Maria Clark

New York
6th December 1956

Dear Bobby,

You must consider this a Christmas card - and forgive me that I haven’t sent a proper one. I’d saved a real nice one, with Santa on the front and glitter on the chimney and everything, but Eddie came in and said I had to send it to The Witch.

Anyway, Happy Christmas from New York! You know, this marks nearly two years of our correspondence - two years since I sent that first letter, thinking it would never go anywhere. And look where we are now!

I know I’ve said this before, but you’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I could rewrite this a thousand times and still not be able to explain how much your letters mean to me. Without them…well, who knows what I’d do?

It’s strange to think that the one person I truly rely on is someone I’ve never met.

Whenever I finish a letter, I watch it go with so much apprehension that you’d laugh to see it. My words - our story, our journey - sent across the ocean to end up in your little red post vans, before arriving at your door.

I guess I’m afraid Eddie will find out - and then we both know what would happen. But as long as he doesn’t…your letters are the best Christmas present I could ever wish for.

Oh, and by the way? I love the name Ada. I almost wish I had another daughter, so I could call her that!

All my love and best wishes,

Julia

P.S. I’m roasting chestnuts tonight. I’ll be thinking of you when I do.

ADA

Present Day

1.

Ada wasn’t afraid of fire.

There was a kind of magic in it, she thought. The flames hissed together, gossiping as they licked the broken logs. She loved the smoky perfume that clung to her clothes, and watched the wood turning to powdery ash in fascination, wondering if her white hair came that gradually, rather than seemingly overnight.

The sound reminded her of boarding school. When she first lit the wood - hand trembling, flicking the lighter with a precision that only came from years of practice - the hesitant splutter of the flames was like the under-the-cover whispers in the dorm, after Lights Out. It grew to a chatter: a mild classroom buzz. And when she placed the chestnut pan on top of the fire, the crescendo sounded like the dining hall roar, children laughing and devouring their meals.

Mikael sat next to her. He leaned forwards with his face upturned, the warmth of the flames tickling his chin. His chest rose and fell as he inhaled the nutty smell, a slight smile across his lips. She always lit the fire - a habit stemming from when he was little, when his chubby fingers reached out and pinched the wood - but it was his job when the chestnuts were done, to peel off the shells and membranes before they stuck. He'd never been bothered by the heat, and peeled them as lovingly as a sculptor scraping a piece of marble.

Now, he narrowed his eyes and nodded.

“They’re done.”

The chestnuts, burnt and blackened in the pan, looked unappealing, but they’d taste incredible. Ada’s mouth watered in anticipation, watching him pull the pan from the flames and start to work on the shells.

She looked around her living room, smiling at the multi-coloured lights looped across the walls. Snakes of tinsel draped across her chairs, frazzled silver and gold against the tartan, and holly sprigs hung from the curtain rail like spiky green gloves. Darkness pressed against the window, but light from the fire and the tree next to Mikael sent the room swirling into colour. All the excitement of the coming Christmas throbbed in her veins, bouncing along to the carols on her CD player.

Yet beneath it all, the dread was inescapable.

She was getting old. Any fool could see that. The crackling of her bones, the tension pressing against her spine. Waking up every day and moving slightly slower, each task like running a marathon. She wasn’t sure how long she had left, but viewed the future with pragmatism. When it happened, it happened. There was no escaping that.

But there was something she had to do, first.

As Mikael placed the chestnuts in front of them, she looked at the photo on the mantlepiece. A black-and-white wedding photo, smudged at the corners. Even from that distance, it looked like Charles was nodding in encouragement.

“Miki?”

He looked up, stuffing a chestnut into his mouth.

“Mm?”

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“I need to tell you something.”

His hand, reaching to the plate, paused. The skin crinkled around his mouth as he frowned, worry flashing in his eyes.

“You’re dying?”

Ada looked at the mantlepiece in disbelief. Charles was smirking.

“Well, yes, silly. That’s a given. We’re all dying.”

Mikael looked at her, pursing his lips.

“Don’t be macabre, Nana. It doesn’t suit you.”

Her smile was heavier than a sack of flour. Mikael swallowed, examining the chestnuts, then said:

“So, what is it? Are you dying? Soon, I mean?”

He tried to sound brave, but his fingers were twitching above the plate, waiting for her answer. She attempted to smile again.

“I hope not.”

Mikael leant back in his chair, squeezing a chestnut between his fingers. A bauble next to his ear sent a gold sheen across his cheek like concentrated sunlight.

“Then what?”

A whiff of cinnamon tickled her nose. The biscuits, cooling in the kitchen. She pointed to the mirror above the mantelpiece, where a decorated wooden sign swung across the middle.

Peace on earth, goodwill to men.

“I’ve been thinking about that. About Christmas.”

His eyes travelled across the words.

“What a load of bollocks! You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”

Ada looked at her wrinkled hands with amusement.

“Perhaps.”

“Why, though?” He was playing with a branch of the tree. “I mean, when was the last time we had peace? Before humans, probably.”

