Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  ‘It’s true,’ said Isabella. ‘We kept getting the engaged tone.’

  Romily could believe it, she had spoken for some time with her old friend, Sarah, as they always did on Christmas Eve, and afterwards with Mrs Collings, and then Annelise.

  ‘But I told Max nothing was ever an imposition to you, Romily,’ chirped Isabella. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘We all have our limits,’ said Romily mildly. Then more cordially, forcing herself to sound less aloof, she said, ‘Now let’s get you out of those wet things and warmed up. The pair of you look like you’ve trekked across the Siberian tundra! What were you thinking coming on foot from the station?’

  ‘We had no choice,’ said Max. ‘The taxi we thought we were lucky to find at the station had only gone a short distance when it slid off the road and we ploughed into a snowdrift that could rival the White Cliffs of Dover.’

  ‘We were lucky to escape with our lives,’ said Isabella with a laugh. Her laughter gave way to another rattling cough. Frowning, Romily took her sodden coat, but not before noting the concern on Max’s face.

  ‘I knew we should have stayed in London,’ he muttered, placing an arm – what looked to be a surprisingly protective arm – around Isabella’s shoulders.

  Like a sunflower turning towards the sun, Isabella leaned in to him. It was only then that she seemed to realise that Romily wasn’t alone, that there was a fourth person standing in the hall with them. ‘Oh,’ she remarked, ‘you have company.’

  ‘This is Mr Red St Clair over from America,’ Romily told her, ‘I’ll introduce you properly once you’re in the drawing room sitting by the fire.’ And then you can tell me about you and Max, she thought.

  ‘How about I make your guests a drink?’ volunteered Red. ‘Maybe some hot chocolate? I’m a dab hand at that.’

  Grateful for his offer of help, Romily told him hastily where to find everything. She then shooed Isabella and Max through to the drawing room, where she removed the guard from the fire and threw another couple of logs in the grate.

  Isabella flopped into one of the armchairs nearest the fire. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so bone-numbingly cold,’ she said, stretching out her stockinged feet and resting them on the fender to warm.

  ‘I have to agree with Max on the wisdom of you making the journey,’ said Romily, brushing the log dust off her hands by rubbing them lightly against the backs of her legs. ‘That cough of yours sounds terrible. You told me on the telephone that you were better.’

  ‘I thought I was,’ she said, moving her feet so Max could perch on the corner of the fender next to her. ‘But I’ll soon be on top form again. You know how being at Island House always agrees with me.’

  ‘I fear it’s not going to be that jolly a Christmas, what with your aunt Hope still in hospital and now this weather.’

  ‘How is poor Hope?’

  ‘The same as before, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No sign of improvement at all?’

  Romily shook her head. ‘So tell me how you two met,’ she said, keeping her voice as casual as she could while glancing at Max.

  ‘It was wonderfully romantic,’ Isabella gushed, ‘Max came to my rescue.’

  Max scoffed. ‘I’d hardly call it romantic, me stepping in after that churl raised his hand to you.’

  ‘Heroic then. How does that sound?’

  He smiled indulgently at her. ‘A slight exaggeration, darling.’

  ‘Who, I should like to know raised his hand to you, Isabella?’ asked Romily.

  ‘Oh, it’s all history. He’s since made an apology, which I’ve accepted, so water under the bridge now. I’m much more interested in hearing about the delicious man shacked up here with you, and currently in the kitchen making us hot chocolate.’

  With a roll of her eyes, Romily tutted. ‘He’s not shacked up here as you so vulgarly put it; he’s a friend who is visiting.’

  Isabella wriggled her toes on the fender. ‘If you say so,’ she said with a smile. ‘Is he a souvenir from your trip to America?’

  ‘Put your overactive imagination away, Isabella, and behave, or you’ll find yourself back out in the snow.’

  ‘And knowing Romily of old, as I do,’ said Max with a laugh, ‘I wouldn’t put her threat to the test.’

  Isabella smiled up at him. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, to think how you all know one another from yonks ago.’

  ‘All?’ repeated Romily.

  ‘Well, you and Evelyn that is.’

  An eyebrow raised, and knowing what Evelyn had told her about a one-off moment of madness that had occurred between her and Max at Bletchley, Romily looked askance at him.

  In the silence that followed, as brief as it was, a log on the fire popped and spat. ‘There are no secrets between Isabella and me,’ he said. ‘She knows that I had a bit of a thing for Evelyn all those years ago. And that it wasn’t reciprocated in the way I would have liked at the time.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Romily said, surprised at his admission, ‘it would be better that you never repeat that while you’re here at Island House.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The last thing I would want to do is cause any trouble. I thought it might be prudent of me to give Evelyn a ring later, just to explain the situation.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Romily, ‘that might be prudent. Do you have her number?’

  ‘No. I was hoping you would give it to me.’

  ‘Of course,’ Romily said, turning to look at Isabella. The girl’s face was now glowing radiantly from the heat of the fire, and it was obvious from the adoring expression in her twinkling eyes as she looked up at Max, that she was hopelessly in love with him.

