Letters To Alice. Rosie James

She turned to her mother. ‘But will you read it first, before we send it off to the publishers, Mama…to make sure I haven’t made any mistakes?’

      Ada took Alice’s hand and squeezed it. ‘No, I won’t read it first,’ she said, ‘because it would have to be all your own work – nothing of mine. If you make a mistake it won’t matter. Everyone makes mistakes. All you need is determination to succeed and persistence, and you’ve got all that, Alice. I know you have.’ And after a moment, Ada added,‘Never give up on your dreams, Alice. Always tell yourself that one day they could come true.’

      Thoroughly wide awake, her imagination darting all over the place with heroes and heroines and blighted love lives, Alice went back to her original question about her parents.

      ‘You know…you know you and Papa?’ she said. ‘Did you and Papa really love each other, at once, straightaway I mean? Did you know that you were meant for each other?’

      Ada turned her head and looked at Alice. ‘Yes, Alice, we really did.’ She paused. ‘I know we did,’ she added quietly.

      Alice was in an enquiring mood. ‘Do you think that the professor loves Mrs. Carmichael as much as you loved Papa?’ she asked. ‘He’s so often away at the Infirmary, Mrs. Carmichael must be awfully lonely sometimes, mustn’t she?’

      ‘Loneliness is something everyone has to put up with at times,’ Ada said. ‘It’s not the worst thing in the world.’ She paused. ‘Now then – where had we got to with Jane Austen?’

      At once, Alice began reading, stumbling only very occasionally with a difficult word, and Ada, only half-listening, thought of Stanley, and what might have been. There might even have been a brother or sister for Alice. If God had intended it.

      Presently, aware that Alice was getting tired, she said gently, ‘I think that we’ll let that be the last chapter tonight, Alice. Well done – you read beautifully.’ She turned to switch off the small bedside lamp. ‘Good night, Alice, God bless you.’

      ‘God bless you, Mama,’ Alice replied, snuggling down contentedly. Then, yawning, ‘Which bedroom do they sleep in – is it the one underneath ours…the professor and Mrs. Carmichael, I mean?’

      ‘Oh I really don’t know. Go to sleep, Alice,’ Ada said.

      But Ada did know. The professor and Helena occupied the main bedroom, the one with its own dressing room, immediately beneath this one. And Ada imagined them, perhaps even now, lying there together…such a handsome couple, he tall and strong, so utterly, completely masculine…and Helena – slim, perfect, beautiful. Beautiful for him.

      The Fiction Editor, Allbright Publishing,

      St. James’s Square, Bristol. – 13^th December 1930

      Dear Sir,

      My name is Alice Watts and I am ten years old – well, nearly eleven, actually – and I have great pleasure in sending you a short story which I have written, in the hope that you may agree to publish it. It is about five hundred words long.

      I have been writing short stories all my life, and one day I hope to attempt something much larger, perhaps like Jane Austen, or one of the Brontë sisters. I know it will take a long time, but I am prepared to work hard and not to give up on my dream.

      I wish everyone at your publishing house a very happy Christmas.

      I hope you are well.

      Yours faithfully,

      Alice Watts (Miss)

      Alice put the letter in the envelope, hoping that she had said the right thing. “There’s no need for me to advise you on letter-writing,” Ada had said earlier, “because you have had plenty of practice already.” All Ada had done was to give Alice the address of the publishing house, and to explain that to find an approximate word count for her story she should multiply the number across the top by the number down the side.

      As Alice stuck the postage stamp on the envelope, she wondered briefly whether she should have put “yours truly” or “yours sincerely” – but, after all, this was a business letter, and she knew that “yours faithfully” was how it was done in business.

      Dear Miss Alice Watts

      Thank you so very much for sending us a copy of your short story, which my colleagues and I thoroughly enjoyed reading.

      I hope it will not depress you too much that we cannot agree to publish it on this occasion, simply because we feel that a little more work needs to be done on it. We would suggest that you employ far more dialogue in the story, showing us, rather than telling us, what you wish to convey. You write in a very impressive, grown- up way, Miss Watts, and all your characters are charming. Let them speak for themselves!

      We urge you not to give up on your dream, and hope to hear from you again in the future.

      We are returning your story, with many thanks, and hope that you, too, have a very happy Christmas.

      Yours faithfully

      John Elliott – Fiction Editor, Allbright Publishing.

Chapter Five

       1941

      It was nearly the end of September, and already the three girls felt as if they had never known any other life. It was proving to be far more hectic than any of them had imagined it might be, the days long and hard and tiring, but strangely – muckily – satisfying, and certainly never boring. Alice had to admit that on many a day at the office she would look at her watch, longing for home time. But here on the farm she was aware that they were part of a never-ending cycle of events, of growing and yielding, of cultivating and harvesting, everything full of its own purpose and importance. And being part of it was making her feel important – as if her hours and days were being used to their full and vital value.

      Part of the reason that they all felt so relaxed was that Farmer Foulkes could sometimes be a more affable character than they’d imagined at first. He seemed quite pleased with how they’d buckled down to do whatever was asked of them – which included feeding the livestock, mucking out the pigs, helping Mabel clean up the huge chicken run and spread fresh straw, scrubbing down the yards, and Fay, who was certainly the strongest of the three girls, had even been taught how to hold the plough and follow the huge horse as it tugged her along the furrows to make the land ready for the next round of sowing. Thankfully, digging the dratted potatoes had eventually come to an end, and although it had taken a long time the girls had made a good job of it, quickly learning how to avoid damaging the vegetables. Alice, at last, had helped Mabel collect the eggs – though, that, too, had been a long and back-breaking task…there were a lot of birds, and by the time they’d finished her hands were red and prickling from rummaging around in the spiky straw. After which she would help to put each precious egg into the crates, which were then stacked, ready to be collected by one of the lorries that arrived each day at the farm entrance to transport all the produce on to wherever it was needed in the area – near and far.

      The meal together as they sat with the family each evening had quickly become something they all looked forward to. Well, they always seemed to be hungry! Roger was always good company and was clearly enjoying having females around him. Alice noticed that he always made sure he was sitting next to Fay at the long table, and that they occasionally shared a quick, private joke.

      It also amazed Alice how much she, herself, was able to eat – because her appetite had never been particularly large. But somehow she, and Fay and Eve, managed to clear their plates each time. And the atmosphere was usually congenial – with, happily, no more digestive emissions from Farmer Foulkes to embarrass Eve. He even seemed to like teasing the girls now and then, if he was in a specially good mood.

      ‘Now, you girls – you look out for they geese as you d’go by,’ he said one evening, wiping his mouth vigorously with his napkin. ‘They can be nasty critters, and one flap of a wing can break