On Christmas Hill (A Seasonal Affair)

By Faith Mortimer

It is a few weeks before Christmas and everyone except Catherine seems to be gearing up for the big day with excitement.

Catherine is a single mum, struggling to bring up her five year old daughter, she has little time for romance, and when she learns she has lost her job and her flat is deemed unliveable, she wonders just what else life is about to fling at her.

Where or to whom can she turn to for help? Kismet in the shape of handsome, bachelor, Jack Darcy aka Father Christmas is at hand. But can she trust the handsome stranger who seems to know a lot about her private life?

When Catherine finds a forty year old letter hidden in a village post office and seeks to reunite the letter with the addressee, little does she know what part she will play in the affair or how circumstances change her very existence. Will she find that perfect love which so far has eluded her?
 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Topsails Charter
• Release date: Nov 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497791220

Book preview

ON CHRISTMAS HILL

‘A Seasonal Affair’

Chapter 1 Catherine

It was a filthy day, and everything was going wrong. I was trying not to think about treacherous Oliver and our last-ever date. I was fighting off my latest bout of bronchitis. Wet, dirty snow lay in treacherous clumps along the footpaths, and I just knew we were going to be understaffed again. Sure enough, when I arrived at the post office, where I had been temporary manager for two weeks, the only people to greet me were Doreen (on sweets and cards), Brian (post-office-counter official), and Lindsey (still not quite sure of her position or otherwise). I nodded to them and fished in my pocket for the shop keys.

Brian dropped the cigarette which was clamped between his lips, ground the butt out on the pavement, and gave me a sickly smile, brown teeth and all. Morning, Catherine. Another cold ‘un. Looks like we’re going to be short-staffed again. Sal just rang me to say she’s still feeling like death warmed up, and Will always takes the full quota of sick days off, so it’s just down to us four.

I managed a brief reply and even briefer smile as I wrestled with the ridiculously huge bunch of keys whilst juggling handbag, laptop, and coffee cup in my gloved but still-cold hands. As I stepped inside, the icy stale air hit me, and my heart sank even farther towards my boots. Not again! That bloody boiler! For some reason the automatic clock kept sticking, and for the third day in succession the heating had failed to come on. Give it the usual, Brian, I managed to say between clenched teeth before walking towards the dreary little pit which was supposed to be my office. Brian’s ‘usual’ was a tweak here and there and then a sharp blow to the clock. It generally worked.

And when you’ve done that, can you please call the engineer again? I know he said he’s booked up all week, but he may have had a cancellation, I called out. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I had accepted this job—even as a temporary post. I was used to working in a full-sized city post office, not some small village shop, even if the surrounding environs were picture postcard. Tiny, thatched, and tile-hung dwellings set in cottage gardens were gorgeous during spring and summer. In early December, bare trees and piles of filthy slush did nothing for me. What had I been thinking?

Doreen followed me to the back of the shop and, looking like an over-dressed polar bear, hovered in the doorway of the office. Hello, Doreen. Sorry to be tetchy, but I’m not feeling too great myself. Did you want something?

That’s okay. Is it all right if we keep our coats on until it warms up? Only Lindsey and me think we’re coming down with the flu, too.

Of course. Flu? What else was going to happen to ‘make my day’? It shouldn’t take long once Brian gives the heating system some coaxing. Put the kettle on, and make some coffee too...that’ll help keep you going.

Are you still going to sort out that pile of rubbish you found the other day?

Doreen was referring to a collection of mouldy old stuff I had uncovered in the shed. Earlier in the week I had decided to have a clean-up, despite the lingering snowy conditions, and after pulling out empty cardboard boxes, tins, unravelled balls of string, and defunct post-office weighing scales, I also discovered an unopened letter. Goodness knows how long it had lain unattended and forgotten, tucked away in a box behind all the other junk. Apparently, according to Brian, the fount of all knowledge, the previous postmistress hadn’t been known for her tidiness, and she had been there for forty years!

