Authors: Sylvia Atkinson
The Letter
The Letter
Sylvia Atkinson
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
Phone: 1-800-839-8640
© 2012 by Sylvia Atkinson. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Published by AuthorHouse 02/08/2012
ISBN: 978-1-4678-8082-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4772-1487-9 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011963073
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
Credit goes to Hilary Shields for introducing me to Tickhill Writers, and for painstakingly editing countless drafts of
The
Letter.
I will forever remember her unstinting help and encouragement.
Nigel Wagstaff of Flight Line Graphics, who provided expert technical advice throughout, designed the map of India and saved the first draft when the computer and research materials were destroyed by floods.
I am honoured that Peter Archer, the war artist, has given permission for an extract from his painting,
Go
To
It,
to be incorporated into the book’s cover. I am delighted that his son, Ben Archer, designed it.
Peter Archer’s original work, depicting my father Corporal Thomas Waters M.M. laying the land line across Pegasus Bridge on D-Day 1944, hangs in the officers’ mess of the Royal Corps of Signals regiment at Blandford Forum, Dorset.
Many thanks go to the Royal Corps of Signals Museum at Blandford Forum Dorset for housing my father’s medals, archive and an exhibition of his action on Pegasus Bridge. Also to Colonel Robin Pickering (retired), for the research on Thomas Waters M.M.
I owe the deepest thanks to my wonderful parents whose dignified courage has inspired my life. Also to my Indian family and everyone at home who have helped me to write this book, especially my husband. Without his love and unwavering support I would have given up long ago. It is to them that this book is dedicated.
The
Letter
is based on the fictionalized lives of my parents, who overcame disadvantage, race, war and disability. The historical events in India, Burma, China and France during World War Two are intended to be accurate. It is worth stressing that I have changed some names, imagined characters, compressed action and invented places in line with my story.
The
Scots
Margaret Riley (Maggie/ Charuni)
Mr and Mrs Riley | Margaret’s parents |
Nan | Margaret’s eldest sister |
Jean | Margaret’s favourite sister |
Mary | Margaret’s youngest sister |
Con | Margaret’s brother |
John (Johnny) | Margaret’s brother |
Willie | Mary’s husband |
David (Davey) | Nan’s husband |
Sheila | Nan’s daughter |
The
Indians
| Ben Atrey (Vidyaaranya) | Margaret’s first husband |
| Pavia | Margaret and Ben’s daughter |
| Saurabh | Margaret and Ben’s eldest son |
| Rajeev | Margaret and Ben’s youngest son |
| Dadi | Ben’s mother |
| Vartika | Ben’s eldest sister |
| Suleka | Ben’s youngest sister |
| Hiten | Vartika’s husband |
| Anil | Pavia’s son |
| Muni | Margaret’s maid |
The
English
| Tommy Waters | Margaret’s second husband |
| Elizabeth (Lizzie) | Tommy and Margaret’s daughter |
| James | Elizabeth’s husband |
| Albert Waters | Tommy’s father |
| Shirley Waters | Tommy’s stepmother, Albert’s wife |
| Alice | Tommy’s eldest sister |
| Florrie | Tommy’s youngest sister |
| Matt | Florrie’s husband |
Yorkshire
1985
Margaret’s small fireside table was covered with the usual clutter of books, writing materials and the buff envelopes of bills, but the blue airmail letter tucked in among them threatened to cause havoc. A long forgotten nightmare returned disturbing her sound sleep. She was in an unfamiliar house. Corridors lengthened, changing shape while she frantically raced down them; open doors of countless rooms slammed in her face. Suddenly she was spinning, falling headlong down a black tunnel periodically lit by crashing lightning. Illuminated figures of children beckoned, urging her to come to them. She reached this way and that, frenziedly trying to catch them but they vanished whenever she drew near. Last night was the worst. The three elusive sprites danced closer and closer… She saw their eyeless faces…
Jolted awake, she got up and made a cup of tea. If only she had someone to talk to. For years her daughter Elizabeth had tried to persuade her to have a telephone installed so they could be in touch every day, especially in an emergency, but this wasn’t an emergency. Not like the time she fell and was found by Peggy, a neighbour. The dizzy turn resulted in a trip to hospital and three stitches where Margaret’s head hit the kitchen table. A subsequent appointment was arranged. She went with Elizabeth. The consultant said the fall was caused by the vagaries of old age, possibly a minor stroke, and recommended wearing a surgical collar, taking aspirin daily and regular check ups. Elizabeth insisted she wore the contraption. Margaret felt trussed up like a dead chicken.
The phone was different. Elizabeth and her husband James offered to pay for everything including future bills. Some of Margaret’s friends chatted for hours but it always seemed so impersonal. A convenient phone call was no substitute for a sit down visit, and besides she didn’t want to be instantly accessible. She liked things the way they were but was hurt when Elizabeth said she was unreasonable. Anyway it wouldn’t be any use. How could she talk to anyone about the letter… especially on the phone? Yet Elizabeth would have to know… What would she think?
If Margaret didn’t get a move on she’d be late for mass, but she was in such a muddle scrabbling through drawers and bags to find her purse. Thoroughly cross, she pushed a few coins in the Offertory envelope, threw a shovel of slack on the fire, checked she’d locked the front door three times, pulled the handle upwards on the back door to catch the lock and turned the key.
In the Sunday spring sunshine bold daffodils triumphed
beneath the straggling privet hedge bordering the untidy
lawn. The flash of yellow lifted her mood while she waited
on the pavement for the customary late church bus to lumber round the corner. The patient driver banished the Sunday scrubbed boys from her reserved front seat,
sending them down the bus. It was the same every Sunday
but this one was potentially like no other and she wanted
to get it over.
The smell of burning candles, heady incense, hymn singing children and the soft Irish brogue of the priest saying mass went some way to restoring Margaret’s equilibrium. Reluctant to leave the church, she knelt and lit an extra candle in the side chapel by the serene flower-ringed statue of the Blessed Virgin. Although she went to mass on the bus one of the family always collected her. She could picture James, her son-in-law, reading his paper in the car. He wouldn’t come in, said it wasn’t his thing. Her daughter Elizabeth came at Christmas but the three of them spent most Sundays together.