A Very Vintage Christmas: A Heartwarming Christmas Romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 1)

by Tilly Tennant

  ‘Oi, Dodie! Red today, is it? Nice!’

  Dodie looked around to see who’d called her. Sitting on the floor at the entrance to Debenhams was a man with a sleeping bag covering his legs, bundled up in a duffle coat and hat. Most would call him middle-aged, but perhaps it was the grey-flecked beard making him look older. Next to him sat a hefty kitbag that he was using as a makeshift cushion.

  ‘Alright, Nick?’ Dodie smiled, changing direction to go and talk to him. ‘Watch out – they’ll move you on from there. Remember what happened last time.’

  ‘Probably,’ Nick agreed. ‘But it’s early yet and the fat git who does security won’t even be out of bed. Besides, I can run faster than that lump of lard.’ He grinned. ‘It’s nice and warm under this heater so I’ll take my chances either way.’

  ‘You’ve been there all night?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘You must have been freezing!’

  He sniffed. ‘I like it under the stars. Police and social workers and all them religious types keep offering me a bed but I get all claustrophobic indoors. It’s not so bad out here once you get used to it.’

  Dodie gave him a patient smile. He always said the same thing, every time she asked him. Always some line about sleeping under the same sky as our ancestors, but our ancestors weren’t usually huddled in shop doorways beneath a grubby blanket being peed on by drunks when they were sleeping outside. Dodie had got to know Nick a little since she’d opened her shop, had even invited him in for a cup of tea in the warm, but he always declined. She suspected that there was more to it than wanting to be outside, some internal conflict he needed to work through, some social anxiety that meant even though he chatted cheerfully enough to anyone on the street who offered a helping hand, he didn’t want to get too close. It was only a theory, of course, and Dodie was no expert.

  ‘Had your breakfast yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Expect I’ll get something in a bit.’

  Rooting in the paper bag in her arms, she pulled out an egg and bacon muffin and a hash brown. ‘Here.’

  ‘Aww, I don’t want to take your breakfast, love,’ Nick said, waving away the offer. But Dodie placed it on his lap.

  ‘There’s plenty in here,’ she said. ‘I’m not saying you need it more than I do but I know my waistline probably would, if it could talk.’

  ‘I think your waistline is cracking,’ Nick said, taking the muffin and unwrapping it. ‘Not that I look, mind.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it as a compliment,’ Dodie laughed. ‘I haven’t got a spare coffee here but if I leave you a couple of quid you can get one when the Christmas stalls open up, can’t you?’

  He stuck a thumb in the air. ‘That’d be handsome. You’re a good girl, one of the best.’

  ‘Nah. I just wish I could do more.’

  ‘Don’t start that rubbish,’ he chided through a mouthful of muffin. ‘I appreciate everything. What I appreciate most is that we have a nice little chat from time to time. Most people don’t even look at me.’

  ‘That’s alright; I like our chats.’

  She stood for a moment, a quiet smile of understanding passing between them. Then Nick waved his hand to shoo her away. ‘If you don’t get that lot back it’ll be cold.’ He angled his head at the bag in her arms.

  ‘Oh, yeah…’ Dodie shook herself. ‘My friend is helping me in the shop today; she won’t be happy if I give her cold bacon sandwiches in payment.’

  ‘She won’t be back, that’s for sure. Take it easy, sweetheart.’

  ‘You too, Nick. Don’t get too cold out here.’

  He gave her a brisk nod and turned his attention back to his muffin as Dodie walked away. Despite having a bag full of rapidly cooling food, she found herself easily distracted by the shop windows, bright and lively with sparkling Christmas displays of toys, jewellery, clothes and cosmetics. She still had her own Christmas gift shopping to finish and she made a mental note of one or two items that might be suitable for people.

  As she stared at the pastel window display of a shop selling organic cosmetics, her mobile rang.

  ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ Isla said.

  ‘I’m coming now. I thought you said you’d had some toast this morning before you left home?’