I am. I’ll go through it after lunch. The parcel scales, although no longer working, are pretty ancient, and if I can polish them up, they’ll make an eye-catching display in the window.

***

We had the usual morning rush of shoppers buying their Christmas cards and wrapping paper. Even with online shopping, I was pleased to see we had taken in a hefty pile of parcels, which were waiting to be shipped around the world. Everyone, including me, managed a lunch break of some sort, and because more snow was forecast, most people were leaving the village to go home. I gazed out at the frigid scene outside and shivered. Despite Brian getting the heating going, the shop was still registering on the cold-cabinet side. I checked my watch and saw there was barely an hour before closing. Without a moment’s hesitation I decided to send the staff home. There was hardly anyone left on the streets, and I was tired of listening to Doreen’s sniffing, Lindsey’s coughing, and Brian leaving the back door open while he nipped out for a ‘quick ciggie’. They had done their best, and quite frankly, I fancied an hour on my own. I was perfectly capable of closing early and doing some sorting out in the back office. The little pile of curious junk I had discovered beckoned me, and for some reason, I wanted to go through it undisturbed. I was going to treat it as a cathartic exercise, imagining I was ridding myself of Oliver all over again. It was something I should have done long before, and the thought of him made me feel cheap and dirty, somehow.

Good idea. We can catch the early bus and be home before it’s completely dark, said Doreen, and Lindsey nodded in agreement. I was slightly startled by how quickly they donned their hats and coats and were out the door before I had taken another breath. Ah! I had forgotten—it must have been bingo night! I visualised the coming scene: they would rustle up a quick meal for their husbands, and then they would be off out, snow or no snow.

I laughed to myself as I shut the door on the three of them, locked it, and withdrew to my inner sanctuary. A cup of tea, two Hobnobs, a spot of paperwork and sorting out, and I supposed I would then do likewise, although without the bingo, which I’ve always loathed. I pride myself as being above that sort of thing. I glanced at my watch again and remembered I didn’t even have to hurry home to pick up Charlotte, my five-year-old daughter. She was staying the night with her ‘bestest friend’ and had been talking about it for days. The thought of Charlotte filled me with warmth. I love her dearly and can’t imagine a life without my little girl.

Picking through the salvaged stuff a second time, I realised most was beyond redemption; water and mould had ruined the paper things. However, there were a few items worth saving, and I put them to one side. I found a couple more stamped letters which had gone astray. Goodness knew how long they had been tucked away. They could be posted the next day. I wondered if any of the recipients still lived at the addresses on the envelopes and shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t my business; I was just doing what I was paid to do. I decided to put new stamps on the letters and send them, late or not.

I worked steadily until I came to the last item, which appeared to be a letter. The envelope was falling apart, and there was no longer any glue on the flap. The address was just about readable. Inside, I discovered there were one or two sheets of crinkly paper. I looked at the name and address and saw it was meant to go to a woman: a Miss E Seymour at Apple Tree Cottage, Privett Lane, Foxfield, Hampshire.

I wondered how many Foxfields and Privett Lanes there were in Hampshire. Nowadays, of course, we use postcodes, which were introduced between 1959 and 1974. So this letter had probably lain hidden since either before then or during that period. I knew I could easily look up Foxfield on the internet, so I fired up my laptop and did a spot of searching. In less than a minute, I had the information at my fingertips, and I added the postcode.

Because the envelope was so old and decrepit, I knew it wouldn’t last survive the rough and tumble of the posting process, so I inserted the whole thing into a new one. Indeed, as I laid it down, the paper disintegrated, and I was left holding the letter. Maybe it was worthless and too much bother to send, anyway? But I was curious...I was alone and no one would have known. I read what was written there.

My hands were shaking with anticipation as I unfolded the sheets and read.

My Dearest Estelle,

I hope I find you well. After the last enjoyable evening we spent together, I shall not go out tonight, but sit here at home and write to you. I hope you do not think I am being too forward by expressing my thoughts and how I feel about you. I have come to realise that you, Estelle, are my one and only adorable and treasured girl.