“With the rate you chatter, I doubt I’ll ever find it.”

With effort, she gripped the armchair and stood up. Her ankles were swollen.

“Tea?”

Mikael dropped the branch immediately.

“I’ll get it.”

The whistle of the kettle; the last refrain of Silent Night. Ada took a deep breath, counting the number of baubles to calm her nerves. Mikael returned to the room holding two mugs and stepped over the dog bed. Suki, Ada’s chocolate-eyed spaniel, grumbled, but when he rubbed her belly with his foot, she quietened.

He nodded at the sign.

“So why were you thinking about that?”

Ada accepted her mug gratefully, looking at his dark eyes.

“Have you ever regretted something?”

“Regret? What’s that got to do with it?”

“Everything,” she said, adding under her breath, “For me, at least.”

Mikael didn’t hear. She watched his face carefully, wondering if any woman loved their grandchild more. She could draw it from memory - every curve of his chin, the exact position of the wrinkle on his nose. As she watched him recoil from his tea, she caught a flash of soft, squidgy childhood innocence.

“There is something I regret,” he said eventually.

Ada’s heart nearly stopped. Her palms started sweating.

Don’t say it, please don’t say it.

His eyes were half-laughing, half-embarrassed.

“I asked a girl out in Year 13 as a dare, if you remember. Abby. But then she accepted, and I was too chicken to tell her the truth.”

Relief washed down Ada’s throat. She remembered the girl - short, freckly, glasses - with amusement. “She was round for a few Sunday roasts, wasn’t she?”

Mikael groaned in response.

She took a sip of tea, hoping the warmth would steady her. Her head was going fuzzy again - her vision blurring at the edges, like the first TV set her family had. Mikael clicked his wrists, then said:

“Do you regret something, then? Is that why you asked?”

She needed to concentrate. She picked up a chestnut, holding it between finger and thumb.

“I’ve only regretted one thing in my life,” she said, focusing on the honey-coloured nut. Her lungs hurt, straining to control her breathing. “The reason I was thinking about goodwill to men is because I wish it were true. I wish I’d shown goodwill to all men - and women.”

“What do you mean? You’ve never done a thing wrong in your life!”

Oh, Miki. If only you knew.

He read it in her face.

“What did you do?”

“I…” Her eyes fell on the mantlepiece: on the photo of her and Charles, beaming. “I once did something I swore I’d never do - and I’ve regretted it for the rest of my life.”

“What?”

Ada hesitated, tears gathering in her eyes. Was she ready to do this? Not really, but she needed to get it out, before it was too late. And who better to tell than Mikael, who certainly understood something of keeping secrets?

“I pretended to be something I wasn’t,” she said quietly. She put the chestnut on her lap, all hunger gone. "I betrayed the trust of someone counting on me.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She tried to stop it, but the orb slipped through her fingers, landing on her skirt. She stared at it, before looking at her grandson. Guilt soaked through her skin at the curiosity in his eyes.

“And, the worst thing? I did it all for nothing.”

*

The only sound in the living room was the buzz of the CD player. She wanted to turn the carols off - not feeling festive at all - but Mikael’s stare fixed her to the sofa.

“Nana?” he said again. “What are you talking about? What did you do?”

She sighed.

“It’s about time I told someone, I suppose. Wait here.”

As she climbed the stairs - each step achingly slow, making her toes tingle - she pictured the confusion on his face. Guilt rushed through her for what she was about to do, but she brushed it away. No matter what, it had to be done.

Downstairs, Mikael had cleared away their cups and placed the chestnuts on the mantlepiece. Suki was gazing at the plate longingly, but when Ada re-entered the room with a large brown trunk, the dog’s eyes brightened in interest. Mikael frowned.

“What’s in there?”

The suitcase slipped from her grasp. It thumped against the floor, dust spiralling onto the carpet. Her back was screaming, but she ignored it.

“Always so impatient, aren’t you?”

She sat down and caught her breath. The key was cold between her fingers.

“Mikael, you must understand that what I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room.” Her mouth was dry. “Never. Not even after my death.”

“That serious?”

When she nodded, he drummed his fingers on his mug.

“Stop creating suspense, Nana, and just tell me!”

Ada laughed. It turned into a hacking cough, scraping at her throat.

“Fine. When I was younger - that is, before I met your grandad -”

“- Bonnie’s granddad,” Mikael said, pulling a face.

“And yours,” she said, looking at him sternly. “Anyway, before I met your grandad, I did something…unconventional.”

His gaze flicked to the Radio Times.

“You got pregnant by another man and had an abortion?”

Ada stared at him.

“You watch far too many soap operas for your own good, you know that?” She called Suki over, patting the sofa. “No, of course not! I was a writer.”

“A writer?”

“Yes.” Suki’s nose was soft and wet against her palm. “I always dreamt of being a proper writer - a novelist, with books published in Foyles.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s Foyles? Didn’t your parents ever take you?”

Mikael looked like he’d been slapped in the face. Swearing under her breath, she said:

“I’m sorry, Miki. You know I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s fine,” he said, but his voice was guarded. “Keep going.”

