A Letter That Never Arrived
Grandmother used to sit for hours by the cold-paned window, even though there wasnt much to look at. In the little courtyard below, dusk would steal in early, the streetlamp outside her flat flickering lazily on and off as if it couldnt be bothered. Across the thin layer of icy snow, there were only a few tracks left by the postmans rounds and an occasional dog out with its owner. Far off, the caretaker scraped a shovel along the path, and then the world fell quiet again.
On the windowsill sat her thin-rimmed spectacles and an ancient mobile, the screen covered in a delicate web of cracks. Sometimes it would buzz with some new family photo or voicemail, but today it sat silent. The flat felt emptier than usual, the second-hand ticking louder than she liked.
Eventually, she rose and wandered into the kitchen, flicking on the overhead bulb, its light feeble and yellowish. On the table, beneath an upturned plate, were cold meat pasties shed baked earlierjust in case someone should pop by. But no one visited.
She sat at the table, took a bite from a pasty, then laid it aside. The crust, left out all day, had turned a bit toughnothing wrong with it, but where was the pleasure in eating alone? She poured herself tea from her battered enamel pot, listened to it trickle into her glass, and, quite unexpectedly, sighed aloud.
The sigh seemed heavy, as if something had slipped from her chest to sit on the stool beside her.
Stop your groaning, she told herself. Everyones alive, thank the Lord. Still got a roof, havent you? All the same…
Fragments of recent conversations drifted up, unbidden, in her head. The tense note in her daughters voice:
Mum, I cant go on with him like this. Hes at it again
And her son-in-law, forever with that ironic air:
“Shes complaining to you, is she? You can tell her, life doesnt always bend to her wishes.
And then there was Tomher grandsontossing a brief Yeah down the line whenever she asked how he was doing. It was the Yeahs that hurt the most. He used to chatter endlessly about school, his mates, the teachers. Of course, he was older now. But still.
They never raised their voices around her; nobody slammed doors. But there was always some invisible wall, inching higher, keeping hearts aparta thousand little barbs, unsaid things, resentments left to fester. She felt stranded between her daughter and son-in-law, trying to mind her words. Sometimes, she wondered if it was all her fault: perhaps she hadnt raised them right, hadnt given the right advice, or had stayed silent when she shouldnt.
She sipped her tea, made a face as she burned her lip, and suddenly recalled long ago, when Tom was a little boy, sitting together at the table writing a letter to Father Christmas. He wrote in his awkward hand: Please bring a construction setand make Mum and Dad stop arguing. She had laughed, patted his head, and told him Father Christmas would hear.
Now, remembering, she felt mildly ashamed, as though shed lied to a child. His parents had never really stopped arguingtheyd just learned to do so more quietly.
She pushed away her glass and wiped an already clean table. Then, wandering back to the front room, she clicked on her old desk lamp. Light washed over her battered writing desk. She rarely wrote letters by hand anymoremessages and silly faces were all sent by phonebut her pen was right there, in its usual mug of pencils, next to a squared notebook.
She stood a moment, staring at them. And then it crossed her mind: Why not?
A daft thought, childish really, but it kindled a little warmth in her chest. To write a lettera real letter, on papernot for presents, but simply to ask. Not from people already loaded with grievances, but from someone who, by rights, owed nothing and promised nothing.
She gave a wry smile. Old womans lost her marbles, writing to a fairy-tale Father Christmas. Yet, her hand was already reaching for the notebook.
She sat down, adjusted her spectacles, took up her pen. There were some old shopping lists on the first page, so she turned it over to a clean sheet. Paused, then wrote: Dear Father Christmas.
Her hand trembled. It felt silly, as if someone might peer over her shoulder. She glanced about her orderly, silent flat. No one.
Well, never mind, she muttered and wrote on:
I know youre for children, and Im already old. I shant ask you for a fur coat or television or any such thing. Ive got all I need. Theres only one thing I wish for: that there might be peace in our family.