My love! After last night—that oh, so special night—I have asked myself every moment of today if such happiness is not a dream. It seems like one, but that which I feel for you is not of earth and yet of heaven. I doubt you realise the depth of my feelings for you. I tried to be calm last night, in case I had to prepare myself for despair. In case you did not feel the same. I wanted so much to throw myself at your feet, my sweet and beautiful Estelle. Did you know that Estelle means star? Estelle, star of my heart and the core of my life. And if my life is not one which I can share with you, then the limit of my devotion can only be the sacrifice of my life. For surely, I would not wish to live without you by my side.

You see, my sweet, my whole soul is yours, and if by chance—and I tremble at the thought—you love me, you know what must be my joy. My darling, my Estelle, I know no other word for this joy than love.

Please say you will be mine! Soon, in a few months, when I’ve completed the latest overseas tour on my new ship, and then, my angel, you will sleep in my arms. I will hold you in my arms, you will awaken in my arms, and you will live there. We shall be as one. Our thoughts, moments, looks, will only be for each other.

Although we live barely twenty miles apart, I feel as if I am far from you, but I can dream of you and pray that soon you will be at my side. I adore you.

Say yes, my angel. Say yes! Meet me once again at our favourite place on Saturday next, and I’ll know you love me and that last night wasn’t a mistake. If—and I shudder at the thought—you do not feel the same as I and you do not come, then I know I am lost forever.

Adieu, my love, but I hope it is not goodbye,

Sam

I felt all wobbly inside as I put the love letter down, for a love letter it most definitely was. I imagined this man, Sam, and his beloved Estelle. How he must have loved her, judging by the very outpouring of his heart, and Estelle...but what happened? I was aware my own heart was beginning to thud in my chest as I realised what it meant. If she never received this letter, then what became of them? Did they ever meet again? Did they get a second chance? Although there was no date, I could tell from the old-fashioned tone of the writing and the price of the stamp that it was written many years ago.

I felt my own misery welling up. The misery I had been putting aside for the last few weeks. I thought back to my final meeting with Oliver and the awful words we threw at each other. I had felt so wretched since then, and I couldn’t help thinking about the terrible mistakes I made every day. But was I hurting because of my lost self-pride or because I loved him? He used me. I knew that. If only I had ignored his advances in the first place.

I picked up the letter and read it through once more before replacing it back in the ruined envelope. Sam deserved better. I couldn’t trust it to the post; I would deliver it myself.

Chapter 2 Catherine

According to the records, amazingly, a Miss E Seymour still lived at the same address as the one on the old envelope. I wondered if it was my Miss Seymour. It had to be, but why had she never married? It took me about twenty-five minutes to reach the village of Foxfield, and I found the cottage easily, thanks to my satnav. Hurrah for technology, I thought. Without one, no doubt I would have spent ages peering at the names of houses in the dark. It was almost too easy.

I hadn’t telephoned ahead to warn the lady about my visit. I was intrigued to see her face to face. I wanted to see the woman who inspired such a beautiful outpouring of love. I imagined a modern-day Helen of Troy.

I parked in front of Apple Tree Cottage. However, judging from the silhouette against the night sky, it was more than a cottage. It was a substantial dwelling, and the area was definitely very upmarket. Perhaps the property had been in the family for some years. I locked the car then walked up the garden path to the front door. I noticed someone had ventured out that day and made a path through the snow. Judging by the lights shining behind the drawn curtains, someone was at home. For some reason, I felt nervous. Was it because I felt responsible in some odd way? Because the system had let her down and she never met Sam again?

I rang the doorbell and waited.

Chapter 3 Catherine

Yes, that’s Sam. He looks so distinguished in his naval officer’s uniform, don’t you think?

I smiled and nodded. He did look fine.

