The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  The memorial window shines brightly with the kiss of winter sunshine. As I stand before it I think of all the men of the village, young and old, who had believed the war would be over by that first Christmas of 1914. Many Christmases have passed since then but the world still weeps for their loss, while conflict and wars continue to rage in the far-flung corners of the earth. We don’t learn from history. Matt told me this once, and now I have a greater sense of the waste of this. If we don’t take heed of the lessons of the past, then we’ll make the same mistakes over and over again. Maybe that’s our tragedy?

  “That’s a long face,” remarks Sue, joining me. “I thought only busy vicars and stressed parents looked miserable at Christmas?”

  Her hands are full of carol sheets, which she’s laying out on the pews in readiness for the evening service, and she does look tired. I guess this is her busiest time of year and Caspar probably has lots of presents that require wrapping too. Then there’s the big Christmas dinner she’s cooking for all the waifs and strays. Never mind a cassock – Sue ought to dress as Wonder Woman!

  “I was thinking about the men who never came home for Christmas,” I say.

  Sue squeezes my arm. “It’s a hard time of year for anyone who’s lost a loved one.”

  I nod. There’s no more to say and we contemplate the window quietly. My eyes scan the list of people, skipping through until the surnames beginning with T, where Dickon should be. Once again Michael, Samuel and William are remembered, but Dickon’s absent.

  So either he didn’t die of war injuries or there was some other reason why he wasn’t added. I wonder which?

  “You’ve got that look on your face again,” Sue says.

  “What look?”

  “This one.” She screws up her eyes and pokes her tongue out of the corner of her mouth.

  “I don’t look like that!”

  “You so do. Matt does it too. Tim and I call it the Kit and Daisy face. It’s very attractive! Not!”

  Actually I think I might have seen Matt pull it a few times.

  “OK, you may be right,” I admit. “Although I wasn’t strictly thinking about either Daisy or Kit, but rather somebody they both knew and who I think might have been linked to the daisy in the window.”

  “Tell me more, Miss Marple,” Sue says, looking intrigued. “This story just gets better and better.”

  “I’m looking for a Dickon Trehunnist, who was the first lad from Rosecraddick to enlist.”

  I don’t mention that he was a nasty piece of work; in fairness to Dickon he was very young and jealous, and I know from experience just how daft teenagers can be. Besides, this is the season of goodwill to all men and, if my hunch is right, Dickon may well have had a change of heart. Who’s to say people can’t change? I’d bet a great deal of money that fighting in the trenches changed a lot of men.

  “Trehunnist, did you say?”

  “That’s right. I think they were local farmers? His brothers and his father died in the war, and they’re mentioned on here and on the clifftop memorial – but there’s no sign of Dickon, which means he may have survived. I need to do some more digging.”

  “Tracing your Dickon should be dead easy,” Sue says. “The Trehunnists are very well known in the south-west. You must have seen their showrooms? Trehunnist Autos? Trust Trehunnists?” She starts to sing a catchy little jingle, which peters out when it’s obvious I have absolutely no idea what this means. “You don’t know what I’m on about, do you? The Trehunnist car dealers?”

  “Aren’t they farmers?”

  “Not unless they’re growing cars! Trehunnist Autos is the biggest car dealership around here. I think it’s a Mick Trehunnist who runs the company these days, but they’re very much family based and one of them is bound to be related to the man you’re thinking of. Why don’t you give them a call?”

  And that easily I find myself sitting in the vestry, my feet singeing courtesy of the fan heater, and with my mobile clamped between my ear and shoulder as I scrabble to grab some paper and a pen from beneath the debris on Sue’s desk. I’ve dialled the flagship Truro showroom and on just the second ring somebody picks up.

  “Good afternoon! Trehunnists! Motors you can trust! How may I help you?”

  This chirpy male voice has been well drilled. My mechanic at home always sounds practically suicidal when I call – which is ironic really, since what he charges is almost enough to send me over the edge.

