The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  She pauses and the ginger cat leaps onto her lap. I want to ask more but I know that the story will be told in Kathy Roe’s own time, so I bite back the flurry of questions. Kathy strokes the cat absently and there’s a faraway look in her eyes.

  “As I say, he had dreadfully dark moods and times when he wouldn’t speak to anyone. He never said a great deal about his experiences, but my father once tried to explain to me how in the war Uncle Dickon had had to do some truly dreadful things. He carried that burden all his life and as far as I know he never shared it with a soul.”

  It’s a tragic story but I know Dickon wasn’t alone in this. My reading and research have taught me more than I ever wanted to know about the horrors of the Great War and the shattered lives washed up in its aftermath.

  “He worked hard on his return and he had foresight too. He sold the family farm – I don’t think he could have coped physically anyway – and began to invest in automobiles. To cut a long story short, he was very shrewd and he made an absolute fortune.”

  I think about the stunning house Dickon left to Kathy and the chain of smart car dealerships across the south-west, which is his legacy. I’m impressed.

  “So your uncle became very successful and wealthy,” I reiterate. “That’s a wonderful story, but you said earlier that he’d done Daisy Hills a great wrong? You know about Daisy?”

  “Everyone in the family knows about Daisy Hills. She was the love of my uncle’s life. It’s the stuff of family legend. I don’t know what it was he did to her, and,” Kathy holds her hands up as though warding away a revelation, “I don’t want to know either. It was a long time ago and it was his business, but the guilt of it was like a sickness to my uncle and I don’t think he ever forgave himself. It haunted him forever and he said he wished he’d been a better person. He said that the thing he did to her ruined her life. It certainly blighted his.”

  I think of all the stupid things I did as a teenager. How dreadful to be haunted for your entire life by the actions of wounded teenage pride.

  “I really don’t think that was true,” I tell her gently. “Daisy Hills was in love with another man and your uncle was hurt by that, which made him do something spiteful. If anything ruined her life it was the war coming when it did.”

  Kathy shrugs. “True or not, Uncle Dickon believed he’d ruined her life. He did his best to make up for whatever it was he’d done. He was a huge philanthropist and he gave vast amounts of money to charities. He also commissioned a big memorial window in St Nonna’s Church, to honour the fallen of Rosecraddick. You must have seen it? It’s next to the one for that poet which the tourists love to visit.”

  I sit bolt upright. “Dickon paid for the memorial window?”

  “He certainly did – and no expense was spared. He was good friends with the then vicar, I believe, and he even sent for an artisan glazier from London to do the work. He spent a lot of time at St Nonna’s and he worshipped there for many years. He was a very devout man, my uncle.”

  This doesn’t sound like the Dickon Daisy knew. That Dickon bragged about his conquests, lied, bullied and couldn’t wait to go to war. He wasn’t exactly Mother Teresa.

  “My uncle often said that the church in Rosecraddick was the only place he felt at peace,” Kathy muses. “He had a big thing about atonement and redemption. My husband reckoned he should have joined the clergy or become a Catholic.”

  “Goodness,” I say.

  “You sound surprised?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. I mean, I know from the diary that he went to church regularly, everyone did, but he doesn’t seem…”

  I pause because I don’t want to offend her by saying that the Dickon who pulled girls, made threats, and who looked forward to going to war hardly epitomised the teachings of Christ.

  “He doesn’t seem particularly religious from what I’ve read,” I finish, as diplomatically as I can.

  Kathy laughs indulgently and reaches across the table to pat my hand.

  “Well, of course not! He wouldn’t have been back then, dear! It was the war that changed him – and age too. He believed with all his heart that the shell shock was a punishment from God for something he’d done in his youth. He said the only reason he’d been spared death in the trenches was that he had to atone for his sin. I’d always thought this obsession with Daisy Hills might have been part of his illness, but now I’m not so certain. Oh, my! What on earth did he do to that poor girl? He didn’t…”

  I can’t bear to think that her imagination is running away and conjuring all kinds of dreadful possibilities.

