Thursday morning dawned bright and cold. The sun streamed down on the frosted ground, striking sparkling fire from hedgerows laced with spiders’ webs, and etching the bare branches of the trees against the palest of blue skies. Rachel drove the country lanes to Charlton Ambrose, marvelling at the winter beauty around her. As the road threaded its way through high winter hedges and Rachel met no other cars, she thought that things must look much the same as they had when Molly had lived here.
Her first port of call was the rectory. Adam Skinner was just going out but he greeted her cheerfully as he put a box of papers into his car.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m literally on the doorstep as you see.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rachel replied. “I only wanted to return your booklet on the history of the parish. It was fascinating, particularly the part about the Ashgrove.”
“I glad you found it useful.” The rector put it inside the front door and then pulled the door closed behind him. “Any news on the trees yet?”
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t think there’ll be any more on those until well after Christmas,” she said. “Things move very slowly at County Hall, and the building trade closes down for two weeks over the holiday period.”
“Well, good luck with it. Sorry to dash, but I’m late… as always.”
Rachel spent much of the morning in the churchyard. She had a list of names for whom she was hoping to find gravestones. The Hursts were easy enough, theirs was the large sarcophagus tomb beside the path leading to the church door. Protected by the church from the worst of the elements, the inscriptions were still easily legible. Sir George Hurst was the last, born 25th June 1860, died 6th September 1921. His beloved wife, Charlotte, who had died in childbirth in 1900, was also buried there, with their son, James, who died with her moments after his birth. No mention of Freddie, of course, who was buried somewhere in France… if he actually has a grave, Rachel thought. She made a note to look him up on the war graves’ web site, and then wondered with amazement why she hadn’t thought of this before; she could look up Tom Carter as well. No mention of Sarah.
She moved slowly round the churchyard, peering at the stones and reading their inscriptions. In a quiet corner, well away from the church itself, she found the grave of Edwin and Jane Day. The stone simply gave Edwin’s name and dates, followed by and of his wife Jane with her dates and the text:
COME UNTO ME ALL WHO TRAVAIL AND ARE HEAVY LADEN
Had Gran chosen those words? Rachel wondered. Poor Jane, she certainly travailed. What a bleak life, she must have led, living with a man like Edwin.
Rachel continued to search that area, but it was some time before she finally found what she was looking for, Molly’s grave. She had been beginning to wonder if Molly’s parents hadn’t bother to erect a stone for the daughter they thought had disgraced them, when she came across a small stone cross at the end of the graveyard, tilted tipsily and almost covered with brambles. It was on the very edge of hallowed ground, as if those who had buried her, thought she should not be there at all. Inscribed on the bar of the cross were the name and date:
EMILY DAY
1895–1924
It had to be her, Rachel decided, though she had not thought of Molly as a diminutive for Emily before. Poor Molly, Rachel thought as she looked down at the stone memorial, that was no memorial at all. There was no ‘loving memory’ or ‘beloved daughter’. Disgraced and unloved, Molly lay forgotten in an overgrown corner of her village churchyard.
Rachel took photographs of each of the graves she had found and then continued her search. Nearer to the church she found several Cook graves, one of them Anthony Cook, born 1888, died 1957. That was Tony, Harry’s elder brother. Rachel had assumed that he had survived the war as he was not named in the memorial, and had found him during her search at the record office yesterday. With him lay his wife, Sandra.
Rachel found she was getting cold and she decided that she had seen all she wanted to here. She found no Chapmans, Hapgoods or Winters. Her next stop was the post office. Gail was behind the counter, and recognised Rachel when she came in. Her smile was perfunctory.
“I’ve spoken to my dad,” she said. “He doesn’t want my gran bothered by the papers. Says he’ll tell her about the trees.”
“That’s good,” Rachel was conciliatory. “It’s much better that she hears it from him.”
“Not that she’ll take it in much,” sighed Gail. “She’s not really with it these days, well, it’s not surprising her being ninety-six, is it?”
Rachel agreed it wasn’t. “Did her brother, Tony, have any children?” she asked.
