The Letter That Never Arrived
Grandma sat for ages at the window, though there was hardly much to see. In the courtyard, dusk descended early. The flickering lamp outside seemed either lazy or on the verge of giving up. Faint prints from the odd cat or passerby trailed through thin snow, and somewhere distant, Mrs Carter the caretaker scraped with her shovel before silence returned.
On the windowsill lay her fine-rimmed spectacles and a battered mobile, its screen cracked diagonally. The phone sometimes gave a gentle buzz when something new dropped into the family WhatsApp group, photos or voice notes from the lot of them, but tonight it stayed quiet. Flat. The only real sound was the living room clock, ticking seconds out with unnecessary self-importance.
She stood, headed to the kitchen and flicked on the light. The bare bulb overhead cast a wan little circle. On the table, a bowl of half-cold shepherds pie sat beneath an upturned plate. Shed made it earlier, just in case someone popped in. Nobody popped in.
She sat down, picked at the pie, took a forkfultough as old boots now, really, but technically edible. She made herself a cup of tea from the chipped old kettle and listened to the stream of water, then rather unexpectedly let out a sigh she hadnt meant.
It came out deep, like she was letting go of something unwelcome that then settled quietly onto the chair beside her.
What am I moaning for? she asked herself. Everyone’s alive, thank goodness. Roof over my head. So why…? Yet the weight in her chest wouldnt shift.
Bits and bobs of recent conversations circled in her head. Anna, her daughters strained voice tight as piano wire:
Mum, I cant do this with him any longer. Hes at it again
And then from Adam, the son-in-law, with that slight mocking note as always:
Shes moaning to you now, is she? You tell her, Mum, life doesnt just fit around her.
And Harryher grandsonthrowing out a quick yeah, whenever she gently asked how things were. Those yeahs hurt most. There was a time hed chatter away for hours about school, his mates, football. Grown up now, of course. Still.
No one slammed doors, no one shouted in her presence, but there was something almost solid between their wordsa silent partition. Quick digs, awkward gaps, everyone quietly prickled with grievances theyd never admit. And she, forever walking the tightrope between Anna and Adam, forever biting her tongue or wishing shed said or not said something, years and years ago.
She took a sip of tea, cringed as it burnt her tongue, and remembered suddenly when Harry was little and theyd written a letter to Father Christmas together. Hed scrawled, wobbly: Please bring me some Lego, and can Mum and Dad stop rowing? Shed laughed at the time, stroked his hair, promised Father Christmas would see to it.
The memory made her cringe nowshed lied to a boy, hadnt she? Mum and Dad never truly stopped. Theyd just learned to keep the noise down.
She shifted her cup aside, fussed over the table with a dishcloth on autopilot though it was already spotless. Then, on a whim, she drifted back to her room and switched on her old desk lamp. Light fell onto her writing deska relic for sure now, she hardly wrote letters by hand these days, not with everyone glued to their mobiles. Still, a biro in a mug full of pens and a little checkered pad of paper waited.
She stared down at them, then asked herself, What if
It was daft, like something out of a storybook, but she felt warmth prickling in her chest. Write a letter. A proper one. Not to ask for a gift. Not to any of her lot either. But to someoneanyonewho owed her nothing but might just listen.
She half-laughed at herselfbatty old woman gone soft, penning notes to some fairy-tale gent. But she reached out for the pad anyway.
She perched at the desk, adjusted her glasses, pulled the capped biro from the mug. She flicked past an old shopping list, scrunched her lips, then started: Dear Father Christmas,
Her hand wobbled. Embarrassment surged, as if someone were peeking over her shoulder. But the room was emptythe bed neat, bedspread laid straight, wardrobe doors closed. Not a soul.
Oh well, she muttered, and carried on:
I know Im not a child any more. I wont ask for a coat or a telly, or anything at all. I have what I need. I just want one thing: peace in our family. For Anna and Adam to stop bickering, for Harry to stop treating us like strangers. Maybe we can sit round a table again, and nobody feels they have to tiptoe with their words. I know you cant make people do things, and probably shouldnt ask you. But please, if theres any way, let us hear each other again.
Yours sincerely, Grandma Nora.
She re-read it. The words looked childishwonky, naïve. She didnt cross anything out. It made her feel lighter, as if shed finally spoken out loud.
She creased the letter, neatly in half then again, and just sat holding it for a bit, unsure what now. Out the window? In the postbox? Ridiculous.
She wandered to the hall for her handbag, remembering she needed the Post Office and Sainsburys tomorrow to sort the council tax. Maybe Ill just slip it in with the other letters, she thought. Loads of places have Father Christmas letter boxes up nowno shame in it.
