Darkling Cottage
Monday 11th November 1918

 

Dear Alfred,

What magnificent news! The war is over! This must mean your regiment is coming home. Though Papa has warned me not to shriek every time the gate clicks because France is quite some distance away.

As you know I’m not good at waiting. So I’ve decided to write to you, though you mustn’t mock – my penmanship isn’t neat like yours, but I do promise to write very often.

Today was all about celebrating, though not before I’d had orders to smarten myself up. You’ll remember how muddy the woods are at this time of year, and how the lane down to the house runs with water when it rains hard. Mama’s grown so sick of mud on my skirts, she’s close to stopping me from going out altogether.

If you ask me it’s skirts that should be stopped, not muddy walks.

Once I’d passed inspection, Mama and I set off to the village. We didn’t take the trap because poor Ginger’s still slightly lame. So by the time we’d walked through the woods and crossed Glossop’s meadow you can imagine how we looked. Ma’s skirt hems were soaked and my best boots filthier than the ones I’d left at home.

At eleven o’clock precisely, the church bells rang and our entire village filled the streets. Oh Alfred, you should’ve seen it! Everyone was waving flags and singing ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’. I supposed they meant the landlord of the White Lamb, who was handing out free cider. But Mama said they were singing for our prime minister, Mr Lloyd George.

The bells rang for an hour without stopping. Imagine the agony to our ears! It’s probably why Mrs Burgess brought the schoolchildren out to listen. Though you’ll hardly believe it but our dear old headmistress was actually SMILING.

She made a point of coming over and simpering at Mama – it was all ‘yes Mrs Waterhouse, no Mrs Waterhouse’ – though she didn’t once address me; I made sure of it by taking a great interest in my coat buttons.

Afterwards, Mama asked where my manners had gone. It was time I acted more like a young lady, she said. Perhaps I could pin my hair up and swap my frocks for blouses and skirts. Well, I must have scowled because she laughed and said being ladylike wasn’t so terrible.

But it is terrible, Alfred. I hate it when things have to change. Sometimes I’m even envious of that farm dog for how it roams around our woods without a care, though I’d not want Mr Glossop for a master.

As for Papa, he is still recovering from his time at the Front. Mostly, he sits all day and reads – ghost stories are his favourite – which Mama rolls her eyes at because she says they’re what servants read. She thinks he needs a hobby, something to ‘take his mind off things’. But I don’t know if it helps, this not mentioning the war. After all, he has shrapnel in his leg that will never go away, and he still screams in the night.

Sorry to sound dismal. Mostly I stay jolly by thinking of what we’ll do when you come home. We’ll climb the beech tree and sit in our favourite spot, where the branch splits and makes that funny O shape. We’ll take a picnic too, only this time I promise not to eat all the apple cake without sharing.

Actually, I can’t promise that. Even now there is rationing, Mrs Cotter’s baking is still scrumptious. She’s already making lists of what to cook when you come home. She and Maisie have been saving up the rations – ‘stockpiling’, Mama called it, when she found more sugar in our larder than we’d had in months. So Alfred, do be sure to come home hungry. It would be torture to have to eat all that cake alone.

And think of the woods, Alfred! Never mind that it’s winter, they’re still our special place. It’ll be wonderful to have you here again. Not like before, when you came home on leave for just two weeks. This time you’ll stay for good.

Your sister.