Dear Peter,

I clearly remember the first time I met you; Spring of 1961. It was in a little spare room in the Trumpton sorting office, me at a table beside the Area Manager and you on a chair opposite. The least romantic setting you could possibly imagine.

Not that I had any romantic ideas at the time, of course. You were just a boy of twenty-one, the last of five interviewees, and all I needed was a new postman.

It had been a pretty uninspiring day up until that point. Four very similar candidates, all of whom were coming from other rural postal rounds, all of whom reminded me somewhat of my previous two postmen. Then you walked in and it was as if someone had opened a window. You were actually interested in the job and the village, and you were clearly anxious to get everything right. You came with a glowing reference from a hotelier who used to employ you as a porter, praising your punctuality and good manners.

"Hm! I think my secretary must have put him in the wrong pile by mistake," was my boss' verdict.

"Why?" I replied, " I thought he was perfect. He was the best by far."

"Mrs. Dingle, he's got no experience whatsoever. He's never even set foot in the countryside! At least he had the good grace to look terrified. Now, take that second one, what was his name, err..."

"If I may interrupt, he's got experience of carrying bags around and getting things to the right place on time, that's all I need. And with all due respect, I've already had two experienced postmen, and they were both useless. The first had a terrible attitude, he was always being rude and upsetting people, the second wouldn't admit he needed glasses and kept getting the wrong letters in the wrong boxes. Anyway, what Camberwick Green really needs is some fresh faces, some young people. The Murphys are still regarded as newcomers, they must've lived there nearly ten years."

I was prepared for a fight, the Area Manager wasn't. He just held up his hands and said, "Well, it's you who has to work with him every day. But if we're back here again in six months' time, I'm not going to be happy."

And so the decision was made. You once said to me that your first day here was all a bit of a blur in your mind, so I'll tell you what I remember of it.

The very next Monday morning you arrived bright and early, eager to get going but also visibly quivering with nerves. Looking back now it makes me laugh, but at the time I really felt for you. I knew what it was to be alone in a strange village with a new job to learn, I'd been there myself thirteen years earlier, so I resolved I'd take you under my wing and be as kind to you as I could. One of the soldiers from Pippin Fort had been delivering the post for the past few weeks, so I'd asked him to mind the shop whilst I showed you your rounds and introduced you to the locals.

I let you dawdle a little on that first day. You were obviously enthralled by the scenery and the wildlife and being given the keys to open the post-boxes, it was a joy for me to see it all again vicariously through a fresh pair of eyes; and besides, we were behind anyway because I'd had to take up the trousers on the uniform they'd sent, and you'd spent a good five minutes standing awkwardly on a chair as I got you evenly rolled and stitched. I decided I'd bring my little dog along, the fox terrier I had back then, and enjoy a nice stroll as I introduced you to everyone. Do you remember how they all shook your hand and gave you good wishes, and you had a little chat with each of them? I was so proud of you, just fitting right in like that. By the time we were walking up the lane to Bell's Farm you'd been given a free donut, an invitation to go fishing, and an offer of the spare room in Dr. Mopp's house.

"Looks like you've made a good impression," I remarked, "They all liked you."

"Really? Do you think so?" You looked surprised, perhaps even disbelieving.

"Of course they did! You were an absolute star. And that's not something I say very often."

"Really?!" You grinned from ear to ear and did a little skip. Maybe if you hadn't been carrying a sack, you'd have done a cartwheel. You were glowing with happiness, I could feel it radiating off you.

At that moment Jonathan Bell came chugging over the brow of the hill in front of us on his tractor, pulling a trailer loaded up with hay. Do you remember that tractor he used to have back then? It was deep blue with a bright orange grille on the front. It was his pride and joy, until he bought the next one. I waved him to stop. He pulled up and bid us a good morning.

I told you to look in your sack for the letters to Mr. and Mrs. Bell, but you were so busy gawping at the huge mud-caked wheels and the pulsing growl of the engine that you needed asking twice.

"Who's this then, Mrs. Dingle?" he asked as he pocketed his post, "Got yourself a toyboy, eh? Hasn't he ever seen a tractor before? Look at him, he looks like he's seen a flying saucer!" He guffawed at his own joke.