Ada swallowed.

“So, I wanted to be a writer. I didn’t have any formal training - no qualifications, nothing - for girls didn’t go to university back then.” She watched his fingers tense around his cup, oblivious to the warmth. “Housewives, we were expected to be.”

She looked at the dust flakes on the carpet and snorted. “Anyway, I wrote a silly story and sent it off, not expecting anything. But then it got published.”

Mikael’s eyes widened.

“You’re a published author?” He sounded like his eight-year-old self again, back when she’d first met him. “Where’s the book? Can I read it?”

“It’s no longer in print, unfortunately. But…” She nodded towards the suitcase. “All my scribblings are in there.”

When he leapt to his feet, she laughed.

“Calm down, alright? I haven’t finished yet.”

Mikael’s mouth opened, but he was quiet. Ada watched his knee bobbing up and down, but she couldn’t share his excitement.

“The book took off. Critics were writing about it; I saw it in our local bookshop. People even started writing to me – fan mail, could you imagine? I wanted to respond, of course, but I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was a girl.”

“So?”

“So?” Ada looked at her fingers in resentment. “A girl wasn’t supposed to be an author. If word got out, my publisher thought, sales would be lower.”

“Seriously? That's bullshit. What happened?"

She stared at the trunk. The material was intact, but the clasps were speckled with rust.

“I had to use a pseudonym. The Woven Basket, by Robert Grahams.”

The words were sour on her tongue. Mikael frowned.

“So…why are you telling me this now? Do you regret hiding your identity, or something?”

“Of course,” she said bitterly. “But I had no choice. It had to be done.”

“Did it?”

Ada picked up the chestnut from her lap and ate it.

“The book was published under Robert Grahams, and I should have left it there.” The nut crunched beneath her teeth, shards nearly penetrating the gum. She blinked, feeling a rustle of tears. “But then…”

The suitcase stared at her emotionlessly. Taking a shaky breath, she said:

“I received a letter. I should’ve ignored it - chucked it in the rubbish with the rest. But I didn’t.” A lump came to her throat. “And I…well, I’ve regretted that decision for the rest of my life.”

Silence. Rain rapped against the window, anxious for her to continue. Mikael blinked twice, looking thoughtful.

“But what’s wrong with answering fan mail? Isn’t that the polite thing to do?”

“Perhaps. But Julia didn’t see it as fan mail.”

“Julia?”

Ada stared at the mantlepiece. She imagined a chequered coat, the smell of roasted coffee and silver-soaked pavements.

“Julia Arnolds. An unhappily-married woman from New York, who’d fallen in love with Robert Grahams’s book.”

Her eyes returned to the trunk. The clasps caught the light and glowed, like dying hope.

“But Julia was looking for something more than a polite reply,” she continued, barely able to release the words. “And the problem was that I gave it to her.”

She lowered herself to the floor. Even Suki whimpered at the crackling of her joints, but Ada ignored her, undoing the clasps of the suitcase. Inside, bundles of paper were piled on top of each other, browned with age. She looked at Mikael, gesturing to the stamps stuck upon them, and tried to ignore the guilt in her chest.

“We – Julia and I - started a correspondence. I was only trying to be polite - answering her questions, listening to her stories.” She ran her hands over the trunk’s velvet lining and shivered. “Over time, it felt like we were old friends. Someone, whom, though we’d never met, I could rely on. Someone -”

“Someone you could trust.” Mikael’s face went sullen. “Wish I knew what that felt like.”

Ada bit her lip. She wanted to respond, but knew it was useless. When he was in that mood, there wasn’t any point reasoning with him at all.

“But that’s the problem,” she said instead. “I was too busy thinking of Julia as a friend, to think about why she kept writing to me.”

She sifted through the papers, distinguishing the bundle she wanted by the tartan ribbon around the top. When she touched them, she recoiled, but forced herself to pick them up. Mikael was watching, she knew, and that made it harder to continue talking. She inhaled, but the smell of chestnuts made her feel worse.

“When Julia started saying certain…stuff, I realised I’d made a mistake.”

Mikael’s feet were practically in the trunk.

“Why? What kind of stuff?”

“What do you think, Miki? I’d been writing to her as Robert Grahams. But when we - they - started to get close, I couldn’t expose my true identity.” Her voice cracked. “I thought it would destroy her.”

“So…she never knew?”

“Never.”

He shrugged. His curly hair was charcoal-black against the flames.

“What’s the problem with that? People fake their identities all the time.”

“In detective shows, absolutely. Though they always end up being caught.”

“You weren’t.”

“No. And I wish to God I was. It could have stopped the whole mess before it even started.”

Mikael laughed.

“A mess? You faked your identity as a man, and a woman started to fall in love with you.” He gulped the last of his tea. “It’s awkward, yeah, but not a mess. Can’t you put it behind you?”

Ada shook her head, squeezing the letters.

“I can’t stop thinking about what it must have done to her.”

“But she never knew, did she?”

She closed her eyes, trying to stop the guilt seeping in.