  “Hello,” I say, uncertain quite where this call will go. Chances are I’ll be fobbed off or put on hold to be tortured by tinny telephone music until I leave them in peace. “I’m wondering if you could help me? My name’s Chloe Pencarrow and I’m doing some research into some local history. I’m looking to speak with somebody who might know of a Dickon Trehunnist, who was a young soldier during the First World War?”

  I wait to be given the polite brush-off but it doesn’t come.

  “Dickon? As in Mr Richard Trehunnist, you mean?”

  Of course, Dickon was his nickname. There was no Richard mentioned on the war memorial though. I would have noticed.

  “That’s right, and it would be helpful if that’s at all possible,” I say gratefully. “I appreciate it’s a long shot.”

  “Not at all, madam. We get asked about Mr Trehunnist all the time. It’s some story after all, isn’t it? Really inspiring rags-to-riches stuff. He was an incredible man.”

  He was? I sit up at this, knocking piles of Sue’s papers onto the floor. I’ll worry about those later.

  “You can actually tell me about him?”

  “Better than that. You’re in luck because we’re having a bit of a company party this afternoon and everyone’s here. Give me just a moment, madam, and I’ll fetch Mrs Roe. She’s the person you need to talk to.”

  There’s a clatter as the receiver’s placed on a desk, and I can hear the chatter and laughter of a party rise and fall like the tide for a few minutes before there’s a click and then an intake of breath.

  “Ms Pencarrow?” says a beautifully spoken voice. “I’m Kathy Roe and I believe you want to talk about my Uncle Dickon?”

  Chapter 6

  Chloe

  I drive to Kathy Roe’s house the very next morning. I feel a little awkward about intruding on her Christmas Eve, but she was insistent I come over for coffee and mince pies while she told me about her Uncle Dickon.

  “He truly was an exceptional man and I can’t possibly do him justice over the telephone and with our Christmas party in full swing,” she’d told me. “I can also look out some pictures and some information you might find useful. Besides, it sounds as though you may know some parts of his story that I haven’t heard either.”

  I was mindful that the parts of her uncle’s past that I knew of weren’t the most palatable; nonetheless, I was keen to learn more, so I’d found myself agreeing to meet her at half ten the following day. She lived on Bodmin Moor – hence I set off early, with my phone set to satnav mode and the route already mapped in my head. I had a feeling that this was going to be an important meeting and I didn’t want to ruin things by getting lost or running late.

  As I drive through narrow lanes sunken between high hedges and roofed with the naked limbs of knotted trees, I brush my fingers across Daisy’s diary, which is wrapped in soft fabric and resting on the passenger seat. I hope it brings luck and the answers I’m searching for. I guess I could have brought photocopies of the entries about Dickon, or told Mrs Roe about them, but I felt certain that having the original handwriting in front of us would mean more. When I’d mentioned the diary and Daisy’s name, Kathy Roe hadn’t sounded at all surprised. Rather, she’d exhaled slowly as though she’d been waiting a long time to hear of these things.

  “Daisy Hills,” she’d said softly. “Well I never, and after all this time too. Yes, Ms Pencarrow, I think you’d definitely better come over at a time when we can talk properly.”

  The satnav tells me I’m very nearly at my destination, so I slow th
e car and bump along a potholed drive, the spine of which is ridged with tufty grass. My little Peugeot does its best, but the moors are rough and I would have been better off in Matt’s Land Rover and even better off if Matt had been with me. He’s still away visiting his children before Christmas and I find that I miss being able to call him and chat. The Manor’s been shut up for the festive period and I’m realising just how much time I’ve spent there sketching and talking to him.

  I miss Matt Enys. Is that allowed?

  It’s fine, Neil says from the passenger seat, where he’s clinging to the door handle as the car bounds over the rough drive. And it’s as it should be. Watch that pothole, Chloe! Jeez! What have you got against the underneath of this car?

  I laugh because Neil always was a dreadful passenger. He used to spend entire journeys telling me when to indicate and where to steer. His guidance wasn’t always welcome but I did listen.

  So listen to me now, Neil says firmly. Spend time with Matt. He’s a nice guy, OK?

