleep yourself. If you want to chat, you’ll have to think of something to talk about and I’ll just nod in the appropriate places.’
‘That’s a cop-out if ever I heard one but I suppose it’s better than listening to you snore.’
‘I don’t snore.’
‘You wouldn’t know.’ There was a pause. What she wanted to talk about – the thing that seemed to be most on her mind lately despite not fully understanding why – was George’s letter to Margaret. But she knew Ryan well, and he wouldn’t understand either. Not only that, but he’d probably make her feel silly about it. Ryan was practical, head firmly in the real world, and although he tolerated her whimsies, she could tell he didn’t have time for them. Not many did, and Dodie had learned to keep a lot of it to herself for the sake of an easy life. But she wanted to talk about this, to share it with him – after all, he was her boyfriend, and if she couldn’t share her thoughts with him, who could she share them with?
Opening her mouth to speak, she looked up to see that his eyes had closed again, and already his breathing was slowing. She could wake him up but what would be the point? Reaching for the lamp, she turned it off and let the darkness lull her to sleep.
Chapter Six
Ryan had left at six that morning, and although Dodie should have been tired getting up with him, she was surprisingly perky. Perhaps it was the flurries of snow set against an impossible blue sky that made her smile. For the first time that winter, the cold weather brought beauty with it. As long as it didn’t turn into a blizzard, the snow would make people feel festive and perhaps bring them into town to splurge on gifts for their loved ones, maybe even a cheeky one or two for themselves. Dodie was certainly counting on the latter as most of her customers purchased things they intended to keep – as Isla had often commented, surprising your friend with a beige seventies Crimplene trouser suit was always going to entail an element of risk that they might want to throw it on the fire once you’d gone.
While she was feeling festive, she thought it might also be a good day to do the decorating Gran had mentioned. So she lugged two boxes of tinsel and other Christmas odds and ends snaffled from her parents’ loft down from her living room and began to arrange them around the shop in between customers. She had to admit that she wasn’t entirely sure whether she was making the shop look more festive or just an almighty mess, but as the radio played swing arrangements of Christmas classics, she certainly felt more festive, even if her shop didn’t look it. Then she began on the white plastic tree she’d found at a car boot sale. Tacky was what Isla had called it, but Dodie felt it fitted the aesthetic of the shop perfectly. Nothing said Christmas vintage quite like a white sparkly plastic tree hung with glittery baubles and topped with a fairy that looked like Barbie’s well-endowed alcoholic older sister.
By twelve she’d had four customers – one looking for a print of the lady with the green face that had seemed to grace every living room wall between 1971 and 1979, another one after a period costume for a school production of A Christmas Carol (Dodie had directed them to the costume shop), one who bought some eighties dungarees and one who’d spent almost an hour trying on the same two dresses with her friend, mumbling how both looked equally good every time she emerged from the changing room again, only to announce that she’d think about it and come back. There were days when Dodie wished she’d had a bit more patience with her university course and maybe she’d be working in the fashion industry now rather than painting on smiles for the customers from hell. Cranky moods aside, however, she loved her little shop, and when she really thought about it, that wasn’t how she felt at all. She simply needed her shop to perform well enough to stay open and sometimes the stress and frustration attached to that could be overwhelming, especially when there were days when nothing seemed to go her way. Lunchtime wasn’t for another hour and she probably wouldn’t be stopping anyway, so she pulled her box of cream crackers from the drawer and munched grouchily as she stared out of the window, the snow now spitting to a halt, and her Mary Poppins mood turning into Miss Trunchbull.
As she contemplated closing up for an hour at one and taking a walk down to the seafront – something she rarely did but today seemed to call for drastic action – her phone rang. Retrieving it from the drawer to answer, she smiled, her maudlin thoughts forgotten as she heard the voice of Ed Willoughby. She’d just about given up on him, and a bit of good news was what she needed to lighten her mood. At least she hoped it would be good news.
‘Hello, Ed. How are you?’
‘I’m good, actually,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d better catch up with you. Any further on with the search for your mysterious letter writer?’
‘No. To be honest I haven’t really had as much time as I’d like, though.’
‘That’s a shame. I can’t offer much help either, I’m afraid. Albert came back from his travels and I had a quick word with him, but he didn’t know any more about any of our house’s previous residents than me. And I phoned the letting agent but, as I thought, they wouldn’t give me any details about the landlord. They did say they’d get in touch with him and ask, which I thought was good of them.’
