Darkling Cottage
Tuesday 19th November

 

Dearest Alfred,

Today Mama received a letter. It said a boy fitting your description was in a hospital in northern France. He is ‘badly injured’ with a wound to the head. More importantly, is he you?

It’s left me very shaken, and because of it Mama and Papa have had the biggest row. He even called her ‘Florrie’ instead of ‘Florence’, which he knows she hates. And Anna and Mrs Cotter are casting doubts over everything – not just about you but my photograph too. It’s as if we’re all pulling against each other, and I don’t like it at all.

Please don’t think me ungrateful: ‘injured’ is ten times better than ‘missing’. But I keep picturing the men here in Bexton, with their limps and scars and missing fingers. There’s one or two who have burns to the face and wear those ghastly tin masks. Then there are men like Papa whose injuries you can’t see. Please say you’re not like this.

Mama’s completely certain the boy in France is you. She called us all to the drawing room and read his description from the letter – blond hair, green eyes, old scar behind left ear – and I admit it does sound like you. Because of his injuries, the boy doesn’t recall his name, but – and this part made my legs go weak – he keeps repeating the word ‘Bexton’.

I so wanted it to be you. But also I didn’t. Not if you couldn’t remember who you were. I want you back just the same as when you went away. Sorry if that sounds awfully selfish.

Mrs Cotter pointed out that Bexton might be a surname or a house, and Anna agreed, saying that she knew of a town up north with that name. I was almost relieved. Then I grew frightened because it felt as if we’d just found you only for you to slip away from us again. Mama thanked them both for their expert advice, and asked Papa for his view.

All this time he’d been sitting in his chair. I now saw why; his hands shook so much he’d tucked them deep into his armpits. It made me want to put a blanket round his shoulders.

Mama sank at his feet, begging him to believe that the boy was you. Papa said he didn’t know what to think. With so many boys lying injured in France, it wasn’t wise to get our hopes up. But we’d bring you home and nurse you here, Mama said. It could easily be sorted out. All she asked was that he should believe.

That word again!

Mama had few hard facts, only hope, of which she was full to the brim. It convinced me, Alfred. And it seemed to soften Papa, who eventually agreed she should go to France. It was the only way we’d know if the boy was you. But again he warned her not to get her hopes up. In a very cool tone she said that when she brought you home, then he’d thank her for being hopeful. It struck me as a bit rich because she’d not believed in me and my picture, when clearly Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did!

And, feeling brave, I said so.

While Mama glared Mrs Cotter chipped in helpfully, saying to her way of thinking, fairies were just a myth, like ghosts or dragons. Then Anna said people were getting very clever with cameras nowadays, and most pictures like mine were just trickery.

Trickery! Pah! How I wanted to pinch her!

Mama cleared her throat. Slowly, coolly she said I needed to realise it wasn’t normal to believe in fairies. At this Papa EXPLODED! I’ve never heard him rant so – about the war and young men dying for a cause they didn’t understand, let alone believe in, and how those who did come home were forgotten because nobody cared. Was it so mad, then, to believe in something good, to hope our sorry, awful world wasn’t all there was? Did normal even exist any more?

Mrs Cotter and Anna took their cue to leave the room. As Papa went on, I began to grasp it properly. For years we’ve lived and breathed this dreadful war. The fairies are proof that a better, kinder world still exists. If we believe hard enough then anything is possible – missing soldiers coming home, ghosts, fairies. By the time Papa had finished, I think even Mama understood: we have to keep our hopes alive if we can.

I left the room unnoticed and went straight to the woods, hoping for fairies. There were rustlings a-plenty: mostly squirrels and blackbirds, plus the odd cackling jay. But there was no sign of any fairies, nor the sense that they were near. Even Mr Glossop’s dog had stayed away today, so I couldn’t blame their absence on him. The wood seemed full of midwinter gloom. Hard to believe that just days ago I’d felt magic here, yet that feeling now seemed a thousand miles away. Everything was so bleak and chill, as if the fairies were keeping away on purpose.

That thought stayed with me. At dinner, I couldn’t eat pudding, and it was lemon curd tart. I think Mrs Cotter made it especially to say sorry for earlier, but I’d rather she and Anna had believed me in the first place, or at least not made me feel like a cheat.

Mama is to go to France very soon. She’s ever hopeful that the injured boy is you. I know it shouldn’t but it scares me a little too, Alfred. What if these things turn out not to be the truth we want? What do we hope for then?

I’m sorry. This would all be so much simpler if you were here.

Do hurry home,

Yours ever …