Page 85 of The Secret Christmas Library
Mirren nodded. ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to wait?’ she said, waving the letters.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling, and she was so happy that he was as excited to get on with it as she was. ‘You can précis them for me when I get back. If it’s really good,don’tcome and find me! I order it. You basically nearly died just now.’
‘I did not!’
‘You did so.’
‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘you saved my life. I owe you a life.’
He didn’t answer, just looked at her for a long time. Then he strode across the kitchen floor, leaving puddles of melted snow in his wake, and opened the door again, to head out into the howling blizzard.
Mirren moved closer to the Aga, luxuriating in its heat. The opening of the kitchen door had sent a freezing wind through the space, revealing how very awful it was out there.
She unfolded the letters, but, before she did, she already had a sense of them, in their tired old paper, their running ink. The paper felt heavy with disappointment, with frustrated hopes. She glanced at the writing; she recognised it. Sure enough, it was the father – Jamie’s great-grandfather, his grandfather’s father. Once more it was rejection letters: a sternly worded missive that he must give up this ridiculous idea of writing, of working in books; a further one, heartbreakingly pointing out that it was unbefitting to his status to be applying for a job as a librarian, that he was not paying attention to the accounts or the farm; that the factor – Mirren wasn’t sure what this was, but it appeared to be some kind of estate manager – was disappointed in his lack of application, unpaid bills, invoices...
And on and on and on it went. And there wasn’t a word from James himself, not a single word. When she thought of his room, with his books and his things – there was something about having felt so close to him. The crusty, unhappy person that Jamie and Esme had known – Mirren didn’t think he was like that at all. Mirren thought he’d just been disappointed; thwarted at every turn.
But there was, thought Mirren, there was . . . this stupid bloody house.
If he didn’t want it, he could have walked away.
And she thought about that again. What these letters were trying to say. That he should have walked away. That he should have had the life he wanted; the person he wanted, but had given up.
That there was a chance for the person the quest was for.
That if Jamie didn’t want it, he could walk away.
She was staring into space when there was a crash at the door and the two men tumbled back in, Theo so covered in snow he looked like a yeti.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Mirren, as Jamie pushed him towards the Aga.
‘I was fine!’ said Theo.
‘He was heading straight over the cliffs,’ said Jamie, shortly. He picked up the boiling kettle off the top of the stove.
‘I should probably have some whisky,’ said Theo.
‘That’s the last thing you should have,’ said Jamie, pouring him a cup of Bovril.
‘Oh,yuk,’ said Theo. ‘I hate this stuff.’
‘I don’t get a lot of thanks around here,’ mused Jamie. ‘Where’s Esme?’
‘She said she’d gone to steal all and any hot water.’
‘Fair enough.’
Jamie looked at Mirren, as Theo chittered and sipped his Bovril and made a face by the Aga. He nodded at the pile of letters. She looked back at him.
‘Well?’ Jamie said quietly.
‘They’re a message,’ said Mirren.
‘Well, yes, I gathered that.’
‘No, I mean – a message to you.’
Jamie grabbed the papers. ‘Really?’