"Now you behave yourself, Jonathan Bell! It's his first day, and he's a bag of nerves, but he's a brilliant little postman. His name is Peter Hazel and he's from Trumpton." I was quite annoyed; I'm afraid I might even have wagged my pointy finger.

"Alright, I'll be nice to Postie Peter. He's clearly very precious to you. Jump on the back, I'll take you both up to Colley's Mill, if that's where you're going next?"

"Yes please, that's our last-but-one stop. Come on Peter, let's hitch a lift."

We both clambered onto the trailer, me holding the dog under my arm, and trundled back down the hill. We then turned off down a side road.

"Colley's Mill?" you said, "I've heard of it before. When I was at school, someone started a rumour that a witch lived there."

"That's right," I replied, "There was a witch up there once, but she's been dead a long time now. Must be ten years or more. Miss Miller, she was called. The letter in your bag is for her son, Windy Miller. The miller."

You scowled as if you thought I was lying to you, and fished one of the few remaining letters out of your sack. You looked increasingly confused as you read the address.

" So – his name is Windy Miller, he lives in a windmill, he's a miller, and his mum was a witch?"

"I suppose it sounds odd the first time you hear it," I said, smiling, "but yes, that's how it is. Though I'm not sure that's his real first name."

"What do you mean by 'witch'?"

"Well, she used to earn a living by telling fortunes and making herbal medicines and things. I remember she once held a séance for me, to talk to my late husband."

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know he was – you know..."

"Dead? Don't worry, it was sixteen – no, seventeen - years ago, and we were only married three months. He was killed in The War. Honestly, I finished my grieving a long time ago and made a new life for myself here. I'm not one of these sentimentalists who mopes about my misfortunes forever. I almost wish I'd never bothered getting married, if I'm honest. It was a strange time."

You fell silent, and watched the road rolling along behind us. There was clearly a lot going on behind your coffee-cup eyes, so I left you to your thoughts. The tractor' engine began to strain as it climbed the steep incline up to the mill, and the poyrr-pyarr-pic-pachoom of the mechanism became more and more apparent. Both sounds came to a stop at around the same time, leaving a lovely moment of calm before Farmer Bell went stomping up to the mill and hammered on the door.

"Come on out, Windy! I've brought that hay you wanted, and the ear-taggers. There's some post for you, as well. What are you doing in there?"

I hopped down from the trailer and led you over to the door, you holding the letter and me carrying my dog in case she started chasing the hens. You were gazing around, a look of wonderment on your face. Just as we got to the mill, Windy emerged looking like a ghost. I suppose I was slightly flattered that you jumped towards me when you startled. I suppose it's easy to forget just how odd our good friend the miller looks to those who haven't seen him before, especially when he's covered head to toe in flour.

"Sorry about that," he said as he dusted himself down, "I just had a bit of a mishap. The sack tore. Let me collect my thoughts a moment, then we'll decide what to do first."

"Most importantly," said Jonathan, grinning, "I need to introduce you to our new postman. This is Peter Hazel, from Trumpton."

"Well, hello Peter the Postman!" said Windy, giving you his arm's length wave that he does even when you're very close by. You waved back, which still makes me smile.

"He's never been in the countryside before," the farmer continued, "but we've got to be nice to him or Mrs. Dingle will tell us off. Isn't that right, Mrs. Dingle?"

"You watch yourself, Jonathan Bell!"

"Why would I not be nice to him?" asked the miller, in that child-like manner that he falls into sometimes, and I'm never quite sure how to respond to; is he joking, or trying to make us think, or could it be possible that he genuinely doesn't understand? I have no idea.

You broke the awkward pause by handing him his letter, and he popped through his door to find somewhere to leave it.

"Seeing as there's a few of us," said Windy when he came back out, "that makes things easier. Peter, do you like cows?"

"Erm – I don't know," you replied, clearly puzzled by the question.

"Hm. Well, if Jonathan doesn't mind unloading the trailer, you can help me carry the hay bales to my cowshed, and see what you think. Mrs. Dingle, would you mind taking the ear taggers into my cookhouse and giving them a good boil? There's a big jug of water in there. You know where it is, through the granary? They should be ready by the time we've moved the hay. Then when the calf is tagged, we can all stop for a drink if you have time? Then I'll clean up this mess afterwards."

