**The Last Letter**
I never knew my father. When I grew older and asked Mum about him, she just said, “Aren’t I enough for you?”
Mum loved me, though she wasn’t one for spoiling. And who wouldn’t love a quiet, wide-eyed girl? I didn’t cause trouble—no skipping school, good grades, always listened.
I was ordinary. Not every girl is a beauty. No grown-up ever called me sweet or charming. “She’s the spitting image of her mother,” they’d say.
Mum never wore perfume or lipstick, never bothered with heels. “Heels? I’m on my feet all day at the factory—my legs ache enough as it is.” She worked in the textile mills, where the noise was deafening, so she spoke loud, almost shouting.
After ninth year, she sent me to the countryside for the summer, to her old friend’s. I suppose she wanted time for herself. No need for me to know the details.
“How did you and Mum meet?” I asked Auntie Marge. “She’s a city girl, and you’ve always been here.”
“Your mum was country-born, love. We’ve been mates since nappies. She left later, got that factory job. Never told you? Always a bit ashamed of her roots.” Auntie Marge sighed. “I stayed, married straight out of school. No kids, mind. Husband went off for work and never came back. So here I am. At least your mum had you. The men round here—nothing but drinkers.”
“What about my dad? Do you know anything?”
“Course I do. That factory’s all women. No time for romance after shifts. Your mum got a flat for being top worker—lucky, that. Time passes, doesn’t it?”
“A bloke came in to fix the machines. Not handsome, but what’s that matter? In a place full of women, any man’s a catch. Don’t ask me how, but she got pregnant by him. Just in time, too—she wasn’t getting any younger.”
“Your mum wasn’t a beauty. No lads chasing after her. When she found out it was a girl, she was chuffed. Easier to raise a daughter alone. Had you for herself, as they say.”
Auntie Marge was easy to talk to, not like Mum. She taught me loads—what else is there to do in the village? Plenty of kids around, but all too young for me.
Then, late July, a lad arrived next door. The moment I saw him, my heart sang. He helped his granddad in the garden, hauled water from the river, and I watched from the window.
One day, I saw him heading to the river. I grabbed a towel and dashed after him—only realising halfway I’d forgotten my swimsuit. No matter. I sat on the bank, watching him dive and shake the water from his hair. He spotted me.
“Not coming in? It’s warm!” he called.
Flustered, I nearly left. But then he waded out, handed me a water lily, fresh from the river.
I gave him my towel. We got talking. Tom had been sent here while his parents divorced, squabbling over who got what.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Helping Auntie Marge. Why?” My heart raced—I’d never talked to a boy like this.
“Come to the woods with me. Mushrooms are up, and Granddad’s knee’s playing up.”
“Alright,” I said, blushing.
“Early though, with the dew. I’ll whistle for you.”
We walked home together. He swiped nettles with a stick; I carried the damp towel over my shoulder, imagining his arm there instead.
I woke before dawn, watching the clock crawl.
“Stop fidgeting,” Auntie Marge yawned. “It’s barely light.”
“Going mushrooming with Tom. Don’t want to oversleep.”
She groaned, fetched wellies and old clothes from the cupboard.
“I’m not wearing that. I’ll look a fright.”
“Don’t be daft. Snakes, mosquitoes, ticks—cover up.” Reluctantly, I did. One glance in the mirror—a proper scarecrow. Then, a whistle outside. No time to change.
Tom nodded approvingly—dressed just the same.
In the woods, he found mushrooms easily; I couldn’t spot a single one.
“Ever done this before?”
I shook my head.
“Right.” He showed me what to look for, what to avoid. Soon, I got the hang of it.
“Good lass,” Auntie Marge praised my haul. “Soup tonight, and I’ll dry some for winter.”
Another whistle outside.
“Go on. Your beau’s calling.”
Blushing, I fetched my swimsuit.
All month, we wandered—woods, river, village shop. I’d loved him from that first glance. His touch sent me trembling like a leaf. Nights were for dreaming of him, mornings a rush to see him again.
August fled. Mum arrived.
“What’ve you been feeding her, Marge? She’s filled out.”
“Country air,” Auntie Marge smiled. “Look—mushrooms! Nina picked them herself. With a friend.”
“Too young for lads,” Mum snapped. “Pack up. We leave tomorrow.”
“So soon?” I nearly cried.
“School clothes, books. Now.”
I ran to the garden, found Tom.
“Your mum’s here? You’re going?”
I choked on tears.
“Give me your address. I’ll write,” he said.
I scrambled for paper, dashed back. Forgot to write the address—ran inside for a pen. Behind the stove, Mum and Auntie Marge whispered.
“She’s grown. What if he takes a fancy? He’s not blood…”
I couldn’t listen. Flew back outside, thrust the paper at Tom.
“Nina! Early start tomorrow!” Mum’s voice cut through.
“Come out at dark,” Tom said.
All evening, I fidgeted, listening for his whistle. When Auntie Marge made up the bed, I headed for the door.
“Where?” Mum’s tone sharpened.
“Let her say goodbye,” Auntie Marge interceded.
Mum grumbled but let me go.
Tom waited in the garden, drew me behind the raspberries, and kissed me.
“Nina! Inside!”
“Go. If I’m awake, I’ll see you off. I’ll write,” Tom promised.
Dawn came too soon. Fog curled over the river, dew glittered, sun rose—beauty I didn’t want to leave. I glanced back. Tom hadn’t come—must’ve overslept.
Back home, I checked the postbox daily. Then the key vanished from my ring.
“Must’ve fallen off,” Mum said.
Every day, I asked: any letters?
“Give up. He’s forgotten you.”
I didn’t believe her. No mobiles then—Mum called them frivolous. Next summer, Mum put me to work in a shop. No more countryside.
After college (economics—Mum proud; first in our family), I landed a good job. Mum’s factory closed. Her health worsened—clingy, then bedridden.
“I’ll die soon. You’ll be alone. Marge’s son’s divorced—coming Saturday. Give him a chance.”
I refused—first time I’d disobeyed.
“What, you want a prince? Life’s not a fairy tale. Promise me—no one moves into this flat. I worked my fingers to the bone for it.”
She suffered another year before dying.
Alone, I sorted her things. In a shoebox—a letter. My hands shook.
*”Nina, Hello. You never wrote back. I won’t bother you again. Hope you’re well…”*
I sobbed. So that’s where the postbox key went.
“How could you, Mum? Why?”
The date: eight years ago.
Tom hadn’t forgotten. Too much time lost—he’d be married now, with kids.
I tore the house apart. No more letters. Mum must’ve missed this one.
I confided in a coworker.
“You waited all this time? And he wrote? That’s love. Mine’s off gallivanting—but what can I do? Kids, you know… Is Marge still alive?”
“No idea.”
“Go! Bank holiday’s coming.”
“I can’t. He’ll have moved on.”
“You daft thing! If someone wrote to *me* like that…”
I looked up the village online, bought a ticket, packed treats for Marge.
The place hadn’t changed. Same house, same geraniums—so she was alive! I knocked.
“Who’s—? Oh, love! Nina! How’s your mum?”
“Died last winter.”
Marge wept. “I’m holding up. Country air—you live longer here. OhShe looked up, and there he stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with disbelief—just as hers had been years ago by the river, where it all began.