“No. He and Auntie Sandra got married late. Too late probably for her. Anyway, they didn’t have any kids.” Gail looked at her suspiciously. “What do you want to know for, anyway?”
“Gail,” Rachel took a deep breath, “Gail, I discovered something yesterday.”
“Oh yes,” Gail didn’t sound particularly interested, but her eyes were sharp. “And what was that then?”
“My great-grandmother and your grandmother were first cousins. That makes us related.”
“Suppose it does,” Gail conceded with a shrug. “Not close, though, eh?”
“No, something like third cousins, I should think,” said Rachel, disappointed with this reaction. “I just thought you might be interested. Well, anyway, I came in to ask where your grandmother lives, but if your father doesn’t want her worried with this, perhaps I could talk to him instead.”
“He won’t want to talk to you either,” Gail said sharply, “not even if you are some sort of cousin. We don’t want to get involved in this tree business, right? So, leave us alone. My Great-uncle Harry’s long gone. He doesn’t care if there’s a tree or not. We have to think of the living now.” She placed her hands on the counter and looked across at Rachel. “Now, did you want to buy something?”
Gail’s attitude towards her had so changed since Saturday, that Rachel left the shop knowing that Gail and her family had discussed the situation over the weekend, and some sort of decision had been taken. Gail and her husband wanted the building to go ahead for the growth in their business that it might provide; Granny was too old and gaga to be consulted, they could all use a little extra cash, and so they had decided to take whatever compensation was going and shut up about the trees.
Oh well, that’ll please Mike Bradley, Rachel thought.
The sun was still shining when Rachel had finished a quick snack in the pub and she decided to make the most of the afternoon and walk across the hill to see if she could find Valley Farm. She had provided herself with an ordnance survey map, and found Valley Farm still marked on it. A path led from the village starting at a stile in Church Lane, and seemed to lead straight up over the hill and down into the next valley where the farm lay. She went back to the car and put on her walking boots and her fleece and set off with the map in her pocket. As she walked along the lane she saw some large stone gateposts, in need of repair, and swathed with ivy. Attached to one was an estate agent’s sign offering “The Manor” for sale. Period Georgian House, it declared, with two acres, in need of renovation. Across the board was another smaller one saying “Sale Agreed”.
The Manor. Rachel stared at the sign. How could she have forgotten such a thing? It was still there, of course it was, the family home of the Hursts for so long. But who lived in it now, she wondered? Did anybody? By the look of the gateposts and the drive, which Rachel could see was overhung with bushes and overgrown with weeds, it didn’t look occupied; it certainly hadn’t been well looked after. She glanced at her watch and wondered if she had time to go in and take a quick look at the house now. She decided not. She didn’t know how long it would take her to find Valley Farm, but she wanted to be safely back in the village before it got dark. She would go to the estate agent in the morning and get a copy of the particulars, and then come back and explore it properly; take some photos for her file.
She walked on and came to the stile. Molly must have walked this way every time she went home, Rachel mused. It was the quickest way to the farm from this end of the village, unless you had a vehicle of some sort and had to go round by the road. Rachel could have driven and found the track or lane that led there, she supposed, but she was looking forward to the walk, and it pleased her to be following in Molly’s footsteps.
As she headed on up the hill towards the hedge at the top, a small furry creature exploded from the woodland that edged the field and rushed towards her. It was a dog of extremely mixed origins with a woolly coat, long floppy ears and an extravagantly waving tail. It pranced round her barking with delight at having found someone who might throw a stick.
“Down dog, down,” she shouted as the creature began to do vertical leaps in its efforts to please her.
“Wombat! Come here. Come here at once.” Nick Potter emerged from the copse and on hearing his master’s voice the dog, turned his attentions to him. As he leapt within reach, Nick made a grab for his collar and snapped on the lead.
“Sorry,” he began and then on recognising Rachel grinned at her and said, “Rachel, it’s you. Sorry about that. He thinks everyone in the world loves him. We haven’t quite got the bit about coming when called sorted out yet.”