  ‘I did but it’s wearing off. I need bacon and I need it stat.’

  ‘Right…’ Dodie smiled. ‘I’m ten minutes away, tops. I know you’re hungry but please try not to faint into the seventies rack while I’m missing, won’t you?’

  ‘I can’t promise it, but I’ll do my best to hang on. Anyway, if I was going to faint into a rack of clothes I’d go for something a bit more stylish than the seventies. Some of it might stick to me and that would just be embarrassing.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dodie said. ‘I could see you rocking a pair of bell-bottoms.’

  ‘Nobody has ever rocked bell-bottoms,’ Isla replied stuffily and Dodie had to laugh at the note of utter horror in her voice.

  ‘You wouldn’t have had a choice if it was the seventies; you’d have had to wear them.’

  ‘It’s not the seventies, and quite frankly, the seventies can stay exactly where they are if that’s the best they’ve got to offer.’

  ‘Alright, alright… now I really know you’re hungry; you’ve never managed to insult an entire decade before and, as insults go, you’re pretty good at them.’

  ‘I am not!’ Isla squeaked, and Dodie laughed again. ‘Who do I insult?’

  ‘See…’ Dodie grinned as she repositioned the phone against her ear, ‘it comes so naturally you don’t even know you’re doing it.’

  ‘Cheeky cow,’ Isla huffed.

  ‘No,’ Dodie fired back, ‘that one wasn’t very good at all – you’ve done much better insults than that.’

  ‘Oi!’ Isla said. ‘If you don’t get back here with my bacon before it’s cold I’ll show you what an insult really looks like!’

  Dodie’s laughter only grew louder as she ended the call and stashed her phone in her coat pocket.

  Forget-Me-Not Vintage was so far from the main shopping streets of Bournemouth town centre you could almost argue it wasn’t in the town at all. Flanked by a decent sprinkling of bars and restaurants, however, along with a flower shop, newsagent-cum-convenience store, a Jewish bakery and an English-language school (of which Bournemouth seemed to have dozens), it promised just enough passing trade to make the location work. Dodie was relying heavily on the truth of Isla’s promise that she just needed to get established, and once word got out people would seek out her shop so that she wouldn’t have to worry about its location. So far the footfall had been stubbornly and disappointingly low, and it had led to a frugal summer.

  The store had previously been owned by an elderly lady who had sold lingerie to even older ladies, and it had been in desperate need of repair by the time Dodie took possession of the premises when the old dear finally retired. Dodie had done much of the refurbishment herself – plaster knocked from walls to expose brick, polished wooden floorboards, old film posters dotted around the place, the shopfront painted a pretty forget-me-not blue – but there had been things she hadn’t been able to do on a budget, like the wiring for the eclectic array of chandeliers that lit up the shop, drawing the eyes of passers-by to the windows like moths to the stars. By day it looked pretty, but when dusk fell over the streets it was magical. Despite rolling her sleeves up and doing a lot of the work herself, the final touches had still all but cleared out the coffers, and if she didn’t turn a decent profit soon, Dodie knew she was going to have to make some tough decisions about the business she had poured her heart, soul and all her cash into.

  As she stepped inside with their breakfast, she found Isla sitting in the middle of the shop floor surrounded by neat piles of fabric – georgette, denim, faux fur, wool and lace – all classified by colour.

  ‘Lovely,’ Dodie said, nodding at the arrangement. ‘Looks very organised. It’s a shame I’ll have to undo al
l your good work.’

  ‘I couldn’t find the hangers…’ Isla said in a vague tone, her gaze travelling the piles. But then she looked up sharply. ‘Wait, why do you have to undo my work?’

  ‘I can’t just put it out for sale. I have to inspect everything first, repair it if it needs it, wash and iron. Some of it I won’t even be able to use and that will either go to the charity shop or recycling. Then I’ll need to catalogue every item so I know exactly what’s going in and out and I can keep track of the profit – or losses, as the case may be.’

