Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  ‘Just say what you were going to say, Ralph,’ she said.

  He breathed in, then exhaled. ‘I wondered, rather than bother my father, if you couldn’t help me out a little.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I wouldn’t ask, only that things are getting a bit embarrassing for me. Of course, once I have a job, I’ll be able to repay you whatever you’ve managed to spare me.’

  She thought how accurately she had to account for every pound, shilling and penny Arthur gave her and couldn’t see any way in which she could help Ralph. But she couldn’t bring herself to disappoint him.

  ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘you really are quite an amazing woman.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Oh yes. You’ve made my father happier than I’ve ever seen him before.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised, it’s obvious the difference you’ve made to his life.’

  ‘Well,’ she said cautiously, ‘I suppose he’s had so much sadness in his life, hasn’t he, what with his first wife leaving him and then his second wife dying?’

  ‘Precisely! You’re a ray of sunshine in what had been a dark world for him. Now what do you say? Could you help me out financially, just temporarily?’

  Julia was not as stupid as some people thought she was. She knew that Ralph was using charm and flattery to twist her arm, but she was prepared to overlook that if it meant he became a better stepbrother to Charles. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she murmured.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, a rakish smile brightening his handsome face. ‘I knew I could count on you. Come on, drink up and we’ll take another turn around the dance floor.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary

  October 1962

  Hope

  ‘Everything all right?’

  Watching Edmund dance with his niece, Hope turned to find Kit standing next to her.

  ‘Of course everything’s all right,’ she said, ‘why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘No reason. Although I haven’t seen you dance yet.’

  ‘Nobody’s asked me. And I’m certainly not going to make a fool of myself the way Edmund is. Just look at him with Em.’

  ‘It’s called the Twist.’

  Hope grimaced. ‘You can call it what you want, but it’s not for me. Where’s the elegance?’

  ‘I suspect elegance isn’t part of the deal,’ Kit said with a chuckle. ‘I’m reliably informed by both Pip and Em that to do it properly one has to imagine drying one’s bottom with a towel while grinding out a cigarette with a foot.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I could ask the band to play a nice gentle waltz, or a foxtrot, if you’d like.’

  Hope shook her head. ‘Just ignore me, I’m not at my best at parties.’ Observing her husband again, as he loosened his tie and threw off his jacket, and tossed it to Evelyn, she said, ‘Have you noticed a difference in Edmund lately?’

  ‘What sort of difference?’

  Seeing the concern in Kit’s face, she thought better of pursuing the subject. ‘Sorry, I’m being a bore and a damp squib.’

  ‘No you’re not. And I know you well enough to recognise the signs when something is worrying you. You have your anxious ‘frowny’ face on.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘Some would say that’s my every-day expression. Oh yes, I know what the children used to say about me, there she goes, Auntie Crabby.’

  Kit laughed. ‘I’ve never heard them describe you that way. And the millions of children around the world who read your books would never say that of you.’

  ‘Dear sweet Kit, you’ve always been so loyal to me. What would I do without you?’

  He put an arm around her. ‘Tell me what’s troubling you, big sis.’

  Leaning into him, she said, ‘Do you ever feel we’re being left behind, that we’re no longer relevant?’

  ‘You sound like Evelyn. She was asking me earlier if I ever wanted to turn back the clock.’

  ‘Maybe it’s seeing the younger members of the family all grown up that’s giving us both pause to reflect on our mortality.’

  ‘The pair of you need to snap out of it. We all have plenty of good years ahead of us yet. This party tonight is not only a celebration of what’s gone before for Evelyn and me, but what we’ll all share in the future.’

  Hope smiled. ‘You’re a lucky man always to feel so positive about life.’

  He squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘I know it’s not easy for you sometimes, Hope, but don’t ever lose sight of how loved you are.’

  ‘You dear man. You’re eternally thoughtful and caring.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s not what Pip and Em say when I’m asking them to turn down their music. Or when I’m questioning whether it is actually music. “Oh Dad,” they say, “you’re such an old square, you need to get with it!”’

  She smiled, and knowing just how much her brother loved his children, she said, ‘Family life really suits you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Marrying Evelyn and having Pip and Em is the best thing I ever did. But you know, I sometimes wonder why Evelyn did marry me. She’s beautiful and clever – much cleverer than me – and could have married anyone she wanted. She could—’

  ‘She chose you, Kit,’ Hope interrupted him. ‘Don’t ever lose sight of that.’

  ‘And don’t ever lose sight of how proud we all are of you, for everything you’ve achieved. You’re amazing, you really are.’

  For some reason his words filled her with an emotion she couldn’t tolerate – self-pity. To her horror and disgust, tears pricked at the backs of her eyes.

  ‘Hope, whatever is the matter?’ asked Kit.

  In a strangled sob, she said, ‘I’m such a failure.’

  Her brother stared at her, his poor badly scarred face clouded with disbelief. ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘I’m a failure as a wife,’ she said, struggling to get a grip on her emotions. ‘Edmund doesn’t love me. Why would he?’ She looked to where he was so clearly enjoying himself on the dance floor with Em and now one of her young college friends. The three of them were putting on a show of some magnitude as they gyrated in what to Hope’s way of thinking was a most undignified manner.

