The Last Letter
Emily never knew her father. When she grew older and asked her mum about him, her mother just said:
“What, am I not enough for you?”
Margaret loved her daughter, though she wasn’t exactly the doting type. Not that Emily gave her much reason to fuss—quiet, big-eyed, well-behaved, never played truant, did well in school. A perfectly ordinary girl, really. Not every child can be a beauty queen, can they? No one ever called her “sweet” or “adorable.” The most she got was, “She’s the spitting image of her mum!”
Margaret didn’t bother with perfume or lipstick, and heels were out of the question. “Heels? I’m on my feet all day at the textile mill—my legs ache enough as it is,” she’d grumble. The factory floor was deafening, so Margaret had developed a habit of shouting, even when she didn’t need to.
After GCSEs, Margaret packed Emily off to the countryside for the summer to stay with her old friend Susan. Probably had a new chap on the scene. No need for Emily to know the details.
“So how did you and Mum meet?” Emily asked Aunt Susan one evening. “She’s a city girl, and you’re out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Your mum’s as country as they come!” Susan chuckled. “We’ve been friends since we were in nappies. She only moved to the city later—got the job at the mill. Never told you, eh? Always a bit embarrassed about her roots.” Susan sighed. “I stayed, married straight out of school. No kids, though. Husband went off for work and never came back. Been on my own since. At least your mum had you. Not much luck for me—all the decent men round here are either gone or pickled in ale.”
“What about my dad? Did you know him?”
“Course I did! The mill was all women—hardly time for romance after a shift. Your mum was a star worker, though—got a council flat out of it. Not many did. But time slips away, doesn’t it?”
Then a man joined as a machine technician. Not much to look at—but then, blokes don’t need to be pretty, do they? In a place full of women, any man’s in demand. Don’t ask me how, but she got pregnant by him. Just squeezed it in before time ran out, you might say.”
Margaret wasn’t a beauty. No suitors swarmed round her. When she found out it was a girl, she was thrilled—easier to raise a girl alone. Had her for herself, as they say.”
Emily found Aunt Susan easy to talk to, unlike her mum. And she taught her all sorts of country skills—what else was there to do? Plenty of kids around, but all too young for her.
Then, in late July, a lad showed up next door to help his granddad. The moment Emily saw him, her heart did a little dance. She watched from the window as he lugged water from the stream, helped in the garden.
One day, spotting him heading to the brook, she grabbed a towel and dashed after him—only to realise halfway there she’d forgotten her swimsuit. Too late to turn back. She sat on the bank, watching him dive and splutter as he resurfaced. He noticed her.
“Just gonna sit there? Water’s lovely!” he called.
She blushed, about to leave, when he waded out and handed her a water lily, damp and smelling of the stream.
Emily handed him her towel in return. They got talking. William had been sent to his granddad’s while his parents divorced and squabbled over who got the telly.
“What’re you up to tomorrow?” he asked.
“Helping Aunt Susan, I suppose. Why?” Her heart was suddenly galloping. She’d never talked to a boy like this before.
“Fancy mushroom hunting? They’re out now, and Granddad’s knee’s playing up.”
“Alright,” she said, turning pink.
“Early start, though—dew’s best. I’ll whistle for you.”
They walked back together, him swatting nettles with a stick, her carrying the damp towel over her shoulder, imagining it was his arm.
Emily woke at dawn, clock-watching, the hands crawling.
“What’s got you up?” Aunt Susan yawned. “Go back to sleep.”
“Going mushroom hunting with William. Don’t want to miss him.”
Susan heaved herself up, fetched wellies and an old set of clothes from the cupboard.
“I’m not wearing that. I’ll look like a scarecrow!”
“Wear it, you daft thing. Snakes, ticks, midges—and tie your hair up proper.”
Reluctantly, Emily stuffed herself into the oversized trousers and shirt, took one look in the mirror, and nearly screamed. Absolute fright. Then—a whistle outside. No time to change. She grabbed a basket and bolted out. William eyed her approvingly. He was dressed just the same.
In the woods, William found mushrooms easily; Emily couldn’t spot a single one.
“Ever done this before?”
She shook her head sheepishly.
“Right.” He sighed, showing her which were safe, which to avoid. He’d point one out, then move on, leaving her to it. Soon she was spotting them herself.
“Good haul!” Aunt Susan said later. “Soup tonight, and I’ll dry the rest. You and your mum can have a taste of summer come winter.” Another whistle sounded outside.
“Off you pop. Bet it’s your beau, calling you for a swim.”
Emily blushed and went for her swimsuit.
The rest of the month passed in a blissful haze—woodland walks, swims, trips to the village shop. She’d fallen for William the moment she saw him. At his touch, she trembled like a leaf. Nights were spent dreaming of him, mornings rushing to meet him.
Then August vanished, and her mum arrived.
“What’ve you been feeding her, Sue? She’s filled out!” Margaret eyed Emily’s sun-kissed glow.
“Fresh air and hard work,” Susan smiled. “Look at all these mushrooms she’s picked. Went with a friend,” she added.
“Bit young for lads, isn’t she? Didn’t expect this from you, Sue.” Margaret scowled. “Pack up. We leave tomorrow.”
“It’s too soon!” Emily nearly cried.
“School uniform, books. Get ready.”
Emily sprinted to the garden, found William.
“Mum’s here? You’re going?”
She couldn’t speak, tears clogging her throat.
“Give me your address. I’ll write,” he said.
She tore inside, scribbled it down, then—remembering she hadn’t added it—went back for a pen and overheard her mum whispering behind the stove.
“…he’s not her real father, what if he…? So I turned him down…”
Emily fled, handed William the address.
“Emily! Early start tomorrow!” Margaret barked.
“Meet me after dark,” William said, slipping away.
All evening, Emily fidgeted, straining for a whistle. When Susan started making up the bed, she edged to the door.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Margaret demanded.
“Let her say goodbye,” Susan cut in.
Margaret grumbled but didn’t stop her.
William was waiting, led her behind the raspberry bushes, out of sight, and kissed her.
“Emily! Inside!”
“Go. If I’m up, I’ll see you off. I’ll write, I promise,” William said.
She barely shut her eyes before Margaret shook her awake. Outside, mist curled over the brook, dew glistened, the sun edged over the trees. It hurt to leave such beauty. Emily kept glancing back—no William. He must’ve overslept.
Back in London, Emily checked the postbox daily. Then the key vanished from her keyring.
“Must’ve fallen off,” Margaret said.
Each day, Emily asked: “Any letters?”
“Give it up. He’s forgotten you.”
She didn’t believe it. No mobiles yet—Margaret thought them frivolous. Next summer, then. But Margaret got her a shop job instead.
After A-levels, Emily went to university for economics. First in the family. “Best career for a woman,” Margaret said. “Papers, not factory grime.”
No letters ever came. Graduating, Emily landed a good job. The mill closed; Margaret finally retired, then grew frail, clingy. Two years later, she was bedridden.
“I’m dying. You’ll be alone. My friend’s son is divorced—coming for Sunday lunch. Give him a chance.”
Emily refused—a first.
“Expecting Prince Charming? You’re naive. Promise me no one moves into this flat. I worked my fingers to the bone for it.”
Margaret lingered another agonising year.
Alone, Emily sorted her mother’s things one weekend. In a shoebox, she found an envelope. Her heart leapt—She pressed the letter to her chest, smiling through tears, knowing love had waited for her all along.
