The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  “Ah yes, Doctor Matt!”

  “No jokes about games of doctors and nurses, please.” Matt waggles his eyebrows. “Unless you want to get my hopes up?”

  What’s that supposed to mean? I study the freezer’s contents as an excuse to avert my gaze, and when I look up again Matt’s serious once more. His grey eyes have a faraway gleam.

  “And an address for Daisy too,” he says slowly. “I’ve only been gone a day and you’ve found all this lot out. Maybe we should have a job swap and you should be the historian from now on? Although you wouldn’t want me painting pictures for you. Window frames and doors are about my limit.”

  He reaches into my basket and places the boxes back in the freezer.

  “That’s my supper!” I protest, although I’m secretly relieved to see the back of the hot curries.

  “Not any more. Apart from the fact that it’s Christmas Eve and curry for one isn’t really the way forward, I think we need a good catch-up.” Matt strides ahead of me, swinging my basket and loading it up with an eclectic selection of whatever’s left on the shelves.

  “Prawns. Curry paste. Rice. Naan bread. Spinach. Potatoes. Wine.” He frowns. “What have I forgotten?”

  “Kitchen sink?”

  “No, you have one of those at the Rectory,” Matt quips. “Which is where I’m going to cook you the most amazing curry you’ve ever eaten in your life and where, in exchange for my culinary genius, you’re going to tell me everything you’ve found out about Dickon Trehunnist.”

  “I’d tell you anyway! You don’t have to cook for me. Besides, I thought you could only cook chicken nuggets? And spinach is definitely a vegetable.”

  “Doesn’t count in a prawn sag aloo,” he says dismissively. “Anyway, I didn’t say I could only cook nuggets. How very dare you! That’s just the kids’ easy dinner of choice – and I’ll have you know that Jamie Oliver is very afraid when he sees me step into the kitchen. Even Ramsay runs sobbing to his mummy. Prepare to be amazed.”

  Sometime later on this Christmas Eve, I’m seated at the Rectory kitchen table and being amazed while Matt dices, chops and sautés. As he prepares the food I fill him in on what I learned from Kathy Roe and we bounce ideas back and forth. Before long, my mouth’s watering at the aromas from the cooking.

  “I can’t believe it! This looks fabulous. I’m impressed!” I say as he dishes up.

  Somehow, and with just a few ingredients, Matt’s managed to create something that wouldn’t look out of place in Brick Lane.

  “O ye of little faith. My mastery of the range cooker always does it for the ladies,” he laughs, setting a huge plateful before me and sitting down opposite. “Now, I hope this isn’t too mild for you? I made it a little hotter than normal but I’m a wimp, I’m afraid.”

  I almost confess to my madras madness, but I stop myself in time because I’m still embarrassed. Try as I might to steer things back to the way they usually are, I can’t seem to manage it. It’s as though we’re caught up in a current that’s intent on taking us in its own direction.

  Do I even want to swim against it? As Matt pours the wine and smiles at me across the table, I realise the answer’s a resounding no. I glance around the kitchen for Neil, who’s usually good for a comment or a piece of wry advice, but he’s gone. Maybe Neil’s absence is his comment?

  Matt raises his glass. “To new discoveries.”

  I have the distinct impression he isn’t just talking about our research. We chink glasses and I take a sip. Rich red wine as dark as sin slips down my throat and warmth floods me. At least, I think this is caused by the wine. For a few moments we eat in silence and the flavours in the curry are like a party for my poor taste buds, which have been resigned to toast and bland pasta for months on end.

  “So, we now know that Dickon had a bad attack of guilt for his behaviour towards Daisy and Kit and spent the rest of his life wanting to make amends,” Matt muses. “Poor guy.”

  “It seems an over-the-top reaction to me.” I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I can’t fathom it. “Why would he feel that way? He didn’t owe either of them anything.”