So that's what we did. I took the taggers, that Farmer Bell had been keeping in his pocket, and got some water boiling to sterilise them. I left my dog shut in the granary as I walked down the hill to the old stable that Windy uses as a cowshed. The hay was all stacked up to one side, and the cow and her calf were both tethered to the gate. You were gingerly patting the calf's nose whilst Windy and Jonathan were having some back-and-forth that I was too far away to hear, but could tell that the farmer was finding very amusing.

"Well Mrs. Dingle, what do you think of this?" he said, gesturing at Windy, "This man – I've seen him neck a chicken, gut a fish, skin a rabbit – but he's too much a bleeding heart to tag his calf's ear. Come on, give me those taggers, I'll show you how it's done."

Windy turned away, wringing his floury hands, but you watched in fascination. There was a metallic clunk, the calf jumped and screamed, the mother roared and heaved at her tether, and you fell back in a faint. Luckily I was close enough to grab your arm before you hit the ground.

I rolled you onto your side and fanned you with your hat.

"Lie him on his back and lift his feet up!" said Windy.

"No, no!" said Jonathan, "You need to pour cold water over him. I saw it in a film."

Luckily, it was at this moment that you opened your eyes again.

"You just passed out for a second," I said, "don't try to get up yet."

"I'll fetch him some cider," said the miller.

"You fall down after the cider, not before!" laughed the farmer, "try slapping his face a bit."

"Will one of you bring him a glass of water?!" I said, impatient.

"I'm alright," you groaned, sounding very much not alright.

"Jonathan, please bring a glass of water," I repeated, "Windy, would you put the kettle on for the rest of us?"

Half an hour later you were back on your feet and dusted down, and my dog released from the granary so we could get on our way. The last remaining letters were all for Pippin Fort, and as the soldiers were all off on one of their little jaunts, it was a very brief visit.

I invited you back to the post office for lunch. I hadn't felt the need to make food for a postman before, but I wanted to make sure you weren't going to faint on me again. You were so gracious about it, and such pleasant mealtime company, that I invited you the next day, and the day after that. That's how it became our little tradition.

So there we were, opposite each other at a table, just as we had been a week previously at your interview; except this was in my nice cosy kitchen, and we each had a jam sandwich and a cup of tea. I noticed a change had come over you in the last hour or two.

"You seem a bit quiet and troubled," I said as you munched, "are you still feeling woozy?"

You shook your head and circled your hand beside your mouth to indicate that you'd speak when you finished chewing. I thought I might as well hazard a guess in the meantime.

"You mustn't let Farmer Bell get to you," I said, "there's no harm in him, he just thinks he's funny. He went to private school you know, he has quite a high opinion of himself."

You shook your head again.

"And I know Windy looks a bit strange. Well, he is strange. But he's the nicest person in the world once you get to know him, and he's ever so clever. Honestly, he's got a heart of gold. I'd trust him with my life."

You shook your head again, and swallowed your sandwich.

"I was just thinking," you said, "I was born during The War."

"I suppose you must have been, yes."

"I was a baby when you were married!"

I seem to remember that I laughed, and said you were making me feel old; but looking back, maybe I ought to have read a little bit more into it. Especially the fact that, after everything that had happened that day, the one thing that you felt the need to mull over was my approximate age in relation to yours. But no, I just laughed, and we had a chat about how things would go tomorrow.

I don't know how it felt for you, but as soon as you came to live in the village I could see that you were beginning to blossom. You didn't just fit in, you became an asset; did I ever tell you how many people have mentioned that they look forward to seeing your happy little face every morning? Or that Dr. Mopp was quite sad when you said you were moving out of his spare room into your own little house? Maybe I should have done. Still, I could see you growing in confidence and you were clearly very happy with your life here. One evening, a year or two after you arrived, I was walking back from the bus stop and passed your little cottage. There you were, tending to your garden and having an over-the-wall natter with your neighbour Mrs. Varley about matters horticultural. The scene was so peaceful and natural and lovely, I had to stop and smile as I compared you to the anxiety-ridden boy that I'd brought here; I remembered my boss' misgivings after your interview, and really felt vindicated. You saw me, and waved. I waved back and hurried on, not wanting to look like I was prying, but I couldn't stop grinning to myself all evening.