That my daughter and her husband wouldnt quarrel; and my grandson might not drift away from us. That we could all sit round the same table without fearing someone saying the wrong thing. I understand that people are to blame for their own troubles, and this isnt really your business. But perhaps there is something you can do, just a little. Perhaps I shouldnt ask you at all, but here I am. If you can, let us hear each other.
Yours faithfully,
Grandma Edith.
She re-read what shed written. The words seemed awkward and naïve, as if scrawled by a child, but she didnt cross them out. She felt lighter, as if her words had somewhere to go now, not just into the silence.
She creased the page, folded it once, then again. Sat a moment, the folded letter warm in her palm, unsure what to do next. Post it? Throw it out the window? Silly.
She went for her handbag in the hall, remembering she needed to walk to the shop and post office tomorrow, to pay the bills. Ill just slip it into the Father Christmas post box, she thought. They put those up everywhere now. It didnt feel so daft to put it with the restnot just her.
She tucked the letter into her bag, nestled with her old passport and the bills, and turned out the light. The clock still ticked. She crawled into bed, listening to the hush, and at last fell asleep.
In the morning, she left early, before lunch. The pavement outside was icy and grit crunched underfoot. By the door, Mrs. Collier was out with her little dog, nodded, asked after her health. They chatted a moment and Edith pressed on, gripping her bag tightly.
The post office was busy, a queue snaking to the clerks window. She counted out her bills and secret letter, but there was no Father Christmas boxnot in this branch, only regular post slots and a counter full of cards and stamps.
She hesitated. Well, there you are, she thought, you daft thing. She couldnt bring herself to just toss the note in the bin. She slipped it back into her handbag, paid her bills, and walked out quietly.
Outside, a little toy stall had been set up, paper garlands laid over a makeshift counter. A faded cardboard box, Letters to Father Christmas, was taped on one side, but it was empty, and the vendor was peeling off the label.
All ended now, the vendor said, catching her eye. Last collection was yesterday. Too late, Im afraid.
Edith nodded, though there was no real hurry for her. She said thank you, pointlessly, and trudged home. The letter sat in her bag, just a little scrap gathering warmth, impossible to throw away, uncomfortable to remember.
At home, she took off her boots, hung her coat, set the bag aside. Her phone vibrated. She checked: a message from her daughter.
Mum, hi. Well come round at the weekend, alright? Tom wants to ask you about some old school books youve kept.
She felt something knot, then loosen inside her. Sothey were coming. So, things werent quite so bad. She messaged back: Of course, dear. Ill look forward to it.
She put away the shopping, started on the broth. The letter stayed where it was, forgotten in her bag.
On Saturday evening, familiar steps echoed in the building, and the door banged. Edith peeked through the spyhole and saw them: her daughter with a shopping bag, son-in-law hefting a box, Tom trailing behind, slouching and thin, hair poking out from under his cap.
Gran, hello! said Tom, ducking in awkwardly to kiss her cheek.
“Come in, come in, Edith fretted, hurrying aside. Take your shoes off, Ive set out slippers for you.
Suddenly, the hall was crowded and noisy. They smelled of cold air and something sweet from her daughters bag. The son-in-law grumbled about the state of the stairway, Tom wrestled his rucksack off and knocked the coat stand.
Mum, we cant stay long, her daughter said, setting the bag down. Were seeing his parents tomorrow, remember?
I remember, Edith nodded. Come to the kitchen, theres hot soup for you all.
They sat awkwardly at first: son-in-law by the window, her daughter beside him, Tom opposite Edith. Soup was ladled out in silence, only spoons rattled in the bowls. Then conversation picked up reluctantlywork, traffic, the price of things. Words floated on the surface, but underneath, she felt the tension running like a tide.
Tom, didnt you want something from Grandma for school? her daughter reminded him.
Oh, right,” Tom seemed to wake up. “Gran, have you got any books on the war? Teacher says we can read something extra.”
Of course! Edith’s face lit up. “On my shelf, dear. A whole set. Come, Ill show you.
The two of them padded off together. In the study, Edith flicked on the lamp and reached to the top shelf for her timeworn paperbacks.
