Page 61 of Nineteen Letters
I carefully place the tray of drinks on the table, and Jemma passes one to Christine. “Here you go, Mum.” I notice my coffee has milk in it as well, but again, I don’t have the heart to tell her. “This one is yours,” she says to me.
“Thank you.” I reach for a cookie before taking my seat beside Christine, and Jemma moves around to the other side of her. I dunk the cookie in the coffee for a few seconds before bringing it to my mouth. “Mmm.” When my gaze flickers to Jemma, I find her watching me intently. “They are delicious,” I tell her.
She gives me a bashful smile before taking a sip of her coffee. “Do you always dunk your food into your drinks?” She pulls a funny face as she says it, like it’s a weird habit to have. Little does she know she was the one who taught me that trick.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.” They were the same words she said to me all those years ago.
She shrugs before leaning forward and picking up a cookie. She was never one to shy away from trying new things. I always loved that about her.
I forget to mention the part about not leaving the cookie in for too long. I can’t help but laugh when she pulls it out and half of it is missing. The look on her face is priceless. Her eyes widen and her forehead scrunches up as she looks down into the coffee mug.
“There’s a two-second rule. Any longer and you risk having it turn into gooey mush and sink to the bottom of the cup.”
“Oh.”
The sweet giggle that falls from her mouth is like music to my ears. She always had a great sense of humour.
Christine finally makes the move and lifts out a pile of photographs from the box. The one on top is a black-and-whiteimage of a younger Ma and Pa. They’re holding a baby in their arms; presumably Christine. A small strangled sob bubbles in the back of her throat as her fingertip lightly runs over the image. It’s the first time I’ve seen a picture of Ma and Pa in their youth. They’re a handsome couple. Jemma leans forward and gives me a small smile when we both automatically place a hand on each of Christine’s legs for comfort.
“Tell me about them,” Jemma says as Christine flips through the images before passing them on to us. “What was your life like growing up?”
“I have very fond memories of my childhood.”
Again, Jemma leans forward and looks at me. I wonder if she’s thinking about our childhood memories—the ones I’ve written about in the letters.
“This is your grandfather,” Christine says, holding up a picture of a young Pa in his army uniform. “He served in World War Two. That’s where he met my mother. There should be a photo of her in here. I remember seeing it when I was young.” She shuffles through the images until she finds what she’s looking for. “Here it is. She was a nurse with the Red Cross.”
“I know her,” Jemma says, taking it out of Christine’s hand before I have time to see it. “I remember her from the hospital.”
“That’s impossible. This photo was taken over forty years before you were born.” She leans over and takes the image from her daughter’s hand. I see a smile cross her face as she stares down at the photograph. “She had a smile that would light up a room … I miss her so much.” She passes the photo to me. “Here’s another one of her during wartime.”
“It’s her, it’s definitely her,” Jemma whispers.
“Impossible,” Christine replies in a dismissive tone. “You weren’t even born when these were taken. This was during the Second World War.”
Ignoring her mother, Jemma turns her attention to me. “Can you remember ever seeing this nurse at the hospital?” She passes me the other photograph. “She worked the night shift, and she’d hold my hand and sing to me. You remember her, don’t you?”
The hopeful look on her face tugs at my heart, but I have to tell her the truth. “No. I can’t honestly say I do.”
“Of course you don’t,” Christine snaps, standing and leaving the room. My eyes move back to Jemma and I see her bite her bottom lip to hide the quiver.
Reaching out, I grab hold of her hand.
“I’m not lying,” she whispers.
Chapter 21
Jemma
The moment I’m seated in Braxton’s car, I pull out the diary that I stashed in my handbag. I sat up half the night going through the rest of the box. It all became a bit too much for Christine in the end, so she went to bed and left me to it.
“What’s that?” Braxton asks.
“Ma’s diary. She wrote it during the war.”
“Wow.”
“I want to read you a small passage from it. It’s from the day she met Pa—May seventeenth, 1941. It just proves I’m not imagining things.”