  “No! Nothing like that! It isn’t as awful as you probably think. I’m a secondary school teacher and, believe me, it was pure teenage stuff and very petty. Dickon deliberately caused trouble for Daisy’s relationship with Kit Rivers. They were split up by his parents because of it – and then war came and things could never be put right. I think that was what he meant. He must have fixated on her and blamed himself for things that were never his fault.”

  But Kathy isn’t thinking about this. She looks taken aback.

  “Daisy Hills was in a relationship with Kit Rivers? As in the Cornish war poet?”

  I nod. “Daisy and Kit were seeing each other, and his parents disapproved because she wasn’t considered a suitable match. Dickon believed he was in love with Daisy and so he did his best to break them up, which caused no end of trouble. Kit was killed in the war, of course, and Daisy was heartbroken. It’s a really sad story.”

  “Well I never,” says Kathy. “Uncle Dickon was very taken with the Kit Rivers window too. He always said he’d helped to mend it and put it right. I never knew quite what that meant. I wonder who broke it?”

  There’s a rushing in my ears. So it was Dickon who paid for the daisy to be placed in Kit’s window. It was his way of trying to make amends for his jealousy and his betrayal of Daisy and Kit. He’d brought them together in the only way he could and made sure that their story wasn’t lost. Who would have thought it? I really hope the older Dickon found some comfort sitting in the church and looking at it. They’d all been so young when Daisy and Kit had been lovers, the same age as some of the kids I used to teach – and just like my students, Daisy, Kit and Dickon had no idea of what lay ahead. How were they to know that their actions would spread outwards for the rest of their lives like ripples on a pond?

  “He meant that he’d broken the two of them up,” I say. “That was what he thought, but the reality was that Daisy Hills and Kit Rivers were engaged. They would have been married if they’d had time or if Kit hadn’t been lost in action.”

  “I’ve never heard that before. Are you sure? Uncle Dickon never mentioned it.”

  I incline my head towards the diary. “He wouldn’t have known because it was all a big secret after he betrayed them. Kit’s parents didn’t approve of the relationship at all and forbade them to meet. There was talk of disinheritance and beatings and all sorts of unpleasantness. It’s all written here. Recently a few more things have come to light about Kit Rivers, and I can promise you that Daisy Hills was definitely his fiancée. She hid a lot more of his poems away too; they’ve been missing for a century and now at last they’ve been found.”

  Kathy Roe shakes her head in wonder. “My goodness. That’s so exciting. It sounds as though there’s lots more to discover. It’s like a puzzle.”

  “That’s exactly it and why I’m here to see you! I’m following clues.”

  “Uncle Dickon thought he loved Daisy, there’s no doubt in my mind, but how much of that love was really warped guilt we’ll never know. Maybe I have more clues here for you?” Tipping the cat from her lap, Kathy gets up and walks to the dresser, where there’s a big Manila envelope. Picking it up, she returns to the table and slides it over.

  “I looked these out for you, Chloe. Uncle Dickon left them for me and I never knew what to do with them until now. Maybe there are more answers here?”

  I reach inside and my fingers meet paper. Slowly I
draw out a collection of photographs: sepia images of people frozen forever in time. There’s a brawny young man in uniform whose confident gaze meets the camera head-on. There are also pictures of a family outside a farmhouse, a group of young soldiers in a dugout and then, finally and unexpectedly, two girls in jaunty boaters and pretty dresses looking as though they’re finding it hard to keep still and straight-faced for the camera. One is blonde and looks just like a young Kathy, and the other has a pretty heart-shaped face, a forthright gaze and wild curls that tumble over her shoulders.

  It’s Daisy! It’s really her!

  I feel like I’m seeing a dear friend after far too long. My throat tightens.

  “I think this was taken on enlistment day?” Kathy says while I struggle for composure. “By all accounts it was like a fair and they all had a marvellous time. The blonde girl is called Nancy; she was some kind of cousin of mine, but I can never remember quite what the relationship is. Once removed, maybe? And the other girl is Daisy Hills. My uncle kept that picture with him his whole life. I think he treasured it above his business, house and just about everything.”