“Here you go,” she said, shifting the volumes. “This one’s about the Blitz, that one’s about the Home Guard, and here’s some old memoirs. Any in particular?”
“Not sure,” he shrugged. “Something that isnt boring, really.”
He stood beside her, head tilted, and for a heartbeat she saw the little boy he’d been, clambering on her lap with endless questions. Now he was mostly silent, but there was still a glint of curiosity in his eyes.
“Try this one,” she handed over a faded copy. “Its lively. I loved it when I was your age.”
He fanned the pages.
“Thanks, Gran.”
They talked a while about school, about his teacher (Alright, bit strict, sometimes goes overboard). Edith nodded, prompting him gently. She relished how much she learned simply by listening to him.
Her daughter called from the doorway, “Tom, well head off in half an hour, alright?”
“Yeah,” he replied, slipping the book into his bag.
The farewell was the usual tangleshopping bags, scarves, reminders to call, promises to send something over. Edith saw them out, waited for the lift to close, then returned to her flat.
Quiet descended almost at once. She began clearing the kitchen. On the stool by the wall was her handbagwith the letter inside. She reached into the pocket, felt the folded paper. For a split second, she wanted to pull it out and tear it up, but she simply buried it deeper inside and zipped the bag shut.
She never knew that, while shed been fetching books, Tom, taking off his rucksack, had knocked against her bag. The pocket gaped open and a corner of white paper poked out. He tucked it back, noticing Dear Father Christmas written in her looping hand. He froze.
He didnt take the letter then, not with everyone aboutbut those words burned themselves into his mind.
That evening, once home, he remembered it as he unpacked his bag. The idea of Grandma writing to Father Christmas seemed at first amusing, then odd, then somehowsad.
Next day, when they were at his other grandparents, eating limp salad and listening to grown-ups talk, he saw the letter over and over in his mind.
A few days later, coming home from school, he wrote to Edith: Gran, mind if I pop over? I need some more stuff for history. She replied almost at once: Of course, come over.
He went round after school, headphones still looped round his neck, rucksack in tow. The building smelled of boiled cabbage and bleach. She let him in as soon as the bell rang.
“Come in, Tom, coat off. Ive made you some pancakes,” she said, bustling down the hall.
He shrugged off his coat, set his bag down on the stool. Her bag was already half open, and that slip of white peeped out again. His heart thudded.
While she put the pancakes on a plate, he crouched, pretending to adjust a shoelace, and stole out the letter. His heart pounded; he knew it was wrong, but couldn’t stop himself.
He shoved the letter in the pocket of his hoodie and made his way to the kitchen.
“Ooh, pancakes!” he exclaimed, trying to sound normal. “Brilliant.”
They ate, chatting about school, the weather, half-term coming up. His grandmother fussed about his trainers, whether he was warm enough, and he laughed it off.
Later, pretending to check his history book, he slipped away at the usual time so as not to rouse suspicion.
Only when at home in his own room did he unfold the letter. He sat on his bed, smoothed out the rumpled page, and stared at his grandmothers careful script.
He started reading. At first, it felt like eavesdropping on a private conversation. It got worse as he reached the line, so my grandson wont go quiet as if hes a stranger. He stopped, reread the line. There was a lump in his throat.
He realisedhed been brushing her off not out of malice, but weariness, busyness. Always something else to do. But she had truly felt left out.
He read to the end, about peace at the table, about hearing each other. And he was seized with such fierce affection for his grandmother, he thought about dashing over just to hug her and say it would all be alright. Then felt embarrassed at his own melodrama.
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the letter a white square on his dark blanket.
So what now? he wondered. Tell Mum? Dad? Theyd brush it offOh, what nonsense, whys she writing that?or worse, theyd argue. Hand it back to Grandma, pretend hed found it? Shed work out hed read itshed be embarrassed. So would he.
He rolled over, face to the pillow, the phrases echoing: “so my grandson wont go quiet as if hes a stranger,” and “so we can sit at one table.” They werent addressed to Father Christmas so much as to him.