She tucked the letter in her bag beside her passport and bills, turned out the lights, and got ready for bed with the gentle tick of the clock for company. Eventually, she drifted off.
Next morning she set out early before lunch. The pavement was icy and the snow crunched beneath her boots. Mrs Watson from next door was standing outside, fussing over her spaniel, nodded to her, asked after her health. They chatted a minute or two while Nora clutched her handbag.
The post office was heaving, queues for bills and parcels, pensioners trying to negotiate their pin numbers. She got in line, sorted her payments, but there was no proper letter box for Father Christmasjust the regular old slots and a display of Christmas stamps.
She hesitated. Oh, what did I expect? she thought. She could just bin the letter, cross it off as an old womans daft moment. Couldnt do it, thoughshe tucked it straight back in the bag, paid her bills, and headed out.
Outside, beside the greeting cards kiosk, was a tatty cardboard box with tinsel stuck onLetters to Father Christmasbut the shopgirl was packing it away.
Sorry, love, the girl said, smiling sadly. Last day for those was yesterday. All off now.
Nora thanked her, out of habit, and headed home. The letter sat in her bagsomething small and warm she couldnt forget about, or chuck away.
Back at the flat she took off her boots, hung her coat, and perched her bag on a stool ready to put away the shopping. Her phone gave a little buzz. It was Anna: Mum, hi. Well pop round at the weekend, alright? Harry needs something for school, he says youve got some old books.
Something in her squeezedand then, just a moment, let go again. They were coming. It wasnt completely hopeless then. She texted back, Of course, Ill be waiting.
She started tidying the shopping away, put the kettle on once more. The letter remained in her bag, still tucked in the side pocket, half-forgotten.
By Saturday evening, she heard the familiar trample up the stairs and a bang on the communal door. She glanced through the spyhole: Anna with the shopping bag, Adam juggling a box, Harry, taller now, a rucksack over his shoulder. He was nearly scraping the frame nowall skinny, hair poking out from his hat.
Hi Gran, he said, ducking in awkwardly for a kiss on the cheek.
Come on through, shoes off, got your slippers ready! she fussed, stepping back.
The hallway was chaossmells of outside, cold, the faint scent of chocolate from Annas shopping bag. Adam grumbled about the state of the building, Harry loped off his trainers, knocking the coat rack with his rucksack.
Mum, we cant stay long, Anna called, dropping her bag. Tomorrows Adams parents turn, remember?
I remember, love. Come on, lets get a bite to eatI made soup.
They gathered round the kitchen table, seating themselves a bit awkwardly: Adam near the window, Anna beside him, Harry sat opposite Nora. She ladled the soup out and they ate quietly, spoons clinking. Conversation, eventually, stumbled into traffic, work, The Price Of Things. Every word careful, like wading through still watercurrents underneath, but not seen.
Harry, didnt you need something for school? Anna piped up as the bowls were emptied.
Oh, yeah. Harry woke from his daydream. Gran, dyou have, like, anything about the Second World War or something? Teacher said we could use extra books.
Of course! Nora brightened. Ive got a stack up there, come with me, pet.
They ducked off to the back room. She switched on her little lamp, fingered the shelf for the battered paperbacks. Hereone on the Blitz, one Churchill, one a memoir what do you fancy?
Dont know, Harry said, looking sheepish. Just not dead boring, preferably.
She passed him an old favourite. Try thisread it three times back in the day.
Cheers, Gran. He thumbed through the pages.
They chatted a bitabout lessons, about Mr Tilley, the history teacher (bit of a stickler, Harry said, but all right in the end). Nora listened, asked questions, beamed simply to hear him talk at all.
Anna popped her head in. Harry, weve got to go in half an hourstart getting ready.
Yeah, alright. He shoved the book in his rucksack and headed for the hallway.
The house filled again with coat-wrestling, bag-checking, phone me later, dont forget the lunches and Ill send you the recipe. Nora walked them out, waited as the lift rumbled shut, and came back inside.
Silence fell, as thick as a duvet. She poured another tea, started fussing with the table. Her bag caught her eyeon the stool, where shed left it. She reached in, thumbed the folded note. The urge rose to tear it up, but she just buried it deeper, zipped the pocket, and left it.
She never knew that just as shed gone for books, Harrysorted his bag and, nudging the stool with his foot, spotted the corner of a letter peeking out. On a whim, he straightened itsaw, in Noras rounded hand, Dear Father Christmas, and froze.