  I nod but I have to focus on guiding the car over the bumps, and by the time I reach the end of the tree-lined drive he’s gone. As I stop the car I feel comforted. I know he wasn’t really here – I’m not totally mad – but those words are exactly what Neil would say. He was all about grabbing life with both hands and living it. I’m seeing him less and less lately but that’s fine too. He’s in my heart and he’s a part of me and I know that, whatever direction life takes, a part of Neil Pencarrow will always come with me.

  Winter sunshine dazzles me as I get out of the car. Shading my eyes, I look up at an imposing Georgian house that’s three storeys high (four if you count the attic rooms), with a symmetrical arrangement of windows. A central flight of stone steps ascends to a sage front door flanked by potted bay trees in lead planters. The formal gardens laid out to the front are winter bare, but neat and well maintained nevertheless. As I walk to the front door my feet crunch over immaculately raked gravel. I’m impressed by how far Dickon’s family have come in just a few generations. Back in 1914, Nancy had complained that Dickon’s parents thought they were better than the rest of the Trehunnists; I wonder what her reaction might be today?

  The front door swings open before I can even knock. A slender grey-haired lady wearing cream trousers, a flowing oatmeal sweater and silver bangles that chime on her slim arms smiles at me and holds out her hand.

  “Mrs Pencarrow! What a pleasure to meet you. Welcome! I’m Kathy Roe.”

  I shake her hand. The grip is firm and the eyes smiling up at me are as bright blue as they must have been when she was a girl. Nancy and Dickon’s eyes, I think with a jolt. Her hair, although faded, must once have been golden like theirs. How incredible to see the past woven through the present like this. Although she must be in her early seventies, Kathy Roe exudes vitality and humour and I like her instantly.

  I wonder if she’s like Nancy?

  “Please, call me Chloe,” I say. “Mrs Pencarrow sounds like my mother-in-law!”

  Kathy Roe laughs. “In that case, call me Kathy or I’ll sound like mine – and, believe me, she was a terror! Now, come in out of the cold, my dear. I hope you didn’t have trouble finding the house? I know it’s hidden away.”

  “Not at all,” I say. “And it’s a gorgeous spot.”

  “Thank you. I think so too, although I must apologise for the drive. It’s due to be repaired in the new year. My late husband liked it this way – he felt it kept unwanted visitors at bay, the antisocial old bugger – but I’m tired of scraping my exhaust and the company will go bankrupt if I keep replacing my cars,” she laughs. “Now that he’s gone, God rest him, I’m going to tarmac the damn lot and get a sports car! If you can hear a rumbling, that’ll be him spinning in his grave!”

  I follow Kathy Roe inside, to a hallway laid with black and white tiles. Elegant stairs sweep upwards towards the right, and a cupola above pours sunlight down onto us and makes the baubles on the enormous Christmas tree twinkle. I can smell woodsmoke, polish and the spicy aromas of oranges and cloves, and as I follow Kathy along the corridor my mouth waters at the scent of mince pies.

  “I hope you don’t mind sitting in the kitchen,” Kathy says as she leads me into a room with a cream-coloured Aga and a vast Welsh dresser covered with decorative plates and silver-framed photos of various family members. Mostly they’re on ponies or sailing yachts. Seeing me looking, she smiles and adds, “That’s my family. There’s a lot of us and the whole bunch will gather here tomorrow for Christmas. It’s become something of a tradition.”

  “You’re a big family?” I feel a twist of envy because I grew up longing for this lifestyle. I always wanted to have a smiley grandmother who lived in a country house, with a ginger cat dozing in a basket beside the Aga and pots bubbling on the hotplate. I would have loved having a tribe of siblings and cousins to run around with. There’d have been ponies, sailing, beach picnics and autumnal blackberry picking. A semi-detached house in London wasn’t quite the same.

  “Huge. We breed like rabbits,” says Kathy cheerfully. “Or rats, depending on whether or not you like us! Take a seat and I’ll make us some tea and, since it’s Christmas Eve, I think we can probably allow ourselves a mince pie. Calories don’t count between now and New Year, do they?”

