**The Last Letter**
Emily had never known her father. When she was old enough to ask her mother about him, the reply was short and sharp:
*”Haven’t I been enough for you?”*
Mum—Margaret—loved her, of course, though she wasn’t one for spoiling. And why wouldn’t she adore her quiet, wide-eyed girl? Emily never caused trouble, didn’t skip school, got decent grades, and listened to her mother.
She was plain, unremarkable. Not every girl could be a beauty, after all. No one had ever called her “sweet” or “charming.” The most she got was, *”Spitting image of her mum!”*
Margaret didn’t wear perfume or lipstick, and heels were out of the question. *”Heels? By the end of a shift at the factory, my feet are done in,”* she’d say. She worked in a textile mill, where the deafening clatter of machines meant she’d learned to shout just to be heard.
After Year 9, Mum packed Emily off to the countryside for the summer, to stay with her old friend, Auntie Betty. Probably fancied a bit of peace—maybe even a bit of romance. Emily was none the wiser.
*”How did you and Mum meet?”* Emily asked Auntie Betty one evening. *”She’s a city girl, and you’ve always lived out here.”*
*”Your mum’s as country as they come,”* Betty chuckled. *”We’ve been thick as thieves since we were in nappies. She just upped and left for the city, got that factory job. Never mentioned it? Always a bit ashamed of her roots, she was.”* She sighed. *”I stayed—got married straight out of school. No kids, and my husband went off for work one day and never came back. So here I am. At least your mum had you. Not that there’s much choice in men round here—more fond of the bottle than anything else.”*
*”And my dad?”* Emily pressed. *”Do you know anything about him?”*
*”How could I not?”* Betty snorted. *”That factory was a henhouse. After a shift, love was the last thing on anyone’s mind. Your mum got a council flat for being top worker—not everyone was so lucky. The years slipped by.”*
Then a bloke—Jack—was hired to maintain the machines. *”No oil painting, but what man needs to be pretty? In a place like that, any chap’s a catch. Don’t ask me how, but she ended up pregnant. Just scraped in before her time ran out.”*
Margaret was no beauty. No swarm of suitors chased her. *”When she found out it was a girl, she was chuffed. Easier to raise a girl without a dad. Had you for herself, they call it.”* Betty sighed.
Talking to Auntie Betty was easy, nothing like Mum’s clipped replies. She taught Emily how to keep house—what else was there to do in the village? Plenty of kids around, but they were all younger, hardly company.
Then, late in July, a lad—Thomas—turned up at the neighbour’s. The moment Emily saw him, her heart did a little flip. He was helping his granddad in the garden, hauling water from the stream while she watched from the window.
One day, spotting him heading to the stream, she grabbed a towel and raced after him—only to realise she’d forgotten her swimsuit. Too late to turn back, she sat on the bank, watching him dive and resurface, shaking water from his hair. He noticed her.
*”Just going to sit there? Water’s lovely!”*
She flushed, ready to bolt, but he climbed out and handed her a water lily, still damp from the river.
Emily gave him her towel in return. They got talking. Thomas had been sent to his granddad’s while his parents divorced and fought over who got the toaster.
*”What are you doing tomorrow?”* he asked.
*”Nothing—helping Auntie Betty, I suppose. Why?”* Her heart was galloping. She’d never talked to a boy like this before.
*”Come mushroom hunting with me. Granddad’s knee’s playing up.”*
*”Alright,”* she said, blushing.
*”Early, though—we’ll go with the dew. I’ll whistle for you.”*
Walking home, he swiped at nettles with a stick; she carried the damp towel over her shoulder, imagining his arm there instead.
Emily woke before dawn, eyes glued to the clock. The hands barely moved.
*”What’s got you so restless?”* Auntie Betty yawned. *”Go back to sleep.”*
*”Going mushrooming with Thomas. Don’t want to oversleep.”*
Betty heaved herself up, fetched wellies and an oversized shirt from the cupboard.
*”I’m not wearing that. I’ll look like a scarecrow!”*
*”Wear it, you daft girl. Snakes, midges, ticks—and tuck your hair under that scarf.”*
Grumbling, Emily obeyed, caught her reflection, and nearly screamed. A proper fright. Then—a whistle outside. No time to change. She grabbed a basket and ran out. Thomas looked her up and down, amused. He was dressed just the same.
In the woods, he found mushrooms effortlessly; Emily saw none.
*”Ever done this before?”*
She shook her head guiltily.
*”Right,”* he sighed, showing her where to look, which were safe, which to avoid. Soon, she was spotting them herself.
*”Well done!”* Auntie Betty beamed at their haul. *”Soup tonight, and I’ll dry the rest for winter. You’ll remember this summer with every bite.”*
Another whistle outside.
*”Go on. Reckon your beau’s calling you for a swim.”*
Emily turned scarlet and dashed for her swimsuit.
All August, they were inseparable—woods, river, the village shop. She’d loved him from the first glance. Her heart hitched when she saw him; his slightest touch sent her trembling. Nights were spent dreaming of him, mornings rushing to meet him.
Then Mum arrived.
*”What’ve you been feeding her, Betty? She’s filled out!”* Margaret eyed Emily’s new glow suspiciously.
*”Fresh air and hard work,”* Betty grinned. *”Look at all the mushrooms she picked. Went with a friend,”* she added lightly.
*”Bit young for gallivanting with boys, isn’t she? Didn’t think you’d encourage that, Betty.”*
*”We’re leaving tomorrow,”* Mum announced.
*”It’s too soon!”* Emily nearly cried.
*”School clothes, books—pack.”*
She bolted to the garden, found Thomas, and choked on tears.
*”Mum’s here? You’re going?”*
She nodded, barely able to speak.
*”Give me your address. I’ll write.”*
She tore inside, scribbled it down, and overheard Mum’s hissed conversation: *”…she’s grown now—what if he takes a shine to her? He’s not her real…”*
Emily fled, pressed the address into Thomas’s hand.
*”Emily! Early start tomorrow!”* Mum’s voice cut through the evening.
*”Come out after dark,”* Thomas whispered.
All evening, she fidgeted, ears straining for a whistle. When Betty started making up the bed, Emily edged toward the door.
*”Where d’you think you’re going?”*
*”Let her say goodbye,”* Betty interceded.
Margaret huffed but didn’t stop her.
Thomas was waiting. He led her behind the raspberry bushes—out of sight—and kissed her.
*”Emily! Inside!”*
*”Go,”* he murmured. *”If I’m up, I’ll see you off. I’ll write—promise.”*
Dawn came too soon. The river was misty, grass dewy, sun just peeking over the trees. Thomas didn’t appear—must’ve overslept.
Back in the city, Emily checked the postbox daily. Then the key vanished from her ring.
*”Must’ve fallen off,”* Mum said.
*”No letters?”* Emily asked every day.
*”Give it up. He’s forgotten you.”*
She didn’t believe it. No mobile phones yet—Mum called them frivolous. Next summer, then. But Mum got her a cleaning job instead.
Emily aced her GCSEs, then A-levels, landed a spot at uni—Business and Economics. First in the family. *”Best career for a woman,”* Mum said. *”Papers, not factory noise.”*
No letters ever came.
After graduation, she got a proper job, good salary. The mill shut down; Mum finally retired—only to fall ill. Needy, clingy. Two years later, bedridden.
*”I’ll die soon.”And when the midwife placed their newborn daughter in Emily’s arms, she whispered to Thomas, *‘This time, no one’s hiding the letters.’*”