“So this is Wombat,” Rachel said looking down at the still gyrating dog. “He doesn’t look like one.”
“What does one look like?” asked Nick, amused.
Rachel shrugged, “I don’t know,” she admitted with a grin.
“No, nor did I, I just thought one was a small woolly animal, so that’s what I called him. You’re right of course, I’ve since looked one up and he doesn’t look anything like one.”
“What are you doing up here?” asked Rachel.
“Walking him,” Nick replied innocently. “Wombat has to be walked every day.”
“Are you on holiday too, then?” Rachel asked suspiciously. “You didn’t say.”
“Not much happening in the office at this time of year,” Nick said casually. “Where are you off to?”
Rachel fixed him with a beady eye. “You know very well where I’m going,” she said.
“Valley Farm?” suggested Nick with a look of polite enquiry. “Want any company? Wombat’s finished looking for rabbits here.”
Rachel said that she’d love company, and together they went on across the field to the next stile, with Wombat, released from his lead, dashing on ahead of them and then tearing back to make sure they were still coming.
“He does ten times the mileage I do,” remarked Nick.
They finally came to the top of a rise and looked down into the valley below. There was an old farmhouse on its far side, crouching into the hillside that protected it from the worst of the weather. Behind it were farm buildings of much more modern construction, dwarfing the original house, and standing out harshly against the hill.
“That’s Valley Farm,” Nick said pointing. “I often walk that way home from here.”
Rachel looked down on the house that had been the childhood home of both her grandmother and great-grandmother. There was nothing warm or welcoming about the long, grey house and she shivered.
The sun disappeared behind a bank of rolling cloud now and the wind swept across the open hillside, biting through her fleece.
“It looks a pretty bleak place even now,” she said, pulling her jacket more closely round her. “Imagine what it was like eighty years ago.”
“A hard place to make a living,” agreed Nick. “Do you want to go down?”
“Yes, I want to see if I can pinpoint where Molly’s picture was taken; and I want to take some photos of how it is today. I’ll take one from up here.” She took her camera out of her pocket and took her picture, then suddenly swung it round on Nick who was sitting on the stile laughing at Wombat’s antics and took another.
Nick laughed. “That won’t come out,” he said. “Wombat was moving.”
They followed the path down the hill and on to the track that led to the farm gate. The gate, which stood open, was a modern galvanised one, with the name Valley Farm propped up beside it. There was a muddy Land Rover parked in the yard, and on the far side was a modern milking parlour. There was the sound of the milking machines and they could see the cows still waiting to be milked in an enclosure beyond the yard. Clearly the farm was still a working farm. Rachel snapped off a couple of pictures and then Nick took the camera from her and said, “Stand by the gate there, and I’ll take one of you.”
Rachel stood in the almost identical place to Molly, and as he looked at her through the view finder, Nick wondered if he were being fanciful when he thought he caught an echo of Molly’s face in Rachel’s.
“Do you want to go in?” Nick asked as he handed he back the camera.
Rachel looked at the old house and shivered again. “No,” she said, “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well then, I think we should be making tracks,” Nick said. “We’re going to get wet.”
Rachel looked up and saw that he was right. The sky had darkened and she could feel the spatter of rain on her face.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take us the quickest way.” He started off down the lane, Wombat prancing at his heels, and Rachel followed him, wishing she had worn her parka and not her fleece. Halfway down the lane they reached a stile and Nick led the way over into the field beyond. It was raining hard now, and the wind was driving the freezing drops against them so that they had to keep their heads down as they walked into it. Another stile, another field and then a track and Rachel found they were on the road leading into the village. Houses stood on the left and it was in through the gate of one of these that Nick took her now.
“Come in and get dry,” he said, “it’s another half mile to your car, I’ll drive you there in a minute.” He opened the front door and Wombat dived between his feet into the warmth of the house. Nick stood aside to let Rachel in, and drenched as she was she was pleased to get indoors.