Dodie munched on a cracker thoughtfully, staring out of the window. ‘Oh,’ she said, swallowing. ‘And I suppose you haven’t heard back yet?’
‘It was only at the start of the week and I expect they’re busy. I just wanted to let you know where I was at… it seemed important to you.’
‘Thanks; I appreciate that.’
There was a brief silence. Was that it?
‘Oh, and I did have a word with the people at number seventeen,’ he said, breaking into the pause, ‘but they told me you’d already been to ask them about it.’
‘Yes.’
‘They weren’t very helpful – looked a bit pissed off, to be honest.’
‘They were like that with me too,’ Dodie said. ‘But they’d got their hands full with a baby so I suppose they haven’t got time for people knocking to ask them silly questions.’
‘No need to be rude, though.’
‘At least you know which of your neighbours to avoid when you need a cup of sugar,’ Dodie said with a faint smile. ‘So you didn’t speak to anyone else on the road?’
‘No.’
‘Right…’
‘Maybe it would help? I mean, some of the residents are older… they might know about the family who lived there.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Dodie mused. ‘I might even go later today when I’ve shut the shop.’
‘Shop?’
‘Oh, I work in a shop. I mean, it’s my shop…’
‘What sort of shop is it?’
‘I don’t think you’d be interested. Just clothes.’
‘Just clothes? What, like women’s clothes? Men’s? Both? Is it in Bournemouth?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think you’d want to shop here.’
‘Are you trying to put me off coming to buy something?’ he asked. Dodie couldn’t be sure, but something in his voice sounded like he was teasing her and she wasn’t certain what to make of it. He was there again, this intriguing, unfathomable man. He’d seem like he didn’t care one minute, and then was fascinated the next.
‘No… of course I’m not. You just didn’t strike me as the sort of man who’d wear vintage clothes.’
‘It’s a vintage shop? I’ve never been in one.’
‘It’s definitely an acquired taste, as my best friend keeps reminding me. But we’re doing OK so far,’ she lied. ‘There’s definitely a market for it.’
‘Maybe I’ll check it out one day.’
‘That’d be nice…’ She looked up at the sound of the bell over the door chiming and smiled briefly at the customer who’d just walked in. ‘Listen, thanks so much for trying the landlord for me.’
‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.’
‘Brilliant. Well… got to go. Bye for now.’
‘Bye. Dodie, I—’
&nb
sp; She ended the call and stashed her phone back in the drawer behind the counter. Ed’s idea about talking to other people on Wessex Road wasn’t half bad. Or at least, it wouldn’t be if it didn’t involve making her look like a complete nut-job with the added risk of her getting chased from properties by pensioners hurling slices of Dundee cake at her. Would any of them know enough to make it worth her while? She mulled the idea over as the customer flicked through a rack of coats and then gave her head a little shake. Door-to-door enquiries like an overzealous salesman? Worst idea ever.
Dodie huddled in a pool of lamplight, phone pressed to her ear. The temperature had dropped sharply as the sun sank below the horizon and now, at ten past six, with clear star-strewn skies above her, even her beautiful old–new coat wasn’t quite cutting it. She had some deeply unglamorous thermal underwear sitting in a drawer in the flat that she’d purchased for a trip to Lapland a few years before, and right now she wished more than anything she was wearing it.
‘I was counting on you being here,’ Dodie hissed into her phone. ‘I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t agreed to come with me!’
‘I know. I said I’m sorry but something has come up. I did try to phone you to let you know I wouldn’t be there.’
‘About ten minutes ago, yeah. I was already on my way up here then.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘So this something is more important than your best friend?’
‘No, but…’ Isla’s sentence trailed off.
‘Thanks a bunch. Let’s hope I don’t get mugged because you’ll feel bad then and I won’t care.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Isla snapped. ‘I can’t hold your hand every time you go out and it was your stupid idea to go knocking on doors and asking about a stupid old letter that nobody but you cares about.’
Dodie stared into the distance. While Isla could be forthright at times, she’d never been quite so vitriolic in a response before. She didn’t know how to respond to it.
A Very Vintage Christmas: A Heartwarming Christmas Romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 1) Page 6