  I sit down at the kitchen table, which is covered with a red and white spotty cloth and has a poinsettia taking pride of place in the centre.

  “You have a beautiful home, Kathy.”

  “Thank you. It once belonged to my Uncle Dickon and he left it to me.” Kathy places a teapot and two cups on the table and then fetches a cake tin filled to bursting with mince pies. Sitting down opposite me, she pours the tea and continues to explain. “I’m a Roe now by marriage but my father was a Trehunnist. He was Dickon’s brother. Sugar?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  She slides the cup and saucer across the table and offers me a mince pie. The golden pastry’s dusted with icing sugar, and the pies smell so richly of spices and plump fruit that I can’t resist. The taste is exquisite.

  “I thought all Dickon’s brothers were killed at the Front?” I ask, through a mouthful of pastry.

  “My father, Robert, was the baby of the family and far too young to fight,” Kathy explains. “I won’t bore you with the family tree, but Uncle Dickon never married or had any children of his own. I was something of a favourite, I suppose, which is why he left this house to me. Not wholly undeserved, I might add! I worked in the family business all my life – as did my husband, who became a partner.”

  I’m finding it hard to keep up.

  “So the family line didn’t end with Dickon?”

  “Hardly! I have two brothers and a sister, and there are distant cousins still living in the Rosecraddick area, although they have a different surname. As I said, my dear, rabbits!” Kathy replaces her cup in the saucer and steeples her fingers, giving me a searching look. “However, you haven’t come all this way to listen to me rattle on. You wanted to know something specific, didn’t you?”

  I reach into my bag to pull out the diary. As I lay it out on the table I’m scrabbling for the best way to tell this warm and welcoming lady that the uncle she loved, and who adored her enough to leave her this house, was sly and cruel and a bully. It’s going to be harder than I anticipated because of course Dickon didn’t stay eighteen and a brash youth. He saw and experienced things that would have changed him forever and he must have become a very different man.

  “I found this at Rosecraddick Rectory,” I begin, as I open the cover, “It’s—”

  “Daisy Hills!” One papery-skinned hand flies to Kathy’s mouth and she looks up at me, her eyes wide with shock.

  “My goodness! This was hers? This was Daisy’s?”

  “So you’ve heard of her?”

  Kathy’s fingertips brush the diary almost reverently. “Oh yes.”

  I wait for her to say more but a cloud has crossed her face and she pushes the book away.

  “Oh dear.
I can’t imagine that any accounts of Uncle Dickon in here are particularly complimentary. Chloe, dear, I’m afraid some things might be better left unknown. If you were hoping I’d read this you may have had a wasted journey. I know my uncle did Daisy Hills a huge wrong, but he did his best to make amends. Nobody could have tried harder, that I can promise you.”

  She knows something.

  “Mrs Roe – Kathy – I promise I haven’t come here to upset you and of course you don’t have to read the diary,” I say quickly. “I was hoping you might be able to help me understand a few things and maybe shed some light on a puzzle.”

  Kathy doesn’t reply. She looks shaken.

  “You’ve heard of Daisy Hills,” I continue, “and you said your uncle did her wrong but made amends. What do you mean by that?”

  I don’t want to push her but I need to know. The story can’t end here. It simply can’t.

  Kathy picks up a mince pie and crumbles it between her fingers before placing it back on her plate and sighing.

  “My dear, Uncle Dickon was hugely private and quite a recluse by the time he died. I don’t know the story first-hand, and most of this is family legend and hearsay, but I’ll tell you what I can anyway. I think he would have wanted that.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Uncle Dickon must have been tall and handsome once like my father, and I know he was the bravest of all the boys in the village because he was the very first to enlist when the First World War began – but when I knew him he was very different. He’d been in hospital for a long time with shell shock, and even all those years on he used to shake and mutter. Sometimes he’d yell out in his sleep when he came to stay. It was enough to curdle the blood, and his mood swings terrified us all. My father said that Uncle Dickon had returned to us physically but that the man he used to be died in the Great War. I guess now we’d call it post-traumatic stress, wouldn’t we? Poor man. How he must have suffered.”