  Isla scratched her head as she looked again at the hundred or so items she’d sorted. She let out a long, irritated sigh. ‘No wonder it takes you such a long time. I thought it was odd you needed help on one little delivery.’

  ‘Not little. This is quite big by my standards. I got it for a brilliant price though, so I’m hoping there will be some treasure in here.’ Dodie shook the paper bag she was holding. ‘First: breakfast. We’ll have to take it in turns to eat upstairs in the flat, though. Don’t want the shop stinking of bacon – gets in the clothes and then it’s hell to get the smell out of the fabric. You can have yours first, if you like.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ Isla said, leaping up and snatching the bag and her coffee with a grin. ‘I won’t be long,’ she added, heading through the doorway that separated the shop from the tiny staff-room/office and stairs to the living quarters above.

  Dodie smiled, turning her attention to the clothes Isla had sorted into piles. Judging by the sizes and colours, a great deal of the pieces could have come from the same original collection – there was a lot of rich forest and autumn shades in what looked to be a modern size ten, though some of it was clearly handmade and not traditionally sized. Unsized clothes were often a problem but Dodie had learned to gauge pretty accurately by looking at the item, and most people who shopped for vintage knew that they’d always have to try a garment on because of inconsistent sizing.

  She unfolded a few items and held them up for inspection. There was a bit of a mixture, bundles that might have come from different places, but a good deal of it was forties and perhaps fifties fashion, probably from the loft of an old lady who had once put it away and forgotten about it. That often happened, and when the old dear died or went into a home and the family cleared the house, the treasure would be discovered. This particular batch was good quality and well cared for; some pieces even had mothballs in the pockets and tissue paper within the sleeves. These were the best sorts of hauls; it was likely Dodie wouldn’t have too much repair work to do on any of it.

  There was a tawny tweed jacket, which she couldn’t resist slipping on for a look in the mirror – though it was a little tight around the arms so she quickly decided it wasn’t a personal keeper. There were three brown hats complete with feathers, netting or a simple band tied in a bow. She tried these on too but decided against them. She unfolded various skirts and dresses with oversized collars and contrast stitching, some with plain blocks of colour and others in delicate florals. And then she came across the most fabulous forest-green coat; calf-length wool, cinched waist and flared skirt with a fur collar.

  ‘Please let it fit,’ she squeaked as she shook it out and pulled it on. It slid over her shoulders like a dream and fastened easily. It could have been made for her. As she stood at just over five feet it was a little longer than intended by the tailor, but Dodie was used to being swamped by the length of her clothes, and as long as she wasn’t tripping on the hems she didn’t let it worry her. She pulled the collar up and twirled to admire the back in the mirror, then turned around to take another look at the front. The colour looked amazing with her new hair. It was cosy too – nice thick wool that would be perfect for the winter. She plunged her hands in the pockets to see how deep they were and test just how cosy the coat was. Modern clothes had rubbish pockets – hardly anything at all – but old clothes were brilliant for hand storage space, and Dodie tended to pick up a lot of debris as she went about her day-to-day business: bus tickets, shop receipts, cough sweets, hair grips – you name it, she found it all in her pockets on a regular basis.

  And that was when she found the letter. She frowned as her hand brushed against the paper and she pulled it out to inspect. The envelope was yellowed with age, browned and worn at the edges, and it looked as though it had been written with a fountain pen and ink. There was a heavy postmark she didn’t recognise, but it almost looked like one or even two on top of another, as if the letter had been through many hands to get to its final recipient. She turned it over to see that it had already been opened. Perhaps it was an empty envelope, hastily stuffed into a pocket and forgotten once the contents had been read and remembered? Either way, it was clearly old and that fact alone was enough to pique Dodie’s interest.

  Lifting the flap, she peered inside and her heart almost skipped to see there was a sheet in there, a letter. The paper looked expensive, even if it was grubby with age. The colour was a slightly lighter cream than the envelope but they unmistakably matched. With nervous anticipation, as if her subconscious knew that something monumental was about to happen, Dodie drew the sheet from the envelope and opened it out. Her eyes skimmed over the first three words, words so personal, so perfect and full of love that it almost felt like a violation to be reading them: Dearest Darling Maggie.