  Romily wanted to be happy for her, but to be in love with a man like Max, how could that ever be a good thing? Short term, yes. But if Isabella was wanting something lasting and meaningful, Max could only disappoint her. Unless he had changed. Could he have done so? She reminded herself of that look of concern and the protective arm she had seen while out in the hall.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Romily,’ said Isabella.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, that Max is frightfully old for me.’

  ‘Is that what you imagine me to be thinking, Max?’ Romily asked him directly.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t presume to trespass on that fine brain of yours,’ he said smoothly.

  ‘But, Romily,’ continued Isabella, ‘you can’t possibly criticise me for doing exactly the same thing as you did? Jack Devereux was years and years older than you, wasn’t he?’

  ‘She has a point,’ said Max.

  Romily wanted to tell him to keep his opinions to himself, and that Jack had been the best of men and utterly devoted to her. Not once had she doubted his faithfulness in the short time they had shared together. Would Isabella ever know that peace of mind in a relationship with Max? In loco parentis, her every instinct was to take him aside and demand to know what his intentions were.

  She was saved from doing just that, and embarrassing them all, by Red entering the room bearing a large tray.

  ‘I took the liberty of commandeering some mince pies loitering in a tin in the pantry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I hope that’s all right with you, Romily?’

  ‘A splendid idea,’ she said, taking the tray from him and placing it on the console table behind the sofa, ‘thank you so much.’

  ‘I must say, you really are the perfect house guest,’ said Isabella. ‘Now come and sit down and tell me all about yourself. Romily has been remarkably coy in sharing any information. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was hiding something.’

  ‘Behave yourself, Isabella, don’t think for one moment I won’t carry out my threat.’

  Every inch the actress, Isabella put a hand to her heart, ‘Mr St Clair, can you believe what you’re hearing, that my guardian would thro
w a poor sick waif out into the snow? It’s like something out of a Dickens novel!’

  Red smiled back at her. ‘I suspect she’d do it in a heartbeat.’

  Everybody laughed and Max went over to Red and shook hands with him. ‘I’m Max, an old friend of Romily’s from way back when, and . . . ’ he hesitated before continuing, plainly unsure of what he should say.

  ‘And he’s my beau,’ supplied Isabella. She extended her hand towards Red. ‘I’m Isabella Hartley, the actress of the family.’

  ‘As if he couldn’t guess that for himself,’ said Romily, while Red shook hands with her.

  ‘Red is a scriptwriter and we met while I was in Palm Springs,’ she explained, passing round the mugs of hot chocolate and mince pies.

  ‘That’s where I live,’ Red joined in.

  ‘Have you been to England before?’ asked Max.

  ‘Yes. During the war. I was stationed not that far away from here at a US airbase.’

  ‘So a trip down memory lane for you?’ said Isabella.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he said, his gaze sliding towards Romily. ‘From here on, it’s all about the future. I’ve spent too much time dwelling on the past.’

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Minton’s Bakery, Melstead St Mary

  December 1962

  Florence

  Every Christmas Eve Minton’s Bakery was one of the last shops to close, and every year, for much of the day, it was the same; the queue of customers was out of the door and almost to the butcher’s shop where an equally long queue was formed.

  Busy refilling the shelves of the window display with sausage rolls, mince pies and loaves of warm bread fresh out of the oven, Florence smiled at their loyal customers patiently waiting in line. Stamping their feet to keep the circulation going in their toes, their breath forming in the icy air, most of them clutched overflowing baskets of shopping, and one or two held Christmas trees in their gloved hands.

  George had earlier cleared the pavement in front of the shop, but within minutes fresh snow had fallen and it was as bad as ever it was. He was now delivering orders on foot to their elderly customers who couldn’t brave the treacherous conditions. Rosie was also pitching in on one of her rare days off and helping to serve behind the counter with her father. It was times like this, when they all pulled together as a family, that Florence felt sad that neither of their children wanted to continue the tradition of running Minton’s Bakery. But she accepted that George and Rosie had their own lives to lead.

  Across the market square, and in front of the tall Christmas tree which Billy and the other shopkeepers had erected, she saw a group of children breaking off from building a snowman to have a snowball fight. Their whoops of delight caused those in the queue outside to smile, and more so when a couple pulling a sledge stopped to join in.

  It was a few seconds before Florence realised it was Romily with the sledge. But who was the man with her who appeared to be throwing himself into the snowball fight with such gusto? When he hurled a snowball at Romily, she didn’t waste any time in retaliating. Everybody in the square began watching them with amusement. Funny how snow, as inconvenient as it could be, brought out a light-heartedness in people.

  Florence had offered to extend her hours at Island House to help Romily in the run-up to the festive period, but she had said that with Hope in hospital she wouldn’t be hosting Christmas in the grand way she normally did; she felt it wouldn’t be appropriate. In place of her lavish Boxing Day party, she would be hosting just a small gathering for drinks. And as far as Florence knew for lunch tomorrow, Romily would be entertaining Isabella, Stanley, and Kit and Evelyn with the twins. Perhaps the mystery man who was now being pelted with a torrent of snowballs by Romily, and all the children, would also be there?