Was that when I began to fall in love with you, I wonder?

No, I don't think it could have been. Because I'm pretty sure that that was before you met your girlfriend, and I don't recall feeling jealous of her at all. I know I was a bit negative about her a few times, but that was just because she distracted you from your work, plus I'm not afraid to admit that I was worried you might run off back to Trumpton with her and leave us – and for someone so ordinary! Your attitude changed as well, you weren't so chatty when you came back to my kitchen for your sandwiches, and then started skipping our lunches altogether. I almost felt as if we'd fallen out, but I wasn't jealous. That must have been end of '63, into '64. At least it didn't last too long, and within a couple of months you'd made a full recovery and everything was right back to how it was before; wasn't it? I thought so, but looking back, maybe it wasn't. It could have been over that Summer that our occasional momentary flirtations began to appear – that is, if they did really happen at all. Do you know what I mean? Do you remember just meeting my gaze sometimes as we said goodbye and sharing a wistful smile for a second or two, or am I just imagining that? Or the time I leaned across the counter to straighten your tie and you tipped your head to the side a little, did you realise that it looked as if you were expecting a kiss? If any one normal, sensible person accidentally grabs the hand of another as they take an object that is being passed, is it the done thing for the two of them to glance at each other and breathe a note of awkward laughter before pulling apart?

I still don't know. I wouldn't like to think of myself as the kind of person who could have her head turned by a flirty joke, or romanticise an innocent bit of clumsiness. Perhaps it was a long process. But I never dared hope that anything might really come of it until last Christmas.

I know I made a few different excuses, but the real reason I didn't go to spend the day with my family as usual was that I couldn't bear the thought of being around my brother's dogs so soon after having had mine put to sleep. Sentimental, I know, but that's what it was. Having a get-together for the local waifs and strays was very much an afterthought, but it ended up being the best Christmas Day I'd had for years. You were away at your parents' house for a few days, so I'll tell you how it went.

I was pottering about getting the parlour ready for the guests when I heard the unmistakeable sound of Mr. Carraway's van starting up. This struck me as odd because he'd seemed very pleased to be invited and was due to arrive in just under half an hour – but where might he be going on Christmas Day, when everything's closed? I had a look through the window and saw he was off to Colley's Mill; so obviously he was going to pick up Windy, my other guest. But, I thought, why would he do that when Windy could just as easily come down himself on that funny little tricycle of his? That was my first inkling that they were up to something.

Anyway, the two of them arrived not long afterwards. Windy looked like some kind of Yuletide spirit, with a wreath of holly and ivy twined around his hat, a big flagon of cider under one arm and a picnic hamper full of his own produce over the other. There were jars of honey, chutneys, jams, bundles of herbs, dried fruit, and a large, mysterious parcel that turned out to be a plucked and gutted pheasant. I was quite overwhelmed, I'd only bought him a little lamp for his tricycle. Mr. Carraway handed me a bottle of wine, I gave him his present, which was a tie pin that looked like a fish. Whilst he was unwrapping it, Windy quietly slipped away outside and came back in with something bundled up under his coat – that cast-off army greatcoat that he's been wearing on every cold day for twenty years.

"This is from Peter," he said.

A tiny, grey, velvety ball was huddled up under his arm. Too shocked and confused to argue, I held out my hands to receive the gift. A tiny puppy unfurled, and gazed up at me with bright black eyes; the way you do sometimes. A pink tongue flicked out and aimed a lick at my face.

"From Peter?" I said.

"Yes," said Windy, "He knows how much you miss your little dog, everyone does. So he bought you a puppy."

"I don't know what you're up to, Windy Miller, but you should lie more often. You need practice."

"Why would I lie?" he replied, in such a pure sort of way that I felt quite guilty.

"But why would he – I only bought him a can of biscuits, I – it can't be – why would he?!"

"The puppy needed a home. Everyone knows how much you miss your little dog."