At dinner that night, he started to say, Mum, about Grandma but each time something interrupted: Dad quizzed him about his grades, Mum complained about her boss. In the end, he fell silent.
That night, he couldnt sleep. The letter was folded in his desk, and he knew it would bother him until he did something.
The next day, at break, he mentioned to his mate that hed found a letter from his grandma to Father Christmas. His friend snorted:
“Classic. My grandad only believes in his pension.”
“Not funny,” Tom muttered, surprised at the edge in his own voice.
His friend shrugged and changed the subject. Tom felt alone with his strange burden.
That night, he dialed Ediths number, then hung up before it rang. He stared at the family group chat: a salad photo, a joke about traffic, news of a night outnothing deep, nothing real.
Without thinking, he typed: Mum, what if we went to Grandma Ediths for New Year? and deleted it almost right away. He pictured his mothers likely replyWere already seeing Dads familyand the argument that would follow.
He sat at his desk, pulled out the letter, read it again, and found his eyes fixed on the line about being at the table together. That gave him an idea both terrifying and oddly hopeful.
Not New Year. Just dinner. No special occasion. Wellnot quite.
He went to his mum, glued to her laptop on the sofa.
Mum?
She turned.
Why dont weyou knowgo to Grandmas, all of us. Like… just a family meal.
She raised her brow. We already visit.
Not like that. Not just for an hour. Stay longer. I could help cook or something.
She snorted. You? Cook? Thatll be the day. But honestly, were busy. Dad works late, Ive got deadlines.
Maybe at the weekend? he pressed. Were just loafing at home anyway.
She sighed, leaned back.
Tom, your dad will just moanall that chitchat about aches and pensionsand besides…
Mum, he cut in, pressing home, she gets lonely. You said so yourself. Once wont hurt. Just a proper meal.
He was startled by his own persistence. His mother looked at him, as if noticing someone new.
All right, she said, finally. Ill talk to him. No promises.
He nodded, face hot. It wasnt some heroic gesture, but it was a step.
Later he overheard his parents talking in the kitchen.
Hes asking himself, his mother was saying. Imagine, he suggested it.
What for? groaned his dad. Itll be all health complaints and endless tea.
Shes on her own, Mum said quietly. And Tom… it matters to him.
A silence, then a reluctant sigh. Fine. Saturday, then.
Tom felt like hed won a tiny fight. Now for the second onewith Edith herself.
Next day, he rang his grandmother.
Gran, hi. We… um… well come round on Saturday. Have dinner with you. Would it be alright if I come early to help with the cooking?
There was a brief pause.
Of course, come as early as you like. What shall we make?
Dont mind. I can chop salad. Or spuds.
You, salad? Well see, she chuckled.
On Saturday, he turned up midday, arms full of shopping bags from the supermarket.
Heavens above! Edith exclaimed. Are we feeding the army?
Better to have too much, he muttered, carrying them in.
They peeled potatoes, diced onions. She watched his clumsy grip, fussing.
No, fingers away, you’ll slice yourself.
Its fine, he grumbled, but he took her advice.
The kitchen filled with the scent of frying meat and fresh vegetables. Somewhere, her old radio played quietly. Outside, dusk crept in, the street below busy with weekend shoppers.
Gran, he said at last, busy with the cucumbers, do youwellbelieve in Father Christmas?
She jerked so hard her spoon clattered on the hob. The room seemed to go hush.
Whatever makes you ask that? she said carefully, not turning around.
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Just… at school, folks were arguing.
She stirred the meat, switched off the hob, and looked at himsomething wary in her eyes.
As a child, yes. After thatwell, perhaps he exists, in his way. Only not how they show him on the telly. Why?
No reason, he mumbled. Be alright if he did.
A silence. She turned back to the pan; he to the chopping board. He didnt say hed read her letter. But something shifted between them. They both knew the real subjectno need to spell it out.
By evening, his parents arrived. Dad was tired, but gentler than usual. Mum had baked a pie, still warm from the oven.