  ‘Of course he loves you!’ Kit asserted. ‘Edmund’s devoted to you. How could you think otherwise?’

  Taking a deep breath, she turned around to face Kit. ‘If I confide in you, will you promise not to say anything to anybody else? Not even Evelyn. Do you promise?’

  He frowned, but acquiesced with a small nod.

  She then told him about the anonymous letter she had received and what it accused Edmund of doing.

  ‘A poison pen letter?’ Kit exclaimed, incredulously.

  ‘Shhh!’ she hissed. ‘I don’t want people to know.’

  ‘But you can’t possibly take it seriously? It’s just someone being spiteful, wanting to make trouble. It’ll be a spiteful old biddy with nothing better to do.’

  ‘But why? And who would want to make trouble like that for me? What have I done?’

  ‘Did the letter actually have your name on it?’

  ‘Yes, on the envelope.’

  ‘Was Edmund’s name used?’

  She was about to say yes again, when she visualised the letter in her hand, each horrible word jumping out at her. ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘So it might merely be an anonymous wild shot in the dark that could have been posted through anybody’s letterbox?’

  ‘But it had my name on the envelope.’

  ‘True, but the nasty individual who penned the letter might just as easily picked any woman’s name who lived in the village.’ He shrugged. ‘Evelyn’s name for instance. Can you think of anything more absurd and less likely than for me to be accused of ch
eating on my wife? Trust me, Hope, throw the letter away and don’t give it another thought. It’s nothing more than village mischief-making.’

  ‘Village mischief-making,’ said a voice from behind them. ‘That sounds interesting.’

  As if by magic their brother Arthur had materialised out of thin air. He had an uncanny knack for doing that, in spite of his bulk.

  ‘How long have you been lurking there listening in on our conversation?’ demanded Hope.

  ‘Lurking,’ he repeated, his tone as supercilious as the expression on his jowly face. ‘What a thing to accuse me of. I’m hurt to the quick.’

  ‘I’m quite sure you’re not,’ she muttered, thinking it would take more than a few words to penetrate the layers of blubber Arthur had acquired with each passing year.

  ‘I must say,’ she went on, arming herself for the inevitable round of sparring that accompanied any exchange with Arthur, and which always resulted in trading insults. ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’

  He regarded her with a disdainful look. ‘Why?’

  ‘You spend so little time at the Hall these days. I wonder you can tear yourself away from the lure of the fleshpots of London. Poor Julia must get dreadfully lonely rattling around in that ghastly mausoleum all on her own.’

  ‘What a jolly hoot you are, Hope. You know, nothing quite prepares me for seeing you again after an extended time apart. But you should know by now that it’s a fool’s game to bait me.’

  ‘Come on you two,’ remarked Kit genially, ‘play nicely. I trust you’re well, Arthur?’

  ‘You find me in fine fettle,’ he replied, lighting up an ostentatiously large cigar.

  ‘How’s Charles getting on with being away at school?’ asked Kit. ‘Julia must miss him terribly.’

  ‘Boys need to have the apron strings cut early on,’ asserted Arthur, ‘the last thing they need is to be mollycoddled by an over-protective mother.’ He puffed expansively on his cigar. ‘You look a bit off the pace, little sis,’ he remarked to Hope. ‘Something on your mind? Apart from your husband making a fool of himself on the dance floor. Somebody should tell him that the twist is strictly for the young. There again, how can he resist dancing with two attractive young girls when his wife looks so miserable? Now what was this village mischief you were talking about?’

  Suddenly gripped with sickening certainty, Hope stared at Arthur with loathing. It was him! It was her brother who had sent her the letter!

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary

  October 1962

  Stanley

  ‘You seem subdued this evening, Annelise,’ remarked Stanley. He kept his voice light, which wasn’t easy given the volume of the band.

  ‘Do I?’ she said, turning her gaze away from the dance floor to look at him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I was just concerned that you were feeling unwell.’

  What really concerned him was that she might be bored in his company. On social occasions like this, when the great and the good from the county were gathered, he could never quite rid himself of the deep-seated anxiety that he didn’t belong. Despite all his outward success at having reinvented himself, deep inside he was still Stanley Nettles, the illiterate kid from the East End.

  But determined not to give in to those old insecurities of his, and reminding himself how much he had been looking forward to this weekend and seeing Annelise again, he smiled brightly. ‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked.

  ‘Would you think me very boring if I said no?’

  Disappointed, he shook his head. ‘Not at all. And if I’m honest, I’m not really in the mood for dancing myself. Besides, you know I’m in possession of two of the clumsiest left feet.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s so typical of you, Stanley, offering to dance with me in spite of not wanting to yourself. You’re so sweet,’ she added, placing her hand on his forearm.

  Wishing she could consider him more than sweet, he accepted the compliment with good grace. ‘In that case, how about something to eat?’