“Take your fleece off,” Nick said as he closed the door behind him, “and I’ll hang it by the boiler. Want a cup of tea?” He reappeared from the kitchen and handed Rachel a towel. “Here,” he said, “dry your hair.”
Rachel glanced in the small round mirror that hung on the wall and saw that she looked like a drowned rat, her dark curls clung damply to her head and she could feel the water dripping down her neck. She took the towel and rubbed her hair.
“Thanks,” she said. She plucked at her clammy shirt collar and Nick grinned at her.
“You’re soaked,” he said. “Go upstairs and have a shower. I’ll put a dry shirt and sweater out for you to go home in.” When Rachel hesitated he gave her a little push and said, “Go on. First on the right upstairs. I’ll make the tea while you’re up there.” When she still hesitated he grinned and adding, “I won’t come and ravish you, promise!” he pointed to the staircase and said, “Go!”
It was a long time since Rachel had been given such a direct order, but she slung the towel round her neck and climbed the stairs. When she stepped out of the shower elegantly attired in the towel, she peeped out on to the landing. There in a neat pile were a shirt, a sweatshirt and some tracksuit bottoms. She pulled them into the bathroom and moments later went downstairs with Nick’s clothes hanging off her, but warm and dry.
Nick looked up as she appeared in the kitchen and laughed. “Oh, very fetching,” he said as he handed her a mug of steaming tea. “Here come inside, I’ve lit the fire.”
He led the way into his sitting room, and gestured to an armchair at the fireside. “Get yourself warm,” he said, and flung himself down into the chair on the other side of the hearth.
“Thanks for the loan of the clothes,” Rachel said, “and for the tea. How do you know my car is parked half a mile away?” she suddenly shot at him, and he laughed at the abruptness of the question.
“Saw you leaving it there this morning,” he said.
Rachel looked at him across the rim of her mug. “So our meeting on the hill wasn’t as accidental as it seemed,” she said lightly.
“No, well, I just thought you might like the company on your walk.” Nick seemed entirely unfazed by the question: “And anyway, Wombat said he wanted to go.”
“I see, so it’s all your fault, is it, dog?” Rachel said prodding the recumbent animal blissfully asleep on the hearthrug. “What a coward your master is to blame you for his decisions!”
“Oh no,” said Nick cheerfully, “I’d already made my decision, he just encouraged me in it.” He paused and, looking at the girl dressed in his clothes, curled up in a chair by his fire, asked, “Do you mind?”
Rachel appeared to consider for a moment before answering, “No,” she said, “I was very happy to have Wombat’s company.” She finished her tea and stood up. “I must go, it’s the office Christmas drinks tonight.” She looked out across the rain-swept garden to the winter dreariness of the allotments beyond. “I see you look out on the famous allotment patch,” she remarked as she realised what she was seeing. “Those new houses will be looking straight over your wall.”
“So they will,” Nick agreed mildly, “but I hope to have moved from here before they’re built.”
He drove her to where she had parked her car and she switched cars clutching a carrier bag with her wet clothes in it.
“I must return yours to you,” she said.
“I’ll come and collect them after Christmas,” Nick replied. “I’m off tomorrow, to spend Christmas with my mother.”
When she got home there was a text message on the mobile.
Happy Christmas, Rachel. Keep in touch.
Wish there had been a bit of mistletoe in my house.
Rachel smiled at this, and on impulse zapped him a return message, So do I.
It was the day after Boxing Day before Rachel finally settled down to look at the letters in the biscuit tin. She had spent Christmas with her grandmother as she always did and they had passed a quiet three days together, eating their Christmas dinner, going down to walk along the front at Belmouth, watching television and talking. Rachel heard a little more of Gran’s childhood, her heart aching for the motherless girl. She told Gran about finding the graves in the churchyard, and Rose said she too had found them when her grandmother finally died. She had added Jane Day’s name and the text.
“I didn’t love her,” she said, “but I knew she’d have been a different woman but for my grandfather.”
“And Molly? Your mother?”
“I let her rest in peace. My life had moved on.”
The three days were also punctuated by text messages from Nick.