Heavens! said his father, surveying the spread. We could feed the street.
Its your sons doing, Edith smiled. He helped.
Did he now? Dads eyebrow went up. Didnt burn down the kitchen, then?
Tom grunted, Only had to make a salad.
They sat down. At first, talk was stiff, everyone picking words with care. But as they ate, as so often happens, talk began to flow. They reminiscedfunny childhood stories, Mums misadventures in the shops. Dad ribbed his workmates, told tales from the office. Edith laughed, sometimes hiding her mouth behind her knuckles.
Tom watched them, thinking about the letter. Beneath the talk and laughter, he heard the conversation that really matteredthe one about listening to each other.
As Mum poured tea, she said, Mum, Im sorry we dont come more often. We… always seem to be dashing about.
She didnt say it as an excuse, but as an admission. Edith looked down at her saucer, traced the rim with her finger.
I know, she replied quietly. You each have your own lives. Im not cross.
Tom felt a pang. She was cross, of course, though shed never say so. But there was no accusation in her wordsjust an effort not to add more weight.
Well, anyway, Tom piped up, surprising himself, we could do it more often. Not just at Christmas.
His parents looked at him. He blushed but carried on:
Like today. Theres nothing wrong with it.
Dad gave a wry smile, not quite sarcastic.
Nothing wrong at all. In factits good.
Mum nodded. Lets try. For once, her voice promised not perfection, but willingnessjust a beginning.
They fell back into lighter talk. His university plans, whether tutors were worth the money. Edith listened, joined in where she couldeven if talk of online courses left her puzzled.
At home-time, all was fuss and bustlecoats, gloves, reminders. Dad helped Edith stow a heavy pot, Mum tidied the table.
Mum, next time well stay for a meal again, if thats alright? said his mother, doing up her coat. Ill let you know in advance.
Of course, dear, Edith smiled. You know youre always welcome.
As the others poured into the hallway, Tom lingered by the writing desk where her notebook and pen still lay. The letter wasnt there, it was folded in his pocketa secret. Hed long since decided not to give it back. It had too much in it to simply return and forget.
Gran, he said softly, when they were alone, if theres anything you want us to do differentlyjust let us know. You dont need to write to anybody special. Just tell us.
She looked at him, surprised, then softened.
Alright, she promised. If I need to, I will.
He nodded and joined his family. The door closed; the lift hummed down.
Edith was left in silence. She wandered into the kitchen and sat on the stool. The table still held empty mugs and cake crumbs, the air fragrant with roast meat and tea. Absentmindedly, she gathered the crumbs with a sweep of her palm.
The feeling in her chest was gentleless joy, perhaps, than a sense of fresh air drifting in. The quarrels were not gone. She knew her daughter and son-in-law would still fret, Tom had his own mysteries. But tonight, at her table, they had drawn a little nearer.
She remembered the letter. She no longer knew for sure where it wasperhaps in her bag, perhaps gone, perhaps found by someone. And, suddenly, it didnt matter so much.
She stood at the window. Outdoors, under the lamp, children were building something from the snow. A boy in a red bobble hat laughed so clean and loud that even from the third floor, Edith could hear him.
She pressed her forehead to the cold glass and smiledjust a little, a secret smileas though answering some distant sign she understood.
Meanwhile, in the pocket of Toms coat in their own hallway, the folded letter lay. Now and then, he would take it out, glance at a line, and slip it away againnot as an appeal to some magical old man, but a reminder of what really matters to the person who makes your tea and is always waiting to hear your voice.
He didnt speak of the letter. But the next time his mother sighed that she couldnt be bothered to visit Edith, he said calmly:
Ill go on my own, then.
And he did. Not for any occasion, not for a reason. Just because. It wasnt a miraclejust another small step towards the peace someone had once scrawled out on squared paper.
When Edith opened the door, her surprise was clear, but she asked no questions. She simply said,
Come in, Tom. The kettles just gone on.
And that was all it took to make her flat warm again.