  The photograph’s dog-eared and furred around the edges. A fingerprint has smudged the corner and a splash of water, maybe a tear, has blurred the top – but even so, this decades-old snapshot of two girls forever sixteen and vibrant brings a lump to my throat. They were all so impossibly young. What chance did they stand?

  Beneath the pictures is one solitary envelope that’s still sealed and addressed to Miss Daisy Hills, care of an Oxford address. The stamp is franked July 1975 but there’s a line scored through this, and written in faint blue ink are the words return to sender – no longer at this address.

  “He traced her?”

  “I think he tried to and this was as far as he got. He died shortly after this letter came back. A broken heart was what we said at the time, which sounds dreadfully romantic, doesn’t it?”

  It doesn’t sound romantic at all to me, having thought I was dying of the same thing not so long ago. Now I just think it’s terribly sad.

  “It was harder to find people then,” is all I say.

  Kathy sighs. “It was, more’s the pity. I think he would have loved to have found Daisy and apologised properly. Now all people seem to do is log onto Facebook and there it all is. It must be exhausting, and painful too if one wishes to forget.”

  I think of Neil’s Facebook page, which I haven’t dared look at since he died. I think painful is an understatement.

  “Yes,” I say quietly. “It is.”

  “You’re most welcome to keep the photographs and the letter if you think they may help you.”

  I have an address for somewhere Daisy might have lived at some point. This more than helps! It’s as though she’s reappeared again, decades on and with vast echoing gaps, but at least Dickon did get this far. With Matt’s help I know we’ll catch up with her – and I can’t wait to share all this information with him.

  “Thank you.” I slide the pictures and the letter back into the envelope. My hands are shaking. We have a possible address for Daisy Hills and we know for sure that the window was a clue. We’re catching up with her, I know we are!

  Matt Enys couldn’t have a more perfect Christmas present. As Kathy refills the kettle and urges me to have another mince pie, it’s all I can do to remain seated instead of jumping in my car and tearing back to Rosecraddick. I hope Matt’s home soon.

  I can’t wait to see his face when he hears what I’ve discovered.

  Chapter 7

  Chloe

  I have no idea how I manage to stop myself from calling Matt at once and telling him everything I’ve found out. It’s just as well I’m driving because otherwise I would have been so tempted just to whip out my phone and ring him, Christmas family time or not. Instead, I drive back to Rosecraddick with my thoughts whirling. To have swaggering Dickon recast as a lonely philanthropist who, filled with regrets, did his best to unite Daisy and Kit in the imagery of the stained-glass window takes some adjustment. I can picture him sitting in the church, an elderly and broken figure, asking God for forgiveness and praying that he could find Daisy and make amends. How sad that he spent the rest of his life eaten up by guilt and that his youthful jealousy poisoned his adult life.

  So many lives ruined.

  Still musing on this, I park outside the manor house and wander into the village to pick up some last-minute bits and pieces to tide me over. The village looks so pretty with the twinkling lights and the decorated shop windows. Everyone around me seems happy and full of excitement that Christmas Day is only one more sleep away. Small children hold their parents’ hands and gaze wide-eyed at the toy train in the Post Office window, two giggling teenage girls wearing Santa hats and high heels teeter past trailing tinsel, and the pub door swings open to release a young woman racing out shrieking and chased by a lad armed with mistletoe. When he catches her for a kiss she doesn’t put up much of a fight, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him back as though her life depends on it. I smile to see how loved-up they are, before waiting for the pang of misery that usually follows such sights of affection.

  It doesn’t come. How strange. Maybe the Christmas atmosphere is rubbing off on me? Or perhaps I don’t want to end up as lonely and as filled with regrets as Dickon Trehunnist? As I’m mulling this over, I bowl into the village shop and walk straight into Matt.

  “Chloe!” he cries. “This is a nice surprise!”

  My pulse is racing at coming across my friend so unexpectedly. Matt’s wearing a battered leather jacket with a soft blue scarf that matches his faded jeans. His dark hair falls over his shoulders in glossy waves and his face glows with warmth from the shop. He looks delicious.

