Page 29 of The Secret Christmas Library
‘I can’t believe that.’
‘I went through a very prominent-Adam’s-apple stage.’
Jamie sat down excitedly to read them. Mirren carried on with the next trunk, feeling a niggling in her back and shoulders. Muscles that didn’t get a workout very often were feeling the strain of a long day picking up and putting down.
‘Ugh,’ she said. ‘Just school stuff.’
Jamie ignored her. He was reading, and Theo had wandered up too.
‘Do you know what we need?’ he said. ‘A flask.’
‘I think there’s about forty-two of them in the under-kitchen,’ murmured Jamie, handing over aDandy. ‘They used to get used on hunting parties. Beef tea.’
Mirren didn’t know what beef tea was but it sounded disgusting, and she made a face, as the boys sat down and started reading the comics like a couple of teenagers.
‘Hey!’ said Mirren.
‘Come off it,’ said Theo. ‘We’ve been at it for hours.’
‘You’re filthy,’ said Mirren. Theo was completely covered in dust, including a streak in his shiny hair.
‘You should see yourself,’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ said Mirren. ‘Because I’m busy doing that job that I’m being paid for?’
Theo groaned theatrically and put Desperate Dan down.
Mirren carried on opening chests. The very smallest was at the back, a small brown case with JWDMK on it as initials, plus a tiny golden coat of arms. It was so obviously a bag for a child going on a journey, it made Mirren feel oddly sad. Actual golden initials – but for what?
It creaked open, and the smell was of musty old ink. There were letters inside, on wrinkled old sheets of leaf-thin see-through airmail paper, or crinkly proper stationery with the address emblazoned on it.
Dear James,
Thank you for your last letter. I will say, it is not to your credit to hear you complain. I have spoken to your housemaster who tells me you have been coddled too much at home and are havingtrouble adapting. I see this as my own failing and feel it would probably be best – the master agrees – if you stayed on over the Easter break, as I shall be travelling to Capri and I worry the food may upset you.
The letter was dated 1952.
Mirren stared at it for a long time. Obviously these were letters received by the owner of the small, pathetic child’s suitcase.
‘Jamie,’ she said, glancing up, ‘when was your grandfather born?’
‘Just before the end of the war,’ said Jamie, ‘1944. I had to order the headstone.’
Eight, thought Mirren holding the letter. This was written to a child of eight. Telling them they couldn’t come home for the Easter holidays.
‘Where was your . . . oh. Do you know whose handwriting this is?’ She passed it over.
‘That’s my great-grandfather,’ said Jamie, frowning. ‘You can see his signature.’
‘So, your grandfather’s dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Also called . . . ’
‘James, yes.’
She leafed through the pages.