  “War changed his perspective?” Matt suggests. “Dickon must have witnessed things that altered him, and it makes sense that he felt his shell shock was a punishment for what he’d done to them. You’d look for meaning in a war that bloody senseless, wouldn’t you? God seems to have become his reason for it all. Dickon certainly wanted to atone and Kathy told you he spent a great deal of time in church. I don’t think we can ever underestimate, or even understand, what the men went through in the trenches.”

  “I think he put the daisy in the window as a message,” I say.

  “For Daisy? Or for posterity?”

  “Both – but also for himself, as a reminder when he was in St Nonna’s. He would never let himself forget his sin. Poor Dickon.”

  “Aren’t people complicated?” sighs Matt, and although we’re talking about Kit and Daisy I have a feeling it isn’t them he’s thinking of. He tears off some naan bread and mops up his curry thoughtfully. “It’s sad to think of him becoming an old man who spent his life reliving the past. Life’s for living, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  There’s a pause and Matt looks as though he’s on the brink of saying something more but then thinks better of it.

  He clears his throat. “Any more?”

  The moment’s gone. Maybe I imagined it? I feel oddly deflated.

  “A little,” I say, forcing my thoughts back to the food. “It’s delicious.”

  “I hate to say I told you so, but…” he winks. “I told you so!”

  He fetches the saucepan from the hotplate and ladles more sag aloo onto our plates, and the conversation heads away from the emotional rocks and flows instead to the topic of Daisy’s last address. Matt is optimistic about this.

  “I know Oxford pretty well. The fact that we know where Daisy was living in the seventies is really helpful. I wonder why she went there?”

  “It was where her parents studied,” I recall. “Perhaps she wanted to find her roots?”

  “It’s possible. Maybe some of Daisy’s descendants are still in the area? In any case, we’re a lot closer to finding her than we were, thanks to you. Not to mention the rediscovered poems, which are the best Christmas present any Kit Rivers fanatic could wish for.” He reaches across the table and lays his hand over mine. “You’re amazing, Chloe Pencarrow.”

  I wait for a quip or a clarifying comment, but his expression is serious. Matt isn’t playing about now.

  “Truly amazing,” he says softly, “in every way.”

  He leans forward and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. Then his lips brush my forehead and I realise that I’m right, only this is a tender and reverent kiss. A kiss filled with friendship and respect, rather than passion.

  It’s terrifying how utterly disappointed I am.

  Do I want more? Should I want more? I could take the initiative, tip my chin up and press my mouth against his, but something holds me back. Maybe it’s the knowledge that, if I do so, something will change between us that can never be put back to how it was. So instead, I smile at him.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  Matt smiles back and it’s a smile of such sweetness that I almost crumple there and then and tell him the truth. Because, just like Nancy and Daisy, who sat here long before me, wrapped in daydreams and hugging their secrets close, I think I may be falling in love.

  Of course you are, says Neil, from somewhere far, far away. And so you should be. Happy Christmas, Chloe. And hopefully a happy new year, too.

  And maybe it will be, I think as Matt fills the kettle and chats easily about his plans for Christmas Day, but only when I know for sure I’m ready to be happy. Until then, I’m more than contented with things just as they are.

  But without Neil being here, it still doesn’t feel right.

  Chapter 8

  Chloe

>   I’ve always thought Oxford is a beautiful city. Even the most poetic descriptions of dreaming spires don’t do the place justice, and on a frosty December morning it glitters like a Christmas card. As Matt drives, I crane my neck to gaze up at the ancient buildings built of pale Cotswold limestone and dusted with lichen. Latticed windows wink and sparkle, grey rooftops meet the bright blue sky, and more bicycles than I can count are chained to railings. Even at this early hour there’s a scholarly vibe, and I feel certain this is what drew Daisy to the place. She once dreamed of being a writer and I can picture her reading in the Bodleian or cycling along these streets.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Matt says. He’s been giving me a tour, pointing out the landmarks and showing me the college where he taught for a while. His face lights up as he explains the history of the city and the stories behind the famous landmarks. He must have been inspirational in the lecture theatre. Look at how he’s captured my interest in war poetry and modern history. Kit Rivers aside, I haven’t been able to stop reading and researching. Having been in education for years, I know a gifted teacher when I meet one.