"It's true," said Mr. Carraway gently, "I took Peter to buy it yesterday, then it stayed at the mill overnight so we could bring it here today."

"I'm sorry, I – was just a bit overwhelmed. I didn't mean to be rude to you, Windy, I just didn't believe my ears. Thank you, thank you both for looking after him. He's lovely. Come through and sit down, I'll put the kettle on and get some dinner cooking. I still have some dog food left for this little one, too. Does he have a name?"

"No," said Windy, "his mother's owner just called him 'Number 3', so it's up to you."

"We'll think of something, I'm sure."

So yes, the four of us had a very good day together. You know Mr. Carraway, of course, he's a mine of stories and songs and jokes and interesting facts, he kept us amused for hours; and Windy always has to make himself useful, doesn't he, he came to help with the cooking and ended up taking over; although I'm not sure he altogether trusted the gas oven. There wasn't much for me to do other than pass utensils, so I had plenty of time to play with my new pup.

Mr. Carraway mentioned that his grandfather had once been the postman around here, and was quite surprised that Windy could remember him. He'd started his career with the Post Office on board a packet ship, which was how the seafaring Carraways ended up this far inland. Windy really liked the word 'packet', and said it repeatedly to the little dog, who also seemed to like the word and did some skipping and yapping about it.

"Is that your name," I asked him, "are you called Packet?"

He scuttled over to me and nuzzled my hands in a way that suggested that, yes, it was his name. Mr. Carraway said it was a funny thing to call a dog, but Packet himself seemed very happy with it.

Well, the afternoon wore on. We ate our dinner, shared some cake I'd made the day before, and then opened the flagon of cider. I'm afraid I always forget how strong that stuff is; I'm fairly sure I'd only had one glass, but my memories of the evening are rather patchy and muddled. I'm pretty sure that at one point I was trying to explain to Windy how a television worked, and he looked as if his head was on sideways. I can't recall how long this situation went on for, but the sky outside was quite dark when Windy suddenly knocked over his chair and mumbled something about putting his hens to bed. He took a few steps in the general direction of the door then stumbled backwards again and very gradually and carefully tripped over the chair. I gave him a hand up and told him very firmly that there was no way he was going to walk all the way back by himself in that state. I managed to bundle him into his coat and steer him towards the door, but by the time I'd settled Packet into the picnic hamper he was lying on the floor again gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. Well, somehow we managed to get from there to the mill, but I'm not sure whether we wandered around in circles or if my snatches of memory are in the wrong order; but when I awoke on Boxing Day morning I was sitting in his rocking chair with Packet curled on my lap and a terrible throbbing headache. The man himself was already up and about seeing to his animals, and presently he came in to light the fire. Seeing I was awake, he brought me some sort of herbal tea that cleared my head beautifully – so now we know how he does it. I went out to help collect some eggs, at which point I realised that I'd walked all the way there with no coat, hat or gloves. It was a bitterly cold, frosty morning, but Windy lent me a blanket to wrap myself in. I must admit, all the time I was collecting the eggs I was thinking about you and what I might say when I see you again to thank you for your gift and, as I so often had, how nice it would be to be snuggled up with you somewhere. Whether it could ever happen. How I might feel if it did.

Well, Windy managed to rustle up some omelettes for the two of us and a bowl of scraps for the dog, and we sat by the fire to eat them. Have you ever been inside the mill? I never had. It feels almost like being on a ship or in a caravan, all very compact with a place for everything. And considering there's a flour mill upstairs and a farm outside, he keeps all very clean; although there are a surprising amount of nick-nacks around the place. Little shapes he's made out of straw and pebbles. Or maybe they're magical things? You never can tell with Windy. It's very cosy for one person, and suits his purposes well, but it gets a bit gloomy when the sun isn't shining directly through the window. I dread to think what it was like for his parents when they lived here as a family of three, it must have been ever so cramped.

There was a long silence, so I asked where the puppy had come from.

"One of my suppliers," said Windy, "out past Chigley."

"Oh? So it was your idea?"

His eyes widened, and he put a hand to his mouth as if he'd been caught out somehow. That was what made me suspicious.

"Windy, what's going on? What's this all about?"