  Those three words stopped her heart. She felt cold, the hairs stood up on her neck and she knew she was about to read something so extraordinary and special that it would become a part of her too. Suddenly and inexplicably, it felt like her whole existence had been building to this moment, as if she’d simply been eating and sleeping as she waited for it to arrive. But surely that was crazy? So why, as she read further, was her heart beating in her ears? Like the words that followed were going to change her life?

  Dearest Darling Maggie,

  How I wish I could whisper those words in your ear, my love. I’ll bet you’re sitting by the wireless now looking pretty as a picture as you laugh at Band Waggon, just like the night before I left, and I wish I could see it. The way you laugh makes me love you all the more, and I love you more than life already. This damned war drags on and on, and I wish desperately for it to end. If only to come home and see you. I dream of you every night and think of you every day. I’m trying my very best to stay alive for you, my love, but when the bombs miss me by inches sometimes I fear I may not make it.

  When I get home, at last we will be married and it is the thought of that day that keeps me marching on. I hope you believe me as I make that promise. I know you are scared about our little secret and I must confess to being shocked at your news, but I am happy – as happy as a man ever was. It only makes me more desperate to come home to you. I know people may talk if it gets out, but be sure of my love and my honest intentions. I would not abandon you to scandal, and all the scandal in the world would not diminish the love I have for you in my heart.

  I ask every day about coming home on leave, and we will get married when I do. My darling, please write and tell me you love me, tell me you’re not angry or upset about our little mistake. My heart is heavy with the thought that you might be, and I cannot be there to make it better. But I will be soon, and the thought makes my feet quick and my reflexes sharp as I dance between the bullets.

  I cannot tell you where I am, but I can tell you there are lots of good-looking French girls here, though there is none here as beautiful as you. You are my precious and adorable sweetheart and I count the days until we are together again.

  Always yours,

  George

  The love, the emotion, the promise pouring from every line was almost too much for Dodie. It felt like a crime, somehow, that she’d read such an outpouring, as if she’d directly spied on some intimate moment between two people who were strangers to her but who she already felt she knew. But what she’d read she couldn’t now unread and the words on the page filled her head, inserted themselves into her memory, settled into the cracks as if they
had now become hers. Except they weren’t, because no man had ever made such a fervent declaration of his love to her; no man had ever bared his soul and offered his life in that way and she didn’t expect any man ever would.

  What she had in her own life with Ryan was safe and comfortable and she could rely on him to steady her sails as she navigated life’s choppy seas, but he was hardly what you’d call romantic. And as for love, she supposed he must love her in his own way, as she did him in hers, but they were hardly Romeo and Juliet. But this letter, this declaration from George, was a precious glimpse into a kind of love she didn’t even know she wanted until this exact moment.

  Dodie wiped away a tear as she turned her thoughts to more practical matters. She shook her head and smiled vaguely at the silliest of notions. Really, Isla had a point when she told her – on many occasions – that she was odd. She almost certainly was if she thought an old letter could change her life that drastically. Still, she couldn’t shake the strange feeling that it already had.

  She checked the address on the envelope. It had fared worse than the letter inside; time had faded the print and worn the paper, but she managed to make out the name Margaret and a surname beginning with V, and then a Bournemouth address that looked like Wessex Road. She squinted at the number. It could have been a seventeen, or maybe an eleven. The date on the letter was 8 June 1944, so the war mentioned must have been the Second World War. In which case, it seemed safe to assume that George had been in the allied forces, fighting abroad, and that Maggie was his sweetheart back home. And if this haul of clothes had ended up in her shop, then it was probably also safe to assume that it had once belonged to Maggie and that maybe Maggie was now dead. Did that mean George was dead too? Quickly Dodie worked out what their ages were likely to be now and had to conclude that he probably was.