  “What are you doing here?” I say.

  “Err, shopping?” Matt holds up a flimsy carrier bag; through the thin plastic I can see that he’s bought a ready meal, some milk and a packet of digestives . “Is that allowed?”

  I feel my face heat up.

  “I didn’t mean you shouldn’t be here,” I say hastily. “Of course not! It’s just that I thought you were in Exeter?”

  “I was until about two hours ago, but Gina soon made it clear I was surplus to requirements when her new man rocked up. So here I am again, the Rosecraddick bad penny.”

  Matt says this with a smile but I’m not fooled. I know how upset he was about not seeing his children on Christmas Day, and it must sting to have another guy stepping into his shoes for the festive season.

  “It’s fine. Honestly, Chloe, don’t look worried,” Matt insists. “He seems like an OK person – heaven help him with Gina in that case – and the kids are so hyped up about Santa coming they’ll hardly notice I’m gone. I’m more than happy with a microwave meal and some crap telly.”

  “Sounds like the perfect Christmas Eve.” I pick up a wire basket. “Something very similar is on the agenda for me too. I’m just coming in to choose my Christmas dinner from the ready-meal selection.”

  “Allow me to assist,” says Matt. “I am the meal-for-one expert – and there’s not much I don’t know about oven chips and chicken nuggets either!”

  He takes my basket and I gasp as a charge of longing fizzes down my arm and through my torso at his touch, and zaps me straight in the groin. Lord! What is all this?

  Luckily Matt doesn’t notice me jump. He’s far too busy peering into the freezer cabinet.

  “May I recommend the chicken poppers or the frozen pizza? I’m proud to say that I can cook both to perfection! In fact, I’d go as far as to say they’re my staple diet.”

  “It’s a wonder you don’t have scurvy,” I scold. “Whatever happened to upping your green vegetable intake?”

  “I’m not a fan of veg? Idleness? No point cooking for one? Take your pick.”

  We peer in and it’s a meagre choice because the freezer cabinet has very nearly been emptied by last-minute shoppers.

  “It’s between frozen chicken tikka masala and madras
– or maybe a lasagne. What do you think?” I ask.

  “Oh, definitely curry. Log fire, rubbish movie and rice with spice. What more could you want?”

  You, I’m shocked to find myself thinking as an image of curling up with Matt by the log burner with his arms around me floods my mind’s eye. Thrown by this, I pretend to be fascinated by the range of frozen food and end up selecting several boxes of curry that will probably never make it as far as the range oven – if you can even cook such things in one, of course.

  “Madras, wow.” Matt peers over my shoulder. “You like hot curries then? I must admit I’m a wimp. It’s korma all the way for me.”

  The madras was a Pavlovian reaction because Neil adored hot curries, the hotter the better, and instinctively I’d selected it. I’m most definitely a mild-curry eater too. Oh dear. I don’t quite know what to do now. I can’t think straight with Matt this close to me. He smells wonderful, of lime and basil and mandarins. My heartbeat’s racing.

  What did Kathy put in those mince pies?

  Oh! Kathy! For a moment I was so distracted by the strange fluttering in my stomach that I’d almost forgotten about my visit to see her. It’s a relief to be back on the firm ground of Kit Rivers and research. That’s familiar and safe. Talk about Kit and Daisy, Chloe. Keep it professional.

  “Oh! Matt! I was going to call you this evening. I’ve managed to find out who put the stained-glass daisy in the window and I’ve got Daisy Hills’ last known address too.”

  Matt looks astonished. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. It’s so obvious now that I think about it. It was Dickon Trehunnist all along. He became a very successful car dealer and he had the money and influence to put the memorial window in and tamper with the one for Kit. He was feeling guilty because of causing trouble for Kit and Daisy. His niece told me all about it.”

  “Trehunnist Autos. Of course.” Matt shakes his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. I guess I’d assumed he died. First rule of being a historian – don’t just make assumptions. I always told my undergraduates that in their very first seminars.”