Force fed turkey… it was stuffed… so am I
Mistletoe here. Wish you were!
Wombat pining for a decent walk. Sends licks!
If I c another mince pie will burst
Play station good fun, pity not mine!
Drink Thursday? Castle?
How did you get into my brain like this?
Rachel sent flippant replies to all but the last. That one she couldn’t answer, either flippantly or seriously. Indeed, she could have asked him the same question. Nick had been resting in the back of her mind ever since she had left him in Charlton Ambrose on Thursday, a comfortable presence, undemanding, but there. She had been wondering why he had texted her, rather than rung her, but with the arrival of the last message she realised it was easier to drop throw-away lines like that into a text message. There was no pressure to answer them, they could be answered or ignored without awkwardness on either side. For the present she ignored it, and Nick receded to his position on the perimeter of her mind.
When she got home on Wednesday afternoon, Rachel lit the fire, drew the curtains against the early evening dark and at last settled down to read the letters in the tin. She opened both packets and discovered that not all of the letters to Molly were written by Tom. There were several addressed in different handwritings. She laid them out on the table by date from the postmarks, taking letters from both piles, so that she would read them in the right order and the correspondence would flow.
She wondered how Molly had possession of the letters she herself had written to Tom. Had they been returned to her when he had been killed? She had looked up both Freddie and Tom on the war graves’ website and so knew what was officially known about their deaths.
Freddie had died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. According to the website, Captain Frederick George Hurst 1st Battalion Belshire Regiment (Light Infantry) killed in action on 1st July 1916 aged twenty-four.
Captain Hurst was the husband of Heather Mary Hurst of The Manor, Charlton Ambrose, Belshire. He is commemorated on the Thiepval Memorial, Somme.
Private 8523241 Thomas Carter 1st Battalion Belshire Regiment (Light Infantry) died on 1st August 1916 aged twenty-three.
Buried at Thiepval Memorial, Somme.
There was a picture of his gravestone with his name, regiment and date of death. No other details. No mention of family. No mention of Molly.
So Rachel had discovered when each man had died, but she also knew that most of the men commemorated on the Thiepval Memorial had no known grave. Had Freddie simply been obliterated, buried in the mud of no-man’s-land? Clearly he had been killed in the bloodbath that was the first day of the Battle of the Somme, when sixty thousand men had been wiped out in one day. Had Tom been in that battle, too? Rachel wondered. It was likely as they were the same company, but it was possible that he wasn’t there for some reason. Obviously he had survived the carnage of the day and had died of wounds or been killed at some later stage in the battle which had dragged on for three weary months into October. Whatever had happened to him, the letters he had received from Molly had been sent back to her, and were there for Rachel to read.
Having sorted the letters into chronological order, Rachel opened the first, addressed in black ink in a strong and spiky hand. It was postmarked October 1915. It was from Sir George, sent after he had discovered Molly had left home without permission.
Sunday 31st October
Dear Molly Day
I was most displeased to discover that you went to France with Miss Sarah without your father’s knowledge or permission. That was an extremely wrong thing to do, and I am as angry as he.
I have had a letter from the Reverend Mother about you. She says you are making yourself useful out there and that she needs you to stay. My daughter also says that she needs you, so, I won’t insist that you come home. Whilst you are there I will be paying your wages to your father.
If you need money in France you may apply to my daughter and she will consider what is necessary.
Yours truly George Hurst Bt.
Rachel read this through and wondered if Molly had replied to it. What would she have thought of her entire wage being paid to her father? She looked back to the relevant part of the diary, but found no reference to the matter. Having made her decision not to go home, Molly seemed to have put family matters out of her mind.
The second letter was dated 20th November 1915 and came from Harry’s mother. It was the reply to the one Molly had written to her aunt when Harry died, the “most difficult letter I’ve ever had to write”. It was the letter of a simple country woman who had lost her son and it brought tears to Rachel’s eyes.