  They cruised the trestle tables that were laden with food – venison pies, sausage rolls, coronation chicken, prawn vol-au-vents, cocktail sausages, cheese straws, bacon wrapped around dates, mini quiches, devilled eggs, celery with cream cheese, wedges of melon, and whole salmons poached and covered in wafer-thin slices of cucumber to resemble scales. It seemed only yesterday to him that a spread like this would have been inconceivable, and not just during the war, but for years afterwards when rationing was still in place.

  ‘There’s enough here for a very large army,’ commented Annelise.

  Stanley laughed. ‘I can assure you we didn’t have anything like this when I was in the army doing my National Service.’

  She laughed too. ‘I remember how handsome you looked in your uniform when you came home on leave.’

  ‘And I remember you running out to meet me in the garden one day. You’d been helping Romily to pick raspberries and your mouth and fingers were ruby-pink with all the fruit you’d eaten.’

  He remembered too how he’d swaggered along with his kit bag thrown over his shoulder wanting to impress her. He’d felt so grown up at the time, but looking back on it, he’d been nothing but a naïve child pretending to be an adult.

  In a way he still felt much the same: pretending to be something he wasn’t. Perhaps being here in the village where so many people knew him was a mistake. Would he be better off moving away to reinvent himself, somewhere completely new? But would he feel even more of an outsider somewhere new and strange? Was that what he was destined always to be, an outsider?

  ‘You suddenly look very serious,’ Annelise said. ‘What are you thinking?’

  He frowned. ‘About identity.’

  ‘Ah, that old chestnut.’

  She gave the words an airy tone which he knew she did not feel when it came to discussing ‘this old chestnut’. It was something they had in common, this longing to fill in the blanks. Not that Stanley wanted to rekindle any sort of relationship with his mother.

  ‘Do you think we’ll go through the whole of our lives with a question mark hanging over us?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know if I’m honest,’ she said. ‘I want to believe I can accept what I do know as being enough and not worry about what I don’t know. I doubt it can ever be as easy as that. But at least you do know where you’re from, Stanley.

  ‘I do, and I don’t,’ he replied. ‘I know I’m from the East End of London and lived in a terraced house in Halifax Road, but that’s just bricks and mortar. What does that tell me about my place in life?’

  She regarded him sceptically. ‘Perhaps you should look at it differently. What does that house really have to do with the person you’ve become and what you’ve achieved for yourself?’

  The advice was much the same as Romily had once given him and which he’d tried, but failed to heed.

  Not a soul had he told that whenever he was in London he would go to Halifax Road and take in where No.5 had once stood, before it was bombed to a pile of rubble. Sometimes he thought that if the Germans hadn’t bombed the house, he would have done so himself. Eventually the houses that remained were torn down and a die-cast works was built in their place.

  Time and time again he would stare at the spot where he was convinced No.5 had been, trying to summon up just one memory that didn’t make him quake inside. The stupid thing was he didn’t know why he did it, why he should want to cling on to the hope that it hadn’t all been a miserable existence before he’d been put on a train for Suffolk as a nine-year-old boy. Sometimes he thought he was trying to punish himself by reliving those days of terror inflicted on him by a vicious and sadistic woman. It was as if he still wanted her to torture him.

  If he closed his eyes he could hear the hatred in her voice as she screamed at him. He could
also feel the pain of her stubbing out her cigarette on his skin and telling him it was what he deserved for being such a wicked son.

  What had terrified him initially, being locked in the cellar while she spent the weekend with her latest boyfriend, soon became a respite from the worst of his mother’s violent mood swings. With only a candle for light, he would have to fend off the mice that tried to eat what little food she had given him.

  He never knew how long he would be locked in the cellar, so he had to eke out what he had to eat and drink. What he hated most was the bucket she would leave for him to relieve himself into. More than once she returned and was so disgusted by the stench of the cellar, she called him every name under the sun and tipped the bucket over his head and locked him in there for another day.

  ‘You’re worse than an animal,’ his mother would say. ‘Is it any wonder that I have to treat you like a dog?’

  His stomach churning at the memory, he looked around at the assembled guests in their finery and was suddenly consumed with the need to hide. To hide his guilty shame and dirty secrets. If they knew the ugly truth of him, they wouldn’t want him in their midst. He wasn’t worthy to be here. How could anyone love him? He wasn’t worthy of being loved. That was what his mother always said. He was nothing better than something she’d stepped in.

  No one knew the extent of what had gone on inside No.5 Halifax Road, not even Romily or Florence, both of whom had seen the bruises and burn marks on his body when he’d run away from his mother. During his time of being evacuated from London, his mother had turned up at Island House to take him back home. He hadn’t wanted to go with her, knowing what it would be like all over again. But Romily had been unable to stop his mother from insisting that it was her right to have him with her. Some weeks later he had managed to run away in the middle of the night, and by hiding on a train he had found his way back to Melstead St Mary. For a long time he lived in fear of his mother showing up again to reclaim him, but she never did.

  He suddenly shuddered and as his body began to shake with familiar dread, he gave in to the sensation of detaching himself from his surroundings, just as he had when his mother had beaten him. Squeezing his eyes shut and imagining that he was invisible had been his way of pretending she couldn’t hurt him.