‘I’ve managed a few mouthfuls of cereal but I don’t have much of an appetite.’
Elle couldn’t settle so she hovered at the window, hoping to glimpse the postman and willing him to hurry.
‘It’s like waiting for a kettle to boil.’
‘Try and relax. The postman isn’t going to get here any quicker. What time does he normally come?’ asked Irene, her voice calm and soothing.
‘I’m not sure as I’m usually at work during the week, but at weekends it can be any time before lunch.’
She smiled. ‘Let’s hope he’ll soon be here and in the meantime let’s try and keep your mind off the wait.’
Elle nodded, though thatwasall she was thinking about. ‘Are you going to Eleni’s hen-party next week?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got my invite.’ She pointed to the invitation propped up next to the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Yes, I’ve already checked out the menu and the feathered beef has caught my eye; it sounds delicious.’
‘I’ve not had a chance to look yet, but Pippa and I are going so you’re more than welcome to come with us,’ said Elle, switching on the TV and hoping that would distract her until she heard the clang of the letterbox. The news played out.
‘It’s always doom and gloom, isn’t it? I think they should make it the law that one day a week, they only report good news – to give the country a bit of a lift,’ Irene suggested.
‘I think that sounds like an excellent plan.’
After making a cup of tea, they sat in silence watching the TV. Elle was lost in her own thoughts, not knowing what the letter was going to uncover. Sitting near to the window, she saw the familiar red post van park in its usual spot at the end of the road.
‘He’s here.’
Irene sat up and glanced out of the window. It felt like forever watching the postman deliver to the five houses before her on the street. They watched him walk up the steps then heard the letter box clang and the sound of the post falling onto the mat.
Neither of them moved. They stared at each other.
‘I daren’t look,’ admitted Elle, feeling her heartbeat quicken. ‘I actually feel sick.’
‘Take some deep breaths,’ encouraged Irene. ‘Whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.’
Elle didn’t know what she was expecting to happen but once she began to read the letter, everything would become very real, very quickly. Standing up, she took a big breath and walked towards the hallway. Picking up the post she saw that there were two letters – the first a bank statement and the second an envelope with the Salvation Army logo printed on it. With a fast-beating heart, Elle returned to the living room. ‘It’s here.’
‘Would you like me to stay or go?’ asked Irene tentatively.
‘Please stay.’ Whatever Elle was about to discover, she wanted Irene by her side.
Sitting on the settee Elle opened the envelope. Inside, she found a smaller envelope and a document from the Salvation Army outlining the details of when Cora Hansley’s request was logged and when they’d received the letter. The caseworker that Elle had been allocated had added a note saying that she would take care of any further correspondence or liaisons between the two of them.
Despite Elle’s anxiety about its contents, actually holding a letter from her birth mother in her hand felt good. The writing on the envelope was small and neat. Her hand shaking, Elle opened it carefully, pulled out a sheet of cream-coloured paper and stared down at the words written on it. Overcome with emotion, her eyes blurred with tears and she found it difficult to focus.
Irene touched her arm and handed her a tissue. ‘Here, take this. Do you want me to read it to you? Would that make it easier?’
Elle nodded and passed the letter to Irene without saying another word. She read it aloud.
Dear Eleanor,
I’m struggling as to how to begin this letter, and even as I write, the pain is twisting in my heart. Since the day we parted, you have always been in my life, my head, my heart, and not a day has passed without me thinking of you. I never thought I’d have the chance to write this letter to you, and I pray you find it in your heart to forgive me one day for the choice to give you up.
During the early nineties, I was in a stable relationship with a lovely man called Matt Harrison when my life took an unexpected twist. My parents – Jane and Mike Thomas – were tragically killed in a boating accident in the south of France, and from that moment on my life seemed to spiral out of control.
At the time, I worked three jobs trying to make ends meet while Matt worked on his novel, his dream being to become an author. He spent every hour he could tapping on his keyboard, waiting for that publishing deal to land. He was going to take the world by storm, but he never got a break and money was tight. Dreams weren’t paying the rent.
We lived in a dingy flat in one of the less salubrious areas of Morley. Music would pound above our heads and we could hear arguments through the wafer-thin walls at all hours of the night. It really wasn’t a nice place to live.
Some months, we had to skip the rent – and even meals at times. After a while, I began to resent the fact that I was working myself into the ground, out at all hours, whilst Matt stayed home, following his dream and not bringing in any money. I became more and more depressed.