He didnt touch it then. His parents were too close, too busy. But that one glimpse stuck in his mind.
At home, much later, unpacking his bag, he remembered it. The thought that Nana, a grown woman, would write a letter to Father Christmas was funny at first, then odd, then suddenly, for some reason, it felt almost sad.
A couple days later after school, he texted Nora: Gran, can I nip round? Got another history thing. She replied in seconds: Any time, love.
He showed up after classes, headphones on, bag slung. The hallway reeked of boiled cabbage and polish. She opened the door almost instantly, as if shed been waiting right behind it.
Come in, Harry. Shoes off. Ive just made pancakes.
He stowed his coat and bag on the usual stool. There was the bag, gapingwhite paper peeking out again. A tightness filled him.
While Nora shuffled in the kitchen, plating pancakes, Harry pretended he was fiddling with his shoelace, but palmed the folded letter before he even realised hed done it. Rapid heartbeats. It was sneaky, he knew it, but he didnt stop.
He slipped the letter into his hoodie pocket and joined her.
Oh, pancakes, he said, trying for casual. Brilliant.
They chattedabout school, weather, approaching holidays. She fussed over him: Are the shoes tight? Coat warm enough? He brushed her off, rolling his eyes.
Later, after glancing at another old book, he left, timing it so she wouldnt notice anything missing.
At home, in his bedroom, he locked the door, sat on his bed. He unfolded the lettercreases sharp, edges a bit worn. His grans handwriting, familiar, curly.
He began to read. At first it felt weird, voyeuristic, but his eyes caught on the line about for my grandson not to turn quiet like a stranger. He paused, read it again, throat tight.
Hed been answering in monosyllables lately, always busy, always elsewherenot because he didnt care, just life. And shed taken it to heart.
He read to the endabout peace, about gathering, about truly listening to each other. An ache of guilt swept through him; something between wanting to hug her and a pang of embarrassment for being so soft.
He put the letter by his side, staring at the ceiling, thoughts swirling. Should he tell his mum? His dad? Theyd just scoff. Orworsemake a row of it.
Give the letter back? Too mortifying. For both of them.
He lay facing the wall, letter pressing lightly against him. The words rattled round and round: for my grandson not to turn quiet so we can sit together at table It sounded less like a wish for Santa and more like a pleato him.
At dinner, he tried, several times, to bring up Nana, but something got in the way. Dad griped about work, Mum nagged about college apps. Each time, Harry swallowed his words.
That night, sleepless, he tucked the letter in his desk drawer. It itched at him the next day, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
During break at school, he told his mate Matt about finding his grandmas letter to Father Christmas. Matt snorted.
Not my granddad, mate. He only believes in getting his state pension.
Its not funny, Harry said, surprised by how sharp his voice sounded.
Matt shrugged, ditched the subject. Harry was back on his own, letter burning a hole in his brain.
He called his gran that evening, then hung up before she answered. Scrolled through the family group: salad photos, traffic jams, banter about Christmas dos. All surface, nothing real.
He started, Mum, why dont we do Christmas at Nanas this year? but deleted it. Knew what would happen. Shed say, Were expected at Dads parents. Another row.
He sat at his desk, the letter open before him. Those lines sprang outa proper family dinner, everyone really talking.
Suddenly, an idea. Not Christmas. Just a simple dinner. No occasion. Nearly.
He found his mum working at the laptop. Mum, listen. Lets go round to Nanas. All of us. Have a proper meal. Not a pit stop. She looked at him, surprised.
But we already do see her, she said.
Not just a drop-in. Not for an hour. Make dinner. Stay. Ill help cook. Honestly, Mum.
She raised an eyebrow. You, cooking? Thatll be the day. Dad doesnt like fuss
We could go Saturday? We dont do anything anyway.
She sighed, exasperated but softer now. Harry, your dad wants a lie-in. Ive got work stuff. Its tricky.
He moved closer. Mum. Shes lonely. You said so.
She regarded him more carefully than usual. All right. Ill talk to Dad. No promises.
That night he heard them in the kitchen. Hes asking, can you believe it? Out of the blue.
Oh, for heavens sake, came dads voice. Just more talk about her hip and the heating bills.
Shes on her own, love. Maybe Harrys got a point.
Dad grumbled, then sighed. Fine. Saturday.
Harry did a small fist pump in his room. One battle down. Now for the next bithis gran.
He rang her early next day. Gran, hi. Were coming this Saturday, okay? Family dinner. Ill come early, help out. Need me to get anything?
A heartbeat of silence. Of course, love. What do you fancy? I suppose you can help peel carrots.