I was sitting in Estelle’s gorgeous living room. It was warm and snug with a roaring log fire blazing away, and she had given me a small photograph album to look through. After her initial surprise when I gave her the envelope, she immediately invited me in for a cup of tea. Two cups and a piece of the most delicious chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten later, we were getting on as if we were long-lost sisters. She was open and friendly and told me something about her life.

It was like something from an old melodrama, and I felt sad as she explained. She and Sam never did meet again, and Estelle married someone else. Despite the marriage lasting nearly forty years, she confessed it was never a joyful one, and she was happier being a widow.

My husband was a cold fish and a bully. He didn’t like entertaining or travelling and was never happier than when he was at home, with me running around after him. If it hadn’t been for my children, Jack and Naomi, I’d have been dreadfully unhappy. Unfortunately, it took me a long time to conceive, and I’d almost given up hope. Then out of the blue I found I was expecting. Jack was my first child, and Naomi came along a couple of years later. That’s Jack and Naomi in the picture over there on the sideboard, she said, indicating with her head.

I looked towards the heavy dark piece of furniture and saw a framed photograph of a smiling, dark-haired man of about my age or slightly older, with his arm casually draped around a younger version of Estelle. Even from where I was sitting, I could see a strong likeness between mother and children, and I said as much.

Yes, they take after me more than their father. Naomi is married and has two children of her own, but unfortunately, Jack’s never found the right girl. I still live in hope, though.

I swear she was looking at me and sizing up the possibility, and I hastened to change her attention back to her children. They look very nice, and I can definitely see the family resemblance, I said in a bit of a rush. But did you revert to your maiden name when your husband died? When I looked it up, that’s how your house has been registered. The occupier is down as a Miss E. Seymour, I said, looking away from the photograph, and in an instant I saw a pained look cross her face.

No dear. That was my sister, Ellen. She never married and lived here all her life with our parents before they passed away. I left home when I married Ken. Unfortunately, I lost Ellen earlier this year, and she left the house to me. I moved back because I preferred it here...it was our family home, after all. Apart from when my children were with me, I never liked living in that other house with Ken. Selling it was an easy thing to do.

Ah! Mystery solved and I gave her my condolences.

Despite having made an unsatisfactory choice of husband, Estelle seemed to be an amazing woman. She told me she was in her sixties, but because of her energy and vivacity, looked and acted younger. Estelle was tall and slim and moved with a grace I envied. She wore her reddish-brown hair in a smooth bob and just off the shoulder. It was obvious she took care of it because it was well cut and expertly highlighted. Her eyes were large and well spaced, an unusual shade of hazel and fringed with sooty lashes. She was constantly smiling, and bar a few laughter lines, her face was relatively wrinkle-free. She was very pretty, and when she laughed, I instantly recognised how beautiful she must have been when she and Sam were dating. Apart from that, she came across as kind and caring, and I wondered what type of man she had married, one who had been cold and selfish. Thinking back to my own recent altercation with Oliver, it appeared we were both victims of thoughtless men.

We chatted some more, and then when Estelle eventually opened the letter I had taken for her, she took herself off to another room to read it. I was intrigued. I wondered how she would react once she read Sam’s outpourings of love and devotion. Would she feel anything or was it all wistful thinking on Sam’s part? Alone, I remained seated and drank my tea, staring into the hot fire beside me, and brooded over my own affair with Oliver. I knew it was finished and washed away down the pan. The thought still made me feel sick inside...but hadn’t it been inevitable? He had never truly been mine. Some other woman held a far greater claim to him. Oh yes, he always said he would leave her and join me, but had I really believed him? If I were honest with myself, then I would have said a definite no. Oliver liked an easy life and believed his own propaganda.

After a few minutes, Estelle returned to the room, and I noticed how bright her eyes were. We looked at each other, and she gave me a watery smile. I had already confessed to having read her letter before putting it in the new envelope, and I think she felt comfortable with me knowing its contents.

Estelle sat down in the chair opposite me and took a moment or two before speaking.

I always wondered, you know. We seemed so right for each other. I thought he went off on his ship and forgot about me, she said in a quivery voice before looking up.