Darkling Cottage
Saturday 16th November

 

Dearest Alfred,

The War Office might believe you are ‘missing, believed killed’ but I believe you’re on your way home. After all, no one’s yet proved that you’re not.

Papa also thinks you’re still alive. At breakfast, he said a dead person’s spirit often returns to a place they loved (our beech tree, perhaps?) but as he’d seen no sign of yours you must still be alive. I confess I like the idea, though I’d rather you weren’t dead at all. But Mama said she found our talk most unhelpful. She’s been busy writing to your regiment for information, so now there’s even less paper to use.

On the subject of letters, I set out directly after breakfast to post yours. Well, you know how news travels in Bexton. Standing in the post office queue, I lost count of the glances that out of pity couldn’t meet mine. At least when I reached Mr Crabtree at the counter, I was a tiny bit prepared. As I passed him your letter, his eyebrows went skywards and his hand hovered over the stamps. I held my breath. You see, Alfred, suddenly that letter meant everything. I was desperate for him to send it, just like he’d sent my other letters. I couldn’t bear to see his hesitation or the doubt on his face. It felt like the difference between believing and giving up. So when Mr Crabtree finally stamped the envelope, I’m afraid I did sob with relief.

As you know, I’m not one for tears in public, so I was very glad to leave the village behind me. Marching straight up the hill, I didn’t stop until I reached the woods. Oh, Alfred! What a sight awaited me! Hovering beneath our tree like a dragonfly was one of the tiny creatures. As I approached, she flew towards me, coming so close I saw the startling blue of her eyes. Then she touched my tear-stained face – first the left cheek, then the right – before retreating back under the tree. From there she carried on watching me. And when I touched my own cheek, the tears had all dried. I felt calmer too, as if a knot inside me had worked loose.

That peace didn’t last.

Hurling down the path came the black-and-white dog from the farm. Not far behind was Mr Glossop with his gun under his arm. Two dead rabbits hung from his shoulder. Seeing me, he whistled the dog to his side.

My first thought was for the creature under our tree. You know what Mr Glossop’s like – he’s hardly civil to people, never mind something as unusual as this. He’d want to hunt it down. Kill it. Show it to the men in the pub. So, politely but firmly, I asked Mr Glossop to turn back.

He didn’t take kindly to getting orders from a girl – in fact he went very red in the face. It took all my courage not to step aside. But he barged past me anyway, and in his haste walked straight into a low-hanging branch. The force of it felled him. He landed with a thump, dropping his gun, then he lay on the ground clutching his forehead. It was terribly hard not to laugh, for he did look jolly funny.

I know I should’ve offered my help, but the fact was I couldn’t get near him for his dog snarling and snapping. Anyway, Mr Glossop was soon on his feet again. Pulling his cap down to hide his face, he stormed off with his gun through the undergrowth.

By now, the little green creature had vanished. There was something odd about that tree branch too. It didn’t look that low. It wasn’t even really near the path. So how Mr Glossop came to walk right into it, I don’t know. It was as if the wood – or something in it – had played a trick on him.

Back at home, Papa was on the lawn with his camera. I went over to tell him about Mr Glossop, but before I had a chance even to speak Papa made me stand very still. My expression was just marvellous, he said, and he wanted to take my picture. Don’t laugh!

Later Papa showed me the finished photograph and he had captured me well, right down to the tangles in my hair. And yet, I didn’t look like a person who’d just caught a poacher. I looked like a girl who’d seen magic.

So I tried to tell Papa what I’d seen today. I’d met a creature with wings, I said, and somehow it’d lifted my sorry spirits. He listened until I’d finished, then he patted my hand and said how lovely that I was a dreamer just like him.

Yet it happened, Alfred, and I know you believe me. The proof is that photograph; it’s there in my face.

Your devoted sister.