Anything. Chop a salad. Whatever.
Never chopped salad before, have you? she teased. Theres a first time for everything.
And so, Saturday afternoon, he turned up with two carrier bags from Tesco. She did a double take as she opened the door.
Heavens, Harry, you feeding the entire street?
Itll go, trust me.
They peeled potatoes, chopped veg as the radio burbled in the background. She watched his knife work and tutted.
Youll lose a finger if youre not careful.
Sfine, Gran, I know what Im doing.
The kitchen filled with the smells of onions and roasting meat. Dusk settled over the backyard; passersby hurried home in hats and gloves.
Gran, Harry said as he diced cucumber, Do you, erm Do you believe in Father Christmas?
She jumped, spoon clinking against the pan.
What brings that on? she said, turning half away.
Just, um, mates at school were arguing.
She turned off the flame and leaned against the counter. For a moment, she looked carefully at him. I did, once. When I was a girl. Now who knows? Maybe hes not what we think he is. Maybe hes just people being kind. Why?
Nothing really. Just nice if it was true.
She smiled sadly, returned to her cooking. Neither said more. No one mentioned the real reason for the question, but both felt, in the hush, that something had shifted.
By evening, his parents arrived. Dad weary but less sour than usual, Mum carried a still-warm apple pie.
Blimey, Dad said, taking in the table. Army coming?
All your sons work, Nora said, grinning. He chopped and stirred.
No way! Dad blinked at Harry. About time.
They sat down. It was awkward at first, conversation stilted. But, as ever, good food helped. Stories came outabout Anna as a little girl, Dads old job mishaps, silly things from the past. Nora laughed, clamping a hand over her mouth. Harry watched and thought of the letterhow the words carried between the laughter and silences.
Partway through, as they had tea, Anna said: Mum, sorry we dont make it over as much. Were just always dashing about.
She said it honestlynot as an excuse.
Nora looked down, traced a finger along her saucer.
I know, love. I do. Youve got your life. Her voice wasnt accusing, more gentleletting Anna off the hook, but also somehow asking for more.
Harry jumped in. Well, doesnt have to be only on Christmas or birthdays. We could do this more often.
They both looked at him, as if surprised hed found his voice.
Yeah, well done, mate, Dad said, with just a hint of pride. Todays been nice.
Mum nodded. Well try, Mum. Promise.
Talk carried onuni choices, revision, whether you still need tutors these days. Nora nodded along, baffled by some new jargon, but determined to join in.
When it was time to pack up, coats and bags filled the hallway. Dad heaved the casserole onto the top shelf, Mum scraped leftovers into Tupperware. Anna checked her bag and said: Lets do this again soon, Mumproperly plan next time.
Love that, pet. Any time.
Harry lingered at the desk, eyeing her notepad and pens. The letter was in his own pocket nowhed long decided not to return it. Something too important had been said within those lines.
He bent over, whispered, Granif you ever want us to change something, just say. Dont write it down, just tell us, yeah?
She peered up at him, surprised, then something gentle entered her stare.
All right, love. I will.
He kissed her cheek and slipped out.
Back inside, Nora sat in the dim afterglow. The air rich with gravy, tea, pastry. She brushed crumbs into a pile, staring at her own hands.
The feeling in her chest wasnt joy, nor sadnessa gentle freshness, like someone had opened a window in a stuffy room and let some air in. The arguments were not gone; life would still be bumpy. But tonight, under her roof, it had felt like everyone had drawn just that little bit closer.
She remembered the letter, not quite knowing where it had ended up. Maybe Harry had seen it, maybe shed lost it, maybe it was just where shed left it. But, oddly, it mattered less.
She walked to the window. Outside, children were shrieking, knocking together a wonky snowman, a kid in a red hat cackling all the way up the road.
Noras forehead pressed to the cold glasssmiling, only just, to herself. As if in answer to a signal sent for her alone.
And, in the pocket of Harrys jacket, hanging in their hallway, the letter lay folded and safe. Sometimes, hed pull it out, read another line, and put it awaynot as a plea to Father Christmas, but as a quiet reminder of what matters to those who wait for you, who make you soup and hope you call.
He never talked about it again. But, next time his mum muttered she couldnt manage a trip to Nanas, Harry just replied, Ill go round, then.
And he did. No special date, no occasionjust because. Not a miracle, exactly. Just another small step towards the kind of peace a certain someone had once scribbled on a piece of lined paper.
Nora opened the door, blinking at his unexpected knock.
Come on in, love. Kettles just boiled.
And, for now, that was all she needed.