  “You must really miss it here,” I observe.

  “I did at first, terribly actually, but looking back maybe Gina did have a point? My job was becoming my life and it was time for a change. Besides, Cornwall has its compensations.”

  He smiles at me and I feel my pulse quiver. Since Christmas Eve I’ve been in a state of delicious anticipation and longing. When I’m not with Matt my thoughts are flying to him and I keep drifting off into daydreams. Nothing’s happened apart from that one chaste kiss either; I’m worse than a teenager.

  That evening spent in the kitchen was gentle and sweet and filled with promise. If I had acted and felt differently, then maybe it could have led to many things, including heading upstairs together – after all, neither Matt nor I are young and innocent. Nothing of that nature happened though. Instead, we talked and talked until our voices were hoarse and headlights and chatter outside announced that it was time for midnight Mass.

  We’d headed to the church, where the ancient words of the service saw in Christmas Day. As the candles flickered on the altar and we sang the carols, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Kit Rivers seated in the front pew with Daisy a few rows behind, her brown eyes gazing adoringly at the back of his golden head while his fingers tenderly traced the daisy etched in the worn wood in front of him. Dickon Trehunnist could have been kneeling down nearby too, his hands folded and his eyes trained on the daisy window as he prayed for absolution. The service flowed by, the past and the present coming together as is so often the way at Christmas, and even Neil and I had our place there somewhere. It was part of a pattern that included us all in its design, and it was only now I was starting to understand this.

  How strange, I’d thought as the service had come to an end, that after all my railing against God and religion I’d finally made my peace with it all in a church.

  You always were contrary, is what Neil would have said, but he doesn’t say it now and I know deep in my heart that I won’t be hearing from him anymore. I’ll miss him, I’ll always miss him, but he knows I have to face the years ahead without him – and I’m certain he wants me to live every second of them.

  It was a beautiful night with a full moon silvering the bay, and stars sprinkled across velvety skies. While Matt chatted to Jill, I stepped into the porch and watched my breath rise like smoke.

  “I can see you’re going to have a very happy Christmas,” Sue Perry said. Standing in the doorway to bid Merry Christmas to her flock, she beamed at me. “Oh, don’t look so coy, Chloe! I’m a vicar but I’m still a romantic too. I can see the way you two look at one another.”

  I hadn’t been aware that Matt and I were looking at each other in any kind of way. In fact, we’d sat as far apart as the crowded pew would allow.

  “And sitting miles apart?” Sue shook her head. “Dead giveaway. Anyway, it’s none of my business, except that it’s obvious you’re made for one another – and now you have the vicar’s blessing too! You know where we are if you both want to pop in for food today. Tim’s bought half of Asda and if I don’t manage to share it I’ll never fit into my little black dress!”

  It was a kind offer, but in the end I had my low-key painting day and Matt drove to Exeter to see his children for a few hours. Gina had rung him up, saying the twins had been begging to see him, and so he’d been invited to share some of the day with them after all. I was surprised just how much I missed him – and Neil was nowhere to be found. Perhaps my husband was telling me that he wasn’t prepared to hang around for any longer? Maybe there were rugby games to watch and rivers to canoe where he was now, and he’d had enough of watching me moping about? Whatever the answer, I felt that he was pleased to see me spending time with Matt.

  On Boxing Day, Matt and I met at the Manor, where he pored over various documents and then, unable to resist, started to search online for people named Hills who lived in Oxford. First thing the next day he made calls from the Rectory kitchen while I went to the attic and continued to paint. Three paintings in the series were completed now and I was quietly very pleased with them. Now that I was painting again it was hard to stop – and it felt as if the brush had been in my hand for only a matter of minutes when Matt burst into the studio.

  “How do you feel about a road trip to Oxford?”

  “Right now?” Having been immersed in my artwork, I felt disorientated. Besides, I was still in my paint-spattered smock, with my hair in a topknot skewered with a brush.

