The Secret of the Old Letter: Love Stronger Than the Past
Oliver returned from work exhausted. Over the summer, he’d been labouring on a construction site—he couldn’t live off his mother forever. In a year, he’d finish university, land a proper job, and marry his beloved Emily.
“Mum, why don’t we go to the cottage this weekend? Get some fresh air. I could go fishing,” he suggested dreamily, finishing his supper.
“I was just thinking the same, love.” Margaret set a steaming cup of tea before him. “You’ve been so worn out lately—didn’t think you’d fancy it. Maybe we ought to sell the place? If no one’s living there, it’ll fall to ruin. We haven’t been back since your father passed. If it’s no use to us, we’d have enough for the wedding.”
“Emily’s parents have a place near Cheltenham,” Oliver nodded. “I’m fine with selling. Let’s drive up Friday evening.”
“And bring Emily,” Margaret added brightly.
Every summer as a boy, Oliver had stayed in the countryside at his grandmother’s. After she died, his parents would visit on holiday, even trying their hand at gardening. But after the accident—his father’s death—Margaret had abandoned the cottage entirely.
That Friday, they rode the coach through the rolling hills. Oliver gazed out the window while Emily dozed against his shoulder. The journey wasn’t long—just forty minutes—but the heat stretched time like warm toffee. At last, the bus wheezed to a stop at the village edge.
“Oh, your shirt’s soaked through, poor thing,” Emily murmured.
“Doesn’t matter,” he grinned. “We’ll drop our bags and head straight to the river.”
They walked through the village, ignoring the curious glances of locals. Women nodded politely but didn’t ask where they were headed—that wasn’t the country way. Oliver carried their weekend provisions, relief flooding him as the stale coach air lifted.
The cottage garden had surrendered to brambles and nettles. “Mind your step,” Margaret warned. Emily squealed and clutched Oliver’s arm as the rusted lock gave way. Inside, the three of them stood still in the cool gloom.
“Like we never left,” Margaret whispered, nostalgia thick in her throat.
Oliver recognised every detail: sun-bleached photos on the walls, magazine cut-outs he’d stuck up as a boy, the short lace curtains. Iron beds stood piled with knitted blankets and feather pillows. At the room’s heart sat a table draped in threadbare blue oilcloth.
“It’s lovely here,” Emily said. “Sure you won’t regret selling?”
“I’ll unpack,” Margaret directed. “Oliver, fetch firewood from the shed. Emily, have a look round.”
The cottage woke with murmurs and creaks. Soon, the stove crackled, the kettle sang, and the table bore tea, biscuits, and tinned stew. Oliver hauled water from the well while Margaret scrubbed decades of dust. When the heat grew stifling, they flung open every window and door, letting the stifling air escape. Oliver and Emily slipped away to the river.
That night, the house groaned like an old man’s bones, making sleep impossible. At dawn, Margaret fried eggs and sent the young couple to the attic to sort through the junk while she tackled wardrobes downstairs.
“Ugh, enough cobwebs to weave a scarf!” Emily ducked under the low beams. Forgotten linens—Margaret’s? His grandmother’s?—hung from ropes like ghostly banners. They tossed down mildewed magazines in clouds of dust until Emily spotted a fluttering page.
“Oliver, come here!” she called.
“What is it?” He peered over her shoulder. “A letter?”
“Listen,” she said, and read aloud:
*”Dear William, What’s happened? You promised to come back, to speak to your parents and return for me. A month’s gone by without a word. I don’t know what to think—I’m half mad with worry. There’s something I meant to tell you face to face, but perhaps this will hurry you: I’m with child. If Mum were alive, I’d tell her—she’d know what to do. But Auntie… I doubt she’ll be pleased when she notices. My love, come quickly…”*
The girl wrote of love and aching absence. At the bottom, a name: Eleanor.
“Why’s this got you so worked up?” Oliver shrugged. “Just an old letter.”
“You don’t see it,” Emily sighed. “Your name’s Oliver William Davies, yes?”