"Nothing to do with me! Nothing to do with me at all, I was just the go-between. You'd lost your dog, this farmer I know had some puppies to get rid of, and – well, there we are. Everyone's happy."

"And Peter? Where does he come into it?"

"He wanted to get you a nice present." Windy stared intently at the ceiling as he said this.

"He's always bought me fancy biscuits before."

"Something thoughtful."

"Oh, come on. I can tell there's more to it than that. Why would someone buy their boss a dog as a surprise for Christmas? Such an odd thing to do, isn't it? Tell me."

I'm pretty sure I'd worked it out by this time, but whether I didn't quite believe it or I just wanted to talk about you for as long as I possibly could, I couldn't tell you.

"I can't," said the miller with a sigh, "I'm sworn to secrecy, I'm afraid."

"Some sort of coded message?"

"I wouldn't say it was any more 'coded' than anything else."

"Aah, I see. People tell you things, don't they, Windy? They come up here and tell you all their secrets and their problems, because you listen and you give good advice, and even if you don't know what to do, you never blab. That's not a reputation anyone would want to lose. But the thing is, I don't know what to do now. Do I thank him for his kind gift and go on as before, pretending it's a normal thing to do, but lie awake wondering about it? Do I go and interrogate him? Do I ask everyone we both know what they think? What do I do, Windy? In trying to help Peter out, you've created a dilemma for me. You can solve it just by telling me the truth."

He looked defeated.

"I'm sorry to twist your arm," I said more gently, "but you can clear this all up right now."

"He worries about you," said Windy, slowly and carefully, "being on your own. He worries that you're lonely."

"That doesn't even make sense! He's on his own, you're on your own, Mr. Carraway is, and Dr. Mopp, and all the soldiers in Pippin Fort, as far as I'm aware. He could have bought the whole litter. Why am I so special?"

"Oh, Mrs. Dingle, how can you not know? After all this time? Why, Farmer Bell said he was sure of it the first time he met you both. Everyone knows, it's almost a running joke. Even I know! You must have some idea. You know what I mean, don't you?"

"Say it, Windy."

He sighed, shook his head, and flapped his arms aimlessly. Clearly quite agitated, he collected up the cups and plates and stacked them neatly. Then he pottered out to the granary, where there was a little stack of things waiting to be washed, and brought them in before going out again. Through the window I saw him draw some water from the well, which he brought in to warm by the fire. Then he fetched some soap and a towel from a cupboard and placed them beside the bucket. All the time he was doing this, he muttered away to himself as if trying to look very busy.

"Windy? Talk to me. I want to know what he said to you."

"I've said far too much already."

With that, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the washing up; I offered to dry, and he passed me the towel without a word.

I really didn't know how to begin processing the information I'd received. Part of me still didn't believe it could be possible, and came up with all sorts of guesses as to why Windy might lie or how I might have been mistaken. Another voice in my mind was indescribably happy and excited for what might happen next, and had to be sternly reminded of the numerous reasons that we could never be together. And yet another...

"The one thing I don't understand," I said, "is why he'd want a dried-up old widow like me? He's nearly twenty years younger. Doesn't he want to be with someone who he could marry and have a family with?"

"I don't know, I didn't ask. But he only seems to worry that he's too young for you."

"And the other thing..."

"You said there was only one thing?"

"I thought of another."

"Oh. I see. What is it?"

"Well – you know Peter, I know Peter. He wears his heart on his sleeve, doesn't he? Maybe even a bit dramatic at times."

"Hmm, yes. Highly-strung, you might say."

"Perhaps. Anyway, how's he kept this from me for so long? What must it be, five years?"

"I always advised against letting you know. Nobody wants a big to-do, do they? It's certainly been very hard work for him, as he never tires of telling me."

He looked quite irritated, so I fell silent and petted Packet. He went to the door again to empty the washing up bucket, and then started putting things away.

"Don't let him know that I told you though," says Windy as he stacked the plates in a cupboard, "Please. I'd like to be left out of the whole business as much as I possibly can."

"I'm going to have to talk to him, but I won't mention you."

"You don't have to say anything at all."