  He laughed. “Maybe not right now, but very early tomorrow? I’ve found Daisy’s great-nephew and he’s a bit mystified but he says he’s happy to talk to us. The only thing is, he’s going away skiing in the afternoon – so if we want to meet up it has to be either tomorrow morning or in a week.” He pulled a face. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait until he gets back. I’ll burst.”

  “Me too,” I agreed. “What did he say?”

  “Not a great deal really. He said she was his great-aunt and he never met her but his dad had talked about her. There were some documents he thought he could fish out for us to have a look at. He even thought his parents might have some letters of hers. Can you imagine if they were from Kit?”

  “Kit was already missing when she left here, so it’s unlikely,” I reminded him gently.

  Matt sighed. “I know and he never miraculously reappeared either, so Daisy was clearly wrong about him still being alive.”

  I hate that thought. Daisy had been so certain that Kit was waiting for her somewhere. She’d been adamant that she would know if he was truly lost to her. It’s hard to believe or accept that she was wrong.

  “Hopefully we’ll find out more tomorrow,” was all I said, and Matt nodded.

  “I hope so too. Can you believe Daisy’s great-nephew was only third on that list? Dave Hills? It was so easy I’m starting to think somebody somewhere wants us to follow these clues.”

  This morning we’d set off in the dark, racing to meet the sunrise and reaching Oxford by 9 a.m. Now we’re only streets away from meeting Daisy’s great-nephew and I’m suddenly nervous. As much as it feels that I know Daisy, this is still just a story to me – whereas for this Dave Hills she’s a family member and this is his family history. I wonder what he’ll tell us?

  My hand slips into my bag and touches the cloth-wrapped bulk of Daisy’s diary as though it’s a talisman. I’ll make sure your story’s told, I promise her silently. I won’t let history keep you and Kit apart any longer.

  Dave Hills, the grandson of Daisy’s little brother Eddie, lives in a smart terraced house only minutes away from the city centre. It must have been grand once but it’s since been divided into flats. When he buzzes us in we have to step over the piles of junk mail strewn in the entrance and brush past a dusty rubber plant standing guard on the landing. His flat’s on the top floor and by the time we reach it I’m puffed.

  “Sorry
about the climb. It’s a bugger, especially with shopping,” says the man in his mid-thirties who’s peering over the banisters as we pant our way upwards. When we finally reach the summit, he holds out his hand. “I’m Dave and you must be Matt and Chloe. Come on in. I’m intrigued about all this.”

  Dave Hills has a wide smile and cute dimples, warm brown eyes and a mop of deep red hair. If the stairs hadn’t already snatched my breath then the sight of Daisy’s great-nephew certainly would; from the merry freckled face to the dimples in his cheeks to the mane of curly red hair, it’s clear that he’s related to the girl in Dickon’s picture.

  “You look like Daisy!” I exclaim.

  “We have a photograph,” Matt adds quickly. “There’s a strong family resemblance. She also had red hair, I believe.”

  Dave rolls his eyes. “This ginger hair is a family curse. My sister has it and I know Grandpa did when he was younger, but I never met Daisy so I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, we can talk about this in comfort and over coffee. Come on in.”

  With his front door wedged open with the toe of his trainer and his stomach sucked in as we pass, or so he laughingly tells us, Dave Hills lets us into his hallway. Then he leads us to a small kitchen diner flooded with light and boasting a bird’s-eye view of the plane trees below. We sit down at a table and make small talk while Dave throws beans into a grinder and brews rich, dark coffee. It takes a while and I spot the cardboard box for the coffee grinder, set aside at the end of the room.

  “Christmas present?” I ask.

  “From my mum,” he explains as he sets the mugs down in front of us. “I thought I’d try it out on you guys. Hope you don’t mind being coffee guinea pigs.”

  “Are your family nearby?” Matt asks.

  “They’re in Chipping Norton, so not far. They’d have come over today, but they’ve shot off to see my sister in Reading. She’s just had a baby and they’re gaga over him.” He takes a sip of coffee. “You do know Chippy’s where Aunty Daisy lived at the end of her life?”