20th November 1915
Dear Molly
Thank you for your letter telling me about Harry. We had the telegram from the king of course, but he did not tell us all the details. I am so glad Harry was brought to your hospital. Did they know where you were? Thank you for his last message, it was a comfort to know he was thinking of us. I told your mam and dad that God must have put you there to be with my poor boy when he was dying. Your mam has been very kind. It must be very strange working in a hospital where no one speaks the King’s English, I think you are a good girl to go, even if not everyone round here thinks so. We are looking forward to you coming home to us.
Your Uncle Charlie sends his best and so do I
Your loving Auntie Vi
Rachel slipped the letter back into its envelope and took the next. This was the first from Tom, written in pencil on a piece of lined paper that looked as if had been torn from a notebook.
Friday 7th January
My dear Molly
I can’t believe it is only two days since we left the hospital. We have returned by bus and are in billets at present. Not sure when we shall be going back to our company.
I have put your name on my pay book as next of kin, which I can do now we are going to be married.
I hope you are keeping well and not working too hard at the hospital. My arm is getting better all the time, not much pain now, and I shall soon be back to normal.
I am not very good at writing letters, my dear Molly, as I have never written one before. I can’t tell you much anyway or the censor will cross it all out. But I can tell you that I have never met a girl like you before and that I love and miss you very much. It makes all this war business bearable to know you will be waiting for me at the end of it.
Think of me my dearest girl as I think of you, all the time.
Your loving Tom.
The next letter chronologically was Molly’s first letter, her reply.
Monday 10th January
My dear Tom
I got your letter safely and am glad to know your arm is going along all right. Things are just the same here. Sister Eloise has been ill, so we have had Sister Bernice trying to run our ward. She is not very good at it, but Sister Bernadette comes in sometimes and then things start to jump, I can tell you.
Here’s some strange news which you won’t believe. Sarah has had a letter from her brother Freddie, you know, the Captain who you saw. He was in England on leave for Christmas and New Year and he came back married. He stayed with another officer in London and has married his sister. They had met before and been writing letters ever since, and when he got home this time her asked her and she said yes. Of course because he is an officer there was no problem with them getting married in a hurry, not like us. Sarah was very disappointed that she wasn’t at the wedding, but it doesn’t sound as if anyone was much. She says it was only Sir George who travelled up to London specially, and the girl’s parents. Her name is Heather. Sarah says that Freddie went home just for Christmas Day to break the news to his pa, and then went back and spent the rest of his leave in London. Not the usual Christmas at the manor. I wonder if he is back with you again now.
Tom, dearest, I think of you every day and hope you are keeping well and safe. I go to the usual Sunday service at the camp, but it isn’t the same without your dear face in the congregation. Mr Kingston asked if I had heard from you and I told him you were all right. Nothing from Mam or Dad about us getting married.
I hope this letter reaches you all right and that you will answer it soon. I will write again soon.
Love from your Molly.
Well, this letter has something new in it, thought Rachel. Freddie’s marriage.
Rachel had been wondering when Freddie had got married. Clearly he wasn’t when he had visited Sarah at the convent, but why hadn’t he told Sarah about Heather while he was there? Maybe he’d been afraid that Heather would refuse him. Well, she hadn’t and he was not only married, but an expectant father at the time he was killed. This whirlwind wedding on his Christmas leave explained that. Poor Heather, two or three days of wedded bliss before Freddie returned to the front, and she probably never saw him again. It was unlikely he had more leave before July. He must have known he was to be a father, but her child couldn’t have been born before September. There was a touch of bitterness, Rachel thought, in Molly’s comment about his rushed marriage, no problem because he was an officer. It also sounded as if she had written to her parents saying she wanted to get married, but had received no reply. Did her parents stand out against it? Rachel wondered. She moved on to the next letter.
17th January
Dear Molly
Thank you for your letter which came today. We have moved now and are living in the usual way. I am back with the lads who I was with before. Harry’s brother is here and could not believe it when I told him who had been nursing Harry. He said, “What does my little cousin know about nursing?” and I said, “A great deal, she’s very good at it!” That shut him up for a bit, but he was sad that Harry had died.