"Well, we need to come up with some sort of story about his puppy. What if people start wondering if we – you know, have an unprofessional relationship?"

"I'm afraid that horse bolted long ago."

"What?! No! No, we can't have that. Oh, poor little Packet, what if I can't keep you?"

"I wouldn't worry, no-one thinks any less of you. And it's only speculation, as far as I'm aware. Nothing salacious, just a bit of 'Oh, she smiles when you talk about him', that sort of thing."

"But Windy, if it gets back to my boss and he believes it, I could lose my job. And with it my house and my shop."

"Could you? Why?"

"I'm his boss, I have to be able to treat him like any other employee. What if one day I had to sack him? Or what if we got together but broke up, and still had to work together? It'd be gross misconduct."

"I see. Oh dear. That raises the stakes, doesn't it."

"It does, yes."

"Hmm."

"I least I can do something about it now. As soon as the office is open again, I'll call the Area Manager and let him know there's some slander going round that's completely untrue. And I need you to help me put it about that this is all nonsense. Can you do that for me?"

"I'd rather be left out of this altogether, if I'm honest. Which I am."

"If we do a bit of work now, there'll be nothing of which to be left out."

"Fair enough. Well, I'll see what opportunities present themselves. If I hear someone say something, I'll put them right."

"And of course, my husband still isn't actually dead."

"But – my mother held a séance for you? I'm sure she did. I was there, I remember it clearly."

"I mean, legally. He is dead, but officially he's Missing in Action. So I'm still married."

"But if it's only by law, and no-one knows, it makes no difference even if something was going on? No-one would think less of you, I mean?"

I realised that it didn't. I wondered why I'd brought it up at all, how long it'd been in the back of my mind, whether it had been the reason I'd rebuffed advances from half the single men this side of Trumpton. For a moment I wondered if it could be interpreted as a tacit confession of intent; then I remembered to whom I was speaking, and realised that it wouldn't.

"Well, I – I suppose it doesn't."

"Is that all?" he said, head on one side.

"Yes. That's all."

So he put away the plates, and we had another cup of tea, and he lent me a piece of string to use as a lead for Packet and we said our goodbyes. He said he was going to get on with a bit of milling, seeing as it was a good breezy day; 'get ahead', as he put it. On Boxing Day! What are we going to do with him?

I was lost in thought as I walked back to the village. After all these years of working on the assumption that you'd never be interested, it was quite a shock to discover that I was the only person in the village who thought so. And – oh, all of a sudden those daydreams I'd been indulging in weren't just fevered imaginings but plans, visions of the future even, but – no. No, I had to be sensible. I was a serious grown-up woman with a very responsible job, I couldn't be sneaking around having clandestine love affairs like someone with too much time on her hands. But then – If everyone we both know had been gossiping about us for some time, and the rumours had never found their way back to our superiors, maybe... No, absolutely not, I had to stop making up excuses. I thought of poor Mr. Brackett doing his 'butler' act, apparently oblivious to the fact that everyone in Trumptonshire knew that he and Lord Belborough had been a couple for thirty years or more but daren't so much as hold hands if there was any danger of being spotted. Aah, but – everyone knew, but nothing ever came of it. It must be worthwhile for them. There I went again...

Twilight was falling as I approached the village. My intention was, as it had always been, to go straight home; but as I passed the end of the lane that led up to your house, I couldn't help turning to look in that direction. I happened to notice that your living room light was on. I stopped.

I felt myself at a metaphorical junction as well as a literal one. I could carry on down this road, back to my chilly little flat above the Post Office, and see you for work tomorrow morning as usual; or I could... turn down the side road. I'd just knock on the door, just to – just to say thankyou for my thoughtful gift, maybe thaw out a little by your fire, that was all. It was turning very cold by then, it wasn't really fair on little Packet to keep him outdoors as the frost was forming. I only wanted to see your sweet little face after three days bereft. What could be the harm? You might not even answer.

Feeling like a naughty child, I approached your house and knocked. You opened the door.