“Yeah…?”
“And this is addressed to *William*. Do you understand now?”
Oliver frowned. “Mum might know. I’ll ask—”
“Wait!” Emily caught his arm. “It’s signed *Eleanor*, not your mother. Why was it hidden in the attic? Why keep it at all?”
“Bloody hell, you’re like Miss Marple,” Oliver chuckled. “How do we find out who wrote it?”
“If only your gran were here,” Emily mused. “She’d know. Are there any elders left in the village?”
“Dunno. Let’s ask. Mum!” he called, thundering downstairs.
Margaret sneezed in a storm of dust. Stacks of linens covered the bed. “Any old-timers still about? Gran’s friends?”
“Old Nell might be,” Margaret said, eyeing them. “Last house down the lane. Why?”
“Family history stuff. Where exactly?” Oliver feigned casual interest.
“You’re not going now?” Margaret called as they hurried out.
“Just a walk!”
The cottage at the lane’s end sagged under ivy. “Blimey, it’s practically a ruin,” Emily muttered.
As if summoned, the door creaked open. A woman in a starched white headscarf peered out. “Lost, are you?”
“Nell?” Oliver stepped forward. “I’m Oliver Davies—William and Margaret’s boy.”
The old woman squinted, then beckoned them inside. The tiny parlour smelled of lavender polish. “Suppose you’re here about that letter,” she said, as the kettle whimpered on the hob.
Emily’s hands shook as she unfolded the page. When she finished reading, Nell sighed. “Margaret’s not with you. Good. Means she still doesn’t know.”
She sipped her tea, letting the silence gnaw at them, then began: “Your mother was the prettiest girl in three counties. Lads trailed after her like ducklings, but she only had eyes for your dad. Off he went for his National Service—she waited faithful as a dog. I’d ask, ‘Heard from William?’ She’d laugh: ‘Where’s he to go?’ When he came back, they married within the month. Village feasted for days.”
Nell studied Emily. “You’re a looker too. Like seeing the past walk again.”
“After the wedding, they moved to Bristol. Margaret got her bookkeeping certificates, William worked factory shifts and studied nights. They’d visit weekends. I remember one autumn—your grandmum was knitting by the window, waiting. Suddenly, she spots this slip of a girl, belly huge, stumbling up the path. Knew straight off: she was William’s.
“Out she runs, says, ‘William’s gone, married now, his wife’s expecting—clear off!’ Girl says there’s nowhere to go—aunt turned her out. Hard as your grandmum was, she took pity. Brought her here, told everyone she was my cousin’s girl. When her time came, the midwife barely made it. Born at dawn, a perfect little thing. Ambulance took them both. Never saw her again. Your grandmum swore the village to silence—said she was my kin. Later, William confessed. Didn’t think Margaret would wait, got tangled up, spun promises, then forgot her the moment he saw Margaret again. Spring came, and you were born, Oliver.”
Nell set down her cup. “Your mother still doesn’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You love her?” Nell nodded at Emily.
“More than anything,” Oliver said.
“And the letter?”
“Your grandmum found it—never gave it to William. Hid it up there for reasons known only to God.”
“Thank you, Nell,” Emily stood abruptly. “We should go.”
“Need wood chopped? Water fetched?” Oliver offered.
“Not for my sake. Good you came. Tell Margaret to visit soon. Might be the last time.”
“So your dad abandoned her,” Emily said softly as they walked.
“Ancient history.” Oliver shrugged. “She’s probably married with ten kids by now.”
Emily stopped dead.
“What?”
She stared at him oddly, like he’d grown antlers. “That story didn’t move you at all?”
“Course it did, but it’s decades past. Nell’s ancient—might’ve invented half.”
“My mother’s name is Eleanor,” Emily whispered.
“So? Loads of Eleanors.” Oliver laughed nervously. “Wait—you’re not saying… No, that’s”Then let’s keep this as our strange little secret,” he murmured, kissing her forehead as the sun dipped below the hills, gilding the old cottage in gold one final time.