It is very cold and wet here and there is shelling most of the time. Don’t worry about me, dear Molly, as I shall keep my head down. Sarah’s brother is back here too. He saw me just before we came up here and was pleased that my arm was quite better. I didn’t say anything about him getting married, it wasn’t my place, but we have to wish them well. Don’t worry, my dearest girl, we will be married as soon as may be. You will be 21 in May so your dad won’t matter then.
I cannot tell you what we are doing, but we are kept busy and it helps to pass the time. If you are able to send some cigarettes they would be most welcome as there are never enough here. I’ve never had a parcel from home so have had to rely on the kindness of the blokes who do get them. They always share, so I’d like to share something of mine with them. It is wonderful to hear my name called when the post comes up the lines. Look after yourself, my little girl. I can’t believe you really are my girl yet, I have to keep telling myself.
Your loving Tom
Rachel read slowly through the letters, learning snippets about life both in the trenches and behind the lines in the billets where the men stayed when they were relieved at the front. Occasionally things which Tom had written were blacked out by the censor, leaving Rachel to guess at what he might have said that was so sensitive, but as the correspondence unfolded, she watched Molly and Tom learning more and more about each other.
In one letter Tom told something of his childhood.
5th March
My Dearest Girl
I write this in truth for you really are my dearest girl. I told you I have never had a girl before and that was true. I also told you I have no family and was an orphanage boy. That is also true. I was found in a cardboard box wrapped in newspaper on a doorstep near University College Hospital in London. The man who found me was a carter. He took me into the hospital and they looked after me until I was strong enough to go to the orphanage. In the box was a piece of paper which said, “Look after my Tom for me”. So, they called me Tom Carter. Tom for myself and Carter for the man who found me.
So, my Molly, when we get married you will have to share my borrowed name. Will you mind that? I’ve never lived in a house with a family, but we will. The Carter family will have a home and all their children will be wanted and loved. No doorsteps for our babies. I used to wonder who my mum was and why she dumped me. I suppose I’ll never know the answer to the first and the answer to the second is obvious.
Thank you for your parcel with the cigarettes, the tinned jam and the chocolate. Very popular bloke I am at tea time! I love to get your letters, Molly, they keep me going so keep them coming!
Your loving orphan, Tom
In another letter from Molly it became clear that she and her parents were still not on good terms as she wrote,
12th March
Dearest Tom
I have at last had word from my father. He is still very angry that I am here at all, and says he has no intention of letting his daughter marry some street urchin from a gutter in London! It has nothing to do with who you are or where you come from. My father and me have always been difficult together. I haven’t told this before because it is very difficult for me, but my father wants more from me than a daughter should give. I got away from him when I was fourteen by going into service at the Manor. Mam knew, but she would never hear a word against my father, and accused me of lying when I tried to tell her. I should have told you all this when we were together, but it never seemed the right moment. Our time was too precious to waste talking about my dad, but I realise now I should have told you as I am sort of damaged goods and may be you will change your mind about me. He used to say I mustn’t tell, that it was “our secret”, but I can’t have secrets from you, Tom. He never did me any real harm, but he might have if I hadn’t got away. I wish I’d told you before, but it is very hard even to tell you now. Anyway he will never say we can be married, so we’ll have to wait till I’m 21 before we can.
I am sorry to tell you all this in a letter and not to your head as I should have done. I hope you will understand.
I will always be your loving girl, Molly.
Rachel looked through the letters again to see if she had missed the letter Molly had received from her parents, but there was no sign of it. Probably she had torn it up or burned it, Rachel thought. I would have done.
Tom was very quick in his reply.
17th March
My darling girl
What a goose you are to think that anything could change how I feel about you. It changes how I feel about your father. I don’t think you’d better let us meet in the near future, Molly, or I might do something I’d be sorry for. Still little chance of that at present, him being safely in England and me being stuck here. Don’t ever mention damaged goods again, to me you are my lovely Molly who will one day be my wife whether her dad likes it or not!
No time for more now, work to be done, but remember how much I love you.
Tom