I was so used to seeing you in your uniform, you looked quite odd in your jumper and jeans; as if you were wearing someone else's clothes. I'd never been inside your house before. It felt very alien, sitting in your armchair as you fetched some tea for me and a bone that your mum had sent for Packet. And you apologised for the mess and bustled about trying to collect up all the used crockery and piles of TV guides and clothes and things that were lying around the place, explaining all the while that it's not often that people come round and you've been quite busy lately, and – I have to say, I was quite taken aback by the kind of chaos that you live in, considering how immaculately turned out you are at work and how neat you keep your garden. We've sorted it out pretty well though now, haven't we? You just needed someone to show off to, didn't you?

Anyway, there I was thawing out by your little gas fire, there you were kneeling on the rug playing with the puppy, and having caught up with each other's Christmas stories I began to feel as if I ought to address the elephant in the room. But how to begin? I could have sat in contemplative silence for a very long time if you hadn't asked what I'd done that morning.

"I'm glad you asked!" I said, but then lost my nerve and fell silent again. This wasn't what had happened a thousand times in my mind's eye. I thought I'd come out with something succinct and direct, but eloquent; perhaps even witty. Then I'd push you backwards against the wall and kiss you passionately on the lips, and there would be a rosy glow in your cheeks and your hair would be artistically ruffled. But I wasn't enjoying this at all.

You looked up at me expectantly, head on one side, eyes bright.

"I... I've been.." I paused, inhaled, closed my eyes, summoned up all that courage and moral fibre in which I've always prided myself, and completed the sentence. "I've been talking to Windy."

The look of abject horror on your face would have more befitted news of an untimely death. I could see the cogs turning behind your eyes as you tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for what I might have heard, without knowing exactly how much I knew. How to rescue you?

"Peter! Peter, It's alright. Don't worry about it. No-one else has to know."

"He promised not to tell anyone. He said that I shouldn't tell you."

"He didn't! I just worked it out. It was obvious, really."

You petted the dog absent-mindedly. I began to worry that you might start crying, right there in front of me.

"Peter – look, it's not a problem. It's really not a problem at all. It'll be our secret, Peter. I could – Peter, I – Oh, just come here!"

I opened my arms wide, and you just flung yourself right at me. Again, it was not exactly what I'd imagined and I can't honestly say that I enjoyed it. After twenty-two years of having no physical contact with an adult human beyond the occasional handshake, I'd completely forgotten how solid and heavy and hot a body is; how tough a man's chin is, even when shaven; how internal organs make little noises as they do their jobs, and muscles and bones slither about under the skin; the sticky, wet feeling of being breathed upon. It took some getting used to.

But I knew what I wanted to do.

"Peter, let me look after you. Let me be kind to you and nurture you, and You'll want for nothing that I can provide. No-one needs to know. How does that sound?"

"You are kind to me! You always have been. That's why I – I tried to stop, I know we can't – but you're always there, and – Oh, Mrs. Dingle, I just – I just love you. I'm sorry, but – I do."

"Dorothy. Call me Dorothy when we're alone."

"Of course, sorry. Dorothy."

"But you need to know, all I can offer is a secret tryst after hours. I'm afraid it can't be any more romantic than that. We can't be seen out together, we'd have to deny it if anyone suspected, I'm sure you understand why. I can't legally marry, I'm too old to have a child, this is the happiest ending we can have. Are you sure it's what you want? You can say yes or no."

Your answer stayed with me very strongly; even now, a year later, it still makes my heart flutter to think of it. How you pressed your forehead to my neck and your hands to my waist and inhaled deeply as if you were trying to breathe me in, and your voice cracked a little as you delivered the line that rounded off the chapter and began the next:

"Dorothy, I just want to be with you."

So now it's Christmas Eve again, and I'm just sitting here missing you whilst you're staying with your family. Windy has been adopted by the Murphys this year, you know how the children adore him, and Mr. Carraway has been invited to stay with some cousins of his down in Devon. Bless him, when I came home that night I found he'd tidied up and washed all the crockery for me before letting himself out. So with no-one in the village lonely, I have no excuse not to visit my family. Well, Packet is a big strong dog now, my brother's dogs won't bully him like they did at Easter. Fingers crossed. I'm just keeping my spirits up by bearing in mind that it's only just over two days until you're all furled up cosily in my arms again, back where you belong.

With all my love

Dorothy