The Last Letter
Emily never knew her father. When she was old enough to ask her mother about him, all she got was:
“Aren’t you happy with just me?”
Margaret loved her daughter, though she wasn’t overly affectionate. How could she not love a quiet, wide-eyed girl who never caused trouble? Emily never skipped school, always did well in her lessons, and obeyed without complaint.
She was ordinary, not particularly remarkable—not everyone can be a beauty. No adult had ever called her sweet or charming. “She looks just like her mother,” they’d say instead.
Margaret never wore perfume or lipstick, and high heels were out of the question. “Heels? After a day at the looms, my feet ache enough as it is,” she’d mutter. She worked in a textile mill where the noise was deafening, so she spoke loudly, almost shouting.
After ninth grade, Margaret sent Emily to spend the summer with her old friend in the countryside. Perhaps she wanted some privacy—Emily was too young to understand such things.
“How did you and Mum meet?” Emily asked Aunt Jane. “She’s a city girl, and you live in the village.”
“Your mum’s from the village too,” Jane chuckled. “We’ve been friends since we were in nappies. She moved to the city later, got work at the mill. Didn’t she tell you? Always ashamed of her roots, she was.” Jane sighed. “I stayed, married right after school. No children, though. My husband went off for work and never came back. So here I am, alone. At least your mum had you. The men round here? Drunk, every last one.”
“What about my father? Do you know anything?”
“Course I do. The mill was all women. After shifts like that, love’s the last thing on your mind. Your mum got a flat for being a top worker—not everyone was so lucky. But the years passed, didn’t they?”
“Then this bloke came—machine repairman. No looker, but men don’t need beauty in a place like that. Dunno how it happened, but she got pregnant. Last chance, really—she was nearly past it.”
“Margaret was no beauty. Didn’t have suitors lining up. When she found out it was a girl, she was chuffed. Easier to raise a daughter alone. Did it for herself, they call it.”
Aunt Jane was easy to talk to, unlike Margaret. She taught Emily chores—what else was there to do in the village? Other kids came for the summer, but they were too young for Emily’s age.
Then, in late July, a teenager arrived at the neighbor’s. The moment Emily saw him, her heart leaped. He helped his granddad in the garden, hauled water from the river—she watched him from the window.
One day, she spotted him heading to the river. Snatching a towel, she followed, only realizing halfway she hadn’t put on her swimsuit. Too late to turn back. She sat on the grassy bank, watching him dive and shake water from his hair. He noticed her.
“Just gonna sit there? Water’s lovely!” he called.
Flustered, she nearly left—but then he waded out, handing her a water lily that smelled of river and silt.
Emily offered her towel in return. They talked. George had been sent to his granddad’s while his parents divorced, squabbling over belongings.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Helping Aunt Jane. Why?” Her heart raced—she’d never spoken to a boy like this.
“Come to the woods with me. Mushroom season’s started, and Granddad’s knee’s acting up.”
“Alright,” she said, blushing.
“Early, though—while the dew’s still on. I’ll whistle for you.”
They walked home together. He swatted nettles with a stick; she carried the damp towel over her shoulder, imagining his arm around her.
Emily woke at dawn, checking the clock every minute, willing the hands to move faster.
“Stop fidgeting,” Jane yawned. “It’s too early.”
“Going mushroom-picking with George. Don’t want to oversleep.”
Jane grumbled but fetched wellies and old clothes.
“I won’t wear that. I’ll look like a scarecrow,” Emily protested.
“Wear it, you daft girl. Snakes, mosquitoes, ticks—and tuck your hair under a scarf.”
Reluctantly, Emily put on the oversized trousers and shirt, grimacing at her reflection. A proper fright. Then—a whistle outside. No time to change. She grabbed a basket and ran out. George gave an approving nod—he was dressed the same.
In the woods, he found mushrooms effortlessly; Emily spotted none.
“Ever done this before?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Right,” he sighed, showing her how to spot edible ones and avoid the poisonous.
Soon, she got the hang of it.
“Good lass,” Jane praised her haul later. “I’ll make soup and dry some for winter.”
Another whistle outside.
“Go on. Your sweetheart’s calling.”
Emily blushed and fetched her swimsuit.
The rest of the month, they roamed the woods and river. She’d fallen for him at first sight—her heart fluttered at his voice, trembled at his touch. Nights were spent dreaming of him, mornings racing to meet him.
August vanished. Margaret arrived.
“What’ve you been feeding her, Jane? She’s filled out,” she said, eyeing Emily’s rosy glow.
“Fresh air and good food,” Jane smiled. “Look at all the mushrooms she picked. With a friend,” she added.
“Already traipsing off with boys? Didn’t expect this from you, Jane,” Margaret snapped. “Pack up. We leave tomorrow.”
“It’s too soon,” Emily nearly cried.
“School clothes, notebooks. Get ready.”
Emily bolted to the garden, finding George.
“Your mum’s here? You’re leaving?” he guessed.
Tears choked her.
“Give me your address. I’ll write,” he said.
She dashed inside, tore a page from a notebook, then realized she hadn’t written the address. Returning for a pen, she overheard Margaret and Jane whispering.
“… what if he takes a liking to her? He’s not blood…”
Emily fled, handing George the address.
“Emily! Early start tomorrow!” Margaret’s sharp voice called.
“Meet me after dark,” George whispered.
All evening, Emily fidgeted, listening for his whistle. When Jane began making the bed, she headed for the door.
“Where to?” Margaret demanded.
“Let her say goodbye,” Jane interceded.
“You’ve spoiled her…”
Outside, George waited, leading her behind the raspberry bushes where no one could see. Then he kissed her.
“Emily! Home!”
“Go. If I don’t sleep in, I’ll see you off. I’ll write—promise,” he said.
Morning came too soon. Fog curled over the river, dew glittered, the sun rose—beauty she didn’t want to leave. Emily kept looking back. George never came—must’ve overslept.
Back home, she checked the postbox daily. Then the key went missing.
“Must’ve fallen off,” Margaret said.
Each day, Emily asked: “Any letters?”
“He’s forgotten you.”
She didn’t believe her. Mobile phones were rare then—Margaret called them frivolous. Next summer, Margaret sent her to work as a shop cleaner instead.
Emily graduated, studied economics—Margaret proud as punch. First in their family to go to university.
“A woman’s best job. Desk work, not breaking your back.”
No letters ever came. Emily got a good job, the mill closed, Margaret’s health declined.
“I’ll die soon. My friend’s son is divorced—come for lunch Saturday,” Margaret said once.
Emily refused. Always obedient, now she dug in.
“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.”
Margaret suffered another year before she died.
Alone, Emily cleared her mother’s things one weekend. In a shoebox, she found an envelope—George’s handwriting. Hands shaking, she pulled out the letter.
“Emily, hello. You never answered. I won’t write again. Hope you’re well…”
She sobbed. The missing postbox key—her mother’s doing.
“How could you, Mum? Why?”
The postmark was eight years old. George hadn’t forgotten. Too much time lost. He’d be married now, with children.
She searched everywhere—no more letters. Margaret must’ve forgotten this one.
At work, she confided in a colleague.
“You waited all this time? And he wrote? That’s love. Mine’s off gallivanting—but kids, you know? Is your aunt still alive?”
“Dunno.”
“Go see her. Bank holiday’s coming.”
“He’s probably married…”
“FoolShe didn’t care anymore—she packed her bags, left the flat behind, and took the first train to the village, her heart finally free.