  The shelves in the window display now replenished, Florence was about to turn away when she saw the housekeeper from Melstead Hall passing by. She was a miserable-looking woman who didn’t mind who she offended, much like her employer, Arthur Devereux. She had on one occasion accused Billy of selling her a stale loaf of bread, something he would never do. The butcher had also come in for criticism on the quality of his meat, and the fishmonger was accused of overcharging her.

  ‘Still doing your round?’ Billy called over to Frank Bushy, the postman, as he came into the shop with what looked like a full sack of mail. ‘I thought you’d be long since at home warming your feet in front of the fire with a bottle of beer in your hand.’

  ‘Chance would be fine thing,’ said Frank, puffing out his cheeks as he squeezed his way passed the customers. ‘With this snow I doubt I’ll be home before midnight.’ To Florence he said, ‘I thought I’d drop your post off here, seeing as there’s a parcel for your George.’ He handed her a small package tied up with string and three envelopes. Hardly daring to look at the envelopes, she put the post on the shelf beneath the counter. She then popped a couple of mince pies into a paper bag. ‘Here you go, Frank,’ she said, ‘something to keep you going on your round. Happy Christmas to you and the family.’

  ‘Thanks, love. You too.’

  When he’d gone, wishing everyone in the queue a happy Christmas, Florence scooped up the post and pushed through the swing doors, telling Billy she would get the next batch of bread rolls out of the oven.

  Only when she had placed the hot rolls on a wooden tray did she steel herself to open the envelopes. The first one, which was addressed to Mr and Mrs Minton, and to her relief, was just a Christmas card, as was the second. But the third – addressed only to her – had Florence’s fingers fumbling.

  women like you are so stupid!

  you have only yourself to blame

  for your husband looking elsewhere.

  She knew that the accusation was rubbish. Of course it was! But there was something about seeing it in black and white that made it seem true.

  ‘Flo, how are those rolls doing?’ called Billy from the shop, ‘we’re clean out here!’

  Stuffing the letter into her apron pocket, she grabbed the tray and pushed open the swing doors.

  ‘I thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep back there,’ he said with a laugh. At the front of the queue Gladys Turner laughed as well. A big-bosomed divorcée who wore too much make-up and her skirts too short and too tight, Gladys always had a lewd word to share with anyone who would listen. She winked at Billy. ‘I’d be happy to take your old woman’s place if she’s not up to the job, you just say the word, lover-boy.’ Her remark produced laughter from the queue.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Billy replied with a wink and a smile. He was merely entering into the spirit of the exchange, as he always did, but with this third letter in her apron pocket, Florence couldn’t help but regard Gladys with suspicion. Had she done more than just flirt with Billy? And had that enormous bosom of hers lured him into her bed? Could she actually be the sender of the anonymous letters?

  With no concern for the cold, her coat undone to reveal an expanse of wobbling cleavage that was trying to escape over the top of her low-neck dress, Gladys said, ‘I’ll have one of your special cream horns, Billy.’ She let rip with a lusty cackle, which predictably set everybody else off.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Florence, barging Billy out of the way as she carried the tray of bread rolls over to the window, ‘there’s only four cream horns left and they’re reserved.’

  Billy gave her a quizzical look. ‘Your mother,’ lied Florence. ‘She asked me to put them by for her. Rosie, when you’ve finished serving Mrs Turner, put them in a box, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘You okay, Flo?’ Billy asked quietly some minutes later when Gladys had taken her bosom off to flaunt under some other man’s nose.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said through gritted teeth, her back to the queue of customers. ‘Why wouldn’t I be fine when that trollop throws herself at you? I’m surprised she d
idn’t haul you over the counter and have her way with you right there in front of all the customers!’

  ‘You know what Gladys is like, she can’t help herself,’ Billy said. ‘You’ve never complained about her before; why today?’

  Because I’m sick of receiving these horrible letters, thought Florence miserably.

  By the time Romily came into the shop to collect her bread order, the snow was coming down so heavily the buildings on the other side of the market square were hardly visible. George had returned from delivering orders and with the queue for the shop slowing down, he and Rosie had gone next door to see their grandmother.

  ‘You two looked like you were having fun earlier,’ Florence said to Romily, glancing at the man with her. He was very tall and had a commanding presence about him, even with the knitted hat that was jammed onto his head. It was red with a white pom-pom like a snowball perched on the top. Florence recognised it as one of Romily’s skiing hats. It contrasted with the man’s smart woollen overcoat and the dove-grey coloured scarf tied around his neck. She put him in his mid-fifties and most definitely in the category of ‘extremely handsome’. He looked like a film star.

  ‘You must be Florence,’ he said with an instantly engaging smile. ‘Romily tells me you’re indispensable to her, and that you’ve been through thick and thin together.’

  Blushing, and conscious that the other customers in the shop were as curious as she was and were blatantly listening, she said, ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. But I’m pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ he said, taking off a glove to shake her hand. ‘Red St Clair is the name.’

  ‘You’re American, then?’ she said, immediately feeling stupid for stating the obvious.

  ‘Got me bang to rights,’ he said with an expansive grin that revealed two rows of perfectly white and very straight teeth. ‘How did I give myself away?’